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[Sound of an ax chopping wood. Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is not about lumberjacks…

My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny—other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never—EVER—share a story about lumberjacks.

This time, we step back to the days of computer Bulletin Board Systems for a story based wholly on truth. (No, seriously—this was a pretty much true story, until we reach a certain point.) When two friends create an online persona to mess with another friend, they get what they have coming to them for their deception.

I know I said this month would be a mystery set in a bog, but that’s now been bumped to the first release of 2022. It’s a good story, and I didn’t want to rush it just to get it out. Besides, it was time for something lighthearted and goofy.

And now: the usual content advisory. Milkboy deals with emotional manipulation, stressful working conditions, infected food, passing mention of a grizzly death, demonic possession, and cartoonish violence. Oh, sooooooo much cartoonish violence! And, of course, there’s plenty of swearing.

Also, if you’re driving: be aware that anytime you hear characters in a vehicle after the mention of Yummy’s Greek Restaurant in Denton, Texas…there will be yelling, squealing tires, and even a collision. Really, from that point on…just expect the story to get louder and more ridiculous with each new paragraph.

The character of Tim in Milkboy is a real person…in fact, he’s the artist behind the two versions of the Not About Lumberjacks logo! I’m releasing Milkboy today, on October second 2021, in honor of his birthday. I’ve been fortunate over the years to receive artwork from Tim as gifts on my birthday, so it was time I wrote a story as a gift for one of his. I hope this effort finally absolves me from the sin of creating Milkboy and catfishing Tim before catfishing was a thing.

All right—let’s get to work…

* * *

Milkboy

[Jaunty guitar music fades in, joined by a trumpet.]

This is a story about the shittiest thing my friend Mark and I ever did to our best friend, Tim.

Mark had a Tandy 2500 386 SX computer (with an 85 megabyte hard drive), and we put it to good use the night we created Milkboy.

Milkboy was a digital construct, catfishing before catfishing was a thing—an online persona created to see if Mark’s roommate, Tim, would take the bait.

Of course, he did.

That Tandy system, while belonging to Mark, was a shared thing in the apartment where he dwelled, a system allowing Mark, Tim, and me to log into a bulletin board system run by Mark’s manager at Two-Dice Pizza. (We chatted with strangers in the Dallas/Fort Worth area long before any of us had easier access to the World Wide Web.)

* * *

[The bleeps and bloops of a dial-up modem]

It was my idea to make Milkboy. Tim started spending more time on Jared’s BBS than hanging out with us. Looking back, I can’t blame him: he worked several jobs—among them, illustrating children’s books, delivering newspapers, and managing fireworks stands in the summer—but his most tedious task was dealing with Mark and me. Much like an exhausted parent, when the day was done, Tim wanted to connect with someone who didn’t add to his life the kinds of stresses we did.

And so, one evening he logged into the BBS and met a guy who went by “Milkboy.”

We chose the name Milkboy because Tim’s dad was not only born and raised in Wisconsin, but he was a shining Son of the Dairy State. He bowled, played accordion, and drank beer. His work ethic ran rampant in Tim’s veins—and in Milkboy, Mark and I created a fake persona that took away the stresses of Tim’s busy days. Between all his tasks, Tim chatted online with a guy who loved Wisconsin as much as he did; who loved They Might Be Giants as much as he did; who loved the exact comic books as much as Tim. It was all so obvious to Mark and me that we figured Tim would quickly realize he’d been had, but I guess when your two best friends are the kinds of people who would make up a fake person online in instead of—you know—being kinder to you…you’d believe something too good to be true when compared to your reality.

* * *

Each day, Milkboy became more perfect. If Tim talked to us about how much he loved Too Much Joy’s new album, suddenly online, Milkboy did the same. Milkboy loved Legion of Superheroes comic books, Twin Peaks on television, and could sing along to every Dead Milkmen tune. If Tim liked it, Milkboy loved it! Milkboy was a refined work in progress we enjoyed creating more than any character in the stories we wrote and the role-playing games we adored.

Not quite two weeks into our deception, Mark was the first to bring up that maybe we’d gone too far.

“It was funny when we first made Milkboy, but I’m starting to feel bad. It’s not that funny anymore. It actually feels kinda mean…”

I agreed, but…it’s a rare day when you’re part of something so new, and I wanted to see how far our online ruse could be taken. That was apparently enough of an argument for Mark to say, “Yeah, you’re right. I’m curious, too…”

* * *

And so, Milkboy’s presence grew in our lives, a thing making the three of us happy—until somewhere, almost a month in, when Tim said something Mark and I had not anticipated.

“I’m gonna see if Milkboy wants to meet up in person…”

We knew right then that we should have stopped the night Mark asked if we’d taken it too far.

Mark said, “That’s great, Tim! Cool.” Then he turned to me and said, “Hey, I’m gonna walk over to the store for some snacks—wanna come along?”

“Sure,” I said. “Need anything, Tim?”

“Nah, I’m good. I’m gonna go message Milkboy.”

* * *

[A quiet evening outside.]

Before we even made it to the parking lot, I said, “We need to go back in there and tell him the truth, Mark. I’ll tell him it was all my idea because it was, so he takes it out mostly on me.”

“He’ll kill us,” Mark said. I’m not even fully joking…he’s so stressed right now that I can see him braining us with that metal T-square he uses for art.”

[Footsteps on pavement.]

Mark was lost in thought while we climbed the hill between the apartment and the gas station store. At the top, he said, “We can have Milkboy say he’s moving back to Wisconsin. That he’d love to meet Tim, but there’s some family thing needing attention, like when you went back to Missouri when your dad died. You can play that shit up and sell it. Tim felt so bad for you. Milkboy disappears and we swear to each other, here and now, that even if we’re all still friends in thirty years that we never tell Tim the truth about Milkboy.”

“Just have Milkboy fade away?” I said.

“Yep. A message or two to Tim, and he’s gone forever.”

As long as Mark and I stuck to our new plan, it was a foolproof fix to our reckless problem.

On the way back to the apartment, Mark said, “I’ll send the first Milkboy message tonight while Tim’s delivering newspapers in Denton. We’ve got this…”

* * *

[A front door opens and closes. The sound of plastic bags.]

When we returned to the apartment with a couple bags of junk food, no sooner than we walked through the door, Tim said, “It’s done, guys. I messaged Milkboy, and he said he’d love to meet up in person.”

I don’t know what our faces looked like, but Tim said, “What’s wrong, guys? I thought you’d think this is cool.”

“No, it is,” Mark said. “Really cool. You’re sure he said he wants to meet you in person?”

“Yep. I’m gonna reply in a moment, but there was a message waiting for me. He wondered if I wanted to meet up next week at Piccolo’s Pizza. You guys, too!”

“He wants to meet all of us?” I said.

“Yeah. He sees your posts on the board and he thinks you’re cool, too.”

“Okay…” Mark said. “Yeah, sure, Tim—we’ll meet up. Sounds great…”

* * *

[The bleeps and bloops of a dial-up modem. Typing on a keyboard.]

When Tim left the apartment that night to deliver newspapers, Mark and I logged into the BBS to check on Milkboy.

We couldn’t access the account we created.

We looked at the boards and saw a few Milkboy posts we hadn’t made—mostly about music, and a post about the updated GURPS rules on the role-playing board.

In the final issue of Grant Morrison’s run on the Animal Man comic book, Animal Man meets Grant Morrison in person. Of course, it’s scripted; Morrison wrapping up his time on the series and making a heartfelt statement about childhood. A writer in control of a character. We were the writers behind Milkboy, but somehow he seemed to take on a life of his own.

“It has to be fuckin’ Tim,” I said. “He somehow found out, and he’s fucking with us in return. I bet you he strings us along a few days and then next Friday, before we all go meet Milkboy, Tim’s suddenly like, ‘Oh, Milkboy had to cancel at the last minute.’ Hell, it’s Tim…he’ll probably feel guilty by tomorrow and confess.”

* * *

But Tim didn’t confess.

Each day, Mark and I waited for him to cave in…but he never did.

And each day, new Milkboy replies on the boards popped up.

Mark decided to message Milkboy while Tim was working—not to call him out, but to see if he’d conveniently reply only when Tim got home from his paper route.

“How’s this sound?” Mark said. “Hey. Heard we’re all meeting up on Friday for pizza and beer. Looking forward to it. We can swing by your place on the way and pick you up if you want so you can drink more than just a couple beers?”

[Soft music: horns, guitar, and xylophone.]

An hour after Mark sent the message, he got a reply from Milkboy: “Oh, man…that would be so cool. Thanks! But I’m meeting up with a friend from Wisconsin after dinner with you guys. That’s the only time he could hang out…he’s in town for the weekend visiting family. You know how it is.”

Maybe the Animal Man theory wasn’t too far-fetched…

* * *

When Friday rolled around, waited for Tim to say Milkboy bailed on us, but he never did.

We sat in Piccolo’s Pizza waiting for a stranger from the BBS to arrive. Mark was likely thinking the same thing I was: Tim was going to take this to the absolute end. He’d order a bunch of food and beer—maybe even order a couple expensive drinks for himself, since I was driving—and then he’d tell us he figured out the horrible thing we did to him and stick us with the bill. We’d pay it, of course, knowing we deserved worse than that, and Tim would have something to always go back to, like Mark reminding us how horrible it was for Tim and an old girlfriend to dare me to drink Mark’s Sea Monkeys for fifteen dollars.

But Tim’s big reveal that he was onto us never happened; in fact, we watched him stand up and wave his hand to a guy wandering into the restaurant wearing a They Might Be Giants Lincoln t-shirt.

If you were given the task to make the most attractive of all geeks, you’d make Milkboy. There was a kindness to his handsome gaze; a brightness in his friendly eyes framed by designer eyeglasses. He had a Superman curl of hair on his forehead, and as I watched him make his way through the pizza joint to our table back by the kitchen, he was built like the Man of Steel as well. [Sounds of a restaurant fade in.] I could see him fronting a boy band, but give him a little scruff, and he could easily play the bad boy who made hearts swoon in movies.

“Are you Tim?” he said.

“Yes…”

He stuck out his hand. “Great to finally meet in person, Tim. I’m Milkboy, but you can call me Lance.”

After Tim shook his hand, I reached out and said, “Hey, Lance. I’m Chris.”

He almost crushed my hand as he said, “It’s Milkboy to you… Remember that.”

* * *

Mark and I may as well have stayed home. The dinner discussion consisted of Tim and Milkboy talking about all the things they loved. Tim practically shrieked with delight when Milkboy talked about how he was reading his old Kamandi comic books—and Milkboy swooned with each band Tim mentioned. Mark and I fashioned Milkboy to be a reflection of Tim, but real-life Milkboy was better than anyone we could imagine. By the end of dinner, Tim and Milkboy discovered their fathers actually went to the same high school in Wisconsin!

When the waitress brought the bill, Milkboy pulled out a wallet thick with cash and said, “It’s on me, guys.” (At least he finally acknowledged that Mark and I existed.)

From the moment Milkboy left, to the time we all went to sleep, Tim couldn’t stop talking about how wonderful dinner was.

* * *

In the weeks that followed, Tim spent more time hanging out with Milkboy than us. They were inseparable. Tuesday comic book days became Tim and Milkboy days. Tim even blew us off on Mystery Science Theater 3000 nights to go watch at Milkboy’s house.

Yeah, Milkboy had a house. A product of stout Midwest breeding, Milkboy’s father taught him the value of a dollar at a young age, when Milkboy knocked on doors offering to shovel driveways in the winter, plant flowers in the spring, mow lawns in the summer, and rake leaves in fall. Milkboy wasn’t rich, but by our terms he sure as hell was. According to Tim, he even had a Shinobi arcade cabinet in his living room.

When Milkboy came to the apartment to hang out with Tim, the only time Tim’s new best friend acknowledged us was when Tim left the room. If Tim got up to go to the bathroom, Milkboy would turn to us and say, “I don’t know why Tim hangs out with you losers. You’re a part-time pizza man and you barely work at all. He deserves much better friends.”

Upon Tim’s return, Milkboy would look at him and say, “I was just chatting with Mark and Chris about the new Tick comic book…” which would send Tim off to talk about the week’s comic shop haul.

* * *

When we finally told Tim some of the things Milkboy said to us, Tim didn’t believe it.

“I know you two are jealous about how much time I spend with him, but I still like you. It’s just…he seems to get me better than you guys…”

* * *

And so, life clicked along like that, until the following month when I got a call from Mark. I could tell by the background sounds that he was at work.

[Sounds of a busy restaurant kitchen.]

[Mark: through telephone.] “I’m sure you planned to come over tonight anyway, but you need to head over right now. I’m leaving work. I have some big news to tell you…”

[A car driving along the highway.]

On the drive over, I imagined all the things it could have been: maybe Mark had sold another indie comic book story—he sounded that excited. Maybe he finally got a tech gig instead of delivering pizzas for Jared at Two-Dice. Or maybe it was about Milkboy…maybe Tim finally announced that he was bailing on Mark and becoming roommates with his new best friend. I was not expecting what Mark told me.

“Milkboy’s a drama student at the University of North Texas. He works nights at a convenience store where Tim delivers papers. Apparently, they hit it off and chat. Tim overheard you and me talking about Milkboy. He got so mad that he wanted to fuck with us back. So, he asked his chat-buddy at the gas station if he wanted to make a little extra money acting like Milkboy.”

“How the fuck do you know all this?” I said.

“I heard Jared talking about it at work. Tim messaged him and told him we were using his BBS to mess with him. So, Jared changed Milkboy’s login, and he and Tim took over.”

“That’s shitty of them!”

Mark raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, yeah…so, we’re the shitty ones. We deserve it. But Jared?”

“He thought it was funny.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that…”

* * *

The next time Milkboy visited the apartment, we waited for the usual barrage of insults from him when Tim left the room. We were watching Northern Exposure with Tim and Milkboy when Tim announced, “Be back in a couple…gotta go get rid of some of those sausages I had for lunch…”

[Footsteps on carpet moving away.]

Before Milkboy could tear into us again, Mark cut him off.

“Stop right there, Captain Thespian. We know you’re a big ol’ pile of bullshit. A drama student? And you have the gall to rip on us for the way we live our lives?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I said, “We know Tim paid you to pretend to be Milkboy.”

His gaze went to a beer stain on the carpet.

“When Tim comes back,” Mark said, “you’re gonna walk out that fuckin’ door and never show your face again. Understand?”

“I can do that,” Milkboy said. “Tim’s cool, but this whole thing is fucked up. And you two are assholes. Who the hell makes up a fake person to mess with their best friend?”

“It was a joke,” I said.

“Grow the fuck up, lint boy. That’s not a joke—that’s fuckin’ cruel!”

“Lint boy?”

“Yeah. You crash on everybody’s lint-covered floors and are only concerned with making enough money to buy comic books every week. You’re a little boy!”

“Hold on,” I said, “You recognized how fucked up this whole situation was, but still went along with it? Must not be making much acting money if you’re working overnights at a convenience store. You’re no better than us.”

“Am too.”

“What are you,” Mark said, “A fuckin’ fifth grader? ‘Am too…‘”

The three of us bickered back and forth until Tim returned to the living room.

“What’s going on?” he said.

Mark answered. “We know you know about Milkboy. And we know you paid this asshole to pretend to be him.”

Milboy stood up. “Tim…you’re a good guy, man. You definitely deserve better friends than these two. Later…”

[A door closes.]

* * *

When Milkboy closed the door behind him, Tim said, “What did you two say to him?”

“He was about to start insulting us,” I said. “Mark let him know we found out he was an actor.”

“How?”

“I overheard Jared at work,” Mark said. “He told me everything. When did you figure it out?”

“A few weeks in,” Tim said. “I realized Milkboy never posted when you were at work and Chris was at home. He only replied when you were all online. So, I contacted Jared. He thought my plan to turn the tables on you two was funny. Then I started chatting with Lance on my route and asked if he wanted in on it. We only planned to have him show up the night at Piccolo’s. He was gonna say that he had to go home to Wisconsin and that was gonna be that.”

“That was our plan,” Mark said. “We were gonna have Milkboy message you a couple times, saying he had to go home, and then he was gonna fade away.”

“We’re sorry,” I said.

Tim said, “You should be. Especially ’cause it’s almost my friggin’ birthday, guys! But it is kinda funny, and I can apologize to Lance next time I’m on my route. But if you ever do something like this again—I’m not fuckin’ kidding—I’ll kill you motherfuckers with my T-square.”

* * *

[Music.]

Things went back to normal for the three of us. We played Dungeons and Dragons, worked on comic books together, and hung out while drinking beer and watching TV. Then one evening, things got weird.

Mark and I were hanging out watching Mark’s Akira video when Tim got home from a series of school visits for his kid’s book.

[A door opens and closes.]

“Really fuckin’ funny, assholes!”

“What?” Mark said.

“Paying Lance to follow me around today. Fuck you!”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Tim?”

“Every fuckin’ school I went to, I saw Lance watching me.”

“Tim,” I said. “I swear. I mean, I know I don’t believe in God, but I swear to God…we learned our lesson and we wouldn’t do that.”

“Chris is telling the truth,” Mark said. “It wasn’t us.”

“You sure it was Lance?” I said.

Tim shot me a look. “Yes!”

“Well, maybe he’s fucking with you on his own,” Mark said. “Maybe he’s going all method actor and keeping up the role. But we have nothing to do with it this time. Seriously, Tim—it’s not us.”

* * *

It wasn’t just Tim who started seeing Lance.

Mark swore Lance was following him one night while delivering pizzas. And I never rode the Northshore Trail at Grapevine Lake faster than the day I was riding and saw Lance standing in the middle of the singletrack ahead of me. All three of us kept seeing him. [A man shouts, “Hey!” Running footfalls slap pavement.] Tim was the first to try chasing him down, but Lance turned a corner and disappeared. [Two people walking outside on a quiet night.] Mark and I saw him one night while walking to get snacks…standing just on the edge of the light cast by the gas station. We turned around to head home, but Lance was suddenly in front of us. [Two sets of running footfalls slap pavement.] Fight won over flight, and we rushed him…but he got over the hill between the apartments and gas station before us and was nowhere to be seen.

Like he’d just disappeared…

* * *

On a night Tim and Mark weren’t working, we decided to go to the source. [Interior of a car speeding down a highway.] We hopped in Tim’s Ford Escort and drove up to Denton—to the Howdy Doody convenience store at Bell and Coronado.

[Convenience store door chime.]

Lance was nowhere to be seen.

Tim approached the cashier and said, “Hey, the guy who’s usually here at night. Do you know where he is?”

“Lance?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?”

He pointed at a newspaper. On the front page was a story about how police were still looking for the killer of a guy found murdered in his apartment a week before. The article said it looked like a bear attack. The victim’s name? Lance Fusco.

We’d all seen Milkboy earlier that day.

* * *

[Interior of a car speeding down a highway.]

“All right,” Tim said on the way home. “We’re stopping at the grocery store on the way and stocking up. Mark and I are calling in sick to work the next few days. We’re holing up in the apartment, and we’re not leaving—for anything! If, for any reason we do have to go out, we go out in a group. All three of us, understand?”

The next couple days, we were like kids during a blizzard that closed school. We played video games and Dungeons and Dragons. We watched movies and we drank beer. (Okay, so maybe it was a bit better than being kids stuck at home.) We had several days of fun, until the day Mark and I did something stupid. On Tim’s birthday, while he took a nap to stay up for a night of celebrating, Mark and I made a quick run to Denton to surprise Tim with a Middle Eastern spread from Yummy’s Greek Restaurant.

* * *

[Interior of a car speeding down a highway.]

We were speeding along the I-35 access road on our way home when it happened: a body fell from the sky right in front of us. [Squealing brakes and a loud THUD!] Mark locked the brakes, but couldn’t stop in time. It was the most horrible sound I ever heard. When we came to a stop, we looked at each other.

Mark said, “Did that look like…”

“Milkboy…?” I said.

[Doors open and close. The hissing of a radiator.]

We got out of the truck, looking at the prone body in the headlights in front of us. Neither of us wanted to be the first to approach. We waited for the other to take the first step. [Footsteps.] I took a deep breath and started toward the body. That’s when Milkboy got up.

[Gravel rustles.]

It was Milkboy, but it wasn’t Milkboy. [Breathy growl.] He looked more like the vampire from Fright Night than Milkboy—a mouth full of fangs and glowing red eyes.

[Demonic voice.] “I’ve been looking for you two…”

[Feet leap from gravel.] He moved on Mark first. [Metallic noise.] Mark reached into the bed of his pickup and grabbed the cross-wheel lug wrench. [Demonic hissing.] The cross seemed to repel Demon Milkboy. The old Baptist side of Mark kicked in. “By the Holy Gospel of Jesus Christ, stand down! You will find no safe harbor in our souls, for we are imbued with His spirit! In Christ’s name, I command ye—leave now, demon, or suffer His wrath!”

[Footsteps stop.] Demon Milkboy stopped his advance. He turned to me.

“Yeah, what he said.”

[Demon Milkboy laughs.]

[Demonic voice.] “Then I will take your friend…”

[Feet on gravel and a WHOOSH! Wings flap.]

He leaped up and flew off into the night.

* * *

[A racing engine and squealing tires.]

The tires of Mark’s Mazda B2000 pickup truck squealed as we pulled into a Chevron parking lot looking for a pay phone. [A car door closes] Mark leaped out, forgetting change. [Rummaging through coins.] I grabbed a quarter from the dashboard, [A car door opens and closes. Running on pavement] ran to the phone, [Coin inserted into a payphone] and inserted the coin. [Fingers pressing buttons on phone] Mark dialed so fast that he messed up the number. [Hanging up receiver; triggering coin return, coin returned to phone, and dialing.] He hung up, pulled the coin return, and tried again.

[Tim: through phone.] “Hello?”

“Tim, it’s Mark. You need to get out of the apartment now. I can’t explain, but Milkboy’s coming. Get the fuck out of the apartment!”

[Metal rattling through phone.]

[Demon Milkboy through phone.] “Tim can’t talk right now. He’s…occupied…”

* * *

It was easy to forget there was a time in Mark’s youth when he walked door-to-door in the hills of Tennessee, spreading the Gospel and witnessing for Jesus Christ. None of us had any reverence for faith as adults; in my case, I never did. But Mark was once a Born-Again-in-the-Blood-of-Christ-Jesus Southern Baptist, known in the hills as the boy touched by the Lord Hisself. There were aspirations to get him on A.M. radio he was so fired up on God’s Word. But his family returned to Texas, where Mark discovered comic books, Dungeons and Dragons, and goth music were far more fun than church.

[Pickup truck with engine trouble rolling down the road.]

We puttered along I-35, hoping the radiator would hold up long enough to get us back to the apartment. We were silent at first—me thinking about how I had been wrong about Jesus and demons and everything my entire life.

“Okay, I think I have it figured out,” Mark said. “That thing is some kind of quantum manifestation. Remember Animal Man 26…like that. But not just a story…totally for real.”

“It’s a fuckin’ demon, Mark.”

“No. I mean, I get what you’re getting at. It’s real, but it’s not what it seems. It’s like how some particles, when observed, react to certain laws. But it’s all chaos when we’re not looking. It’s playing by certain rules…and expects us to do the same. So, when we get to the apartment, we’re going in with the full armor of God.”

“What the fuck is that?”

“The Belt of Truth. Speak only the truth when we confront it. We’ll also be protected by the Breastplate of Righteousness—we deserved to be called out for fucking with Tim, but none of us deserve this. The Gospel of Peace will protect our feet. As stupid as we can be at times, we’re still good people not out to hurt anyone. The Shield of Faith, the Helm of Salvation, and wielding the Sword of the Spirit might be a little bit harder for you, having never believed in any of this crap. I’ll go in first and pave the way. You just think about saving Tim and putting all this behind us.

“My biggest fear is how strong it will be when we get to the apartment. It’s gonna feed off Tim’s residual Catholicism in a way no former Baptist could ever sate it.”

* * *

[Two car doors close. Footfalls on pavement.]

The apartments were silent when we pulled up. Lights were out, and no one was around. We walked to the door of Mark and Tim’s place and listened.

We heard singing…

[Demonic voice.] “Happy birthday, Best Friend. Happy birthday, Best Friend. Milkboy will never leave you. Happy birthday, Best Friend.”

Mark looked at me and said, “Remember: Full Armor of God,” as he reached for the doorknob.

[A door opens and closes.]

[Flames crackle, wind blows, souls howl.]

The inside of Mark and Tim’s apartment looked like a fire and brimstone plane of Hell. A rope bridge crossed the living room, suspended over a drop into a fiery abyss that seemed to have no bottom. In the dining room, Tim was bound to the chair at the head of the table. [Muffled cries for help.] Demon Milkboy wore a party hat and lit the candles on a [Squishing sounds] worm-riddled birthday cake with his fingertips. The rest of the table was covered with books and dice and figures from our last Dungeons and Dragons session.

[Demonic voice.] “It appears we have company, Best Friend.”

“Leave him alone!” Mark said.

[Demonic voice.] “Leave him alone? But it was you who started this…two puny humans too stupid to realize it is unwise to meddle with things you do not understand!”

“We were just fucking around.” I said.

[Demonic voice.] “There is power in words. You two, of all people, should know that. What you have manifested will now be your undoing!”

[Flames intensify.]

The demon raised its hands like something out of Fantasia’s “Night on Bald Mountain” scene, causing the flames in the abyss to rise.

“Run!” Mark shouted.

[Footfalls across a rope bridge.]

We charged across the rope bridge as the fire climbed higher. Mark’s feet and body glowed, and I swear I saw a shield pushing back flames as he scrambled across. [Snapping ropes.] The bridge gave way just as we reached the other side—[feet scratching on gravel] just enough to cause me to lose balance at the edge. [Clasping hands.] Mark extended a hand, making sure I didn’t fall in.

[Demonic voice.] “I see you wear the Armor of God,” Demon Milkboy said. “Tell me, Christopher—what do you really think about Mark?”

I imagined the Belt of Truth around my waist.

“I hated him at first. He wasn’t nice to me when I met him—he thought he was better than everyone he met. He was so fuckin’ pompous, and there wasn’t a face on the planet I wanted to punch more than his. But we each chilled the fuck out and got to know each other. There are now times I spend more time with him than Tim. I’m the writer I am largely because of Mark. More confident, too. I hope when we’re older that we still have each other’s backs.”

Mark laughed and said, “Didn’t work out the way you hoped, did it?”

“Well, what about you, False Warrior of Lies? What do you think of Chris?”

“I thought he was log-dumb when I met him. He’s still the goofiest person I know, but he’s not stupid—I was wrong to think that. And I resented him because I knew how much Tim loves him. But he’s also the reason I know Tim. We’re all sort of a fucked-up package deal, and I’ll die right here for either of them.”

“Your wish is my command!”

[Heavy footfalls running.]

Demon Milkboy rushed Mark, but I was faster. [Body tackle.] I hit him at the waist and knocked him back. [A whoosh and a thud.] One mighty swat from the demon was enough to knock me to my hands and knees.

[Demonic voice.] “The goofy one will be the first to die!”

I braced for the hit, but it never came. [Angelic energy.] A bright light filled the room. When I turned back to look, Mark held a twenty-sided die in his left hand and a silver glowing sword in his right.

[Demonic voice.] “Oh, you want to throw dice and play your little sword game? Be my guest! Your THAC0 is twenty. You cannot harm me!”

“We may throw the dice, but the Lord determines how they fall!” Mark said. [A 20-sided die tumbles across a table.] The d20 tumbled across the table and came to rest near the birthday cake.

[Demonic voice.] “Ha! You rolled a one! You are a weak little morsel.”

The light from Mark’s sword dimmed. [A heavy punch.] With one punch, Demon Milkboy knocked Mark across the dining room and into the abyss.

“Maaaaark!!!”

When the initial shock of losing Mark wore off and I remembered that I could still save Tim, I shouted, “What the fuck is wrong with you? Why the fuck are you like this? None of this makes sense! Who the fuck hurt you so bad that you go and do shit like this?”

I waited for the demon to come down on me with all its might, but it didn’t. I stood up and got face to face with Demon Milkboy.

“I asked you a question? Who hurt you?!”

[Demonic voice.] “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do! Someone hurt you really bad to make you like this.”

[Demonic voice.]“SILENCE!!!”

“I’ll shut up if you just tell me who hurt you!”

[Demonic voice.] “Everybody! Everybody, okay?! Everybody who picked on you at Walt Whitman Junior High School. Every motherfucker who pelted Mark with biscuits in the cafeteria. Every person who made Tim feel so self-conscious about himself that he shoulders unnecessary emotional weight every day. Every person who gave Lance a wedgie before he bulked up in self-defense. I am a manifestation of all that and more—I am the pain of youth made real!“

[A sizzling droplet.]

A single tear sizzled and evaporated as it rolled down Demon Milkboy’s cheek.

“I know that shit hurts,” I said. “But it’s in the past. That was then. It doesn’t mean the memories go away and stop stinging, but you find the people who love you and don’t let go of them.”

[Demonic voice.] “That’s easy for you to say. Nobody loves me…”

[A clasping bear-hug.]

I hugged Demon Milkboy as hard as I could.

[Demonic voice.] “STOP!!! NOOOOOO!!!”

It felt like I was holding a burning tree trunk as the demon struggled to get free. [Sizzling and yelling.] I bore the pain and held tight as it smoldered and lost power. When it was done and gone, I held Lance Fusco in my arms.

“What the fuck is going on?” he said.

[Hellish sounds diminish. A call for help.]

As the hellscape faded in the apartment, we heard Mark call for help from the closing abyss.

[Running. Clasping hands; a body dragged to its feet.]

[A sealing portal.]

Lance and I rushed to the edge and pulled him up right before it was sealed beneath the carpet. We removed the gag from Tim’s mouth and untied him.

“Are you okay?” I said?

“Yeah. I think so. I have no fucking idea what just happened, but I’m fine.”

“What about you, Lance?” Mark said.

“Yeah, I’m okay. The last thing I remember was sitting in my apartment thinking about how I still have such a hard time making friends. I got pissed at myself and started pounding myself in the head. I heard a pop, like my skull opened and released something.”

“It’s a long story,” Mark said. “I dropped Tim’s birthday dinner into the abyss, but we can order pizza, drink some beer, and catch you up on the last week. You’re welcome to stay and celebrate Tim’s birthday with us. Maybe play some D&D…”

“I’d like that,” Lance said. “Happy birthday, Tim.”

“Yeah, happy birthday,” Mark and I said in unison.

“Thanks, guys. If nothing else, it’s been memorable…”

We all looked at the birthday cake on the table. The roiling mass it was before morphed into a normal cake. Mark started singing.

“Happy birthday to you…”

Lance joined in: “Happy birthday to you…”

Then me: “Happy birthday, dear Tim. Happy birthday to you…”

[A breath blowing out candles.]

[Jangly guitar music plays.]

I don’t know what Tim wished for when he blew out the candles on that cake, and I never asked him. Maybe I will someday. I don’t know if Mark or Lance made a wish, but I did—I figured, “Why the hell not? We just fought a fuckin’ demon!” And so, in that moment, I wished we’d all still be friends when we grew older and gray.

I’m happy to report it’s one of the only wishes in my life to ever come true.

[Guitar music intensifies, and then fades…]

* * *

[The sounds of full-blown Hell. Flapping wings; feet landing on rock.]

DEMON MB:             Master…

SATAN:                      What is it, little one?

DEMON MB:             Master, I am sorry I failed you, but in my stumbling, I have discovered a new way to rule His children above. A manner of temptation and addiction unlike any we could have dreamed. A mechanism of division that will impregnate their existence with chaos and compel them to destroy each other without our influence.

SATAN:                      Oh? Do tell…

DEMON MB:             No, let me show you…

[The Bleeps and Bloops of a Dial-Up Modem.]

[Fingers typing on a keyboard.]

SATAN:                      [Laughter] Oh, how sinister. Oh, how utterly delicious…

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks. My voice is gone—you can probably tell. Uhm…I need to work at that kinda thing a little bit better! Probably should have read all the demon voices at the end because hooooooo, I’m sure that got a little rough at the end. But…happy birthday, Tim! You suffered through so many years of friendship with us, so…my voice just suffered for you. Anyway…

I’m gonna probably do the rest of this almost in the demon voice because it comes through better.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Birdies, licensed through Epidemic Sound. To save time creating an ambient Hellscape, I licensed one of Michaël Ghelfi’s many ambient tracks. If you’re in need of background sound for role-playing games, parties, your workday, or something to fall asleep to, Michaël has your back. I’ll also be sure to leave a link to his website and YouTube channel in the show notes.

Sound effects are always made in-house or from freesound.org. I’m really losing my voice. Anyway…do I have a call at work tomorrow? If I do, they’re gonna be like, “What the hell?” and I’ll just go into the demon voice—and they’ll be like, “Wooo, something’s wrong with Chris. Why the fuck did we hire him?”

In November, the annual tradition continues as I share the most NOT Not About Lumberjacks story of the year, in honor of the show’s sixth anniversary! Yes: six years. What’s the story about, you wonder? Two deadhead loggers find something remarkable in the Piney Woods of East Texas, putting them at odds with a large timber company.

Anyway…visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music.

So…until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks. My voice is gone—you can probably tell. Uhm…I need to work at that kinda thing a little bit better! Probably should have read all the demon voices at the end because hooooooo, I’m sure that got a little rough at the end. But…happy birthday, Tim! You suffered through so many years of friendship with us, so…my voice just suffered for you. Anyway…

I’m gonna probably do the rest of this almost in the demon voice because it comes through better.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Birdies, licensed through Epidemic Sound. To save time creating an ambient Hellscape, I licensed one of Michaël Ghelfi’s many ambient tracks. If you’re in need of background sound for role-playing games, parties, your workday, or something to fall asleep to, Michaël has your back. I’ll also be sure to leave a link to his website and YouTube channel in the show notes.

Sound effects are always made in-house or from freesound.org. I’m really losing my voice. Anyway…do I have a call at work tomorrow? If I do, they’re gonna be like, “What the hell?” and I’ll just go into the demon voice—and they’ll be like, “Woah, something’s wrong with Chris. Why the fuck did we hire him?”

Anyway…visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music.

In November, the annual tradition continues as I share the most NOT Not About Lumberjacks story of the year, in honor of the show’s sixth anniversary! Yes: six years. What’s the story about, you wonder? Two deadhead loggers find something remarkable in the Piney Woods of East Texas, putting them at odds with a large timber company.

So…until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

And now, some bloopers…

[Jaunty guitar music fades in, joined by a trumpet.]

[A wet belch.]

Christopher Gronlund:

Oh, belchy-belchy! Oh…? That smelled like a really good dinner belch. Cynthia’s been cooking lately…really good stuff. Lotta lime in that belch! Mmmm! [Sound of smacking lips.]

* * *

[Sound of distant emergency vehicles sirens.]

This fuckin’ sucks…

[Sirens intensify…Christopher mimics them.]

Now watch this be the day the apartments are actually on fire and they’re like, at the door pounding…like, “You gotta get out now! Everything’s on fire.”

And I’m like, “I’m in the middle of recording.” And they’re like, “Don’t matter, Hoss — if I gotta throw you over my shoulder and carry you down them stairs — that’s what I’m gonna do.”

And I’d be like, “I’d like to see you try. I look like a big guy, but I’ve got the weight of a fat guy, motherfucker.”

* * *

“The cross seemed to repel Demon Meek— … MeekBoy! He’s not meek—he’s fuckin’ evil…”

* * *

[Inhalation of breath, followed by a belch.]

* * *

Oh, this is shredding my voice!

[The sound of the cap on a metal water bottle being unscrewed.]

* * *

With one punch…Ugh, my voice. Getting shredded!

* * *

[Spoken line, but slightly garbbled.] With one punch…With one punch— [Mimics microphone sound.] Whoob whoob…Why is that sounding soooo bad?! [Throat clear.]

* * *

[Demon voice without deep processing]

Everybody who picked on you at Walt Whit— [Deep breath.] Everyone who picked on—Uhhhh, my voice! This is…this is terrible!

* * *

As the hellscape— Oh, my voice is gone. I-I can’t finish this, maybe… [Throat clear.]

[Music fades out.]

[Listen]

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is not about lumberjacks…

My name is Christopher Gronlund, and every month I share a story. Sometimes the stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny — other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never — EVER — share a story about lumberjacks.

This time, Cynthia Griffith narrates a story I wrote about an unemployed writer lands her dream job, but it comes with much more than she bargained for in the form of an African Grey parrot named Horus.

All right–let’s get to work…

Cynthia Griffith Narration:

Horus.

In the eighth month of my unemployment, I did something I hadn’t done since my early 20s: I picked up the local newspaper to look at the classifieds. My LinkedIn account had long gone stale, bringing in more spam than job offers. I’d long passed the frustration of loading my resume to company websites, only to then be forced to fill out all the information again through a form–never to hear if it was received, let alone if I was ever considered for the position. I even thought about Craigslist, but I’d heard stories. So the newspaper it was.

Trying to find a copy of the local paper wasn’t as easy as it used to be. For a while as I drove around town early on a Sunday morning, I thought maybe they had ceased publication. The possibility seemed odd, considering the town had grown from 5,000 people to almost 30,000 people in the 20 years since last looking at the classifieds. As long as a generation that grew up with newspapers still breathes, our small-town paper still finds a way. I finally found the one machine in town offering The Herald; it looked like the same machine from the 90s, which was probably already 20 years old when I first picked up a copy while looking for work when I was younger. It was in the parking lot of an old strip mall that now sits mostly vacant. The few shops and restaurants remaining come and go, the victim of people my age thinking, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to own a quaint little shop in our hometown?” only to find out that, no—it wouldn’t. A faux town square meant to look like it’s always existed on the other side of town buried the ambitions of the 80s strip mall about the time I graduated college in the early 90s.

I put a quarter into the machine and tugged at the door. Locked! I inserted another quarter and the worn door flopped open by itself with a creak and a clang. Fifty cents for the local paper dispensed from a machine so old that they never bothered to update the price. I tossed the paper onto the passenger seat of my car and got in on the other side. Before clearing the parking lot, my phone rang. My mother.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

“Nothing’s wrong. Why would something be wrong?”

“It’s a quarter after 6:00 on a Sunday morning. You sleep in.”

“I got up to pee and decided to call to see if you were getting an early start on your job hunt. It’s a new week.”

“Yes, Mom—I know. I’m picking up a newspaper at this very moment.”

“Good for you, Sarah. The early bird gets the good job.”

My mother had a funny way of reworking clichés into things she didn’t believe were clichés. Growing up, I heard things like, “Every cloud has another brighter lining,” “You need to get your ducks to the pond,” and “Don’t cry over spilled milk when there’s gin on the floor worth crying over…”

That last one. I wouldn’t call my mom an alcoholic, but from 4:00 in the afternoon to 9:00 in the evening, there was always a gin and tonic in my mother’s hand.

“Yep, that’s me,” I said. “The early bird.”

The dead air on the other side of the call meant that my mom really didn’t call about my job hunt; something more was coming. I counted in my head, “one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand…”

“You know,” my mother said. “I hope you find someone really nice next year. You really need two incomes to make it in the world today.”

No wish for a good job in the new year; for my mother, the solution was a man providing another income. Never mind that my mother never worked a job a day in her life. I’m convinced my mother and father fucked only once—my mother probably finding it all too sloppy, especially the mess that accompanied my entry into the world. I don’t know what my mother really wanted from life, but I know she never wanted a kid. My mother and father were a couple existing in space only, two electrons circling a nucleus of lies sold to them when they were young. I knew Susan, my nanny, better than I knew my mother. That strange way my mother looked at me, as though I were some kind of specimen, would take the rest of my life to decipher if I decided to carry that weight. But it was my mother’s burden to carry—not mine. I’m good at letting go of things.

“I like being alone, Mom. If I meet someone in the coming year, fine. If I don’t, fine.”

“You shouldn’t be okay with that, Sarah. I don’t know why you have to make everything so difficult. You can always come home and write and not have a worry in the world.”

“A little worry keeps me going. I really need to get going to get a jump on the job hunt. Tell Dad I said hello and that I send my love.”

“Okay, I’m going to go pee, now.”

I wanted to say something about how most people would have taken care of that before calling their grown daughter and pretending to check on her job hunt, but I wanted off the phone even more. “Okay, Mom. I love you.”

” Good day, Sarah.”

I thumbed through the local paper as I drank coffee and polished off a doughnut I picked up on the way home. The big news story was the upcoming annual holiday parade on Main Street and an angry letter to the editor about the “War on Christmas,” despite our town calling it a holiday parade from its start back in the 50s. That’s what constituted front page news where I lived, and I always found comfort in that. I like a place where the environment doesn’t take over the thoughts in one’s head.

It had been such a long time since looking at the paper for a job that I wondered who actually used the classifieds to look for work instead of going online with their search. There were postings for restaurant help, cleaning services, and plenty of warehouse jobs requiring skills like being able to count in multiples of 12, the ability to see colors, and not having issues standing for 10 hours. There were ads for plumbers, laborers, and delivery drivers; pickers, packers, and loaders. It’s not that I saw any of those jobs beneath me, but I was doing well enough that I could go another couple months before nerves really set in—and I knew there were people more in need of immediate work than me. Then I saw it:

Wanted: Writer’s Assistant.

Established novelist seeks writing assistant. Duties include: research, office tasks, and occasional errands. Perks include time to work on your own projects. Writing samples required.

(214) 555-1212

Ask for Lauren

I expected Lauren to live in a nice neighborhood when she told me she lived in Highland Park and to buzz her at the front gate, but as I drove along walled properties obscured even further by trees—only occasionally catching a glimpse of the massive houses situated far back on plots of land that gave way to even more space—I wasn’t expecting her to live in one of the houses off of Preston Road even I dreamed about living in when I was younger. My parents never wanted for money, but even they talked about Highland Park as though it were a magical place a million miles away from our family home in Southlake. I drove along a long wall covered in ivy before seeing Lauren’s address near an elaborate wrought iron gate leading into the property. I pulled up and pressed the buzzer. A few moments later, I heard an older woman’s voice say, “Yes?”

“Hello. My name’s Sarah Nelson. I have a two-o’-clock appointment with Lauren Mitchell.”

“Hello, Sarah. Please drive up. I’m wrapping up with another candidate now. I’ll meet you at the front door.”

The gate opened and I drove along the winding driveway, lost in a tangle of bare trees and landscaped evergreens. Sometime back in the 30s when the house was built, great care was given to present the home to visitors in all its splendor. A bend in the way revealed a mansion nestled in trees that opened like a stage curtain (I could only imagine it in the spring). It was the kind of place built as a reminder that Dallas is not without its own old money families.

I pulled around the large circle before the house and parked behind a Toyota Prius with a NAMASTE bumper sticker on the back. The sound of the fountain in the center of it all soothed any tension that had built up on the drive over. At the top of the stairs leading to the house, I bumped into the interviewee before me, a 20-something-year old who looked like she was trying a bit too much to look like a writer. Everything about her was meant to look natural and thrown together, but the effort was apparent: a floppy hat, scarf, and sweater—even though it was one of those December days in the upper 70s. Her skirt was light enough to billow when she walked, as though she were constantly followed by an unseen breeze. She put on a pair of vintage sunglasses and looked at the only part of her ensemble she had nothing to do with: a Band-Aid on her finger. The white-haired woman behind her exuding a natural style one cannot buy said, “I will get back to you later this week. And I apologize again about the bite.”

The interviewee said, “It’s okay,” but I could tell it wasn’t. When I said hello, she ignored me and scurried for her car.

I recognized Lauren Mitchell immediately, only I knew her by her pen name: Marie Sinclair. She smiled at me and said, “Do you recognize me?”

I hoped I wasn’t blushing. “You’re Marie Sinclair.”

“That’s a good start.” She stepped aside and said, “Please. Come inside.”

I made the connection that I’d already seen the inside of the house, in an issue of D Magazine featuring the homes of famous Dallasites. Of all the homes in the feature, Lauren’s was the home I dreamed about. The stone, French-style mansion could have been uprooted, moved to the North Shore of Long Island, and been Fitzgerald’s inspiration for a party in The Great Gatsby. A slate roof gave the appearance of sunlight breaking through dark clouds, making everything beneath appear bright and perfect. Stepping back and taking in the blue sky, gray roof, white building, manicured green shrubbery, and golden-brown lawn was like looking at a world layered in a parfait glass.  

“You’re the only one I’ve interviewed who recognized me,” Lauren said.

I wanted to say, “Of course I recognize you–you’re the writer I’ve aspired to become. To have a short chat about writing over a cup of tea would be wonderful, and here I am in your actual house!” Instead, I said, “I appreciate your writing and thank you for this opportunity.”

My mother would have been proud.

“Well, thank you. Between us, you provided the best writing samples of the three final candidates.”

My thank you was interrupted by a loud squawk.

“That’s Horus.”

Lauren stopped at the door leading into her study and gestured for me to enter. I couldn’t have imagined a better room in which to write. It was like stepping back to the mid-18th century. The rug on the floor looked like it had seen great leaders rise and fall; the plasterwork on the walls and ceiling seemingly applied by a giant wielding a massive pastry bag. Why bother with a desk lamp when you could have two crystal chandeliers lighting the way, and the Louis XIV style chairs may have been the real thing. What really caught my eye was to the side of the most ornate desk I’d ever seen: a cage as tall as me. Sitting on a perch attached to the top of it was an African Grey parrot. I smiled and said, “You must be Horus?”

The bird tilted his head to the side, and I looked at Lauren. She nodded, and I approached the cage. Horus climbed down from his perch and waddled to the edge, just about eye level to me. I extended my hand while thinking about the interviewee before me with the Band-Aid on her finger. Horus stretched out and then offered to me the back of his head. I ruffled his feathers against the grain and presented my hand. He rested the tip of his beak on my index finger and scrutinized it with his dry tongue. His pupils dilated, and he said, “Hello.”

“Hello, Horus,” I said.

The rest of the interview was a breeze; I was offered the job before leaving.

It was never lost on me how fortunate I was to stumble upon that classified ad. Lauren explained to me that she went to newspapers in smaller towns in the area because she figured someone still reading papers had better odds to be what she was looking for. She said, “I have nothing against 20-year-olds, but I hoped someone with a little more experience would respond. Also, I just didn’t want to fuck with Craigslist.”

I didn’t feel that I worked all that much during my days there. I did some proofreading, organized mail, and kept Lauren’s schedule, but most of the time I was allowed to work on my own writing. Lauren even read the occasional page at random, and always said, “You’ve yet to lose my interest.” Sometimes when she read my writing, Horus leaped to her shoulder from his cage and appeared to read along.

“He looks like he understands,” I said one day.

“He’s a very smart bird. Have you ever held a parrot?”

“Once when I was a kid. At a zoo.”

“Would you like to hold him?”

I nodded, and she picked up Horus and handed him to me.

I scratched the back of his head and said, “You’re such a sweetie.”

Lauren laughed.

“What?” I said.

“You didn’t use the baby voice. Everybody uses the baby voice.”

“Honestly, there’s something about his eyes. Like if I used the baby voice I’d piss him off.”

Lauren smiled and said, “Well, something tells me you’re safe.”

As I moved into my fourth month working for Lauren, she said, “Do you like your commute?”

“I don’t mind it,” I said.

“But you don’t like it?”

“Not particularly. The area’s grown so much. No matter how much they widen LBJ, it’s crowded and mean.”

“So was LBJ. If I may be a bit presumptuous, I assume the guest house out back is larger than where you’re living now?”

“Yes, I believe it is,” I said, knowing full well it was.

“It’s vacant and needs some work, but it’s yours if you’d like.”

“That’s very generous, Lauren, but I can’t accept that.”

“Sure you can. Think of it as passing a 90-day probationary period. You’re not going to find a better offer elsewhere, and I’m going to bother you until you accept.”

I don’t know why, but I looked to Horus. “What do you think?”

He ruffled his feathers and squawked, “Yes!”

“By needing some work,” Lauren meant the guest house by the pool only needed a little light dusting. Like the interior of the main house, everything in the guest house was designed to be magazine perfect. I hate to admit it, but I kept waiting to see what the catch was. A job, a free house, and all the time I wanted to work on my own writing didn’t come without a cost.

The phone rang one afternoon while I was sitting by the pool reading a galley for the book Lauren finished before I started working for her. It was my mother. After our Hello’s, she got right to it.

“I’m worried about you, Sarah.”

“Why, mother?”

“It’s not right. It makes no sense. This woman gives you everything and asks for nothing in return? Do you think she’s…you know…?”

“What, Mom? What do I know?”

“You know,” she said. And then she whispered, “gay…”

“I’m not going to justify that with an answer.” I didn’t care if Lauren was gay; I only cared if perhaps she was and had feelings for me that I would never have for her. I would never have wanted to see Lauren hurt.

“You say you work for her and that she likes your writing, but don’t be surprised when she asks you for…” More whispering, “You know…”

“No, I don’t know. Mom, I’m done with this call.”

“Don’t hang up on me, Sarah. I’m trying to help. Your writing isn’t that good—”

“What?” The years spilled out of me. “How the hell would you know if my writing is good or not? You were never there for me when I was young, and all you do is pick at me as an adult. You’ve never even read my writing; in fact, you’ve always told me it was a silly dream—that I should just get married and settle down! You know what? I’m tired of this shit. I’m done speaking to you. Not just this call—I’m just done!”

I hung up and blocked my mother’s number.

When I calmed down, I looked up and saw Lauren and Horus watching me from the conservatory.

The day after telling my mother I was done dealing with her shit, everything seemed to turn for me: the right agent, publisher, and then editor. Writing under the pen name, Cynthia Burkehart, my first published novel received more praise than I ever imagined, and all that came with supporting the release was more exhausting and fun than I believed it would be. Only on rare occasion was it insinuated that Lauren had anything to do with my success; Lauren insisted from the start that she’d help me find my way as a writer, but finding my way to publication was up to me. My third novel was my first bestseller, initially doing better than the book Lauren released that year. But there was a benefit to having history as a writer. While my releases and successes came in flashes, Lauren’s climbs and slides were never as quick. I was winning sprints while she was winning marathons.

And that was what my life was like for over a decade, until the day Lauren Mitchell–a.k.a. Marie Sinclair–died.

For all the things I took care of for Lauren over the years, we never discussed a will. I found nothing in the office cabinets, so I wandered into the library. That’s when I heard someone say, “I have never found a good way to ease into this, so I’ll just get right to it: I am not what I seem.”

I picked up a marble bust from a table and charged into the office, ready to defend myself and Horus.

There was nobody there.

“You can set Mr. Irving down,” Horus said, sounding almost wholly human. “While Washington would make as good a bludgeon as any author, there is no need to defend yourself against me.”

I was slack-jawed with surprise.

“I realize this is strange, that you might think you’re losing your mind. But I assure you, Sarah, you are not.”

“You’re talking. Not like parrot talk, but talking-talk.”

“Yes.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Yes. Normally, anyway. But as I mentioned, I am not what I seem. There is a safe behind the portrait of me on the wall. In case you’ve ever wondered: yes, that is me, and it is an original Audubon.”

“How old are you?” I said.

“I do not know for sure, but I remember The Battle of Hastings. So at least 950 years old or so. The memory fades a bit after a few hundred years.”

“There is no way.”

“I realize this is overwhelming. The contents of the safe should make things more clear.”

I carefully removed the Audubon painting from the wall and set it on the desk. Horus gave me the combination to the safe. Inside was a stack of large envelopes and an old, leather-bound book. I spent the afternoon going over everything with Horus, amazed by how quickly I came to accept him speaking like a human. The legal transfer of all of Lauren’s possessions to me were in order. I was overwhelmed by that, but even more struck by a letter in Lauren’s hand ending with this:

I never had a child of my own, Sarah, but know this: you were more than any son or daughter I could have imagined.

You’re in very good hands,

Lauren

The rest of the day was spent bombarding Horus with questions:

“Why wouldn’t Lauren have told me about you?”

“I am sorry. I take a strange pleasure in the initial reveal. I may be old, but my ego and sense of humor remain intact. I love the looks on people’s faces…”

* * *

“But what if someone along the way just dumped you off at a pet store or decided, ‘I’m going to make a mint off this talking parrot’?”

“Honestly, Sarah. Are you about to give up a parrot that genuinely speaks? And if you decide to suddenly throw away your writing career for touring with me, I am quite stubborn, and all a crowd will get is squawks and, ‘Polly wanna cracker.'”

“What if Lauren had suddenly died on you before I came along?”

“As you’ll soon see, we’ll set up the office phone so if something terrible happens to you, I will be able to call 911. A news story about a parrot calling the authorities and squawking out his address will ensure I end up someplace safe, with all this still in my possession.”

* * *

Later I asked, “What’s up with that book?” That book being the old book found in the safe with all the papers.

“That’s my journal. These days, everything is typed and stored on the cloud, but back then, the people I shared lives with wrote for me in their own hand. You’ll be amazed by some of the hands you’ll meet in that tome.”

He wasn’t kidding: he’d spent his years in the company of world leaders, artists, writers, and businessmen. I couldn’t believe the things I read in the journal.

“You came to America with Charles Dickens?”

“Yes,” Horus said. “1842. It was a rough crossing of the Atlantic on the HMS Britannia, and I was not about to return to England and relive that experience. Besides, Dickens never needed my assistance.

“I was given to Washington Irving, which was quite to my liking. Through him, I met other American writers. This may be hard to believe, but I am the inspiration behind Poe’s “The Raven”—and Melville’s Moby Dick is really the symbolic story of my crossing of the Atlantic in rough seas…”

I was regaled with tales of the New York City literary scene during Victorian times. To hear Horus tell it, his influence is all over early American fiction.

“I wanted something much different from British literature; something over which people would argue. It’s a wonderfully efficient way to keep a thing alive: insert just enough difference and provincial pride into opposing forces and watch people generations removed from a thing still argue about which is better.”

Regarding his name, he said, “No, I am not as old as the pharaohs, but as a very ancient bird, Horus is much better than my given name: Edward.”

I asked him how he got to Texas of all places.

“Irving gave me to Melville.” He laughed. “Listen to me, I make it sound as though I were an object to be traded, but I must admit to being limited in my mobility. As Melville aged, I went to live with an editor Melville was sure would become a great writer. It never happened, though—he refused to take my advice. He was more suited for business, anyway, and in the early 1900s, when oil was discovered in Texas, I suggested we head west. I typically move from family to family, but I stayed with the Mitchell’s for several generations. Lauren’s grandfather made a good life for himself and settled in Dallas after finding his fortune. I was passed on to Lauren’s mother and eventually to her. Now, I belong to you.”

I didn’t like the way that sounded, as though Horus were simply a knick-knack on a shelf. But then I remembered how the ages had influenced him and what he meant was that he’d given his service and care to me.

When everything was settled after Lauren’s passing, I asked Horus if he wanted to move elsewhere—even another country.

“Oh, no,” he said. “The trip to America was bad enough. While I fly, I have no desire to fly in a plane. I’d be crated, drugged, and quarantined. Stick a feather in my cap and call me macaroni—I’m happy to be in America, right where I am.”

And so was I.

There came a point in the years that followed where I locked into a stride and became the kind of writer Lauren once was: steady and patient. I toured less and wrote more, all the while with Horus right there at my side, reading from my shoulder. It’s not like I was without other friends, but I was always quite content with a solitary life even before meeting Lauren and Horus. The friends I had in publishing were plenty; I had more than I could ever want.

And then one day it was my turn to interview the person who would replace me and care for Horus when I was gone. I wasn’t as concerned as Lauren in finding someone creeping into middle age as I was when Lauren found me; besides, while the old newspaper machine was still in the parking lot of the shopping center near my hometown, it hadn’t seen a newspaper in ages. There were still, however, bulletin boards on college campuses, so I placed my ad at SMU, UTA, The University of North Texas, and Texas Women’s University.

Wanted: Assistant.

Established novelist (yes, some people still read and write novels) seeks an assistant. Duties include: research, office tasks, and occasional errands. Perks include time to work on your own projects. Samples of your work—whatever that may be—required.

(214) 555-1212

Ask for Sarah

Just as Lauren narrowed it down to three candidates, so did I. And just as Lauren chose me for recognizing who she was, I chose Ayana Danjuma; not solely because she recognized me, but because she was the only candidate who wanted to write. When I told her books were barely a thing anymore, she smiled and said, “I know, but I’m not going to let them die on my watch.”

For 22 years, just as Lauren did with me, I read Ayana’s stories and nudged her in the right direction. And I’ll be damned if she didn’t publish a novel right about the time the NeuralNet crashed and people looked for some kind of entertainment outside of cyberspace. For over two decades we worked together…until my days finally came to an end.

We’d reached a point with medicine where most of the things that killed us when I was young were no longer a fear. My lungs were never the best, though, and it’s not like I could swallow a pill and grow a new set. A series of colds, bouts of bronchitis, and pneumonia finally wore me down to a point where I was done fighting. I’d live on in Horus’s stories.

Ayana was in the guest house when it happened. Horus flew down from his perch in the bedroom where he’d insisted on staying while I was weak. I felt the tug at my sleeve and looked down to see Horus standing on the blankets. He was smarter than any human I’d ever met, yet it always amazed me when he’d do parrot things; so much so that I wondered if it was biological wiring or something he did just to calm me down.

The last thing I remembered was him saying, “This is the only part of being me that I hate.”

Epilogue

From the Journal of Ayana Danjuma

August 21, 2057

And that was what my life was like for more than two decades, until the day Sarah Nelson—a.k.a. Cynthia Burkehart—died. A pall fell upon the house, until the day I was in the library and heard a voice from the office:

“I have never found a good way to ease into this, so I’ll just get right to it. I am not what I seem…”

* * *

Christopher Gronlund:

A big thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks – and thank you to Cynthia Griffith for narrating Horus. All music by Ergo Phizmiz and Podington Bear, released under a Creative Commons license. Not about Lumberjacks is also released under a Creative Commons license. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and music…and cfgriffith.com for information about Cynthia.

Next month, the adult son of a hoarder finally figures why his father collects things when the two set out to retrieve some dogs seen running loose in a field.

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!