[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

Woman’s Voice:

This is Behind the Cut with Christopher Gronlund. The companion show to Not About Lumberjacks.

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

Behind the Cut is an inside look at episodes of Not About Lumberjacks and often contains spoilers. If you’ve not listened to the latest episode, “Calling Out of Time,” and that’s a concern, go listen and check this out when you’re done.

And now: onward!

* * *

“Calling Out of Time” started with a tweet.

On May 25^th, author Blake Butler shared an almost creepy post on Twitter. It was a photo of an old rotary pay phone in a booth on a dark corner in a city. The caption accompanying the tweet: “There has never been a phone booth on this corner before tonight.”

If that’s not a story prompt, I don’t know what is.

Most replies to the tweet joked about the Bill and Ted movies, Dr. Who, and that it was probably the entrance to the Ministry of Magic from Harry Potter. But I couldn’t shake the image from my head…and what might happen if there suddenly appeared a phone booth where, previously, one didn’t exist.

* * *

People seem fascinated by where writers get their ideas…as if writers have some strange connection to a magical space where ideas swirl, and all it takes is reaching in and grabbing one. Or, it seems, others believe it must be a difficult thing requiring great effort.

But really, it’s as simple as being open to ideas and asking ourself, “What if?”

* * *

If I’ve learned nothing else at day jobs, it’s that people often shut themselves down before beginning. If an idea doesn’t spring fully formed from their heads, well—how can it be a good idea at all? I once knew somebody who said she didn’t like thinking because sometimes her thoughts were “stupid.” To brainstorm on a piece of paper would mean physical proof that sometimes things they deemed dumb came out of their head.

How sad is that? But while someone that extreme in their own self-denial might not be as common, I’ve been in enough “think outside the box” sessions in meetings to know many people think their ideas are not worth it.

* * *

Right now, I have 85 ideas for Not About Lumberjacks stories at the ready. Some of them are very rough ideas I’ll likely never write. Others overlap. Some seem to come out so ready that entire passages are written in those initial moments of thinking, “What if?”

People who know me sometimes lovingly tease me about my love of the “What if?” game…where I take even the most mundane situation and approach it from all sides, wondering what more it might become. But in being open to this process, I have an Evernote file full of short story ideas. I have novel ideas, ideas for articles, and even ideas for role playing games.

I’m not precious about ideas because they mean very little until the effort is made to make them something more.

* * *

I think you’d be hard-pressed to find a writer who has not encountered the following situation:

“Hey, I have this great idea for a novel. You should write it, and I’ll give you some of the money when it sells.”

Ignoring the fact that most completed novels don’t sell, it says a lot about how some people feel about ideas. While the person I mentioned at an old job limits herself by shutting the door on her mind before anything can step through, others think something as basic as, “This phone booth appears on a corner and a guy sees it,” is worth millions.

And why do the work when you can be an idea-man, right?

I’m usually very kind when people approach me, but I’ve had it in me when I was younger to be blunt with those people. Sometimes I’d even toy with them; other times I’d explain the effort of writing a novel and why I’d deserve far more than the 10% offered when the book “becomes a bestseller.” (Because those kinds of people always believe their shit smells like flowers.)

Today, I just tell people I appreciate them thinking about me, but have plenty of ideas of my own.

* * *

And if I’m being honest, ideas do matter—things have to begin somewhere after all. And I’d be lying if I told you there’s no difference in the weight of some ideas to others. Some ideas really do seem to write themselves.

I‘m not one of those writers who wishes I wrote other things. I’m not prone to jealousy. But there have definitely been times I’ve thought, “Damn! I wish I’d have thought of that…”

In my file of 85 ideas, some of them are better concepts than others. Those are the ideas I often go to when I’m a little stuck and need to remember the feeling of finishing something. Other ideas might result in deeper stories once all the “What ifs?” have played out and starts and stops show me where to go.

“Calling Out of Time” was one of those ideas that seemed to write itself. A phone booth appears out of nowhere…why? “What if it was a prank? What if it was a trap? Or…what if it was magical and let the protagonist call his old phone number and speak to his younger self?”

There, it could have become humorous…an adult imploring his younger self not to make the same mistakes he did. Maybe a few more “What ifs,” and you figure out a way to make the actions of the kid affect the present version of himself.

It could have been a lesson about greed: the grown-up version calling the younger self and telling them to invest in certain stocks to endure wealth in adulthood.

There are so many “What ifs” one can play with if they are willing to let their thoughts go.

Sitting down to write “Calling Out of Time,” I knew Amir lost something when he was younger that shaped the direction of his life. Ideas came and went, and I settled on him trying to stop a household fire that killed his immediate family when he was twelve years old.

From there, all it took was sitting down and doing the work.

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks and Behind the Cut. Theme music for Behind the Cut is a tune called “Reaper” by Razen. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the music, the episodes, and voice talent.

In a month or so, it’s a story that begins: “The Quaking Bog Man was gone, and Crazy Mike was found dead behind the maintenance barn, covered in grass pink and rose pogonia blossoms.” Who doesn’t love a mystery set in a bog in northern Illinois?

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

[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 a phone booth that appears out of nowhere, helping someone connect to their past in a most-needed way.

Before that, though, a couple things. First: the usual content advisory. This story deals with sudden family loss and grief. But even there, it’s only one recalled scene that might be rough for some. Surprisingly, there’s no swearing in this story.

While I try keeping even some of the darker stories I write, here, heartfelt, this one might even be wholesome.

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…

Calling Out of Time

There suddenly appeared a phone booth, a thing out of time seeming more like a joke than reality. The booth’s presence startled Amir, leaving him to wonder how such a thing could be set up so quickly. It wasn’t there on his two-block walk to the corner store for Netflix binge-night snacks and a quick chat about movies with the store’s cashier, Francisco. But there it was, not ten minutes later, on the corner a block down from his apartment. It was strange enough to see a pay phone of any kind, but a fully sheltered booth was a thing Amir had not seen in almost two decades. He looked up and down the streets, wondering if anyone might have seen how it got there, but he was the only one out and about. To see no one else out walking in the early evening was almost as rare as encountering a phone booth that seemed to fall from the sky.

Amir poked the phone booth with his cane, half-expecting it to give, like a cardboard prop–maybe even see the cane pass through a holographic projection. But it was solid. He knocked on the glass and wondered if it was an art installation. Maybe he’d see himself in a handful of months, the first person captured on a hidden camera and projected on a wall at the Museum of Contemporary Art. Others would follow, the spectacle of the piece showing how what was once common can become easily forgotten. And in that artistic statement, perhaps Amir Nazari–on the cusp of his 50th birthday–would seem just as out of time as he inspected the booth with an air of nostalgia.

He waited several minutes, hoping somebody would pass by and be as equally taken aback by the booth’s presence. But the quiet streets made the moment slip from a curiosity to something more unsettling. He pushed the center of the door, watching it fold inward, creating enough of a gap that he could slide it fully open. Amir looked around one more time and stepped inside. He grabbed the interior handle, unsure if it was wise to close the door behind him. What if that was the booth’s purpose: a trap of some sort? That made even less sense; he could easily break the glass with his cane and stumble free. It was not a trap.

The last time Amir used a pay phone was in the late 90s. Once he had a tiny brick of a cell phone, that was it–he had no need for any other means of communication. Everything was now in his pocket or hand. Standing in the phone booth, though, he found himself missing slower days and being unreachable on the go. He picked up the receiver and was surprised to hear a dial tone.

How could this thing have been hooked up so quickly? he thought.

Amir instinctively tapped his pockets, knowing he had no change. Credit and debit cards eliminated that need, but he always knew–in the back of his mind–a day might come in which he’d regret not carrying assorted bills in his wallet and some coins in his pocket. So he did what he did when he was younger and without money: he dialed ZERO.

Amid a churning of static rose a solitary beep he’d not heard in decades, and then the sound of the call going through. The line picked up, but the voice on the other end was smothered by white noise.

“Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?”

Maybe there was no one on the other end–maybe it was just a recording. The whole thing was ridiculous. Amir put the receiver back and picked up his bag of snacks. But…what would it hurt to attempt and actual call?

Amir picked up the receiver again and dialed his old phone number.

* * *

Buffalo Grove, Illinois – 1983

Amir was playing his Frogger electronic game when the telephone rang. He waited for his older sister to pick up–she loved the phone and always raced to answer it–but he heard Soraya shout from the upstairs bathroom: “Amir, Can you get that? If it’s Katie, tell her I’ll call her back.”

He was having a good round, but the sound of the telephone bothered him, a loud and interrupting thing that only stopped with its unrelenting ringing when someone gave up on the other end or you picked up. He answered the phone.

“Hello?”

There was no one on the other end. From the bathroom, his sister shouted, “Is it Katie?”

Amir covered the mouthpiece and yelled back. “It’s no one. Nobody’s on the phone.”

He returned the receiver to his ear and heard an adult voice say, “Amir?”

The only people Amir liked talking with on the phone was his grandma and grandpa in the city, and this voice belonged to neither of them. He ran through family gatherings, trying to recall the voices of uncles, but most of his family was still back in Iran.

The man on the phone said it again: “Amir?”

He took a breath and said, “Yes.”

“Amir Nazari?”

“Uh-huh…”

Amir thought something went wrong with the connection, but the man on the other end eventually said, “Hello, Amir. My name is also Amir.”

“Are you a friend of my father?”

“I…I knew your father, yes.”

“He’s not home right now. And my mother is busy cooking dinner…” Amir’s parents taught him to make it sound like at least one parent was home, but busy, when he and his sister were home alone and somebody he didn’t know called on the telephone or came to the door.

The man on the other end was silent again. Amir thought he heard him sniffle and take a deep breath.

“Uhm…” the man said. “Do you have something to write with, Amir? I need to leave a message.”

“No.” The pen and notepad the family kept for such a purpose was by the kitchen phone, not the living room’s.

“Can you go get something to write with?”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

As he returned from the kitchen, Soraya came downstairs.

“Who was on the phone?” she said.

“Some man. He wants to leave a message.”

Amir’s sister took the pen and pad from his hand and went to the phone.

“Hello? Who is this?”

The man on the phone said, “Soraya?”

“Who wants to know?”

There was no response. Amir’s big sister looked at him and said, “Do you know who this is?”

He shook his head no.

“My mother and father are upstairs watching television and cannot be bothered. Call back tomorrow.”

Soraya hung up the phone, and then looked at Amir and said, “Stop talking to people you don’t know.”

* * *

Amir put the phone booth’s receiver down and wiped tears from his face. It was a futile battle, so he let go, not caring if someone happened by and saw him in the glass box on display, sobbing like a storm. When he was done, he looked at the phone. When he called his old number again, all he heard was static.

* * *

Amir moved through the next day tangled in a haze of memories and emotions. He woke up late and could not stop thinking about the call from the phone booth the night before. It really was Soraya. And he recognized his own young voice from an old recording of himself reading a Legion of Superheroes comic book on cassette. There was no explaining what happened; the best Amir came up with was his subconscious taking over. Still, it would be one thing to quickly drop a phone booth on a corner, but a complete impossibility to set up a phone that could call out of time. He logged into work, hoping it would give his mind something else to focus on. No matter how hard Amir tried distracting himself, though, his thoughts were pulled to the past. He emailed his manager, telling her he wasn’t feeling well and was going to take the day off.

Amir got dressed and and walked down the street. His neighborhood bustled with its usual morning activity, a stark contrast to the previous evening. His heart raced when he reached the corner where he encountered the phone booth. He felt his pulse pounding in his temples when he saw it wasn’t there. He trotted around the block and then the others, looking down streets at every corner. Nothing. He returned to the spot where he found the phone booth, hoping to see scratches where it might have been dragged away–any bit of evidence that he wasn’t losing it. His doubts about everything only grew.

 At the corner store, Amir bought a cup of coffee and a Hostess cherry pie. He waited until the short line at the register cleared before paying.

“Morning, Francisco.”

“Hey, my friend. Long time, no see. Watch anything good last night?”

“No. I ended up a bit distracted. Saw something interesting, though.”

“What’s that?”

“I know this might sound strange, but did you pass a phone booth when you closed last night? At Leland and Troy? It wasn’t there when I came by last night, but it was there when I was walking home. It’s not there now, though.”

Francisco shook his head. “I didn’t see that, no. I’ve not seen a phone booth in ages.”

“Same here. But it was there last night…”

“Like a full-blown Superman booth? Door and everything?”

“Yes.”

“That’s wild. And it’s not there now?”

“Nope.”

“Wow, crazy. Sounds like something from a story you’d write.”

“Yeah…”

* * *

When he wasn’t coding software enhancements for release sprints at work, Amir was obsessed with stories. As a kid, comic books offered something few prime time TV shows did: ongoing arcs and timelines. Aside from watching the occasional soap opera with Soraya over summer break from school, comic books and fantasy and sci-fi novels gave Amir what took decades to finally reach television. But once streaming services took off, Amir daydreamed about turning one of the old novels he’d written and put away in a drawer into a series.

He worked on writing in the cracks of life, jotting down ideas during meetings at work he wasn’t needed for, but that his manager insisted he attend anyway–just in case. Sometimes he was up early; other days he stayed up late, writing and piecing things together. Weekends were his escape into the life he wished he lived: up early to write, breakfast, and then more writing; researching for stories and how to sell the scripts he planned to finish. Perhaps that was the way to discern how a seemingly magical phone booth came to be: approach it like a story he was writing.

Amir spent the day in a notebook, jotting down ideas of who (or what) placed the phone booth on the corner. He worked out myriad explanations for how the call to the past could happen. By the afternoon, he had no acceptable explanation–only more questions. Sometimes life, like stories–Amir believed–benefited from a willing suspension of disbelief.

He stretched out on the couch hoping his subconscious would figure it out, but all his thoughts blurred into dreams.

* * *

It was dark when Amir woke up. His stomach growled, but it could wait. He put on his shoes and headed into the night.

The phone booth stood at the corner of Leland and Troy, just like the previous night. And just like the previous night, Amir stepped inside and dialed his old number.

* * *

Buffalo Grove, Illinois – 1983

Amir was brushing his teeth before bed when the telephone rang. He spit and rushed to the kitchen.

“Hello?”

On the other line, the man from the night before said, “Hi, Amir. I called last night. Are you in the kitchen or living room?”

“The…kitchen.”

“Good. Can you write something down for me?”

“Okay.”

“Tell you mother and father–“

Soraya picked up the phone in her room. “Hello? Katie?”

“No,” Amir said from a phone booth in another time. “I called to speak to Amir, but either of you can help.”

“Are you the guy who called last night?” Soraya said.

“Yes, I am.”

“You need to stop calling us or I’ll call the police!”

She hung up and charged downstairs.

Amir got as far as telling his younger self, “Tell your mom or dad to check–” before Soraya hung up that line, too.

When Amir called again, he was greeted by static.

* * *

The next morning, Amir emailed his manager, letting her know he was still not feeling well and taking it easy for another day. After that, he walked to the corner store for breakfast, again, taking a moment to look around to see if he could find any evidence of what happened the two previous nights. But he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

When he entered the corner store, Francisco said, “Good morning, my friend. Seen any phone booths, lately?”

Amir laughed and said, “No. But I’ve been thinking about it…like you said yesterday–it would make a good story.” He looked around to make sure they were alone. “I’m thinking it would be cool if someone could call back to their past to try changing something. But I’m not quite sure how to explain the phone booth just appearing…and why it would even work.”

“I don’t think you’d have to,” Francisco said. “That kind of thing gets in the way. Primer didn’t stop to explain anything, and it’s a great movie. Back to the Future doesn’t work when you think about it, but it’s a lot fun.”

It wasn’t the answer Amir wanted–he’d hoped his movie-loving friend would have enough answers to make sense of the past two days.

“What do you think about the idea of calling back in time?” Amir said.

“It’s good.” Francisco glanced up in thought. “I know there are stories like that with radios, but I can’t think of any with a phone.”

“Do you think someone could stop a bad thing from happening like that?”

“Sure. Not much of a story, otherwise.”

“Cool. I’m leaning toward someone saving people he loved who died when he was younger. If the main character pulled it off, do you think he’d get to see them again?”

“Maybe. If that’s what the story needed. It might be hard to explain, though. Or maybe he creates an alternate timeline where they’re safe.”

Amir nodded and paid for his coffee and fruit pie. “Thanks. See you later, Francisco.”

“Goodbye, my friend.”

* * *

As perplexing as the phone booth’s existence was to Amir, he knew one thing for certain: it was there in the evening, but gone during the day. All he had to do was wait.

At five-o’-clock, he brewed a small pot of coffee. He drank a cup and poured the rest into a water bottle. When it was cool enough to carry, he headed out.

The phone booth was not on the corner when Amir arrived. He surveyed the area for the best place to wait and watch. He considered standing on the corner, but if it took more than an hour, Amir was certain somebody would call the police, saying there was a suspicious person lingering in the neighborhood. He found a spot in an alley behind a dumpster where he’d be out of sight, but still have a view of the corner. He guzzled the rest of the coffee and waited.

Like watching the clock during a workday, watching the corner made time drag on. Amir wondered if a truck would pull up with a couple guys who’d open the back and put the booth on the corner, or if it would fade into existence like the TARDIS on Dr. Who. Around eight-o’-clock, Amir regretted drinking all his coffee. He shuffled side to side, fighting the urge to urinate. It was unlikely he’d be seen if he stepped fully behind the dumpster to empty his bladder, but he was not willing to risk it–not for fear of getting a ticket for public urination…he simply refused to let the corner fall out of view. When the urge became too much, Amir closed his eyes and took a deep breath to center himself. When he exhaled and opened his eyes, the phone booth was on the corner.

A moment before, the streets were busy with evening walkers. Now, they were empty. It seemed darker as well, like everything in Amir’s field of view had been caught in a spell. He didn’t care how troubling it was–he walked right into the booth, closed the door behind him, and called his old number.

* * *

Buffalo Grove, Illinois – 1983.

The Dukes of Hazzard had just started when the phone rang, startling Amir. His parents were out to eat, and Soraya was spending the night at Katie’s. He thought about letting it ring, but it was about the time his mother and father would be returning from dinner, and he wondered if it was them saying they’d be late. He got up, turned down the TV, and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

The man who called the last two nights said, “Amir, before anyone else picks up, I need you to tell your mom and dad to check the wires in the attic. If they don’t, you must insist, do you understand? There’s a bad wire in the attic, and I don’t want you to stop bugging them until they check. Do you understand?”

“A bad wire?”

“Yes. Go tell them right away.”

As soon as Amir said, “They went out to eat,” he panicked, wondering if he’d given too much away and was now alone and in danger.

“Then go tell Soraya. And then write it down: ‘Check the wires in the attic.'”

Amir almost told the man on the phone Soraya wasn’t home, either, but said, “Okay,” instead.

“Say it back to me, Amir. What are you going to tell your mother and father and Soraya?”

“To check the wires in the attic?”

“Good! I need you to go write it down, too. Okay? You can’t forget.”

“Okay.”

“It’s going to be all right, Amir. Don’t be scared. Can you go write it down right now?”

“Okay.”

Amir set the receiver down and ran to the kitchen. He wrote CHECK THE WIRES IN THE ATTIC on the notepad by the phone, and put the pad on the kitchen table. He ran back to the living room phone, but all he heard on the other end was static.

In the phone booth, Amir wiped the tears from his eyes. He didn’t care if he was seen–he stepped out of the booth, rested his cane against the side, and peed like he was putting out a fire.

* * *

The following evening, when Amir walked to the corner store for snacks, the phone booth was not there. Something told him he could wait every night for the rest of his life and it would never appear again.

When he entered the corner store, Francisco smiled and said, “I missed you this morning, my friend.”

“I was up later than usual.”

“Working on a story?”

“Yes…in a sense.”

“How’s it coming along?”

“Good. I think. I still have some questions about it I’d like to figure out, but I think it’s there.”

“What questions?”

“What would you do if you could call your old self back in time? What would you tell them?”

Francisco pondered the question a moment and smiled. “I would call my old number and tell my younger self to invest in Microsoft stock. Apple and Google, too. Not that I don’t like all this and the people I get to chat with every day, but…you know…”

“Yeah. That’s a good plan.”

“I agree,” Francisco said. “What about you? What would you do if you could call back in time?”

“I’d leave a message to my younger self to have my parents check the wiring in the attic of our old house.”

Francisco cocked his head to the other side and said, “Why would you do that?”

“When I was twelve years old, my house caught on fire. My bedroom was downstairs because…” Amir tapped his cane on the tile.

“I heard something hit the floor upstairs in my sister’s room so hard that it woke me up. I didn’t know at the time, but it was my sister, Soraya, passing out. I remember dreaming my mother was lost in a fog, calling our names. When I finally woke up, I smelled smoke. I grabbed my cane and checked the bedroom door like they taught us in school. It was cool to the touch, so I opened it. The smell of smoke instantly became heavier, and the night light in the kitchen glowed in a haze.

“I raced to the living room. Smoke rolled down the stairs in a dark column illuminated by orange sparks. I shouted for my parents and sister, but nobody answered. I went back to the kitchen and called the fire department. By then, the smoke was getting thicker in the rest of the house. I made it to the front room before passing out.

“When I woke up, I was in the front yard surrounded by neighbors and firemen. My family was nowhere to be seen. That’s when I came to the city to live with my grandparents.”

Francisco shook his head and sighed. “I am so sorry. I didn’t know. There are no words…”

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you. I’m glad I know this about you. We see each other almost every day, but most of what we talk about is movies.”

“If this were all a movie and I could warn my family, do you think I’d see them again?”

“It would depend on the story, I suppose. If it were a fun story, you could do anything–like Back to the Future. But if it were more realistic, it would probably be more like Looper or Primer. It would be nice to see them again, but unless you actually traveled back in time physically through the phone and could watch them from a distance, saving them in another timeline would have to do.”

Amir smiled and said, “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. I’m sure I’ll figure it out in do time. Right now, though, it’s time for some snacks…”

* * *

Epilogue – Buffalo Grove, Illinois – 2021

Amir’s grand-niece, Bibi, pumped her legs and shot high into the air on her swing set. She shouted, “Uncle Amir! Grandma! Look!”

She leaned back, gripping the swing’s chains tightly in her hands, and leaned back–hanging almost upside-down as she fell back to earth. She swung back up to a sitting position on the other end of the arc.

“Be careful!” Soraya said. She looked at her brother and playfully slapped his arm. “Why are you laughing?”

“You always gave Mom and Dad a hard time. Now you have a second mini version of yourself. I just think it’s funny.”

Amir’s father chuckled and winked at Soraya. They were all together at the old house to celebrate Amir’s birthday.

“I’m going to check on the food,” their father said.

When he was gone, Soraya said, “Well, you can laugh at me all you want, but at least turning fifty didn’t bother me.”

“It doesn’t bother me, either,” Amir said.

“Then why are you so quiet today? Thinking about your next book?”

“I’m always thinking about my next book. But that’s not it, either. I’m thinking about the phone call we got when we were younger. About the wires in the attic.”

Soraya took a gulp of iced tea and said, “Ah, yes. It’s that time of the year when you do this.”

“I just wonder who he was–how he knew? Why we shared a name? But it’s not even so much that this year. Maybe you’re right; maybe I am thinking a bit more about time this birthday. I wonder what happened to him.”

“He’s probably a lot like you,” Soraya said. “Eats too much junk food and watches lots of movies. You got a good book out of all this wondering–isn’t that enough?”

“Yeah. I guess it’s a thing I’ll just always think about.”

“I know. Sometimes I do, too. Not about who he was, but what might have happened if something bad happened back then.”

Soraya watched her granddaughter swing back and forth, higher and higher, until letting go at the apex and soaring into the air. She kicked her feet and righted herself just in time for a landing in the grass that would have wrecked Amir or Soraya’s knees.

Behind them, Soraya’s husband knocked on the kitchen window and waved them in.

“Bibi,” Soraya said. “It’s time to eat.”

She shot past her great uncle and grandmother and held the door open.

“Happy birthday, Uncle Amir.”

“Why, thank you.”

He scooped her up in his right arm and carried her into the house where he and his sister grew up.

* * *

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Gabriel Lewis, licensed  through Epidemic Sound.

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’s a story that begins: “The Quaking Bog Man was gone, and Crazy Mike was found dead behind the maintenance barn, covered in grass pink and rose pogonia blossoms.” Who doesn’t love a mystery set in a bog in northern Illinois?!

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

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

Woman’s Voice:

This is Behind the Cut with Christopher Gronlund. The companion show to Not About Lumberjacks.

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

Behind the Cut is an inside look at episodes of Not About Lumberjacks and often contains spoilers. If you’ve not listened to the latest episode and that’s a concern, go listen and check this out when you’re done.

And now: onward!

* * *

“A Deathly Mistake” is a bit of a departure for me—not in the sense that, thematically, it’s about the struggle between day jobs and creative pursuits (that’s kind of my thing), but in having characters verbally espouse the philosophies they hold dear.

It’s important to know where characters stand on things, but rarely do I have them open their mouths and let their views spill out and rise in a flood to their knees.

I generally avoid that because people often assume everything mentioned in a story is the author promoting their beliefs. Trust me: I’m a liberal vegan atheist—if I used all my stories as a platform, it would be quite apparent.

Still, if you listen to more than a handful of stories on Not About Lumberjacks, certain themes become obvious.

* * *

As much as I’ve always wanted to write fiction full time, that is not my reality. And so, I take care of responsibilities most of us have through a day job. Technically, I have a career: I am a technical writer. But I see that writing as a means to an end—definitely not a thing I would do if I paid the bills with the writing I enjoy most.

I’m not a fan of the Monetize Me economy, where every hobby must become a dreaded “side hustle,” a thing often sucking the joy out of simple pleasures. With fiction, I’ve always pursued it knowing that if I sell a novel or script, it will be changed [perhaps drastically] during the editing process. And I’m fine with that; in fact, one of the reasons I started Not About Lumberjacks was to always have a place to share stories only I control.

For me, fiction straddles the line of something that makes me happy, but also something I’m willing to release if the money or creative view is right.

For me, fiction has always been more than just a hobby.

* * *

When I was twelve years old, I went into my backyard and taught myself how to juggle. And while I always dreamed of paying my way writing novels, I became a good enough juggler that it became a thing I also considered making my life’s work. In the end, though, the stories I have as a street performer are better than the money I made passing the hat.

At a certain point, juggling returned to hobby status—and I loved it even more.

* * *

At the time of this recording, I’m a month into my fifty-second year of existence. Two years ago, I picked up a mandolin. A few years before that, I picked up an ukulele.

Because I like listening to people talk about making things they love, I have been a fan of Adam Savage’s “Still Untitled” podcast since the beginning. During an earlier episode, he talked about keeping an ukulele in his office…just to strum a few chords while thinking through problems.

The thought of filling my office with simple music and thoughts appealed to me. So…I bought an ukulele with the goal of learning three chords to roll through while giving my subconscious problems to work out.

It is important to know this: my wife plays several instruments. Outside of a month of violin lessons in fifth grade, I have never played an instrument.

It turned out I wasn’t content just to play a few chords on my ukulele: I actually learned some tunes. Later, I wanted to play music with my wife, an Irish fiddler and harper.

A mandolin is tuned like a fiddle, so I figured that was as good as any instrument to pick up. If I got stuck, my wife could always help me.

* * *

I once watched the CEO of a company I worked for step down after decades of service. By all accounts, he was everything we’re told to aspire to: the little guy starting out at the bottom, who ended up shaping a company that shaped an industry.

But on the morning he stood before us saying goodbye, he said his final decision to retire came when his family begged him to stop answering text messages from work in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner. He was given an ultimatum by his family to not ruin Christmas by constantly working.

He broke down. Not just a sniffle, here and there, but full-on weeping. Why?

He told us, for all his accomplishments in business, that he missed his children growing up. He really didn’t know them, and he wondered what damage was done to his family in his pursuit of what society holds most dear: money and power.

He closed by saying something along the lines of, “And so, I’m retiring. But here’s what really scares me…I don’t know what I’ll do with myself.”

He talked about making up time with family, or maybe even writing. Perhaps he’d sit on the board of a charity he believed in.

Want to know what he’s doing today?

He’s the CEO for another software company.

(I hope he at least makes time for his grandchildren…)

* * *

What does all this have to do with “A Deathly Mistake”?

I wanted to write a story imploring people to do things they love, simply because it brings them joy. Not monetizing every pursuit or working 80 hours a week, only to one day look back and regret all the things never done.

And I didn’t want to be subtle about it—I would have the protagonists hide nothing in their conversations.

What better way to make a point by showing how, in death, there’s no more power. As an atheist, I obviously believe there’s no more anything, but that’s not much of a way to inspire an audience.

In the end, the regrets most people have are:

• Working too much.
• Living a life others expected of them—not the life they wanted to live.
• Not spending as much time with family and friends.
• And finally: Not doing the things they wanted to do.

* * *

I’ll be the first to admit it’s not always easy to work less, pursue what makes you happiest, and have time for others. It would be a smug assertion that just because I’ve sacrificed certain comforts and security to do those things that others should do the same.

At the same time, I wish others extended similar courtesies to those of us wired differently. I wish others understood that just because some of us are not willing to give our lives over to day jobs, that we can still be serious about the work we do. Instead, many managers act as though we should do as they say and consider ourselves fortunate to stand in their shadows.

For me, “A Deathly Mistake” comes down to two character quotes:

John saying, “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.”

And then Tommy saying, “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.”

* * *

In “A Deathly Mistake,” John finally does something he always wanted to do: he learns how to play the mandolin. At first, he has a difficult time and feels a sense of shame. That shame is quite common in people who excel at their day jobs, but feel awkward struggling through something entirely new.

I’ve worked in factories and warehouses; as a consultant and in offices—and a constant in all those jobs was an expectation of a perfection that never existed (especially in the hurried and stressful conditions in which most people work). But people have a knack for convincing themselves that flipping a few digital switches for a salary makes them more important than people moving boxes. They have a difficult time not being perceived as essential, even though they are likely easily replaced. They cling to what they know, and don’t like feeling clumsy when exposed to new things.

In death, John is still bound by the fears of the living.

He worries that struggling when initially picking up the mandolin means he’s not good at all.

* * *

When I taught myself how to juggle, I had no idea what I was doing. I didn’t know the basic cascade pattern was a thing—my impressions of what I set out to do were shaped more by cartoons than actual jugglers.

I attempted to figure it out on my own, and it was frustrating. But then, on the afternoon it clicked, and I could keep things going, juggling became one of the things in life that saved me.

Juggling is a funny thing: to get good, you have to suck. A lot. You drop much more than you succeed. And if you’re wired a certain way, it’s humiliating—a thing best left on the ground and not pursued.

There was a time two years ago, when working my way through a beginning mandolin book, that I became that frustrated person. I wanted to throw my hands up in defeat. If I could have afforded it, I might have smashed the instrument like a rock star on stage.

But I know that’s part of the process, and I can now play a handful of Irish tunes with my wife.

* * *

I obviously chose to have John play the mandolin in “A Deathly Mistake” because it’s the instrument that I play. But still, there was a moment in putting the episode together that I was worried it would not come out the week I intended.

Originally, I hoped to get permission to use a tune I love by a musician I respect in many ways. That didn’t happen, though, so I had to learn something with a similar feeling at the last minute. My wife suggested Turlough O’Carolan’s Sí Beag, Sí Mór.

I learned how to play the first half of the tune, but the second section gets more complex. And because it was easier to record sounds for the episode than practice, I put things off until…one afternoon, the episode was almost complete. The only thing holding me back was the second section of Sí Beag, Sí Mór—the part with some notes that always give me trouble on other tunes I’ve learned.

I resolved to spend the evening—maybe even several evenings—working on the section I’d never attempted. I watched Baron Collins Hill play it on mandolessons.com (where I’ve learned most of what I know), and gave it a try.

Know what?

No section of new music ever came easier to me.

I set up my recorder and found myself with a problem I’d never had before with music: deciding which of the three good takes I laid down from the start to use in the episode.

I had my pick!

* * *

Earlier, I mentioned not using characters as mouthpieces, and I mean it. If John and Tommy dwelled on what I really believe—that most of humanity is miserable and suffering—a hopeful story would be dismal. There are writers who do a great job shedding light on human suffering, but I’m not one of them…at least not where that suffering is dark and deep. I believe that kind of suffering is common, but it’s not what I choose to write about.

If I can write a story that touches somebody in a positive way, even if it’s just a chuckle at one of my more crude or ridiculous tales, my job is done. And if I can inspire someone to something better, that’s an honor I hold dear.

I wish everyone could experience the joy I felt when I could finally juggle; the satisfaction I feel when putting together a story like “A Deathly Mistake”; the giddiness of recording part of a tune that worried me, only to have a hard time choosing in the end which take was the best.

I rarely ask anything of anyone, but I ask you right now: if there’s a thing you’ve always wanted to do, but haven’t: why not?

Maybe you have valid reasons—maybe you are the sole caretaker for someone in need and that’s not an option for you…at least right now. Or maybe you’re like Tommy in the latest episode: content to take care of responsibilities and then watch TV and play video games. (Nothing wrong with that!) Or maybe you’re like my wife and me and already doing plenty of other things—and lack the time and money for another hobby or pursuit.

But if you have the means to do something you repeatedly talk about doing, I hope you give it a try.

No matter what you believe comes after death, it would be a shame to meet your end full of regret, instead of carrying good memories of the things you loved and did during the time you had.

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks and Behind the Cut. Theme music for Behind the Cut is a tune called “Reaper” by Razen. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the music, the episodes, and voice talent.

In a month or so…well, it’ll probably be a story about a strange phone booth or a tale about a geeky teenager who finds something incredible while shopping in an antique store with his grandmother. (If you’re taking bets, it would probably be best to take the phone booth story.)

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

[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!