[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 second-person point of view tale in which YOU are a lumberjack!

But first, the usual content advisory…

“Old Growth” deals with death, gore, anguish, being lost in a forest, being alone in the dark, and…creatures. Despite all that I’m back to another episode without swearing. Look, it’s an environmental horror story about finding a sense of balance, okay! It’s not even gory at every turn…more just…creepy in its intent.

Before getting into the tale, I want to thank everyone for supporting Not About Lumberjacks and helping make this episode…the 50^th full story episode of the show!

Yep, the big 50!

And to honor the occasion, I’m doing a giveaway without making you jump through too many hoops or forcing you to share things online and tagging people—I’m not a big fan of that. (Although you’ll get an extra chance if you do…share things, that is—But seriously, I’m not gonna make you tag anyone ‘cause I hate that tactic.)

Anyway…

People have been asking about Not About Lumberjacks t-shirts and other merchandise for a while. It’s coming, but I’m not quite there yet. So, this is your chance to be one of the few people on the planet with a Not About Lumberjacks t-shirt!

Here’s how it works (and this applies internationally—none of that, “Contest valid only in the United States” stuff):

To get one entry in the random drawing, all you have to do is email me at NALStories@gmail.com and tell me your favorite episode or something you love about the show.

That’s it!

If you email me and tell me that…AND let me know you’ve shared this episode (or your fave)…or something else you love about the show online somewhere…or that you’re subscribed to my YouTube Channel, newsletter…anything like that, and you’ll get a second entry.

Finally, if you’re a Patreon patron, or sign up for my Patreon and let me know you did, you’ll get a third chance.

I’ll do the random drawing on Saturday, December 23 and contact the winner then. (And just so you know: all contact will be directly from me, so if you get contacted through an Instagram account meant to look like me, or any place other than NALStories@gmail.com, it’s not me. I only mention this because I know that even when someone tiny does some kind of a giveaway, scammers try figuring out ways to exploit it. You’ll know me by the email address and my babbling thank you for supporting the show!)

So that’s it, and again…this applies to international fans of the show, too.

All right, let’s get to work!

Old Growth

You’ve waited for over an hour for the skidder to arrive, to grab your piles of export logs and haul them off to the loaders. All the radios are silent, even when calling to other crews on the mountain.  You wonder if it’s a prank, despite your tendency toward a seriousness that instills apprehension in others from having needless fun when you’re around. You’re the one who retires early to your bunkhouse room while others stay up late in the cookhouse playing cards. You’re the one who reminds the crew to keep focus on-site, knowing that a wandering mind does not last long in the timber.

If they are up to something, you’ll make sure they regret it.

* * *

You climb out of your harvester and begin hoofing it back to the yard. Maybe it’s a problem with your radio and others are waiting for you—maybe there’s a reason the skidder didn’t return for more logs or no one has walked out to tell you something’s broken down, and that everyone gets a bit of a break on a lovely early autumn morning.

You walk along, listening to your footfalls, taking the cool air into your lungs and releasing each breath in a slow fog that lingers in the still air. Before you and to your left, all the way down the mountain, lie the efforts of your work. You tell yourself it will all one day come back, the same thing you tell yourself on every mountain you’ve helped strip bare. To your right: old growth forest that doesn’t come back the same way ever again….at least not in our lifetimes.

Not in many lifetimes.

* * *

Ahead, you spot the skidder. Its door is open, but Vinny Pastor is not inside.

“Even if there’s a break for maintenance,” you think, “he’d have at least brought everything back to the loaders.”

As you get closer, you hear it: a sound like a dog chewing on a bone. You slowly move to the far side of the vehicle, curious to see what’s between it and the trees. You step back on an angle, putting distance between you and the skidder as you poke your head around.

At first, you think it’s a wolf feeding on a recent kill, but there are no wolves in this part of the state—especially this high up in the mountains. Besides, it’s much larger than a wolf. You’ve heard that deer sometimes chew into bones for minerals, but this is too large for a deer, and elk stay down lower in the valleys.

When it stands on its hind legs and stretches to its full height, you catch a glimpse of the insides of Vinny Pastor. Ribs stick out in directions they were never intended to point—most of what’s inside is gone, dripping from the face of the creature before you. In your last effort to rationalize what you’re seeing, your think to yourself, A bear?” But as it looks at you with eyes not too unlike your own, a face more ape-like than ursine, you now understand that sometimes the things behind legends are real.

Everyone’s heard the stories and names: Bigfoot, Sasquatch, the Fouke Monster, and Skunk Ape; Yeti, Yeren, Orang Pendek, and Yowie. They have always been just that: stories, with blurry photos or footage as “proof” the legends exist. But you’ve seen no strange tracks in all your years in the mountains, and only heard stories meant to frighten green loggers coming into camp.

Now you think at least some of the shaky videos you’ve seen on television were real. As you look at a mouth slicked with the blood of a friend, you understand how fear would make it difficult to film with a steady hand. “If I’m to be next,” you think, “I’ll be the one to finally get conclusive proof.” But something so massive would be on top of you before you reached your phone in your pocket.

Running back the way you came isn’t an option. Even if you did make it back to the harvester, it would offer no shelter. The slope leading down is littered with stumps, a field of obstacles even without being pursued. A bear can run 40 miles an hour going downhill, and you imagine the hairy creature before you could likely do the same—if not move even faster.

Instead, you retreat into the forest.

* * *

As you rush through the trees, you listen behind you, surprised to hear nothing. Perhaps the creature decided a meal at its feet is better than chasing down another bite. As you stop, the only sound is your breath and the racing beat of your heart. You close your eyes and inhale deeply through your nose…out through the mouth. Repeat. When the pounding in your ears subsides, you open your eyes.

It’s darker than it should be. Not nighttime dark, but dark enough that you look to the canopy to see if storm clouds have moved in as you’ve calmed yourself. Layers of foliage high above let in just enough light to make out where you are.

You miss this kind of forest, the type of place you wandered as a child. No monoculture waiting to be harvested; instead, old growth ponderosa pines, juniper, Douglas firs, and mountain hemlock. Lichen-covered roots search for nutrients, velvet green arteries pumping life through the dirt.

You once listened to a podcast about the web of life hidden beneath forests, a network like old phone wires allowing trees to communicate. Old timber sacrificing energy to younger trees across the forest grid, giving up their life for future growth. The DNA of fish found inside inland trees, nutrients shared from tall cousins near shorelines. You remember listening and thinking, “I wish all humans were as generous.” It was one of those days you felt shame about what you do for a living.

You sit still for a minute, listening out for the creature while considering other things it might have actually been. “Would the crew have gone to such lengths for a prank?” Anything to ground yourself again in reality.

It’s only when you hear the laughing of a child that you know for certain something about this place is not right.

* * *

You consider it might be stress, or maybe the wind moving through the treetops, carrying and distorting distant sounds that resonate unlike their source upon arrival. You once visited a relative in Texas and camped beside a massive granite dome that crackled in the night as the heat of the day rose up from it like old ghosts. The wind made a bobcat’s call sound like a screaming crone by the time it wound its way through the treetops and settled into camp. It was the only time you were ever frightened while camping.

But when you hear the laughing child say your name, you know it’s not just the wind.

You run, until catching a whiff of something familiar: thick and rich tobacco. The sticky scent lingers in the humid air, reminding you of your grandfather smoking a cigar after dinner and telling you stories about logging by hand. For a time after his passing, you even tried smoking a cigar after every dinner, but it was a thing that smelled much better than it tasted—especially the morning after.

You spot the source of the smoke, a massive, hairy figure sitting on a branch in a tree that doesn’t belong here. The tree’s trunk flares at its base like thick ribbons slicing into the ground. Embers from its inhabitant’s cigar burn hot, turning into fireflies that float off into the darkness. You don’t know whether you should speak or turn back, but it doesn’t matter. Something on the path before you rises from the moss into a crooked stance and fixes its eyes upon you.

It’s much smaller than the creature at the skidder feasting on Vinny. You look for a branch or stone—anything with which to defend yourself should it charge. It opens a mouth that looks like it could stretch wide enough to swallow you whole. You realize what you thought was bristling hair covering its body is actually grass. It holds a single bronze bell in each of its hands. The melody and tone begins pulling you into its spell…

* * *

“Follow me!”

Where the trail splits, a woman stands before you, waving you her way. You pull yourself from the chiming of the bells and do as you’re told, figuring if it’s to not end well, better it be at the hands of something you can comprehend than a twisted creature with a mouth full of fangs.

When she turns, you see something move behind her: a tail. Following it up to where it connects at the bottom of her spine, you realize her back is a hollowed hole ringed with flaking bark like a dead tree. Still, you follow her over the hill.

* * *

In the grove before you, an old woman bends over a bleeding tree stump, mixing potions in a stone bowl. She adds water and sap, ground leaves and earth. Some of the concoctions are fluid and colorful, while others are viscous and brown. Salves are placed into small pots. When she’s done, she gets to work.

All the trees are bleeding, deep red sap oozing from gashes in their trunks. Some are saved, while others bleed out, shriveling tightly until shattering into piles of sawdust. The potions are for all the broken animals, beautiful, innocent beings gasping for breath all around. Like the trees, some are rescued while others perish. Beyond the marred trees and wounded animals lies a long tunnel of fire and earth scoured by man.

The old woman looks up after tending to a deer, which rises up on spry legs and leaps into the trees.

She says, “I will not claim my actions don’t matter because they do to this land and these creatures. But I can only do so much. Why must you do so much to keep me so busy?”

* * *

You turn and rush down a green trail cutting through a forest that reminds you of visiting your relatives on the East Coast. What it must have been like to arrive on those shores, seeing new land after such a long and arduous journey. It smells like those family summer trips, rich earth and distant salt and sand. You were taught this is where the nation began, until discovering there were already many nations beyond that coastline.

Before you stands a short man with hair like porcupine quills. He raises a bow and fires an arrow, hitting you in the stomach. You fall fast asleep…

* * *

You dream a myriad creation stories, lore that carried all people forward no matter where they rose. In time, tales and science collide and merge, with many finding room for only one or the other, while others make space for both. Civilizations rise and fall—some legends are lost to time, while others are carried with elders to new lands never to be forgotten. In faraway places, people come together to discover they are not so different.

You dream about the Great Turn. Smokestacks rising above forests; an insatiable desire for more. Old stories are replaced by a lust for new industry. Simple trade among small bands becomes a wicked pursuit where people cheat their neighbors. Prosperity at the suffering of others. Dwellings that once housed entire families are toppled for bigger homes inhabited by fewer people. More material is needed.

They come with axes and saws, taking entire forests instead of thanking nature for only what is needed—sacrifice for sacrifice. Soon, timber powers the machines used to take even more and start newer industries. Lumberjacks and loggers become legendary, romanticized in stories, song, film, and television. They tell tales about the forests and we tell even taller tales about them.

You learn this truth: every forest has its guardians, and you and your crew have awakened them.

* * *

You wake up on your back, staring at the canopy. Trees on all sides of you rise high, meeting above your head like a cathedral. The sky is gone, replaced by twisted branches blocking your view toward the heavens. How is it you can even see?

An old man clears his throat and, when you notice him, offers you a hand up. His other hand is a source of light, glowing with no visible means but his will. When you’re standing once again, he smiles and turns away, begins walking toward a tight tunnel of branches. The entire chamber pulses like a heart.

You remember hearing an old myth, that if one spots a perfect circle in a forest that it’s a portal to other places. An old yard boss told you, “If it’s deep in the timber, it’s always a gateway to another time or dimension, even if you don’t see it. That’s where the ancient things come and go.”

Is this the tunnel of light people who’ve crossed in death, only to return, say is the final walk we take? Your apprehension is noticed; the old man grins and turns into a raven. He flies down the tunnel lighting the way.

“Trickster,” you think, and refuse to follow.

* * *

The cathedral of branches collapses around you, snaking along the ground and grabbing you by the feet. Green tendrils shoot out from brambled walls, wrapping your arms in leaves and vines. When you try calling out, a coil of vegetation muffles you. You’re lifted from the ground, extremities pulled to their limits—Vitruvian in Green. Never one to dwell on death, you have imagined it on occasion: car wrecks, drowning while kayaking, rolling over in the harvester and tumbling down the mountain.

Pulled apart by a living forest never made the list.

“Just do it!” you try shouting despite being silenced.

What must you look like, suspended and stretched to your limits in the center of the heart of the forest?

* * *

The ground shakes, and the vines holding you taut resonate with the pain of every tree and animal taken beyond the agreement of old arrangements. How can one person endure such suffering all at once? The agony transforms you.

With each thundering wave comes the groaning and crackling of ancient hardwood pushed to its limits. You realize the wind in your face is not from some faraway place, but from the exhalation of the venerable god now standing before you.

His ancient visage commands attention, bright green eyes hold you in his gaze. A pointed nose gives way to a mustache and beard like a tangle of roots at the base of a tree. His brow rises into smaller branches, projecting a long-forgotten wisdom. His hair is moss and leaves.

“You have learned a difficult lesson today, little one.”

The vines loosen their grip.

“There is still good in you. Were there not, you would not have made it this far.”

“What do you want from me?” you say.

“I believe you know.”

“Am I supposed to apologize? I’m sorry! Is that what you want?”

“No. I want you to carry this message back to your kind. You, little one, are a problem. Your brothers and sisters, too. You have enough, but always insist on taking more. When you were new, we welcomed you as our own. You were a different kind of animal, but as much a part of The Circle as the rest of us. In time, though, your hearts filled with greed instead of wonder. It was not enough to live in harmony with the rest of us.

“There have always been thoughtful creatures among your kind, but their words have been silenced by ignorance and power. There is no shame in that, for we became silent as well. That was our undoing. It is time to make our presence known again. The Old Groves stand with the lands, seas, and the skies. Where one is harmed, we all are harmed; where one cries out in pain, so go us all. And we have grown tired of you.”

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” you say.

“That is for you to figure out. I am not here to make demands on you, but to ask you to consider your place in The Circle and what you might do to change things. Before it is too late.”

The vines holding you in the heart of the forest release their grip. Before you fall, the Old Growth God catches you in his hand and places you on the ground.

“Remember this, little one…”

* * *

As the Ancient God departs, an old woman steps out from the inside of an elder tree that shouldn’t be there. The ground is now a pond beneath your feet. You panic for a moment, expecting to fall in and be soaked, but your feet find purchase on the water’s surface. You walk to the shore, where the old woman looks at you and smiles. She reaches up and touches your cheek.

“It is not often people make it this far,” she says. “You would be amazed by how many fight back, thinking they can win a battle with nature. Here, and out there, harmony is the path to survival. In the long times, even we will be gone. Your life is not even a flash before our eyes.”

When she raises her arms, the far edge of the well-rooted grove is bathed in soft light shining through the trees. You hear the familiar grumbling of Vinny’s skidder hauling logs.

“I have set things right,” the old woman says. “Now, you must do the same.”

You step into the light.

* * *

Vinny Pastor brings the skidder to a stop and opens the door.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say, even though you’re not sure.

“We were worried about you. Kept trying to call and got no response. What were you doing back there?”

“I thought I saw something in the trees.”

“Don’t know what it would have been. Sure we’ve scared almost everything off the mountain by now. Want a ride down for lunch?”

“Sure.”

Vinny rotates the seat enough for you to squeeze in and stand in the corner of the cab on the ride back to the crew.

* * *

After lunch, you say, “Do you guys ever question what we do?”

“What about it?” Nash Anderson says.

“Like this job. Should we really be cutting such old growth?”

Pam Clark takes a swig of coffee from her Thermos and says, “Hell yeah, we should! There’s a lot more money up here than down there.”

“Yeah,” you say, “but what about the future? Don’t you want your kids and grandkids to see old timber stands like these?”

Vinny says, “That’s what state and national forests are for.”

Dakota Grant winks at you and says, “You going woke on us?”

“No. I just think…”

“Think what?”

“I just think there are some places we need to leave be.”

Your boss, Colton Lewis, looks down the mountain and says, “Too late for that.”

“You sure you’re okay?” Vinny says. “You looked like you’d seen a ghost when you came out of the trees.”

“I don’t know what I saw,” you say, “but I think we need to leave.”

“Leave what?”

“The mountain.”

“Not happening,” Nash Anderson says.

“Then I need to leave…”

As you get up and walk off, Colton says, “Why don’t you just finish out your shift? Ride back to camp and sleep on it. Take a day or two and think about things.”

But you keep moving, side-stepping the stumps of ancient trees you toppled with the harvester.

“You’re serious?” Colton says. “All right—fine. We’ll pack up all your crap and mail it with your final check!”

You stop and turn back for a final look at another forest that will soon be gone. It may fall, but others still stand. As you walk down the mountain, you think about where you stand in The Circle and how you will use your voice to speak for those who cannot.

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks…this episode and all the others. Hitting the 50^th full story episode knowing there are people who’ve listened to every tale makes this a joy to do. Don’t forget to check out the show notes for the giveaway rules if that sounds like your kind of thing.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music was licensed through Epidemic Sound.

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. I also got some of the woodier sounds effects in this episode from Bluezone Corporation. They have some cool stuff. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music. Also, for as little as a dollar a month, you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund. And remember, if you’re a patron or you sign up, you’ll get an extra chance in the t-shirt drawing.

In December, it’s the annual Christmas episode. That means you get a handful of very short short stories, and a bigger story tied directly to the holiday season.

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

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 in-depth look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and likely contains spoilers of the most recent story. You’ve been warned…

* * *

There’s a line in the latest Not About Lumberjacks story, “Lakeview Estates,” that goes like this:

“Since its construction in 1961, Nate’s Corner stood at the crossroads of Kimball Avenue and Dove Road in the tiny East Texas town of Tooksberry.”

Tooksberry is entirely fictional, but anyone living in Southlake or Grapevine, Texas will know Nate’s Corner as Yate’s Corner, an actual gas station and tiny grocery store that sits at the crossroads of those streets, with Kimball establishing the border between the two towns.

Whether calling them Easter Eggs or inside jokes, Not About Lumberjacks stories are full of little things that don’t detract from the tales if you’re not aware of the reference (that would be a cruddy move on my part) but adds a little something more for those in the know.

* * *

Tooksberry, spelled T-o-o-k-s-b-e-r-r-y, is a nod to how so many places in Texas are named after other places, but often spelled or pronounced differently. And its rivalry with nearby Holstein is based on local rivalries of once rural towns now thinking they are much more than they really are.

As so many places nationwide (and even worldwide) have grown, most of us are familiar with this kind of development and the competitiveness that often comes with it.

Geographically, I used Harleton, Texas as Tooksberry’s location, even though it’s nothing like real-life Harleton. But my friend [and Monday night online gaming group rival], Jim Bearden (aka: PeePaw), grew up in Harleton—so that’s a nod to him.

And speaking of my Monday night gaming group, the protagonist of “Firing the Muse”—Warren Quinn—is a mash-up of the first names of two other friends who have killed me countless times in Among Us and destroyed me in rounds of Golf With Your Friends.

* * *

I love working little things like this into stories, but I always ensure these tiny additions never confuse those not in the know. Many of us have read a book or watched a movie where we’ve felt we’re not in on the joke. It can feel every bit as annoying as sitting with people talking about a past you’re not part of, or even going as far as deliberately telling inside jokes and stories meant to exclude you for a laugh.

Those kinds of things should always be seamless. And if it’s a joke you’re going for and not just a reference, you should always be ready to make fun of yourself.

* * *

Four years ago, when I released “Alone in HQ,” I took a poke at podcasters—some of whom are very precious about what they do. In the story, I say:

“What happens to a podcaster during the apocalypse, he wonders, when there are no more get-rich schemes to be shared, movies or television shows to review, or true crime to talk about; no more self-important hot takes on popular culture, long-winded interviews to schedule, or dude-bros who think they’re actually funny?”

Even if you’re not that familiar with podcasts, most people would assume the kinds of shows I mentioned are popular. (I know people who don’t listen to podcasts, but have asked me what kind of interviews I do or if I talk about true crime.)

It would be a low blow to tease these kinds of podcasters and leave myself out of the criticism. So…I even make fun of myself in that section with these lines:

“Employee #312566 likes to think the guy with that lumberjack show found a solar charger and still writes and records his stories. Maybe with twelve years and little else to do, if the power ever comes back, he’ll have enough of a backlog to finally release his show again on a regular schedule.”

At the time I published that story, “Alone in HQ” got bumped for more than a year by other stories I’d already written. I had one friend in particular who couldn’t wait for a post-apocalyptic story written by me, so it was my way of admitting, “Yeah, I kind of slacked on the show recently…”

* * *

At the time of this writing, I recently went to East Texas for an annual writing retreat I do with a friend. One night around the campfire, my friend Deacon mentioned Stephen King’s The Dark Tower series—how King blended characters from other stories into that, and how characters from that series are mentioned in other King books. (King’s kind of known for that.)

Nods like that to fans are a time-honored tradition for many writers. We see a character named Jenos Idanian in the I, Jedi Star Wars book. The name was used as an alias by Han Solo and adopted by another character after him. Jenos Idanian is an anagram for “Indiana Jones,” a character played by actor Harrison Ford—who was also our favorite smuggler from Star Wars: A New Hope.

C.S. Lewis wrote a poem in Through the Looking Glass in which the first letter of each line spells Alice Pleasance Liddell, the name of a child he knew. And F. Scott Fitzgerald included an epigraph in The Great Gatsby attributed to a poet he created in his earlier novel, This Side of Paradise.

It’s fun for authors to give nods to other works and for readers to dig and discuss these literary surprises.

If you miss these things, they usually affect nothing, but it you recognize them, it’s like a secret handshake or password to an elite club.

* * *

Another example from a Not About Lumberjacks story—this time, from “Gerald’s Grail.”

They spent the afternoon meandering around town, ending the day in a convenience store that had a few arcade games in the back. Gerald and Brian got excited when they saw a new cabinet next to Joust.

“What’s Tron?” Akara said.

Gerald and Brian looked each other in mock amazement before Brian said, “We really need to get you caught up on some movies you’ve missed. Trust me on this one…”

This reference to the Tron arcade game is obvious to Gen-Xers, but there’s more in that little exchange.

My dear friend, Curtis Hart, loves the movie Tron. (And he’s been a big supporter of Not About Lumberjacks from the start.) Somewhere along the way—I think in 2010—he posted something about Tron on Facebook.

My reply: “What’s Tron?”—knowing full well what it is and how much Curtis loves it.

It was one of those goofy things that caught on, to the point friends started replying to Curtis’s future posts with random images asking, “Is this Tron?”—or doing posts of their own, setting up the in-joke.

Thirteen years later, we try being a bit move covert about dropping “What’s Tron?” into things, so…slipping it into a Not About Lumberjacks story made me laugh out loud when I wrote it, and I would have loved seeing Curtis’s face as he listened.

But as goofy as forcing it into a story was, it does serve a purpose. The character asking “What’s Tron?” is a Cambodian refugee. Growing up, I had friends with parents and grandparents from Mexico, but no friends born in other countries until the later 70s and early 80s, when people from Vietnam and Cambodia moved to my hometown. Things my friends and I took for granted were unknown and even challenged by our new friends who lived lives we couldn’t fathom.

Akara Mok is a nod to those old friends and the things I learned about the world from them.

We couldn’t believe they weren’t aware of some pop culture reference that was second nature to us, and they couldn’t believe we assumed they’d know, given how different their lives were from ours up until that point.

* * *

There’s one final inside joke right up front in the latest Not About Lumberjacks story—the name.

I live in an area that was once a bit rural, despite being adjacent to more populated spaces. Today, the area is not only developed, but near some of the wealthiest towns in Texas. Where an outlaw biker club was in the 1980s is now a suburban ranch (likely for the tax breaks). Where a cult compound stood is now office space. And multi-million-dollar homes stand on sites where tiny homes once dotted the land.

In high school, I worked as a dishwasher and busboy at a restaurant called The Catfish Hut. At a bend in the road on the final approach to that slog-of-a-weekend-job was a trailer park called Lakeview Estates.

Today, it’s the site of million-dollar homes in a housing development called—you guessed it—Lakeview Estates.

To this day, that’s one of my favorite inside jokes…

* * *

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.

Also, for as little as a dollar a month, you can have access to a bigger behind-the-scenes look at Not About Lumberjacks on Patreon. Check out patreon.com/cgronlund if that sounds like your kinda thing.

In November, it’s not only the annual anniversary episode, but the 50^th story episode of the show! So, what’s in store for the most NOT Not About Lumberjacks story of the year? How about this:

The first second-person story I think I’ve ever written in which YOU are a lumberjack…

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, the residents of a trailer park battle the city and developers in an attempt to save their homes from demolition to make way for a golf course.

But first, the usual content advisory…

“Lakeview Estates” deals with the loss of homes, a broken housing market, corruption, mention of drug and alcohol abuse (including teen marijuana use), death, arson, violence, incarceration, and marriage infidelity. Also: after a six-episode run with no swearing, that’s back, too!

Man, that content advisory makes it sound like you’re in for a brutal story, but I can assure you: it doesn’t linger on any of those elements very long, other than people fighting to save their homes.

All right, let’s get to work!

Lakeview Estates

Prologue

Everybody has a dream. Before falling asleep most nights, Jerrod Pyle dreamed about walking across a stage to thunderous applause. The speech he gave changed depending on his mood, but he was always the first person to win an Oscar in an Iron Maiden t-shirt.

Bonnie Kirkland dreamed about going on the Price is Right and winning big. When she was younger, her mom won a TV on the show, but Bonnie wouldn’t settle until she took the Showcase Showdown.

Carlos Espinosa was a fix-anything grease monkey who dreamed of one day racing funny cars and leaving Sean Bellemeur and Doug Gordon in his dust.

No one knew what the Flynn triplets dreamed about, but it was likely based off something they saw in Half-Baked or a Cheech and Chong movie.

Noah Cooper dreamed about becoming a professional wrestling superstar. He had a long way to go, but he was the reigning Pineywoods Wrestling Alliance’s Hardcore Championship.

Not everyone’s dreams were as lofty. Ms. Rose dreamed about simply making it to the end of her life while dealing with as little bullshit as possible.

These dreams might seem funny to most people, but dreams were all that’s left in Lakeview Estates Mobile Home Park.

* * *

Jerrod was walking along Pine Street, on his way to Nate’s Corner for his Friday morning Gansitos and Dr. Pepper breakfast, when he saw the sign.

Zoning Change

Notice of public meeting about this property

For information call: 987-555-1212

He pulled his phone from his pocket, snapped a photo, and continued on his way.

* * *

Since its construction in 1961, Nate’s Corner stood at the crossroads of Kimball Avenue and Dove Road in the tiny East Texas town of Tooksberry. The white, clapboard building not only served as the town’s only gas station, but welcomed locals with groceries and bait—and travelers with refreshments and souvenirs. They were known for their kolaches, and heaven help the pedant who pointed out the sausage rolls were actually called klobasneks, while kolaches were fruit pastries. That’s not how things worked in Texas.

The second story of the building was a small apartment where the store’s owner, Nathan Yate, lived. Just like his name, he inherited the business from his father, who inherited it from his. Between the two windows of the upper floor were painted wooden American and Texas flags. Three small spotlights hung from the soffit above, shining brightly on the painting at night so even the drunkest of residents would never forget where they lived.

Jerrod entered the store and waved.

“Mornin’, Nate.”

“Morning, Jerrod. How’s it going?”

“Good. You?”

“One of those mornings where I wish I was a trust fund baby with all the time in the world to sleep in.”

“That would be the life,” Jerrod said. He entered the snack aisle and grabbed two packs of Gansitos without slowing down. At the far end, he swung past the drink coolers and grabbed a Dr. Pepper.

“Ah, the Friday breakfast,” Nate said.

Jarrod pointed to the Gansito packs. “Well, just one. The other goes in the freezer for tomorrow morning.”

“I can always put a couple packs in the ice cream freezer for you when I close on Thursday nights.”

“Thanks, but I like my routine.”

“Gotcha.”

After Nate rung up the order, Jerrod said, “Have you heard anything about a zoning change in town?”

“No. Why?”

“I saw a sign about it while walking here.”

Jerrod pulled out his phone and showed Nate the photo.

“Where is this?” Nate said.

“Right at the bend where Pine Street turns into Taylor. Right there in front of the trailer park.”

“You gonna call?”

“Yeah, when they open” Jerrod said. “Would be nice finding out what’s up. Especially since it’s right there.”

“Yeah. I wonder if it’s the town center Itchy’s always going on about.”

“That’s a good point. Ever since Holstein built one, he’s been obsessed with making this town like them.”

“I swear, that boy needs his own vision.”

“He’s too dumb for that,” Jerrod said.

The two laughed, and Nate said, “That’s why he’s our mayor.”

* * *

The 75 mobile homes of Lakeview Estates were packed into a 1000 by 750-foot rectangle of land on the edge of Tooksberry, over 250 lives playing out each day where meadows and ponds gave way to thicket and pines. It was the only home Jerrod Pyle ever knew. When the property owner, William Pate, moved to Conroe to be closer to his daughter and grandchildren, there was only one person he trusted with running the trailer park. It was a job Jerrod took as seriously as his passions. He ensured those who rented never waited long before something broken was fixed, and he was always lenient with those a bit behind on payments. The pride he took in the trust extended to him by Mr. Pate carried over to the residents. It was not a dusty community full of dilapidated structures and cars up on blocks, the kind of place where children in dirty diapers raced past dogs chained to trees and fences. The residents of Lakeview Estates may not have possessed much in the way of material goods, but they made up for it with dignity.

As Jerrod made his way toward the office trailer, he saw Noah Cooper lifting weights beneath a cedar elm in his side yard. Noah had leveled a spot beneath the tree for a square rubber gym mat, a weight bench, and dumbbells. Anyone who had seen him wrestle knew that stealing his gear would not be in their best interests. In addition to the potential hernia from moving so much iron, one would not want to find themselves on the wrong side of someone who was regularly slammed through folding tables, took steel chair shots to the head, and rolled around in barbed wire for fun. Jerrod waited for Noah to finish a set of bench presses before approaching.

“Gotta sec?” he said.

Noah sat up and stretched. “A quick one, yeah.”

“Thanks. Two things. First, I should have time today to pull highlights from last Saturday’s match for your YouTube channel. But the bigger thing: have you seen the zoning sign at the bend just outside the trailer park?”

“No. What’s up?”

“Dunno. I tried calling on the way back from Nate’s Corner. Got city hall’s voicemail, so I’ll call back when they open.”

“I’ve not seen it or heard anything about it,” Noah said.

“Gotcha. Well, I need to open the office, so I’ll let you get back to your workout. I’ll catch up later about the next documentary meeting.”

“Cool deal. And let me know what you find out from the city.”

“Definitely.”

* * *

A tiny pile of envelopes full of checks and money orders greeted Jerrod on the other side of the mail slot in the office trailer’s front door. When the first day of the month fell on a Friday, it meant a longer-than-usual day, with most residents getting paid and rushing home to pay rent on their homes or land. He gathered the envelopes and placed them on his desk before popping the second Gansito pack into the freezer. After processing the first batch of payments on Mr. Pate’s old desktop computer, Jerrod pulled his laptop from his backpack.

While managing a trailer park was not Jerrod’s dream, it was a job that still allowed him time to focus on the life he imagined as a kid. In 1999, when Jerrod was 15, he decided he’d direct movies. When Steven Spielberg won the Oscar for Best Director and began his acceptance speech with, “Am I allowed to say I really wanted this?” something switched inside that teenager living in Lakeview Estates. Jerrod was raised to believe that wanting something more in life than what little you were given was akin to sin. It was greedy. It was a way of thinking reserved for people who thought they were better than others. For Jerrod’s parents, taking what you were given resulted in his father overdosing while Jerrod was still in high school, and his mother drinking herself to death shortly after graduation.

With Mr. Pate’s help, Jerrod enrolled in the closest thing to a degree in Radio/TV/Film in the area: a BA in Mass Communication from the University of Texas at Tyler, in Longview. The half hour drive from home was more affordable than packing everything up and heading almost five hours away to Austin. During his studies, Jerrod realized he was more suited to interview people and tell their stories than he was directing blockbusters—and for a kid from backwater East Texas, it was a more realistic pursuit. YouTube allowed him a way to distribute the short documentaries he made about people most wouldn’t give a second glance, and his latest project—a joint effort chronicling Noah’s attempts to make it as a professional wrestler—brought even more attention to his endeavors.

At 9:00 a.m., Jerrod took a break from cutting the best clips from Noah’s most recent match and called city hall.

* * *

Two weeks later, Jerrod and a handful of residents from Lakeview Estates attended their first city hall meeting to find out why the zoning sign was placed at the bend outside the trailer park. After Mayor Bradley Stevens called the meeting to order and his best friend and council member, Scotty Walsh, led the Pledge of Allegiance, it was on to business. The mayor’s wife—and Board Secretary, Carrie Stevens, called role and announcements. For Jerrod, it was more boring than sitting through classes that didn’t hold his interest when he was younger. The council seemed just as bored, only coming to attention when it was time to vote on previous business. Hands going up, followed by “Ayes,” seemed automatic.

Jerrod came to attention when the mayor said, “Will the secretary please read the first application before the board?”

Carrie Stevens adjusted her microphone. “There is one application before the board. West Industries, ZB23-D-03, 300 Pine Ridge Road, Block 1300 Lot 1.00. This applicant seeks a Use variance from section 154-43 to allow construction of Mallard Lake Public Golf Club.”

“Thank you,” the mayor said. “We open the floor to thirty minutes of comments of public interest. A reminder: each speaker is limited to three minutes.”

The eyes of Lakeview Estates were on Jerrod. He stood up, stepped to the microphone at the podium, and said, “Yeah, I’d like my time.”

Mayor Stevens smiled and said, “You don’t get to just stroll up there and babble, J.J.—”

“It’s Jerrod!” he said.

“As I was saying: you don’t get to just stroll up there, J.J. You have to sign up to speak.”

“Fine. Where do I do that?”

Carrie Stevens walked over and handed Jerrod a notebook and pen. She pointed to an empty ledger page where Jerrod gave his name, address, and phone number.”

When the mayor nodded, Jerrod began. “I have some questions.”

“We discussed that order of business in our last meeting,” the mayor said. “This is why I encourage everyone to attend these meetings regularly.”

“I don’t think you mean that, Itchy.”

“You’ll address me as Mayor Stevens, here.”

When Jerrod and the mayor were in Boy Scouts, on an overnight camping trip, Bradley Stevens and Scotty Walsh were setting up their tent in tall grass, away from others. Jerrod and Noah wandered over and told them it was a bad idea. A young Mayor Stevens told Jerrod to mind his own business. It wasn’t until a few days later, when Bradley’s legs were covered in chigger bites, that he realized Jerrod was trying to help. As he scratched his way through classes for days, he was given a nickname that followed him into adulthood.

“So, we don’t get to ask questions?” Jerrod said.

“You do. But that was an order of business in a previous meeting. You can go to the city website to view the minutes and watch the video.”

“So, something’s going on right in our backyard, and we don’t even get mail or anything?”

“We send mail to those within 500 feet of any proposed plan.”

“You know I’m gonna go home and grab a yardstick,” Jerrod said. “And if it’s off, I’m raising hell.”

“I’ll remind you to watch your language, J.J.”

“Yeah, well fuck you, Itchy!”

* * *

Noah Cooper walked behind Jerrod in the field behind the trailer park, making lines in a notepad each time Jerrod moved a yard stick one length closer to Mallard Lake. After Jerrod was escorted from city hall by Officer Perry McCollough, the resolution passed unanimously. Noah told Jerrod some residents in attendance even welcomed the measure, saying a golf course in their backyard was at least better than a shopping center.

“At least we’ll still have this view.”

Jerrod ignored him and continued moving the yard stick. He occasionally paused, checking the GPS map on his phone against the map of the new zoning area on the city hall website. He eventually stopped and said, “How many marks?”

Noah tallied the tick marks in the notepad and said, “one hundred seventy-two.”

Jerrod multiplied that by three on his phone’s calculator. “Five hundred sixteen feet. Damn…”

Noah gave his best friend a moment and then said, “Maybe it won’t be so bad.”

“It’ll be weird,” Jerrod said. “All these trees cut down—all this natural grass replaced by a green carpet full of rich assholes playing golf.”

“It’s still better than all the development in Holstein.”

“Yeah, but how long before we get like that? How long before the people who grew up here can’t afford to stay—and this entire area ends up like every place else?”

Jerrod continued walking until reaching the edge of Mallard Lake. He stared at the water, watching it shimmer in the gloaming. Noah stood by his side until the frogs called out and a huge moon rose over trees that would soon be gone.

* * *

In the weeks that followed, Jerrod grew to accept the place he retreated to for solitude would soon become a manicured space he wouldn’t legally be allowed on unless he took up golf and paid a green fee. He grudgingly admitted his friends were right: it was at least better than parking lots and stores, and the crowds that came with them. As nearby Holstein grew, Mayor “Itchy” Stevens seemed hellbent on showing Holsteiners that Tooksberrians had a better quality of life. One had to drive to Longview or Marshall to play golf, so a course in town would send the message that Tooksberry was superior to all neighboring towns.

Eventually, Jerrod’s schedule of running the office and maintenance at Lakeview Estates, working on the documentary with Noah, and recording Sunday services for the First United Methodist Church of Tooksberry returned to the center of his thoughts.

On the first cool afternoon in October, nothing was going to ruin Jerrod’s good mood: no more seemingly constant air conditioner maintenance and insect control, and no more sweltering days of landscaping and swimming pool upkeep. It was a slower, pleasant season with time to edit and plan while waiting for fewer things on the property to go wrong. After a productive morning and early afternoon, Jerrod checked mail. A letter from the City Attorney caught his attention. He opened it where he stood and scanned the page. The line that stopped him read:

NOTICE IS HEREBY GIVEN that the City Council of the City of Tooksberry will consider taking action by approval and passage of an ordinance that will authorize the City Attorney to commence eminent domain proceedings against the above-described subject property…

* * *

On Sunday mornings, most residents of Lakeview Estates made the walk up the hill on Creekview Drive to the First United Methodist Church of Tooksberry. Growing up, it was a refuge for Jerrod, a place to get away from strung-out parents and spend a morning in the company of friends and Reverend Lawrence Terry. The tiny church served as more than just a place of worship: it was a gathering place for kids after school and during summer break, a place for area seniors to gather, and for evening addiction programs Jerrod’s parents ignored. This day, the residents in attendance waited to hear why Jerrod gathered them there in such a hurry.

“Evening, everyone,” he said. “I suppose ya’ll are wondering why I called you here. The property received a letter from the city that has the potential to change all our lives in a big way. I called with Mr. Pate, and he said it’s okay if I share this with you.”

Jerrod read the letter.

In the front row, Ms. Rose fanned herself with her hand until Bonnie Kirkland pulled a folded piece of paper from her purse and took over. Several deep breaths later, and she was feeling better. People looked to each other as if to say, “Did I really hear what I think I just heard?”

Eventually, Carlos Espinosa said, “So, what’s this mean for all of us?”

“I don’t know,” Jerrod said, “but Mr. Pate’s meeting with his lawyer tomorrow. The only reason I pushed for telling y’all before hearing back about that is I know how word gets around in this town. You can bet I called the city right away on this one. They’re meeting next Tuesday to discuss this.”

* * *

Tooksberry City Hall was in a renovated Burrus grocery store. Most residents thought it was fitting that the City Council sat where the freezer section was once located—especially on an evening they were discussing such a cold decision. After the meeting was called to order and previous business was addressed, it was time to discuss seizing Lakeview Estates for expansion of the public golf course. The Council was visibly on edge; they had never seen a standing room only crowd. Worse: they had never seen so many people sign up to speak.

Each resident who spoke was met by Mayor Stevens assuring them, “We understand and sympathize with your concerns. This difficult decision is for the public good of all Tooksberry.”

After each speech, Carrie Stevens looked at the ledger, called the next resident’s name, and reminded the group how much time was left.

When Carlos Espinosa’s turn arrived, he asked how many more people were signed up to speak. Carrie counted and said, “Seven.”

“And there’s only twelve minutes left?”

“Yes,” she said.

“What happens to those who won’t have time?”

Carrie looked at her husband. Mayor Stevens said, “They can submit their concerns in writing. We will not extend the time we’ve allocated for this matter.”

“Can I see the list?” Carlos said.

Carrie turned the book around as Carlos approached. He looked at the list, realizing Jerrod was second to last.

“I’m giving up my time so Jerrod can speak.”

Each person who followed did the same.

When Jerrod stood up to take his turn speaking, Noah Cooper said, “Stay calm, Jaybird…”

Jerrod took a deep breath and began. “I know this is all a done deal. Mr. Pate’s lawyer said it would cost a lot to fight, and that we’d likely still lose if we did. After his push back, he said the city’s offer on the land is even fair. You have all of us over a barrel. I know we’re not gonna convince you to change your minds at this point, but I’ve enjoyed watching ya’ll squirm as each person spoke tonight. That means you know what you’re doing is wrong on a basic level.”

“Do you have a point to make?” Scotty Walsh said.

“Yeah. I don’t see how this is in the public good of Tooksberry when we make up a lot of the public in town. I know things change, but this is ridiculous. You want to bulldoze our homes and build a golf course and bigass houses, but what about us?”

“Language, J.J.—language…” Mayor Stevens said.

Jerrod didn’t give Itchy what he wanted. He took a deep breath to steady himself and continued. “Like I said: what about us? Where do we go? We can’t even afford an 800 square-foot house in the old part of town because they’re now going for three or four-hundred-thousand dollars. And even if Tooksberry had apartments, I’m sure a one-bedroom place would cost more than your mortgage each month ‘cause y’all got in when the getting was good. The rest of us work too hard and for too little to have your kind of luck. And say I did have money to buy a house…I put a big chunk down, and some rich asshole three states over or a multi-national conglomerate offers more than I have and turns it into a fuckin’ AirBnB—”

Mayor Stevens hammered the stand with his gavel and said, “I told you to watch your language…J.J.”

Jerrod closed his eyes to compose himself. When he opened them, he said, “Okay—fine. I’m sorry ‘bout that, y’all. Where was I going with this? Oh, yeah: and then, when we’re out in the streets, you’ll point at us and say, ‘Those losers should just get better jobs,’ totally ignoring the fact that a lot of us are working two or three jobs already and barely getting by. Then what, you arrest us for loitering and fine us into oblivion? After that put us in jail ‘cause we default on fines we can’t pay because you keep adding to them? All so a couple already-rich mother f— … rich people who don’t even live in the state can get richer? I don’t see how it’s good or in the public interest when much of the public ends up without homes.

“And what sickens me most about all this is then, on Sundays, you’ll all drive your fancy little cars over to Longview and bow your heads in your Jesus-Dome of a mega church and pretend to follow a savior you’re nothing like. Meanwhile, Reverend Terry is part of this community. Your guy just wants to be on TV—”

Mayor Stevens hammered his gavel repeatedly while shouting, “Order!”

Jerrod said, “I know you’re about to sic Perry on me again, so fuck it. I can see it in your face that there’s more to this, and I aim to find out what you’re really up to, Itchy! All of you!”

Officer McCollough approached the speaker’s podium. Jerrod put his hands up and said, “Don’t fuckin’ touch me, Perry—I’ll go, I’ll go.”

Before leaving the building with Officer McCollough at his side, Jerrod turned back to face the City Council and said, “I swear to God, Itchy—I’m gonna make you regret the night your momma and daddy flopped around in bed and made your dumb ass if there’s anything more to this…”

* * *

The resolution to seize Lakeview Estates passed unanimously. In the weeks that followed, Jerrod called Mr. Pate almost daily with new ideas about ways to fight the city. Each time, Mr. Pate said, “We both know how small towns work.”

On Jerrod’s final call, Mr. Pate said, “My lawyer’s looked things over in every way, Jerrod—and they have a solid case in the public interest, even though we both know that’s not right. But money talks, and a golf course bringing people in from all over is deemed better for Tooksberry than a trailer park. We’re lucky he was able to get a better deal on the land.”

“You’re lucky,” Jerrod said.

“No, we’re all lucky. I’m driving up on Friday. I wanna to tell everyone in person, so keep this just between us until then. There’s plenty of money for me to leave for to my daughter. I’m prepared to give each household $25,000 to help with moving…or whatever they want. Can you get everyone at the church at 6:00?”

* * *

The residents of Lakeview Estates gathered at the First United Methodist Church of Tooksberry on Friday evening. Jared, Reverend Terry, and Mr. Pate sat in front of the altar, while the rest of the crowd occupied the pews. The Flynn triplets sat beside Ms. Rose. From their teen years on, Ms. Rose was like a grandmother to the brothers. The best Jerrod could make of the relationship was once the brothers discovered weed, they went from terrorizing the trailer park to being three of the mellowest teenagers one would ever meet. While Ms. Rose never approved of their habits, she appreciated their company.

When the last of the stragglers were seated, Reverend Terry signaled to Mr. Pate. He rose and stepped to the pulpit.

“Thank y’all for coming out. I know this ain’t an easy time for any of us. First, I want everyone to know I did all I could to stop this seizure from happening. I don’t think it’s a city’s right to take property for any reason, but it especially hurts because this is all about money. My lawyer told me I’d be wasting what little retirement funding I have fighting this and would likely have nothing in the end. That’s why I took the deal.

“I want y’all to know that wasn’t easy. Y’all know me well enough to know I feel a bit guilty about this, even though it ain’t my fault. What I’m about to say isn’t said out of guilt, but because I’ve always cared about that little plot of land and all y’all. So, for now, until the order to vacate comes through, I’m not collecting any rent. And I’m giving $25,000 to each household to help with moving expenses.”

A buzz rose from the crowd as those in attendance verified with neighbors that they heard Mr. Pate correctly.

He continued. “I wish I could give everyone more or just swap Lakeview Estates for a new place, but there’s no time. What’s left will be enough for me, my daughter, and her family, but it’s not like I’m gonna be traveling the world in style or anything. I hope y’all understand.”

Heads nodded, and Carlos Espinosa said, “Thank you, Mr. Pate.” Ms. Rose fanned herself and told the Flynn triplets, “I have nowhere to go.”

One of them said, “You can come with us,” but she shook her head as she fought to catch her racing breath.

Another said, “Are you okay?”

Ms. Rose closed her eyes. “Just…not feeling quite right.”

The third of the brothers noticed her sweating and said, “We need to get her down,” but she was already on the floor.

* * *

Naomi Grace Rose took her final breath in the company of friends in the church she loved. By the time paramedics arrived, there was nothing anyone could do. Mr. Pate drove the distraught Flynn triplets to the hospital, figuring they were in no state to get behind the wheel, even if they weren’t stoned. The rest of the crowd slowly dispersed. Reverend Terry stood at the door letting each resident know he was there for them if they needed anything. When the last parishoner left, he turned to Jerrod, gave him a huge hug, and finally cried himself.

* * *

Jerrod awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of sirens. In his dazed state, he thought about Ms. Rose and the ambulance, wondering if someone else’s heart finally gave out under the stress of it all. The cacophony of emergency vehicles stayed on the far side of town, fading to nothing as Jerrod fell back to sleep.

* * *

The second time Jerrod was awakened by noise, it was to pounding on his front door. He pulled back the edge of his bedroom curtains and saw Itchy Stevens standing on his stoop, illuminated by the first light of morning. After pulling on an Iron Maiden Trooper t-shirt, he went to the living room and opened the door.

“Why the hell are you pounding on my door, Itchy?!”

“You know why, J.J.”

“No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”

“Don’t give me that shit! You fuckin’ know!” Jerrod had seen Itchy angry, but never in a slobbering rage.

“It’s too early for this,” Jerrod said. When he started closing the storm door, Itchy forced it back open.

“Get your ass out here, J.J.”

In high school, Itchy Stevens started calling Jerrod J.J. when word got out that meth had a grip on his parents. The two Js stood for “Junkie Jerrod,” and were often followed by taunts about his parents—and how he was destined to follow in their footsteps. Jerrod knew even then if he ignored it that others would eventually stop taunting him, but teenagers aren’t known for a Zen-like ability to let things go. As an adult, Jerrod was able to let it go, but as he stared at the person he suspected was somehow responsible for displacing an entire community, remaining calm took more discipline than usual.

“Call me J.J. one more time, motherfucker.”

Itchy grinned and stretched it out: “Jaaaaay Jaaaaay.”

Jerrod made a fist and slowly brought his arm back; then, he took a deep breath and let it go, shaking out his hand before stepping back to close the front door. It crashed into him as Itchy shoved his way inside and took a swing at him.

Jerrod grew up wrestling with Noah, and as adults, often let his best friend practice new moves on him. While not as formidable as Noah, along the way, Jerrod learned how to hold his own and defend himself. He used Itchy’s momentum against him and took him to the ground, tying up his arms in the process. It would have been easy to take out decades of hatred on Itchy’s exposed face, but instead, Jerrod said, “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“You burned my fuckin’ house down!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I know you did it!” Itchy said while trying to break Jerrod’s hold.

“Look,” Jerrod said. “I hate your dumb ass, and I would love to see you suffer for being a lifelong piece of shit, but I wouldn’t do something like that. Not even you deserve that, and Carrie sure the hell doesn’t. I’m gonna let you up. Before I do, I want you to remember: you forced your way into my house. I can legally stand my ground and kill you, but I don’t want that for you, either. We good?”

“We’re good,” Itchy said.

“All right.” Jerrod released his grip and offered Itchy his hand when he stood up. Itchy ignored it and stood on his own.

As he left Jerrod’s trailer he said, “If I find out it was you, you’re dead.”

* * *

In the month that followed, Lakeview Estates slowly emptied. Bonnie Kirkland moved to Shreveport to live with her daughter, and Carlos Espinosa moved to Ennis to be closer to the Texas Motorplex. Other people Jerrod knew from his very first memories packed their lives into U-Hauls to move away—some near, some far. Some used the $25,000 from Mr. Pate to pursue dreams, while others planned to hold on to it for as long as possible.

The Flynns were packing their trailer the day before Thanksgiving when Officer McCollough pulled up with the sheriff and a couple deputies. Jerrod couldn’t make out what was being said, but in the end, all three were handcuffed without a struggle, placed in the backs of police cars, and driven off. The next day, Jerrod got a call on the office phone that he needed to be present when the county came to seize the Flynns’ possessions. When he asked what was happening, he was told they weren’t at liberty to say. Jerrod grabbed a couple tripods, set up two cameras and a microphone, and then sat down beneath his favorite tree to watch.

When Noah wandered over, Jerrod brought his index finger to his lips, signaling to be quiet. He sat up, and quietly made his way to the far side of the office trailer.

“What’s going on?” Noah said.

“I don’t know—they won’t tell me. But they either finally busted the triplets for weed, or it has something to do with Itchy’s house, I’m guessing.”

“What’s with the cameras?”

“It hit me when they wouldn’t tell me what’s up: I should have been recording a lot more these past couple months. Documenting all this.”

“For what?” Noah said.

“Just to have. Proof, I guess. To let them know we’re watching.”

When the movers contracted by the country had unloaded the U-Haul the Flynn’s started filling, as well as their trailer, Jerrod grabbed one of his cameras and walked over.

“Get that thing out of my face,” Officer McCollough said.

“I can legally film this. I’m not interfering with law enforcement doing their job, and until the end of the month, I’m still the voice of the property owner—so I’m not trespassing. Can you at least tell me what’s going on? Please?”

Officer Perry McCollough smiled and said, “You’re right. You can film this. And it’s my right to not say another word.”

“Thank you, Perry.”

“For what?”

“Showing the world just how corrupt this city is…”

* * *

Jerrod and Noah were the last to leave Lakeview Estates after selling their trailers. They combined the money with the payout from Mr. Pate and bought a house in downtown Tooksberry.

When Noah said, “We should just get the hell out of here,” Jerrod told him, “Fuck that—this is where we grew up. They want us to leave, and I’ll be damned if Itchy gets that as well.”

“There’s more to life than just spiting him, Jaybird.”

“I know,” Jerrod said. “This isn’t just to spite him, though. It’s to keep an eye on him, ‘cause I think this is all crooked. But mostly—this is home, and I don’t want to leave. Do you?”

“Nah.”

“There we go, then.”

The two used their new space more as a base of operations than a home. When Jerrod wasn’t documenting the stories of locals and creating online ad campaigns for small businesses in the area, he was working on Noah’s wrestling documentary. And when he wasn’t working on that, he was digging through public records and doing all he could to see if his hunch that Itchy was up to something more was right. He pulled footage from the city council meetings he attended from the city website and began compiling all the footage he’d shot over the years around Lakeview Estates, all the way back to the day Mr. Pate gave him a Sony Handycam for the work he did around the property. He watched hours of interviews he’d conducted with residents from the trailer park, marking highlights, hoping to find the story of the community within it all.

If nothing else, long after the spot of land where he grew up was forgotten, people would come to know his home through the documentary he decided to make about the place where he was raised.

* * *

Jerrod and Noah made a point to attend every city council meeting, which clearly bothered Itchy and Scotty. Sometimes Jerrod signed up to speak about city business, while other times he used his three minutes to make a tenuous connection between a zoning change or other proposal to talk about how his home was taken from him by the city. One evening, Itchy had enough.

“If I may, J.J., you at least have a home. Our home was burned down by your three friends.” He looked at Carrie and then back at Jerrod. “So, you’ll have to forgive me for tiring of this near-weekly performance of yours.”

Marshall Flynn was convicted of arson and sentenced to twenty-five years for burning down Itchy’s home in retaliation for Ms. Rose’s death, believing the heart attack that took her was caused by the stress of a forced move Itchy somehow had a hand in. The other two triplets—Marlon and Marcus—had alibis, but ended up sentenced to five years each for their roles in the arson. Their plan? If Marshall were caught, they believed they could win on a technicality because they all looked alike and wouldn’t be able to say which one did it. They were surprised to find out it wasn’t that easy.

“It’s not a performance,” Jerrod said. “Both of us had our homes taken against our will. But only one of us seems to care about the other’s situation.”

* * *

Jerrod was shooting twilight hour footage on Main Street when he heard someone call his name. When he turned around, Carrie Stevens approached.

“Where’s Itchy?” he said.

Carrie shook her head.

“Sorry. Brad.”

She smiled. “Just between us, I do think the nickname y’all gave him back when is funny. But no woman wants to be married to someone named Itchy. It’s Wednesday. Wednesday nights, he goes to church.”

“You don’t?”

“Nope, it’s my night off. I go to that place once a week, and that’s plenty. It’s more like a concert than a church service.”

“Seems that way,” Jerrod said. “You can always come back to our church. Reverend Terry’s still the same great guy he’s always been.”

“I know. But it’s important to Brad that we attend as a couple.”

“Gotcha.” Jerrod ran his fingers through his hair.

“Why do you put up with him?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sorry,” Jerrod said. “I shouldn’t have said that—it’s none of my business. It’s just…you’ve always been so nice. To everyone. I guess I always thought you’d go off to college and never look back at this place.”

Carrie Stevens looked down Main Street, a place stuck in time. It was the same street her parents and grandparents knew. More family before that.

“I thought about it,” she said, “but what was I gonna do? Y’all have a lot going for you. I really didn’t. Everything I was was gone the day after I graduated high school. No one cared who I was in college. Nothing I did, here, mattered out there. I mean, what did I really do? I was head cheerleader—that’s about it. Following Brad to Austin and back is as good as it gets for me.

“After the fire, I did try convincing him to move. Just start a new life someplace else. But he’d rather be a big fish in a small pond than challenge himself.”

“Like I said, sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s okay.”

They each lingered an awkward moment before Jerrod said, “Well, I’ll let you get going. Good seeing you, Carrie.”

“You, too.”

Jerrod was half a block away when Carrie called his name. He turned back.

“I want you to know,” she said, “that taking your homes was wrong. I almost left him over that one…”

* * *

Jerrod sat with Noah in his best friend’s Nissan Versa, camera in hand, waiting for Itchy to leave his temporary home on Scotty’s property. The two joked that they should have been private detectives as adept at following and recording the mayor they’d become in a matter of months. For someone who droned on in city council meetings about how much better Tooksberry was than Holstein, Itchy sure did a lot of shopping and eating in his rival town.

The plan this time was to tail him to Longview and get footage of him walking into Waypointe Church, showing how far he was willing to drive to avoid churches in his hometown. Jerrod decided, if he couldn’t discover the mayor’s plan with the golf course, he’d at least have plenty of negative footage come election season.

Following Itchy on back roads was easy; all it took was riding far enough back that even if he looked in his rearview mirror, he’d not know it was Jerrod and Noah behind him. As they got closer to Longview, Noah closed the distance, hoping the mayor of Tooksberry’s attention would be more on traffic in front of him than behind. When he drove past Waypointe Church, the two thought Itchy was on to them. When he pulled into the Longview Executive Inn and Suites, Jerrod told Noah to keep driving, figuring they’d been spotted.

“Pull onto this side street,” Jerrod said.

Noah took a right and pulled over in the grass. Jerrod craned his neck, waiting for Itchy to pull out and go the opposite direction. After waiting several minutes, Jerrod told Noah he’d be right back.

He ran to the far side of the hotel and peered over a fence. Itchy’s Mercedes was parked in front of a row of rooms. Jerrod raced back to the car to grab his camera gear.

“What’s up?” Noah said.

“He’s there! I’m gonna set up a camera on the rooms.”

“What about me? I can’t just sit here.”

“I don’t know. Go find a place and give me a call when you do.”

Jerrod was already running back to the hotel when Noah shook his head and put the car in gear.

* * *

Jerrod was hiding in the bushes of the neighboring Lone Star Hotel when Noah called and asked how long he’d be.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I have a camera set up and I’m monitoring it through my phone’s app.”

“Do I have time to get a pizza?”

“What?”

“I’m parked in the back corner of the Pizza Hut parking lot. I figured I’d get a pizza if we’re gonna be sitting a while.”

“Yeah…I mean, if you want to.”

“Cool…”

* * *

The sun was setting as Noah walked along the sidewalk, carrying a large meat lover’s pizza. He stopped between the two hotels and whistled. From a cluster of bushes, Jerrod returned the call they’d used since childhood. Noah surveyed the area and headed in.

After taking a seat beside Jerrod in the bushes, Noah said, “Got you extra red pepper packets, Jaybird.”

“Thanks.”

He opened the box, and grabbed a slice. Jerrod claimed his half of the pizza with a deluge of red pepper flakes and did the same. After devouring his first piece, Noah pointed to the phone on the ground in front of his friend and said, “Anything good yet?”

Jerrod pointed to a door on the camera app monitor and said, “They’re in that room.”

“Who’s they?”

“Dunno. Some woman parked around the back, went up, and then knocked. Itchy let her in.”

“Where’s the camera?”

“I mounted it on that fence. The trees hide it pretty good. Now, we just wait to see what it sees.”

* * *

When the pizza was wiped out, Noah said, “This is fun.”

“What is?”

“Sitting in the bushes with you. It’s like being little kids again…making forts and knowing all the good places to hide around town.”

“Yeah,” Jerrod said. “I feel for kids growing up in Tooksberry today. We were lucky to come up right before everything changed. I think we’re doing all right for a couple fuck-ups from a trailer park in Ass-Crack, Texas. I might not be directing movies, and you’re not a wrestling superstar yet, but at least we’ve stayed true to who we are.”

“Hell yeah,” Noah said. “And shit, there’s still time for those bigger dreams.”

Jerrod nodded. “Always is if you keep at ‘em! And even if they never come, we’ve still had fun along the way.”

* * *

Jerrod was considering turning off his phone to save the battery when the door to Itchy’s hotel room opened. He looked around and stepped out, followed by a woman who was definitely not Carrie Stevens. They embraced in a kiss. Itchy ran his hand over her body, ending on her butt, which he patted as they parted ways. After Itchy and the woman left, Jerrod retrieved the camera and headed home. There, after transferring the camera footage to his computer, he zoomed in on the woman on his system’s monitor.

“Holy shit,” Noah said.

“What?”

“That looks like Kristin Martin.”

“Who’s that?”

“The wife of the pastor at Waypointe Church.”

“How the hell do you know that?” Jerrod said.

“I know one of the A/V guys, there. He shot some footage when we thought the wrestling promotion might get a local TV deal. He invited a bunch of us to the church to look at their gear setups. She saw a bunch of wrestlers and sure seemed interested in us…if you know what I mean?”

* * *

Even before he began piecing together a documentary about the seizure and destruction of Lakeview Estates—and the effect it had on residents—Jerrod began his most ambitious video project to date: a timelapse beginning the day the trailer park was demolished that would be complete the day Mallard Lake Public Golf Club opened. Reverend Terry allowed him to set up a camera in the church. The safe location directly across the street from the construction site let Jerrod take a photo every 30 minutes that would later become footage he planned to use in his documentary, showing the passage of time between sections. Once a week, Jerrod stopped by the church to download images from the camera and to chat with Reverend Terry.

“Something’s bothering you.”

Decades of guidance and later, friendship, gave Reverend Terry an uncanny ability to seemingly know when something was knocking around inside Jerrod’s head.

“Yeah. Noah and I followed Itchy into Longview a couple days ago. We just wanted to get some footage of him walking into that huge church, but we ended up catching him meeting with someone in a hotel.”

Reverend Terry raised his eyebrows, but let Jerrod continue.

“Noah said it’s the wife of the pastor at Waypointe. It’s great for the documentary and could maybe even help this town get a new mayor if we leaked it during election season.”

“But…?” Reverend Terry said.

“But…I don’t want to do that to Carrie. We were never really hang-out friends in high school, but she was always nice to everyone—even me. Everyone at the trailer park. No idea why she ended up marrying Itchy, but still…Noah and I don’t want to see her hurt.”

“That’s very kind of you two,” Reverend Terry said. “One question, though: if you were married and your wife was cheating on you, would you want to know?”

“Yeah.”

“Then there’s your answer.”

“I don’t want her to think we’re doing all this out of revenge.”

“I think even Itchy knows you’re a good person. I’ve counseled enough people through breakups over the years. Some people seek counseling and stay together after something like this—others leave an old life behind and find a new way to live. But in every case, people deserve the right to decide how they want to handle things.”

* * *

The following Wednesday evening, Jerrod sat with Noah in his car, waiting for Itchy to leave. This time, they didn’t follow him—they waited for his car to disappear down Oak Street and then waited five more minutes before walking up and knocking on the front door of the guest house on the back of Scotty’s property.

Carrie answered, dressed for her evening alone on Main Street.

“Hey, y’all. Is everything okay?” she said.

Jerrod nodded. “Yeah. Do you have a minute?”

“For what?”

Jerrod held up an iPad and said, “We have something to show you…”

Carrie invited them into the living room. Noah took a seat in an oversized chair that was the perfect size for him, while Jerrod and Carrie sat on the couch. Jerrod placed the iPad on the coffee table in front of her.

“Before I show you what’s on here, I want you to know we won’t do anything with it unless you want us to.”

“What’s going on?”

Jerrod played the video.

“Who is that?” Carrie said when Kristin Martin got out of her car.

Jarrod advanced the video to Itchy and Kristin leaving the hotel room. He paused it to magnify the frame.

Carrie stared at the screen and said, “That fucking piece of shit…”

Her hand trembled as she pointed at her husband and his mistress. Jerrod waited for tears that never came.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “This wasn’t easy to show you. I asked Reverend Terry if I even should, and he said you had a right to know.”

A full minute later, Carrie said, “He’s right: I do. What do y’all plan to do with this?”

“Whatever you want,” Jerrod said.

“What do you want to do with it?”

“Use it for the documentary somehow. But we weren’t gonna do another thing without telling you about this first.”

Carrie steadied herself with several deep breaths and then said, “You want something good for your documentary? Go get your cameras. I’m already dressed, and I have a lot to say…”

* * *

In the time it took for Noah to race home and pick up gear for an interview, Carrie drank a glass of wine. By the time Jerrod and Noah set up two cameras, microphones, and lighting, she finished another. She was loosened up when they were ready to begin.

“So, how’s this all work?” she said. “Are you asking me questions, or what?”

“I can,” Jerrod said, “but it’s usually best to just let someone talk. Don’t worry if your thoughts wander or you have to stop to think about something. We can cut out all that later. Ready?”

“Yeah,” she said.

When Jerrod gave Carrie the signal, she began talking.

“My husband, Bradley Stevens, and Scotty Walsh have been best friends since childhood. They played football together and attended college together. They were in the same fraternity at UT Austin: Sigma Chi’s Alpha Nu chapter. They have a fraternity brother named Matt Chappell. He’s a homebuilder today. They have another frat brother named Kirby West, the person building the golf course in town.

“I can only tell you what I’ve picked up from them talking, here and there, but Bradley and Scotty made sure to steer the city council to accepting Kirby West’s proposal for the golf course, even though he’s never made one. He’s a landscape designer. A good one, but still. He wanted a shot at a golf course, and they gave it to him.

“There’s no reason anyone would dig into their pasts to find out it was a sweetheart deal for all of them: Kirby getting to design a new course, and Bradley getting to feel like he one-upped Holstein as the better town. I think he’s never forgiven them for knocking us out of the regional playoffs in 2000. Itchy still says it was a bad snap and not his fault that he fumbled.

“The next phase of the plan is a golf community full of big houses. They’re waiting until things are further along, and then Bradley and Scotty will steer the city council toward giving that deal to Matt Chappell. The worst thing about all this is kicking y’all out of your homes. They sold it as being for the greater public interest of Tooksberry because they can’t legally profit from it. Of course, that’s not stopping them from making money.

“This is where it gets a bit hazy for me, but there’s a fake company set up in an offshore account. They have an ‘employee’ who doesn’t really exist move funds through a fake invoice scheme to another account in the states. Bradley and Scotty have access to that one—they set it up so the payments look like consulting fees for work they don’t even do. We’re also getting a new house on the golf course for a steal through one of those accounts, somehow. It’s all a bunch of friends doing favors for each other and making money along the way.

“I’m talking about this now because I’m done. I’ve put up with a lot of shit…sorry, I’ve put up with a lot of stuff from my husband over the years, but this crosses the line. When everything they’re doing is done, I’m reporting it. I want to give them enough rope to hang themselves. It’s bad enough they cut other companies out of being considered for proposals, but there’s no excusing tearing down your homes for a crooked deal. I’ll never forgive what the Flynn’s did to our house—I’m fine if they rot in prison the rest of their lives—but none of that would have happened without Bradley and his friends and this plan.

“When this is done, I want them to hurt more than all of us put together.”

* * *

Four months later, just as Carrie claimed, the Tooksberry City Council unanimously approved a zoning change for a golf community, with Matt Chappell getting the contract to build the new homes. After that, life in town returned to its slow normal pace. Some Wednesday nights, Jerrod met up with Carrie for dinner on Main Street, to keep up with Itchy’s plans, but also to talk about whatever was on their minds. While he never cared for most of the people in Tooksberry High School, he found himself fascinated by the stories of the people who left town that Carrie was still in touch with. When he’d done all he could do with the Lakeview Estates documentary, he shifted attention to Noah’s. And when that slowed down, he contacted former residents of the trailer park for more stories and footage. His online marketing company was doing well enough that he considered petitioning for a zoning change of his own on the house he shared with Noah, making it an official place of business clients could visit, but he knew it wouldn’t pass the council’s vote.

Months became seasons—time seemed to expand and contract at once, making life a blur. Some days, Jerrod was amazed by how much he’d completed on projects, while other days passed by too fast, with no time to finish a thing. With each visit to Reverend Terry at the church, the progress around Mallard Lake Public Golf Course surprised him. Every time it seemed they were nearing completion, something new would spring up as he worked on his master timelapse.

Three months shy of the golf course’s completion, Carrie finally called the county and had her say.

* * *

The arrest of Itchy and his fellow conspirators was not the exciting thing Jarrod imagined. There were no FBI agents working in unison with the IRS, storming homes and taking them in against their will. Rather, there was a knock on the door and Itchy willingly going along with law enforcement. He was booked and released on bail to wait for a trial date. The only footage Jerrod shot was Itchy leaving Scotty’s guest house in handcuffs and placed into a cruiser.

The shame of being arrested and on the news didn’t deter Itchy and Scotty from acting like they’d done nothing wrong; in fact, when addressing the city council, they positioned themselves as victims in the whole affair, all for trying to better the town. Jerrod tried provoking the two at city council meetings, walking a fine line of accusations and not being escorted out by Officer McCollough. It wasn’t until Jerrod and Noah bumped into Itchy on Main Street that he pushed the mayor to the point of breaking.

“Itchy,” he said, “Got a sec? I’d love to get your side of this story. Nothing big: just about the upcoming trial and your divorce.”

“Fuck you! Get that camera out of my face, J.J.”

“We just want to hear your side of things. If there’s nothing to hide, it seems like you’d be more than happy to talk.”

Itchy ignored him and continued walking.

“I’d really love to show you all the footage I have. Especially your Wednesday night visits to the Church of the Longview Executive Inn and Suites.”

Itchy turned and charged. Noah restrained him before he got hold of Jerrod, who put his camera in the mayor’s face right as he said, “I’ll fuckin’ kill you, J.J.!”

Jerrod smiled and said, “I’m guessing that threatening a potential witness at your trial won’t sit too well with your bail bondsman or the court. But feel free to keep talking. Unlike you, I’ve got nothing but time.”

* * *

Jerrod and Noah helped Carrie pack what belongings she’d accumulated since the fire into a ten-foot U-Haul moving truck. It was a seven-hour drive south to Corpus Christi, where an old high school friend offered to help her through the final stages of the divorce by providing a place to stay and a job in her consignment shop, giving Carrie time to figure out the rest of her life.

Carrie climbed into the truck and rolled down the window. “Thanks so much, y’all.”

“For what?” Jerrod said.

“Doing the right thing. I don’t know how I could have done this all without you.”

“Well, thanks for always being nice to us when no one else was,” Jerrod said. “I know this isn’t how any of us wanted things to work out, but it’ll all be good. I really believe that.”

Carrie smiled. “I do, too.” She started the truck and said, “This isn’t goodbye for good. Y’all better stay in touch. And when that documentary’s done and it makes it into festivals, because it will—you damn well better invite me. I’ll be there.”

“Thanks,” Jerrod said. “Be careful heading down south.”

“I will.”

Jerrod raised his camera and filmed Carrie driving down the street. When she disappeared from view, he panned over and up, capturing what would become the final scene of his documentary: a shot of the Tooksberry water tower glowing in the fading spring light.

* * *

Epilogue

Mallard Lake Public Golf Course opened to local fanfare on a perfect day in May. Only two residents of the new Lakeview Estates development—Mayor Stevens and Scotty Walsh—knew it was once a trailer park.

Bradley “Itchy” Stevens, Scotty Walsh, Matt Chappell, and Kirby West were ordered to pay $200,000 to each former mobile home owner or lessee displaced by their scheme. In addition to the millions owed in restitution, each served a six-month prison term, followed by twelve months of home incarceration. In the end, all four still profited on their scheme.

Carrie Stevens assumed her maiden name—Carrie Galloway—and opened a snow-cone stand called Carrie’s Cones north of Isla Blanca Beach in Corpus Christi. She discovered she was far more suited for condo life on the Gulf than small-town life in East Texas.

Bonnie Kirkland not only made it on The Price is Right, but she won the Showcase Showdown. In her bedroom, she still watches the evening news on the TV her mother won when Bonnie was a kid.

Carlos Espinosa used his restitution funds to build a car that took third place in the Street Car Takeover at Texas Motorplex. He’s a long way from facing Sean Bellemeur or Doug Gordon in a big race, but he vows that one day, they will know his name.

The Flynn triplets turned out to be model prisoners. Marlon and Marcus served one and a half years before making parole, and Marshall will be out in plenty of time to catch up on life. Once a month, they make sure a dozen roses are placed on Ms. Rose’s grave.

 The documentary about Noah Cooper, combined with his strong work ethic and solid social media presence, brought some much-wanted attention his way. He said goodbye to the Pineywoods Wrestling Alliance after finally getting a break with Ring of Honor wrestling in Florida.

Jerrod’s timing in releasing the footage of Itchy and Kristin Martin’s hotel meeting to the media couldn’t have been more ideal. With the negative publicity, Itchy was finally toppled as mayor, and The Lakeview Estates documentary premiered at Sundance Film Festival. Jerrod invited Carrie as promised, but she couldn’t make it to a showing until it played at South by Southwest in Austin. Other festivals followed, until the January morning Jerrod watched the live stream of the 96th Oscar Nominations. He almost vomited when he was chosen as one of five documentaries in the Documentary Short Film category.

It may not have been the Academy Award for Best Picture he dreamed about as a teenager, but to this day he’s the only person to ever accept an Oscar in an Iron Maiden t-shirt.

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music was by Roy Edwin Williams, licensed through Epidemic Sound.

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music. Also, for as little as a dollar a month, you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund.

Next time, it’s not only the November anniversary episode, but the 50^th story episode of the show! So, what’s in store for the most NOT Not About Lumberjacks story of the year? How about this:

A lone lumberjack finds herself alone on the side of a mountain with whomever—or whatever—killed her fellow loggers.

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

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 in-depth look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and likely contains spoilers of the most recent story. You’ve been warned…

* * *

Before I had teenage dreams about becoming a wildlife biologist, a professional juggler, or joining the Peace Corps after high school, I wanted to be a novelist.

Fame didn’t matter to me as much as making a living doing this thing I knew I wanted to do, even though I was too young to wrap my head around how to get there. I just knew the writers I read about seemed to live neat lives in which they got to do something they loved—and that sounded like a great life to me.

* * *

My Peace Corps dream was shattered when I discovered you had to have a degree to join. College chemistry classes thwarted my dreams of studying bears or wolves in Canada or Alaska. And my dream of being a professional juggler dissipated when my juggling partner moved three hours south. So, when I was twenty years old, I made writing the thing within my control that I would do.

At the time, the path to publication was clear: even if you didn’t graduate college with a degree in English literature (I dropped out of school because I couldn’t afford it), there was still a way to publication through literary journals and then querying agents with novels. Once you had a pile of short stories in publications, you could point to them and say, “See? I’ve done my work!”

Oh, sure…you could also self-publish, but that was deemed—at the time—as something only reserved for those who didn’t have what it took to be a “real” author.

* * *

I did everything I was supposed to do: I submitted stories to literary journals and researched agents. I learned everything I could about the industry. And when the time came to submit my first novel…nothing happened.

I’d grabbed the attention of agents and publishers—even the alternate weekly papers I hit up as a last-ditch effort to see something happen with that first book. But in the end, it was rejected by everyone I showed it to.

* * *

In 2005, my good friend Larry told me about some fiction podcasts he’d been listening to. Escape Pod was the audio version of a sci-fi magazine, and Scott Sigler was recording his novels and serializing chapters each week.

“It’s the perfect time to record and release your first novel as a podcast,” Larry said. “Your writing is good and different, and nobody else releasing audio fiction does what you do. Hell, barely anybody’s releasing audio fiction at all!”

But I didn’t listen to Larry because…much like self-publishing your novels, it wasn’t “real” in my mind. It was admitting defeat.

So, instead, I wrote my first “serious” novel—sure that it would be the story to give my dedication to writing legitimacy.

* * *

You probably know what happened next without me telling you.

Yes, that novel was also met with a mix of praise and rejection. One agent told me he knew by the second chapter that he’d not represent it, but he still read the damn book because there was much he loved about it. He just thought it would be very difficult to sell.

Others felt the same way: it fascinated them, but it wasn’t their sure thing.

Another story I’d poured so much of myself into went nowhere. (That particular book is likely the most “me” novel I may ever write.)

I had two different ideas for my next novel, and I struggled to decide which to work on next.

I needed to do something new.

* * *

In October 2010, I finally listened to Larry. With no idea what I was doing, during a period of unemployment I knew would go through—at least—the holidays, I recorded and released my first novel, Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors as a podcast.

That feeling of not “making it” in a so-called proper manner disappeared when I heard from people I didn’t know, telling me about how much they loved that goofy little story. (Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors is a coming-of-age story about a family traveling cross-country in a possessed station wagon, and you can listen to it from the Not About Lumberjacks website.)

I didn’t care that it had not seen publication through any legitimate channels…it saw over 125,000 downloads! Even factoring in that each download was a chapter and that some people bounced, it was the equivalent of moving almost 6,000 books, which many people would have been happy to do in 2010.

I wished that I had listened to Larry five years sooner…and not waited another five years to begin Not About Lumberjacks.

* * *

At least 10 stories on nolumberjacks.com were written in an old writing group I used to attend. Two friends and I met every other week to review each other’s work, talk about writing, and challenge each other.

One night, a good friend who doesn’t write asked if he could listen in. It was breaking rules we set for ourselves when we formed the writing group, but we agreed.

That friend-in-attendance admired our dedication to craft and how we supported each other as writers. He was happy to see what we did behind closed doors every-other Wednesday night. Then, he said something I still tease him about to this day…something to the effect of:

“It’s inspiring to see you all work so hard at a dying art.”

“What?” one (or all) of us said.

“People aren’t reading as much as they used to,” our friend said. “Sales are down. I’m not saying writing is a lost cause, but there are fewer readers for what you write each year…”

Years later, I still tease my friend Steve about the “Death of literature” chat, but he wasn’t entirely wrong.

Fewer adults read for pleasure than they did in the past. By the time younger people graduate college, their reading-for-pleasure numbers drop and don’t seem to pick back up as they age. Those of us with hope spin the numbers in our favor (the rise of indie bookstores being a biggie), but so many people—including myself—don’t read as much as they used to.

Or…they consume stories in different ways.

* * *

What does all this have to do with the latest Not About Lumberjacks story, “Firing the Muse?” Warren Quinn is a writer during a time of change. The story takes place in 1957, the year the American News Corporation—the primary distributor of pulp fiction at the time—was liquidated. Other companies had already made the move to changing the kinds of stories they published.

The traditional route no longer worked.

Warren (and Butch) had to devise a different plan…

* * *

I’d be lying if I said I’m not-at-all bothered by never seeing a novel I’ve written on a shelf in a bookstore. I still have a dream of that one day happening, but it’s no longer a driving motivation in my life. But it’s also not a dream I’ve set aside.

The ways to traditional publication have changed, but it’s still a thing worth pursuing. I’ll let you in on a little secret: Not About Lumberjacks was formed, in part, as part of that plan.

* * *

When I started this show in 2015, I’d been doing another podcast with a friend for a couple years. I wanted to do something entirely on my own.

At a podcast festival it clicked: why not return to podcasting fiction? I’d been focusing on novels so much that I hadn’t written a short story in years! Beyond that, the show would serve as an online repository of my fiction—something I could point to when querying agents with novels…proof that I’m online and active—that I work hard and have at least a small following.

I’d love to say this show was 100% born out of a creative desire, but its existence was at least—in part—by design.

The point of the latest Not About Lumberjacks story is that things change.

* * *

I still tease my friend about the death of literature, but he saw something my two friends and I didn’t see: how much things were about to change.

Self-publishing is no longer the albatross it once was. I can wander out to the living room right now and watch Silo, based on Hugh Howey’s partially self-published series.

Salman Rushdie said if he were starting out today, that he’d try writing for television instead of novels.

While audio fiction podcasts have not risen to the heights of popularity as true-crime podcasts or talking meatheads spreading misinformation and pretending to be philosophical, they have the attention of fans and other media.

There are more ways than ever, today, to have your writing seen. That arguably makes it harder to support yourself writing fiction, because there are more writers than ever, but when I started writing, my only real option was print publication. Today, it’s possible that someone wanting to find their next thing stumbles upon nolumberjacks.com and sees something they want to develop.

* * *

I ended “Firing the Muse” with Warren and Butch taking a bold step into a future in which their approach to writing was different than what got them there. They adapted to changes, and I like to imagine they went on to greater success.

Every so often, I go through old boxes and see type-written stories from when I started writing. I see the rejection letters I saved, saying there was something editors liked about those stories, but that they were going to pass. All those pages tucked away to be seen only by me. All that effort for naught.

But every one of those stories eventually found a home…here. Some of the stories doomed to live in the darkness of that old box became personal faves of some Not About Lumberjacks listeners. Because of this show, all those rejected stories saw publication.

They don’t exist in a traditional sense, but I make more money in a year with this show than most people writing short stories for the same rates paid in the 80s…if they are paid at all. I no longer spend my time looking at reading periods and waiting months for rejections or acceptances. If I want a story to exist as something more than a file on a hard drive and backed up to the cloud, I simply record it and release it.

Not About Lumberjacks is far more real than my old dream of “making it” through so-called proper channels. That’s not to say I still don’t dream of one day seeing a novel I’ve written on a shelf in a bookstore, but it’s not my driving motivation. Even if I somehow became a known novelist, this show would still be my refuge…because here, I am free to be the writer I never knew I’d become.

I’m so glad I listened to Larry!

* * *

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.

Also, for as little as a dollar a month, you can have access to a bigger behind-the-scenes look at Not About Lumberjacks on Patreon. Check out patreon.com/cgronlund if that sounds like your kinda thing.

In September, the residents of a trailer park battle a developer and city to save their homes from being bulldozed to make way for a golf course.

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 light-hearted tale about a writer who trades in his long-time muse for another…to disastrous effect.

But first, the usual content advisory…

“Firing the Muse” deals with stresses and job loss around creative work. There’s casual alcohol consumption and smoking—and a very brief allusion to combat PTSD. Unless you consider “dammit” swearing, this is the sixth Not About Lumberjacks story with no language advisory. (I can already tell you there won’t be a seventh.)

To that point, the show is nearing its 50^th full story episode in November. I have big plans for the annual anniversary show, including a giveaway.

All right, let’s get to work!

Firing the Muse

1957

The blank page in Warren Quinn’s trusty Olympia typewriter was ready for words that didn’t come. Like all the days before, he rose before the sun, made a pot of coffee, and sat down to write. The room normally echoed with the clattering of keystrokes and bars striking the typewriter’s platen, leaving behind the words of pulp stories read by millions. It was honest work, but it had become a task Warren no longer enjoyed.

He smelled the cigar smoke before a fireplug of a man in a hard hat materialized at his side.

“Mornin’ kid. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Butch.”

The pop-eyed man squinted and said, “Don’t gimme that—you’re normally typing away by the time I clock in. I told ya: no such thing as writer’s block, so get yer ass in. Not gonna happen if you mope around all morning on your keister.”

“I’m not blocked. I’m just…”

“Just what?” Butch said.

“Tired. I’m tired.”

“It’s early—you’re supposed to be tired. There are tired iron workers watching the sun rise over Manhattan right now. Tired women opening cleaners in the dark canyons of our streets. Tired people all over the city who would love to be sitting in front of a typewriter instead of doing what they’re doing.”

“Thank you for the reminder that everyone has it worse than me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“I know. I’m not gonna let ya wallow.” Warren’s muse sat on the edge of his desk.

“I’m sorry I’m sometimes hard on you, but when you get paid by the word, you’re losing money when those fingers aren’t moving.”

“That’s the problem,” Warren said. “I’m tired of always rushing. And before you say it, I know, I know—I’m lucky to have this job. Sometimes, though, I want to write something requiring a bit more thought. The city’s full of authors writing novels, and I’m up in this little apartment telling stories that don’t matter.”

Butch blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling. “Don’t matter? Tell that to the guy who busted his balls ten hours in a factory for next to nothing—who sits down at the end of the day with a beer and reads something you wrote. That’s important to him. I’ve seen people on trains and buses reading your stories in magazines. Trust me, you don’t want to be one of those hoity-toity writers begging for attention because they don’t have what it takes. They only wish they had your chops!”

Warren sighed and said, “Things are changing, Butch. I’d be better off writing comic books.”

“Don’t talk like that, kid.”

“I’m not wrong. What happens when people move on from the kinds of things I write?”

“Ya deal with it then. But it’s no good worrying about tomorrow if it ruins today.”

* * *

1945

The War changed Warren. It didn’t traumatize him in the same way it did many of his brothers-in-arms he served with while beating back the Nazis. He came back home with a perspective on life he didn’t have going in. To return to the factory work he did before the war was accepting defeat. He made it through the hell of the European Theater—why not give his dream of writing a shot?

As a child, Warren spent more time with his nose in a book than playing in the streets with friends. His early attempts at writing stories impressed teachers enough that he saved his money selling newspapers and bought a leather-bound journal and a Waterman fountain pen. Each blank page was an invitation to pour out a piece of his imagination to be shared with others. He decided to become a writer on his 13^th birthday.

When he was fifteen, two books changed everything for him: John Steinbeck’s, The Grapes of Wrath and The Big Sleep, by Raymond Chandler. Until finishing The Grapes of Wrath, Warren believed “serious” fiction was a hardboiled tale in Nick Carter Detective Magazine. A choice was laid before him: go the way of Steinbeck or follow Chandler’s path? He emulated both, until—eventually—the War had the final say. Warren’s gift to himself for surviving? An Olympia typewriter and six months’ rent on an apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. Unfortunately, the words did not come as easily as he hoped. One night in a fit of frustration, he pulled at his hair and said, “I can’t go back. I deserve this one little thing, dammit.”

Warren screamed when Butch appeared in a puff of cigar smoke at his side. Warren grabbed his pen and wielded it like a knife.

“You can stab me all you want, but it ain’t gonna do nothing,” the squat man in the hard hat said.

“Who are you? How did you get in here?”

“I’m Butch. I’m your muse.”

“What?”

“Be happy—not all writers get one.”

Warren slapped his face, and Butch said, “I’m real, kid.”

“I thought muses were beautiful women?”

“There’s a lot ya don’t know.”

“Then why don’t you tell me?”

Butch explained that anytime Warren needed help, all he had to do was call on him. He told Warren to think of him more as a partner than a boss. The words would belong to Warren; Butch would be his motivation.

“And what if I don’t like this?” Warren said.

“Then you can trade me. You only get to do that once, but we’re sure I’m the right muse for you.”

“Who’s ‘we?’”

“Gods? I don’t know, I’ve never seen them. One day I’m sitting in my place, and then FOOM, I’m in your apartment. I’m not even sure how it all works. But I can tell ya right now, you’re not gonna want to get rid of me, ‘cause we’re gonna get things done.”

And they did…

* * *

1957

Writing had lost its thrill. Where once, gritty detective stories and sensational tales of adventure stirred something inside Warren, the thought of sitting at his desk and going through the motions left him drained. Butch teased him when he moved out of Hell’s Kitchen and into Greenwich Village in the hope of reigniting his love for writing. With fewer places to publish Warren’s stories, he figured it was a way to double back on his earlier life decision and see what might have happened had he pursued Steinbeck’s way instead. To be less like Dent, Howard, and Hammett and more like Salinger, Ellison, and Cheever.

During a rough time when no publisher seemed interested in buying Warren’s short stories, he asked Butch what he thought about working on a novel.

“Why would you spend all that time on a chance, when you can write a pile of stories that make you money?”

“I’m not selling much, lately.”

“Dry spells happen. You’re a smart cookie and saved yer clams for hard times like I taught you. Give it a bit more time…”

* * *

On a particularly frustrating day when words and sales seemed lost for good, Warren called on Butch.

POOF!

“What’s up, kid?”

“I get one trade, right?”

“Huh?”

“In the beginning—the day you arrived. You said I can trade for another muse.”

Butch shook his head. “Don’t do this, kid. Not for my sake—for yours.”

“This is for my sake. My savings are dwindling. I don’t want to lose this place.”

“You were the one who wanted to move into fancier digs. You’d have a lot more money had you listened to me and stayed in the Kitchen.”

“Listening to you got me where I am right now.”

The burly muse narrowed his eyes and pointed a stubby finger at Warren “You’re not pinning this on me, kid. You were the one who chose what you thought was the easier route to making it as a writer. You were the one who looked at all your starts and stops and decided to write entertaining short stories and not risk it all on the challenge of a serious novel. I was assigned only because I was the best fit for what you wanted.”

Warren said, “Sometimes what we want in life changes.”

Butch threw up his hands. “All right, fine. I wish you’d reconsider, but rules is rules. I hope you find what you’re looking for, kid.”

With that, Butch disappeared. Eventually, even the lingering cloud of cigar smoke was gone.

* * *

The day after parting ways with Butch, Warren sat before his typewriter, waiting. In the back of his mind—and in his old journal—he’d pieced together a story about a writer struggling to make it in the city. Butch had told him the worst thing a writer can do is write about writers.

“People would rather read a book about a rusting fence than that!”

Warren finished his pot of coffee and went for a walk in the neighborhood to clear his head. When he returned home, words still didn’t come. He called out.

“Hello? Anybody here?”

Nothing.

“I’m supposed to have a new muse. Hello?”

Out of desperation, he was about to call for Butch when a lithe figure in a bathrobe materialized at the side of his desk.

“Are you my new muse?” Warren said.

The man rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands and smacked his lips. “What time is it?”

Warren pointed to his watch. “Almost eleven. I’ve been up for hours.”

“We need to get you on a different schedule if this is going to work.”

Warren extended his hand. “I’m Warren.”

“And I am…aware of that.”

“I need a little help. Just to get started.”

Warren’s new muse yawned and said, “Give me a bit of time to get some coffee and wake up…”

* * *

Warren’s new muse finally returned around two-o’-clock. He told Warren his name was Cristano and that he only had an hour to help.

“Nabokov’s muse is in town, and some of us are meeting up for drinks.”

“You know Vladimir Nabokov?” Warren said.

“No, I didn’t say that.”

“But you know his muse?”

“I didn’t say that, either.”

Warren surveyed his new writing partner. Cristano was indistinguishable from the aspiring Beat writers Warren bumped into on the streets. Counter-culture by design, they were people who tried too hard being different, all in an effort to fit in.

“So, who do you know?” Warren said.

“It’s not about who you know, man. It’s about the scene.”

* * *

Cristano frequently went missing for days. At first, Warren wondered if it was part of his approach, to force him to find his own words and sense of pride. But when Cristano did appear, he offered no help or advice.

“Are you really a muse?” Warren said one afternoon.

“Did I not just appear before you from nothing?” Cristano said.

“I didn’t ask if you were magical—I asked if you’re a muse. Have you ever helped a writer actually finish anything?”

“I don’t have to tolerate this.”

POOF!

He was gone…

* * *

Two months into his floundering attempt at a novel, Warren spent the morning reading what little he’d finished. He could hear Butch: “Never read what you’re writing until you’re finished with a draft! Stop looking for an excuse to not write! Put yer backside in that chair and get typing!”

Looking at what he’d written, maybe Butch was right—maybe a writer writing about writers really was about as exciting as watching rust form. While fewer places were publishing what got him to where he was, with Butch’s guidance, he’d have at least written a small pile of stories and not seen his savings dry up.

He thought about spending the day writing a detective story—even thought about calling out for Butch and apologizing. Instead, he went looking for Cristano.

* * *

While Warren moved to Greenwich Village in the hope of becoming a more serious writer, his writing schedule and Butch ensured he rarely got out. His former muse was like a protective father when it came to the neighborhood.

“I’m not saying don’t go to any bars bars, kid, but they’re not gonna do ya any good.”

“I’ve never had a problem with drinking,” Warren said.

“I’m not saying you do—this has nothing to do with booze. It has everything to do with not needing those kinds of writers in your life.”

* * *

Warren had passed the White Horse Tavern many times, but never stopped in. He figured, if he was going to find Cristano anywhere, it was a good place to start.

Warren expected a more refined space—not an everyday establishment with a dozen stools at the bar and half a dozen tables packed into a small area and a tiny side room with a few more places to sit and talk. It lacked the regal standing of The Chelsea Hotel or the Algonquin Round Table, and perhaps that was its charm. A bar once claimed by longshoremen, now overrun by writers and artists.

Warren approached a table and said, “Excuse me, I’m looking for someone named Cristano. Do you know him?”

The resulting sneers told him that, even if they did, it was best to move on. Other tables yielded more side-looks or “No”s. Warren was about to give up when a man in the back of the side room waved him over.

He tried a bit too hard to fit in: an open flannel with perfectly rolled sleeves over a white t-shirt. Jeans and boots that looked like they’d never seen travel or a day of hard work.

“Heard you asking about Cristano Leventis,” he said.

“I don’t know his last name…”

“Tall, thin blond guy with a face that looks like a classical sculpture? Bit of curl in his hair and piercing eyes? Arrogant as hell?”

“That sounds like him.”

“You’re a writer then?”

“Yes, how do you know?”

He pushed a chair out with his foot. “Take a load off…”

* * *

The man in the flannel took a sip of whiskey and lit a cigarette before reaching across the table.

“Name’s Paul.”

Warren shook his hand and told him his name.

“So,” Paul said. “You’re Cristano’s new writer?”

Warren nodded. “I take it you’re Cristano’s old writer?”

“I’ve not put anything in my belly today but whiskey—so, yep! Lemme guess, you’ve not seen him for days. When you do, he always has an excuse about why he can’t help out. And you’re left sitting there—not writing a word—wondering what you did to deserve him?”

“Yes.”

“Trade him.”

“Huh?”

“Trade him for another muse.”

Warren said, “I already did a trade. He was the replacement.”

“Oh. What were you writing before?”

“Detective and adventure stories for magazines. I wanted to write something more serious.”

Paul laughed and said, “I suppose it could be worse. I was writing plays, but wanted to become a novelist because I imagined more fame. Now, look at me. You have two choices as I see it: deal with Cristano and all his baggage…or fire him.”

“You can do that?”

“The whole thing’s weird, man. You can trade them once. After that, you’re stuck with them or have to quit.”

Warren looked around the room, wondering how many others in the space had suffered the same fate. After considering Paul’s words, he said, “Have you heard about anyone rehiring their old muse?”

“Nope. I mentioned that to Cristano before I canned him. He said once a muse is reassigned, that’s that. Your old muse is probably sitting with another writer right now, working away. You’re better off getting a regular job than suffering with Cristano the rest of your life.”

* * *

Warren grew determined to make his collaborative alliance with Cristano prosper. He ignored all slights in the month that followed, giving the muse’s never-ending parade of excuses the benefit of the doubt.

Each time, Cristano got worse.

 A month later, during a particularly flippant visit from Cristano, Warren finally lost his temper.

“Do you even know how to write?! You’ve given me nothing the whole time I’ve known you.”

“How dare you!” Cristano said. “Of course I know how to write.”

“Good. Then help me!”

“Not if you’re going to be like this!”

Cristano disappeared in a sudden POOF!

Warren brought a fist down on the top of his desk, causing his pen to roll off his old journal. He picked it up and looked at the nib.

When he finally calmed down, he devised a plan…

* * *

Warren spent the following three afternoons at his desk, pen in hand over his journal, waiting. When Cristano finally appeared at his side, Warren scribbled in the book.

“What are you writing?” Cristano said.

“A story. Without you.”

“You’re not supposed to do that,” the muse said.

“I wouldn’t if you did your job.”

Cristano tried peeking at the page, but Warren blocked the view with his shoulder.

“Is it a detective story? Like you used to write?”

“No, it’s a serious story,” Warren said. “The kind you’re supposed to help me write.”

“Let me see.”

“No.”

“I’m your muse. I demand to see.”

Warren sighed and said, “Okay…”

He moved his shoulder, giving Cristano a view of the page. When the muse bent over for a closer look, Warren drove his Waterman pen into Cristano’s neck.

Cristano took a step back and raised to his full height. His mouth formed a surprised O. Half the pen was lodged deep in his throat. It rocked up and down as he swallowed.

He met Warren’s eyes and tilted his head. Then, he reached up, calmly extracted the pen, and handed it back to Warren.

“What the hell was that?” Cristano said.

“Uhm…”

“Uhm, what? Did you think that would work?”

“I figured it was worth a shot.”

“And if it did work,” Cristano said. “What then?”

“I’ve written piles of detective stories. I had a few plans to get rid of you based on what happened.”

“What?!”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d disappear or die like a human. Or something else.”

“You actually believed you could kill me?  Why would you do such a thing?”

“You’re never around. We’re getting nothing done.”

Cristano shook his head. “It may look like I’m doing nothing, but I’m meeting people. That’s how it’s done. You hole up in this room all day and night thinking what you write matters? If you want to be a known writer, you have to be known for more than just your writing.”

“That’s what writers who don’t know how to write do,” Warren said. “I asked you before: do you even know how to write? And don’t disappear this time!”

“Of course I know how to write. I’m a muse, aren’t I?”

“Tell me something you’ve written.”

“You wouldn’t know it.”

“Try me!”

“This is ridiculous. I don’t have to stand for this.”

“Neither do I,” Warren said. “You’re fired.”

“What?!”

“I don’t know if there’s any special thing we have to do, but I’m done with you.”

“You can’t do this.”

“Why not?” Warren said.

“If you get rid of me, you’ll never write again.”

“That’s preferable to dealing with you.”

Cristano’s temperament changed. “Please reconsider. Please?”

“No! Why would I?”

“To help me. They said this was my last assignment.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” Warren said.

“Gods? I don’t know, I’ve never seen them.”

“What will they do to you?”

“I don’t know—make me work?”

Warren considered stabbing Cristano in the throat again, knowing it would do no harm, but feel so good. Instead, he said, “What a horrible thing to do to you—make you work.”

“You agree?”

“No! Of course I don’t agree.” He thought about what Butch would do, and said, “The effort you put into not working is greater than most people put into work. Get out of here.”

“Please!”

“I said leave.” Warren poked Cristano in the forehead, and he disappeared for the final time.

* * *

Warren thought about work often in the month that followed the firing of Cristano. After the War, he’d moved on from factory work by working harder than ever at writing. Now, he’d returned to where he started: back in Hell’s Kitchen, toiling through his days for a loud boss on a factory floor. He consoled himself by thinking how the time for writers like him was nearing an end. Publishing was changing, and he was destined to be left behind, despite his best efforts. He’d at least done more than most who set out to make a living with words, and had a shelf in his tiny apartment to always remember those days.

Another month of trying to convince himself he was okay with how things turned out wasn’t working. He thought about ways to get close to publishing again, even if it was working for a print house instead of writing the words to be printed. Maybe a maintenance job in a publishing house, where he could talk with an editor and let them know he was more than just a person to call on when light bulbs needed changing. He even considered becoming a merchant marine, just to get away from it all and later write about his travels.

One payday, too tired to go home and cook, Warren treated himself to dinner at his favorite neighborhood diner. As he waited for his pork chops, he smelled cigar smoke and heard a familiar voice.

“Well, who do we have, here?”

The squat man set his hard hat on the table and slid into the booth across from Warren.

“Butch!”

“The one and only. Howya doin’, kid?”

“Not so good.”

“What’s up?”

“I should have listened to you,” Warren said.

“Things didn’t work out, huh?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For trading you.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Butch said. “You did what you thought you had to do, and I’m proud of your moxie.”

“That does me no good, now. They assigned me a new muse who did nothing. I fired him.”

“You did?”

“Yes. He was never around. I don’t know if he even knew how to write.”

“Maybe. We have some charmers among our lot.”

“I tried killing him, Butch.”

“You what?!”

“I stabbed him in the neck with my pen—”

Butch howled with laughter. When he finally dried his eyes, he said, “Oh, kid…you’re the best!”

“Thanks,” Warren looked around the diner.

Butch said, “If you’re wondering if they’re looking at me for laughing, they aren’t. You look like a crazy guy in a booth talking to himself as far as they’re concerned.”

Warren lowered his head and voice. “It’s good seeing you again.”

“Good seeing you.”

“So, what’s your new writer like?” Warren said.

“Huh?”

“Your new writer.”

“Oh! I didn’t take a new assignment.”

“You quit?”

“No! Why would I do that? I finally took a vacation. Been ages. Literally.”

“Where’d you go?”

“We have an island in Greece all to ourselves. Gave me plenty of time to think.”

“About what?” Warren said.

“You.”

“What about me?”

“I figured things might not work out for you and my replacement, so I didn’t take on a new writer. Guys like me aren’t in great demand these days, so it’s not like nobody was beating down my door.”

“What does that mean for me?”

“It means I’m gonna ride your ass harder than ever for thinking you could trade me away, but I’m not gonna hold a grudge.”

“You’re my muse again?”

“Kid, I never left—you did. You needed to figure some things out. We both needed time to think. But yeah, we’re a team again. And you’re right: things are changing. I should have listened to you more instead of being so stubborn. I’m sorry I didn’t see that.”

“It’s okay,” Warren said. “I think we were both too set in our ways.”

Butch knocked on his head and said, “So hardheaded, I really don’t need that hat!”

People at nearby tables watched Warren laugh to himself. When he stopped, he said, “I’ve been thinking about where things might go. I’ve been thinking about writing spy novels.”

“That’s a good idea,” Butch said. “But is it what you really want?”

“No,” Warren said, “but there are worse ways to spend a day.”

“True. But I think I figured out a way for us to both be happy,” Butch said. “I think there’s a damn good market coming for your ‘serious’ stories…but not stories like all the others everyone’s writing, now. Serious stories about people like us. Everyman stories.

“Instead of stories that let people escape into lives they can only dream about, or writing about rich people and their problems, why not show people they aren’t forgotten? I think the future’s gonna become busier than we can imagine, and stories are gonna become more important than ever. I think that’s our new place. Sound good?”

“Sounds great!” Warren said.

“Good…good. All right, I’m gonna let ya eat your dinner in peace and enjoy the weekend. ‘Cause Monday morning when the sun comes up, I want to see your keister in that chair ready to work harder than ever. We got a whole new world ahead of us, kid…”

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music was by Jackie Martin, licensed through Epidemic Sound.

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music. Also, for as little as a dollar a month, you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund.

Next time, the residents of a trailer park battle a developer and city to save their homes from being bulldozed to make way for a golf course.

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

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