[Listen]
[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, it’s a story about endings leading to new beginnings; a tale about finding joy in the darkest of places: Death.
Before that, though, a couple things. First: the usual content advisory. This story deals with a variety of topics, including sudden and drawn-out deaths (including the death of a child). It also includes discussions about cancer, drug and alcohol use, struggles with self-doubt, and—of course—the usual bits of swearing.
The second thing before we get to the episode is I’d like to tell you about a book series by my friend, Jennifer Moss.
If you’re looking for a fun and exciting binge, this is it—a series of mysteries with a metaphysical twist. The first is TOWN RED, in which Detective Ryan Doherty has to save his career by solving a double homicide of husband and wife entrepreneurs. During the investigation, he meets the mysterious Catharine Lulling—a psychic empath who knows just a little too much about the murders. As Ryan is drawn into Catharine’s unconventional world, he has to figure out if she’s for real…or the real killer.
Check out TOWN RED by Jennifer Moss—rated five stars on Amazon.com.
I’ll also be sure to include a link in the show notes.
All right—let’s get to work…
* * *
A DEATHLY MISTAKE
[Xylophone music plays.]
Death stood waiting at the foot of John’s bed. Despite being the model of health, a blood clot formed in his left leg days before would snake its way through his pulmonary artery and find its final resting place in John’s lung. Death had seen it countless times—frequently, the collected soul jolted upright in bed, trying to figure out what was happening in their final moments. Other times they barely moved, leaving Death checking to see if it was over.
“Excuse me. John…”
John stirred and then recoiled to the head of his bed when he saw the scythe-wielding, cloaked figure at its foot.
“Everything will be all right. I am not here to hurt you.”
“What the hell’s going on?”
“Unfortunately for you, I have come to collect your soul. You are dead.”
“Bullshit!”
“I understand the sentiment, but it changes nothing. Follow me…”
* * *
Death stepped from John’s bedroom and into the dining room of the tiny apartment. The small, round table filling the space was spotless, apart from a frosted glass vase housing an unused, chunky white candle. In most homes Death visited, kitchen and dining room tables served as a catch-all spot for mail, keys, books, and other odds and ends having their own place, yet seemingly drawn to the gravity of tabletops.
John stepped out and turned on the kitchen light.
“Can I at least get a drink of water before we go?”
“You are dead, John. You no longer require such things.”
“But I’m thirsty.” He opened a cabinet near the gleaming sink and removed a glass. Death watched John fill it with water from a filtering pitcher on the counter.
“You were a very clean person, Jonathan Paul Smith.”
“I like to think fastidious.”
“Well, for someone so…fastidious, you seem to be taking this quite well.”
“That’s because I don’t believe this is real.”
“Well, I assure you, it is. You are about to find out.” Death pointed a long, bony finger at the glass of water. “Drink up.”
John brought the glass to his lips and drained it in a few quick gulps. Death cocked his head to the side.
“What?” John said.
“That water should be on the floor.”
“But it’s not.”
Death crossed John’s living room and opened the front door. He poked his head out and looked around.
“What are you doing?” John said.
“It’s just…well…I usually walk the deceased through their home—kind of one last reminder of their mortal lives and possessions. Then I open the door and we go through the light. It is a thing I do.”
John joined Death and peeked outside. “Looks like an ordinary night out there to me.”
When Death closed the door and turned around, John stabbed him in the stomach with all his might.
“You should not have done that, John…”
* * *
This time, when Death opened the door, outside was gone and replaced by the brightest white light John had ever seen—brilliant enough that it should’ve hurt, but didn’t. As his eyes adjusted and he realized he was in the proverbial tunnel, a feeling of warmth and calmness flooded his every sense. It may have taken lifetimes before the light dissolved around him, or it may have taken only a fraction of a second, but when he blinked his vision clear, there before him stood the Pearly Gates. Death approached the old, bearded man guarding a thick book placed atop a lectern.
“Hey, Pete. I’m here to turn over Jonathan Paul Smith.”
“Which one?” the old man said.
“Uhm…five-thousand-one Maple Avenue. Apartment fifteen-twenty in—”
“That’s wrong!” John said. “I’m at five-thousand Maple Avenue. Five-thousand-one is across the street.”
“Oh, shit…”
Saint Peter double checked the massive book before him. “He’s right. You showed up at the wrong place. The Jonathan Paul Smith you were to guide is currently dead in his bed from a pulmonary embolism. There’s still time to go get him.”
“Wait!” John said. “So, I’m not dead?”
“Oh, you’re dead, all right,” Death said. “When you stabbed me, your hand passed through my body. Anything living touches me, and it dies. You really shouldn’t have done that.”
“I thought you were some costumed, nut-job intruder! I had every right to defend myself. That’s why I got a drink of water—that pitcher was right beside my knife set. And wht the fuck is up with your voice?!”
“Calm down, calm down…these things happen from time to time. It’s like how sometimes cops serve no-knock warrants on the wrong house and end up shooting people they weren’t even looking for—”
“But this is your fault! And you know it ’cause you went from all, ‘I understand the sentiment, but it changes nothing,’ to, ‘Oh, shit!’ just like that!”
“Nah, don’t worry—there’s a fix. You know how sometimes people report seeing the tunnel during near-death experiences? Once I take you back, that’s all you’ll remember. Unless, you know—you don’t want to go back? You have the option to stay here, now. We’ll give you a moment to think about it.”
It was a ridiculous notion: just a handful of seconds to weigh living against dying. It’s not that John’s life was bad, but it wasn’t very exciting, either. As he gave it greater thought, he came to the conclusion that living was a thing he did simply because he was there, so why fight it? But it was never something he would have chosen had existing been his choice. Still, he was never fond how his life had become a conditioned thing, with parents, teachers, and even bosses dictating its shape. But already, the After Life seemed like a continuation of the expectations of others. How could eternity in the clouds really be any better than the drudgery of an Earth-bound life?
“I hate to hurry you,” Saint Peter said, “but you’re holding things up.”
John turned around and saw a line thousands of souls deep…each escorted by an otherworldly figure in a black cloak.
“What’s up with all of them?”
“Ah, you think there’s only one of us,” Death said. “Makes sense. I can only do so much—there are scores of us, as you can see. Factor in other faiths and their versions of the end, and who knows how many Harvesters there are. Hell, this is just one version of the Christian end, but through stories, it still persists.”
“Harvester?”
“Yeah, that’s the job title. Every culture harvests something. It’s pretty universal.”
“So, how does one become a…Harvester?”
“By making the choice to do so. By not wanting to stay here or go back.”
“No job interview or anything like that?”
“Nope! But if you’re thinking about giving it a go, I ask you: why would you want this job? It’s not always easy.”
“Living’s not always easy. I got really sick a decade ago. I had a house, a good job…everything. But I had to declare bankruptcy, and now I obsess over my health so I don’t get sick again. I live in that tiny apartment because it’s all I can afford. And every year when I get a little bit ahead, rent and other things go up, and I can’t get out. It’s almost as tiring as having cancer was.
“You’ve seen my place: I’m organized. I sure as hell wouldn’t have been harvesting the wrong people like somebody I know.”
“Fair point. All right. Pete, do you have a Deceased Entity Asking To Harvest form handy?
* * *
Back in John’s apartment, he and Death sat on the couch.
“Can we move to the kitchen? That’s bugging me.”
John pointed to his corporeal body near the front door.
“If you want to be a Harvester, you can’t be bothered by that.”
“But it’s me.”
“It was you. In time, that body will decay enough that someone will smell it and a wellness check will be done and the cops will be confused as hell, wondering why there’s a body right by the front door with a knife beside it. But that’s not our concern.”
“Is that why you brought me back here? To teach me a lesson?”
“Nah.” Death pulled a pen from his robe and handed it to John. “You need to fill out that D.E.A.T.H. form.”
“Then what?”
“Then you’re my trainee. You’ll shadow me awhile before getting your robes, scythe, and assignments. Then I’ll watch you until you’ve got it down and are ready to work on your own.”
John worked his way through the Deceased Entity Asking To Harvest form, and when he signed it, the paper disappeared. He set the pen on his old coffee table.
“Hey, hey…that’s mine. These things aren’t easy to come by in the After Life.”
John picked it up and handed it to Death. “Sorry.”
* * *
The first body they harvested was the correct John Smith, an overworked consultant who was perhaps rightly incensed by his company’s new policy that everyone fly coach instead of business class on international flights. A cramped middle seat from New York City to London did him in.
“You’ll see quite a bit of this,” Death told John. “People who eat stress twenty-four-seven and barely move. It wrecks a body: blood clots, heart attacks, strokes, addictions—all those things…”
* * *
After the first few harvests, John noticed time seemed to expand and contract, just like in the tunnel of light. He and Death seemed to never slow their pace, but if John had a question or needed to clear his head, time seemed to accommodate his needs.
“So, what’s the deal with the scythe?” John said after a nursing home harvest. “Does it do anything?”
“Nah, it’s just there for looks. Imagery, ya know? It was supposed to remind people that time was fleeting—that they should make the most of their lives. As much as we like to sell that bullshit, it’s beyond the control of most mortals who just struggle to get by. But it’s what people expect, so I carry it. Really, it just depends on who I’m harvesting that night. Some people expect the scythe, so they get the scythe. Sometimes I get to be a big, glowing angel or someone’s most cherished relative, friend, or spouse showing them the way. It’s like Halloween every day. Hell, sometimes I don’t even need to show up…some people find their way on their own.”
“What about animals?” John said. “Do we harvest animals?”
“Nah, they don’t need us. They’ve always been good just knowing what to do. It’s humans who need rules and guidance.”
“All right. What about atheists?”
“They just die. Like, for real. They seem good with it, so why rub it in their faces?”
* * *
The last harvest of the shift was an auto accident—the deceased, a crushed five-year-old boy who didn’t survive the impact from a red-light running drunk.
John watched Death morph into the likeness of the kid’s father, who was unconscious at the wheel.
“Hey, buddy—sorry you woke up from your nap,” Death said while guiding the young soul away from the wreck. “Why don’t we go get some ice cream, huh?”
He took the boy by the hand and led him toward the light.
After processing the harvest, Death said, “Not as easy as you thought it would all be, eh?”
“No, that one was rough. Do you ever get used to it?”
“Used to it, no. But you come to accept it a little easier with time. All of it: hearing the cries from someone losing a spouse after six decades of marriage; the screams of a soldier on a battlefield swimming in their own guts—seeing their leg ten feet away before the world goes dark. Things even worse than that, where human cruelty is on horrible display, and you remember how unfair it can all be. Tyrants butchering people and never getting paid back for their horrors. The sickest minds doing even sicker things to innocent people. I’ll admit, I used to make notes and remember the worst offenders in life…scare them to Hell and back when their time finally came, but the novelty wears off. Perfect deaths, horrible ones, and everything in between…you may never get used to it, but you come to accept it. No one—not even us—has a say in the end…”
* * *
After the evening’s last harvest, John’s vision blurred for a moment. When focus returned, he was in an apartment not unlike his last mortal dwelling. It was a bit cluttered, mostly with books and electronics, but not dirty. Whoever lived there enjoyed reading, listening to music, playing video games, and tinkering with computers. An entertainment cabinet housed a handful of gaming systems, and the stereo setup next to it was ready to play records, cassettes, and CDs. A small pile of laptops and other computer components was stacked in a corner near the sliding balcony door. Outside looked like Bladerunner.
John watched Death pull his robe off over his head, revealing a person roughly his own age. With the exception of a scruffy beard, unkempt brown hair, and the beginnings of a slight paunch beneath a Body Count t-shirt, the person standing before John could have been his doppelgänger.
Death tossed his robe on the couch and said, in what John assumed was his real voice, “Can I get you a beer or something?”
John stared out the sliding door, at cars floating by in the sky.
“Pretty wild, huh?”
“What’s going on?” John said.
“This is my place.” He extended his hand. “Real name’s Tommy, by the way. Thomas, but nobody—not even my mom when she was mad at me—ever called me that.”
John shook his hand and said, “Why are we here?”
Tommy pointed to a thick book on the coffee table. “That’s the Employee Handbook. You’ll stay with me until you’re done reading it and pass the test. Don’t worry, it’s not like a sit-down thing full of stress. You read the book, and when it all settles into your head, that’s that—you get your robes and can set off harvesting on your own. Now, how ‘bout that beer…”
* * *
[Fade in to the sound of videogame music and sounds…]
In the days that followed, when he wasn’t watching Tommy harvest souls, John’s After Life was consumed by the Employee Handbook, a tome that read more like a psychology textbook and crash course in world cultures than a set rules. While his mentor did bong hits and played video games, John learned about more versions of Death and the After Life than he could have guessed existed. The only rules seemed built around being a Harvester: length of shifts, time off policies, and other guidelines one might expect from an ordinary job. The benefits package included a library where one could learn anything they wanted from a variety of experts. The Library also served as a center for recurrent training, keeping Harvesters in the know about how society had changed since the time of their deaths. Where Heaven, Hell, and all other things After Life were concerned, it depended on the person and their beliefs. But for Harvesters, the retirement plan came, in part, with shaping an ideal After Life of one’s own devising.
“Let me see if I have this right,” John said. “We harvest souls and, in our free time, work to discover what we want our own After Life to look like?”
Tommy finished a bottle of Miller Genuine Draft and said, “Yeah, that’s pretty much it. Not too difficult, unless you make it so.”
“But you don’t seem to be working toward creating your After Life.”
“‘Dude?! I’m living it! Look out that window—that’s the world from one of my favorite movies ever. I train people for a job I like..that I hope they come to like, too. And then…I have all this. Might not seem like much to most people, but it’s simple and suits me well.”
“You don’t want more than this? You can have anything.”
“Why complicate a good thing, man?” Tommy picked up his bong and took a long hit of OG Kush.
“When I was alive, I had a good job. I worked for an older guy who owned an electronics shop. He made the leap from fixing TVs and radios to computers. All day long, I was in the back of the shop with him and his daughter, fixing things while watching movies or listening to music. We ordered take-out and talked about whatever came to mind. I went in, did my job really well, and then came home and chilled. There’s nothing wrong with ambition, but there’s also nothing wrong with just finding simpler things and enjoying them. A good job and peace at home goes a long way.”
John knew people who tried convincing themselves they were content working and relaxing, but very few actually took it easy. Work was always within reach on a laptop or phone. Tommy, however, meant it. In life, he took care of responsibilities and reaped the rewards of a job well done. In death, his life was no different.
“How’d you die?”
“Wiped out in a tornado in 1995. We were all working in the back of the shop and FOOM! Last thing I remember were all those computers and tools coming at me right before the building collapsed. Fortunately, my boss and his daughter made it, but I sure as hell didn’t leave behind a pretty corpse.”
Nineteen ninety-five. The decor of the apartment and electronics now made sense. John was a toddler when Tommy died while living his best life. John wondered, were there people from prehistoric times in the After Life still trying to figure it all out?
“So that’s seriously it?” John said. “I harvest souls and work on my perfect self? My perfect place?”
The Employee Handbook disappeared from John’s lap.
“You’ve got it, dude. Only here you have better odds than you had in life. And if you have no idea what you want, well…you got nothing but time…”
* * *
In the time that followed, John waited for the job to grow monotonous, but it never did. While it became routine, delivering souls to their destinations never left him feeling flat. Seeing the subtle differences in people’s versions of Heaven always intrigued him. And even when shuttling souls to Hell, not all versions were like Dante’s Inferno. For some, it was an absence of seeing their god. For others, it was facing what they did to apparently deserve damnation. The Employee Handbook warned against interfering with even manufactured suffering where none should have existed. It didn’t seem fair, though, seeing kind people who did nothing wrong in life convinced by cruel people they were somehow unworthy of love and deserved an eternity in Hell simply for not being as cold-hearted as those they trusted.
Tommy reminded John: “We were all fucked up as humans, and we’re still fucked up as eternal souls…hopefully, just not as much. It’s not our place to try fixing things. Everyone gets to where they need to be in time. Nirvana and all those other states of perfection? Total elitist bullshit—some religions just market themselves better. ‘Oh, you’ve figured out all known things, so now you can ascend to a state of perfection…’ There’s no way to know everything, and to follow the rules of others to achieve a perfection that doesn’t exist is all-too-human. Figuring out how to find some kind of happiness in spite of all the shit we eat day in and day out…that’s the closest thing to enlightenment I know of.”
And that’s what John strived for. In life, he recognized that even the most droll corporate job meant something to somebody using a product, whether it was life-saving medicine or staying in touch with loved ones around the world. The spreadsheets and numbers behind it all may not have been very exciting, but the tedium he faced hopefully bettered the lives of others and gave him a sense of pride in his work. Seeing souls to their final destinations was even better.
If nothing else, it was easier than figuring out what his own ideal After Life would look like…
* * *
[Quirky xylophone music plays…]
When he wasn’t working, John spent most of his time visiting Tommy, going as far as taking an apartment next to his best After Life friend. During the occasional probationary shift, and then working fully on his own, John missed Tommy’s guidance and companionship. The task of Harvesting seemed to carry more weight when completely alone with a soul in between their final breath and eternity. It was a mixture of honor and anxiety, an important task he never wanted to fumble. Visiting Tommy after those shifts was always a relief.
“Rough day at the office, huh?”
“Yeah,” John said.
“I don’t want to make it worse, but I’m supposed to report back about how your After Life is coming along.”
“Oh…I’ve just been so busy with work. You know how it—” John stopped himself.
“Yeah, I know how it is. Always busy…but not really.”
“I hope me not moving along with my After Life doesn’t affect you.”
“Nope, I’m good. If it takes you a thousand years, that’s all on you. But it seems like you’re doing the same thing you did when you were alive. And if that’s what you wanna do, great! You’re a cool dude, and I love hanging out chatting with you. But something seems to be missing inside.”
After an exceptionally long bong hit, Tommy looked up and said, “What is it you always wanted to do, John?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s kinda sad, man.”
“It is. When I was sick, it bothered me that I wouldn’t leave anything behind. No kids, no art…nothing. The weird thing about having cancer and all that time to think were the epiphanies. You’d vow that if you made it, everything would change. You’d cherish every second of life like few other people could. Then you get through it and, at first, others are happy for you. You’re the center of attention. But that goes away so fast, and then you’re back at a job to make ends meet and no one cares. You know how fleeting life is, but you still have to survive, so you go back to living like nothing ever happened. Such a profound experience wiped away by the rush of everyday life.
“I know the way I lived prevented me from doing things I wanted to do, but the way my world was set up didn’t help matters any. It’s a nice thought to quit your day job and take that leap into the unknown, but most people who do that don’t make it. We just hear about those who did and are told that’s norm—not the exception.”
“See, this is why I like you—you’re a wise man when you want to be, Jonathan Paul Smith. I’ve got another question for you. The night I harvested you—”
“Mistakenly harvested me.”
“You’re never gonna let me live that down, eh? Okay, fine: the night I fucked up and harvested the wrong guy…why didn’t you say anything about the Pearly Gates? That was what that other John Smith believed—not you.”
“I just figured people believing that were right all along.”
“Did you always buy into what others sold you?”
“Yeah, I kind of did. It was just easier to do what my parents and others expected of me along the way.”
“Lemme ask you: what did you want to be when you grew up?”
“Huh?”
“Come on, almost every kid had a thing they really wanted to do before they were told to ‘grow up and be responsible.’ What was yours?”
“I wanted to be a musician.”
“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed that in all my time.”
“Yeah. When I was…maybe seven or eight? I snuck into our dining room, which had a view of the TV. I was supposed to be asleep. My dad was watching This is Spinal Tap for the millionth time—the Stonehenge scene. I assume you’ve seen it?”
“Hell yeah—I love that movie!”
“I figured—my dad loved it, too, which was weird because he was so straight-laced. But when Nigel started playing the mandolin—I know it was supposed to be funny, but I was enthralled. Just this little instrument cutting through it all, sounding like nothing I’d ever heard before. I checked out band and orchestra at school, but it’s not instrument they taught. I asked my dad where I could take lessons and he told me I’d do best to just do well at school. So that’s what I did.”
“What’s stopping you from learning now?”
“I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“You have access to The Library and its Librarians. There’s virtually nothing they don’t know.”
* * *
The After Life Library dwarfed any in the Living World, an imposing marble Beaux-Arts exterior that gave way to exquisite woods bathed in a misty glow from chandeliers hanging from a gilded plaster ceiling. When the spectacle of it all finally settled, John approached the mahogany research desk, a massive thing that made those behind it seem like judges on the stand.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I’d like to learn how to play mandolin.”
A tiny, gray-haired woman in half-moon glasses leaned over the desk and gazed down at John. Her smile was as kind as every grandmother John had ever known. Combined.
“Do you have a preferred style, dearheart? Classical, bluegrass, traditional Irish? Pop/rock? Something else?”
“I’ve not given it that much thought.”
The old woman flipped through a thick book and seemed to find what she was looking for faster than a computer. She filled out a slip, placed it in a carrier, and inserted it into a pneumatic tube. As John watched it race up a wall full of tubes and disappear into the ceiling, he wondered if, like so many other things in the After Life, The Library was shaped by his thoughts and desires. Did it look different to each patron, or this way to all?
“You can take a seat, dear,” the Research Librarian said. “Your Instructor will be with you in a moment.”
John plopped down in an over-sized leather lounge chair against a nearby wall. Another Harvester occupied the chair beside him. John nodded politely and folded his hands in his lap.
“Your first time in The Library?” the other Harvester said.
“Yes. You?”
“Oh, no. I’ve been coming here for hundreds of years. I passed in 1611.”
“What are you here for, then?”
“My quarterly update. In time, all we know falls away as society progresses. It is important to meet the needs of those we serve. There will come a time when the technology, art, and all other things once familiar to you will seem foreign. But should you decide to continue the path of a Harvester, the Librarians will be sure all you know is current. It is the best part of the job—the never-ending learning.”
The Harvester nodded to a middle-aged bald man with a goatee walking toward them, and then turned his attention back to John. “If you will excuse me, it is time for my appointment.”
John wondered what it took to become a Librarian and all they did. Was it like his old job where the recently-deceased were subject matter experts being interviewed by trainers who shared the information with others? Were there computers hidden away in The Library containing even more information than the Internet and all the libraries in the Living World? He considered getting up to ask the older Librarian who helped him, but a man with a long gray beard called to him.
“John?”
By the time he stood up, the man closed the distance and stuck out his hand. “Name’s Jeremiah, but you can call me Jerm.”
John shook his hand and said, “Nice to meet you, Jerm. I’m—well, you know who I am…”
* * *
Jerm led John to one of many doors along a wooden paneled wall. When they stepped through, the hallway reminded John of an English university, with marble floors, smooth paneling, and tall windows stretching to the ceiling, allowing columns of light to spill down upon them and illuminate the way. Another doorway led to Jerm’s office, a room that looked more like the interior of a cozy pub than a study.
“Would you like a beer?” Jerm said while pointing to a table.
“Sure. Please.”
Jerm stepped behind the bar and, after a bit of time at a tap, came to the table with two perfectly poured pints of stout. He raised his glass and said, “Sláinte!” After they toasted and took a sip, he said, “So…what is it you want from all this?”
“I don’t know,” John said. “I just…always thought the mandolin was a great instrument.”
“I agree with that assessment. Do you wish to play casually, or would you like to perform?”
John hadn’t given it much thought, but “Perform, I guess,” seemed like the right answer.
“All right. And would you like to just get there, or would you prefer the experience of actually learning.”
“Learning, I guess? I mean…that’s how it works, right?”
“Usually, yes. But if you want to walk out of here today knowing how to play, that can be arranged.”
“Let’s just start with learning.”
“Good. I was hoping you’d say that. We’ll get you started with some basics and then a really sweet little tune…”
* * *
Several weeks later, while John and Tommy hung out after work, Tommy said, “When are you going to show me what you’ve been learning? I’d love to hear it.”
“Trust me, you don’t.”
“Oh, that voice. What’s wrong?”
“I’m not very good.”
“No one is at first, I’d imagine. You’ve never played an instrument. Stick with it, though, and I’m sure you’ll get there.”
Tommy was right. Soon, the struggle of stilted notes, sore fingers, and missed strings gave way to something sounding enough like the song John was learning that he shared it with Tommy.
“That’s badass, dude!”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I know you have a ways to go before you get good enough to perform, but that’s a damn nice song.”
* * *
Every few weeks, John added a new tune to his repertoire, going from rough to competent—sometimes even good. His confidence, even when learning new tunes, found him comfortable enough to practice while Tommy played video games and got high.
“Ya know, I never had a roommate, or even a friend I spent much time with,” Tommy said. “I was really kind of a loaner when I was alive, but this is the best…just hanging out, doing shit we love, and BS-ing all night.”
John stopped and smiled. “It really is…”
He’d never had a roommate either—never spent much time with others. Just work and home…TV and reading and cleaning.” Even when young, he was socialized with adults—his parents and their dull friends—not other kids. And that made for a boring adult.
John never picked up on social cues others at work seemed born with. During quarterly team-builder events at the office, he sat on the outskirts of it all, watching the extroverts hold court. On the rare occasion someone proposed meeting up outside of work, he was a master of excuses, playing reasons he couldn’t do things like cards until the potential friend took the hint.
Tommy was different—someone who had a knack for pulling from John deep thoughts he’d long suppressed. But his best friend was much more than a therapist. Whatever strange forces aligned and brought the two together, one seemed to help the other as though they were brothers.
“I really love that tune…you’re getting good, Hoss.”
* * *
Jerm also seemed impressed by John’s progress, saying he’d seen few people as dedicated as him. John never had hobbies. No woodworking, camping, or painting; music, boating, or juggling. Nothing. The closest thing he had was exercise, and that was part of a routine he did after ending up sick—not a thing he did for any kind of enjoyment or sense of accomplishment. It made sense that he fixated on playing mandolin—it was the first serious hobby he ever had. And the better he got, the more he realized performing was not what he wanted.
* * *
[Xylophone music gives way to video game sounds.]
“I’ve been thinking about my upcoming performance.”
Tommy paused his game and put down the controller.
“You’re gonna tell me you’re backing out, aren’t ya?”
“Not backing out—just not wanting to do it anymore. I know that sounds like the same thing, but it’s not.”
“Definitely sounds like the same thing to me.”
“Yeah. But when I started playing, I thought that was the goal: to play for others and get good enough that people pay to listen. That’s what my parents and others would have expected from me. Now I’m not so sure.”
“What’s the goal, then?”
“I guess to just enjoy something for the sake of enjoying it. Not trying to turn everything you’re vaguely good at into money or fame. Filling your time with joy instead of drudgery.”
Tommy looked out the balcony door, seeming to ponder the glowing world just beyond the glass. After what seemed like a full minute, he nodded his head and said, “Yeah, I can dig that…”
* * *
During John’s next lesson with Jerm, it was like he’d picked up the mandolin for the first time. Instead of trusting muscle memory honed by a repetition he always worried bothered Tommy, John tried processing every note in his mind, resulting in missed strings and frustration.
“What’s wrong?” Jerm said.
“I guess I have a lot on my mind.”
“Ah. What’s bothering you?”
“I’ve been thinking about the performance.”
“What about it?”
“I…just…”
“It’s natural to be nervous,” Jerm said. “But it’s nothing to worry about. I’ve arranged for a handful of other Librarians to attend, and they plan to invite enough people to fill this little pub. And your friend, Tommy, will be there. You’ll be amazed by how much a familiar face to focus on can make even the most packed and rowdy room fall away.”
John strummed the edge of the table as if he were holding a pick and the table was a pair of strings, a nervous habit he’d developed since starting to play. He always told Tommy he was practicing tunes in his mind, even though he wasn’t.
Jerm got up and poured two stouts. When he returned, he set one before John and said, “You don’t want to perform, do you?”
“That obvious, huh?”
“It was a safe guess. But I’ve seen it enough that it was a safe guess.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“I’ve disappointed you.”
“Nah! Not in the least. I just don’t want you to disappoint yourself. If you want to perform, give it a go—see if it’s your thing.”
“I thought it was…because that’s what I thought musicians did. Why practice a thing so much that you don’t do anything more with it? But I really just like playing here with you. I like playing for Tommy. And the whole performance thing seems kind of manufactured: me featured here for people you’re inviting probably as a favor to you.”
“Damn, your parents did a number on ya, huh? It’s no favor…that’s what people have done for as long as we’ve played music. You ask people you know if they want to come along and hear a friend play, sing, act…whatever it is they do. There’s no pity in that.
But I understand it feels weird. Manufactured, even—like you said. In many ways, everything for us in the After Life can feel manufactured if we let it. It’s why most of us keep going like this, instead of leaving it all behind for some idealized construct. Maybe some of the people who move on have it all figured out—I wish them the best. But for most of us, even in the After Life, life goes on.
If you truly don’t want to play, then don’t. You’re always welcome to drop in on Tuesday night sessions…have a few pints and play with the lot of us. I just want you to look me in the eye and tell me the truth about what you really want to do.”
John looked across the table, directly at Jerm. He took a breath and said, “I just want to play for the sake of playing.”
“Right, then. Sláinte!”
“Sláinte.”
“You still don’t look happy,” Jerm said.
“Huh?”
“There’s something more going on in those eyes of yours.”
“That obvious, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“I wanted to talk to you about something else…if you have a moment?”
“I have a whole pint of a moment—and even more time if you need it…”
* * *
“So did you tell Jerm you’re not performing next week?”
“Yep!”
“How’d he take it?”
“Fine, once he realized I wasn’t chickening out. He invited me to come play with friends on Tuesday nights.”
“You gonna take him up on it?”
“Yeah. You want to come along?”
“Sure—sounds like a good time.”
“Excellent.”
Tommy continued playing his game, but John didn’t pick up his mandolin.
“Lemme pause this,” Tommy said. “What’s up?
“I’ve been thinking. About my After Life. I enjoy Harvesting, but I think I might want to become a Librarian. Jerm said he’d help guide me. I’d still live next door, and we’d still hang out all the time. What do you think?”
“I think you’re a good guy, Jonathan Paul Smith. And as good a Harvester as you are, you’d make an even better Librarian. That’s what I think.”
“Yeah?”
“Hell yeah! Anything else on your mind, or can I get back to my bong and my game?”
“Nope. That’s it.”
“Cool. Can you play that tune I really like?”
“Absolutely…”
[Video game sounds as “Si Beag Si Mhor plays on mandolin.]
* * *
Christopher Gronlund:
Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.
Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Jerry Lacey, with Timothy Lewis providing the track for this episode’s blooper reel—which runs in a moment. Both artists’ music is licensed through Epidemic Sound.
The stumbling and intermediate mandolin tunes in this episode are played by me. The better version is by Candy Schell, one of my all-time favorite people, who also happened to be a badass musician. While Candy mostly plays the fiddle, she kicks ass at many things.
Sound effects are always made in-house or from freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music.
Next time around, it might be a story about a strange phone booth, a tale about a geeky teenager who finds something incredible while shopping in an antique shop with his grandmother, or something else that—right now—is little more than an idea.
One last thing: the rest of the year shouldn’t see such a long gap in stories. The pandemic year was—obviously—an odd thing, and another writing focus I had has run its course. I have a lot of cool things planned for the future of Not About Lumberjacks, including the possibility of finally starting the Patreon account some of you have requested.
Don’t be surprised if a very short episode about that pops up in your feed in the not-too-distant future…
Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!
