[Listen]

[An ax chopping wood; THEME MUSIC plays…]

[Host: Christopher Gronlund]

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

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

This time, I’m recording on the anniversary date of the day I came up with the show. In honor of that, for real, it’s the post-apocalyptic office story.

All right–let’s get to work…

* * *

[Narrator: Christopher Gronlund]

ALONE IN HQ

Employee #312566 walks through the wild buffalograss covering the Globotek lobby. High above him, dusty banners a full story tall hang from the ceiling:

GLOBOTEK: SHIFTING YOUR PARADIGM

GLOBOTEK: TOMORROW…TODAY!

GLOBOTEK: GLOBAL TECHNOLOGY

And his favorite of all:

GLOBOTEK: ONE IN ALL, INDIVISIBLE FOREVER

On the walls, oversized monitors that once welcomed visiting clients and informed employees of upcoming company town hall meetings have long gone dark. An array of clocks showing times in Globotek offices around the world stopped working a dozen years ago. The Zen waterfall fountain near the wall of windows is so dry that it no longer supports the algae once growing on it. Were it not for Employee #312566 filling the fountain’s basin with water from a nearby creek, the frogs and turtles calling it home would be dried up as well, or at least left to fend for themselves outside in the elements. A deer near the security desk raises its head at #312566’s approach and runs down the hall toward the cafeteria. As it passes, birds scatter from exposed ductwork in the ceiling and fly outside through broken windows.

It used to not be like this…

#

To know Employee #312566, one only needed to look at his annual performance reviews. Every year, he was the one his manager deemed as exceeding expectations. He was the one who could be counted on to work during weekends and holidays, while others slacked off and dared have lives outside of work. Working overtime was a fair tradeoff for health care and other benefits that seemed to dwindle a bit more each year. But that didn’t matter when Employee #312566’s 401K grew, and the value of his small house increased over time. He’d seen the United States and some other parts of the world on the company’s dime, even though it was mostly airport to job site to hotel to restaurant and back to hotel—that routine, repeated all week, until flying home on Friday with a bit of time to rest before getting back to work on Saturday.

It never bothered Employee #312566 that management told their subordinates to tighten the purse strings, while they took meetings in other countries, just to keep platinum travel statuses. When meets- and fails-to-meet-expectations coworkers said it was crooked, he argued their leaders worked hard and deserved it. Give to the corporation, and it would provide in turn. If they needed him to sweep streets around headquarters, he would have gladly done so.

And then one day, everything changed…

#

It took nineteen years for the technological collapse promised by many at the stroke of midnight in the year 2000 to become real. With the push of a big button, two childish world leaders started a war, which led to other countries jumping in so they wouldn’t feel left out. New weapons were revealed—power grids went down and never came back. Doomsday preppers finally had the “I told you so!” moment they’d built lives around. Everything crashed. Finally, all those people who swore they’d get off Facebook in the new year actually did…just not by choice.

And through it all, out of some sick habit, many returned to work, like zombies returning to the places they once knew when they were alive. Only now, instead of zombies, it was middle managers who had no idea what to do with themselves once connectivity and work went away. The old ones were long terminated in a bid to save on salaries and not fulfill pension payments. No one was left who remembered the times before email, when things were managed on paper. So they returned to their desks and clicked and clacked on keyboards, hoping dark screens would light up bright again and return to them a reason to exist.

When the world stayed dark, tempers flared, and many went mad. Employee #312566 heard the CEO of Globotek used a cow femur to smash the head of the CTO he blamed for all the company’s stumblings at the close of Q4, shortly before the power grid went out. Gone were the days of quick hallway meetings with promises to catch up over drinks when projects were done; gone was the social hierarchy based upon which floor one worked on. Gone was email—sweet email—answered from bed on smart phones late into the night.

The last thing Employee #312566 did with his smart phone was throwing it at a rabbit he ate for dinner one night. It was the first thing he ever killed, and he cried as he cooked it whole, the smell of burning fur filling the grill top where he piled sticks to build a fire in the cafeteria. The stench permeated the entire first floor, so he spent the night up top, in the CEO’s office, looking out over the dark town. The only lights in the distance came from dim campfires in custom fire pits that let him know people were still out there, small bands of people that had taken up residency in easier-to-defend McMansions rising above the trees. Employee #312566 initially wondered if taking up residency in Globotek headquarters was wise. It stood to reason, he thought, that others would come back, or worse—attack—but the building was haunted by something far worse than ghosts: the memories of what used to be.

#

In the beginning, the solitude was overwhelming. Employee #312566 considered joining others on the outskirts, if only to hear cherished words uttered by collective voices: synergistic, bandwidth, and his tingle-inducing favorite: impactfulness. But there’s a certain sadness in people left unmoored without a greater sense of purpose. Would seeing the influencers and thought leaders he once respected tending to their own waste and other lowly tasks steal from his mind the golden image of them that he’d built up inside? Would seeing them out of their element, lost like children unable to survive on their own, make him wonder if they were ever great leaders at all? It was better to go on alone, he thought, honoring those he once revered by keeping their tenuous authority alive in fabricated memories.

To be in such a large, empty space, though, left him feeling panicked at the start. Hearing eight floors of office space settle in the quiet of night stirred Employee #3126566’s imagination. Was that the sound of footsteps coming from the main stairwell by the security desk, or simply the knocking of a pipe no longer in use? A face looking in through the window in the dark, or his own visage reflected back against the glass?

Fear could not be allowed to prevail—Employee #312566 was determined to be the building’s keeper. Remembering a passage from a book he liked when he was younger, he wrote it down and carried it in his pocket, a tactile reminder to “Fear nothing of the forest. There is no danger in solitude.” That thought eventually came with a sense of peace and purpose. Soon he established a new routine based on days long gone.

Besides, he was never truly alone—there were others out there, some maybe even working to bring back all that was lost. He’d do his thing while they did theirs. In a strange way, it was why he liked working in HQ: it was possible to feel completely alone among eight-thousand people lost in their own tiny orbits.

As long as there are campfires on the horizon at night, there is hope.

#

Employee #312566 pauses at the security desk and says “Good morning, Steve!” even though he’s alone in HQ. It’s important to him to keep up the old routine: coming in just a bit before seven in the morning, saying hello to Steve at the security desk, and then getting to work. When Globotek was a thriving, humming thing, most employees passing the front desk were already too busy answering email on their phones, or thought they were better than Steve and his lowly job that they never acknowledged his existence. But Employee #312566 always said “Good morning, Steve,” at the beginning of his workday (and, “Have a good evening, Sharon,” at its end). He was a people person, after all.

Today he walks down the main hallway from the lobby—paved with cobblestones that once echoed the sounds of catering carts servicing lunchtime meetings—and eventually stops at the old Starbucks counter near the cafeteria. He drags a chair over to the chalkboard menu above the counter and erases the previous day’s inspirational quote:

“Don’t count the days. Make the days count.”
– Muhammed Ali

With a piece of blue chalk, he writes a new message in one of the many stylish scripts he’s practiced since things went dark:

“The secret of your success is determined by your daily agenda.”
– John C. Maxwell

Employee #312566’s workday begins on another chalkboard next to Starbucks that he pulled out of a conference room. A white board would be preferable, but most of the dry-erase markers in the building were already drying out when the lights were on and the building was full—now, their color is gone and their tips are like stone. On the chalkboard is a painstaking recreation of an Excel spreadsheet drawn by Employee #312566 to remind himself of better times.

He misses the sanctuary of Microsoft Excel. Life should be like that, he thinks: plug a part of it into a cell and let a formula make everything secure. Be the person who creates the formula that makes everything work, and achieve demigod status among your peers in a manner not even reserved for the person who can make Microsoft Word stop auto-formatting text.

In Employee #312566’s chalkboard spreadsheet, nothing entered in cells populates to other places, but there’s always that millisecond when he writes something down and expects  magic to occur before his eyes. He craves the days of mapped processes and tools that [mostly] worked. Today, the chalkboard is little more than a way to present a to-do list in a comfortable format: perfect rows and columns waiting for information to give them meaning in much the same way they once gave meaning to so many lives.

#

A Typical Day in The Life of Employee #312566:

At 5:30 a.m., he is awakened by an internal clock that’s yet to fail him in his forty-three years. Rising from several stacked yoga mats serving as his bed in the corporate gym, he heads to the locker room to relieve himself in one of the few gravity-fed toilets in the building. A water collection system pulling from a spring-fed creek keeps him not only alive, but affords him several creature comforts. When his morning workout is complete and logged, a make-shift shower bag washes away sweat and any remnants of the day before.

Breakfast is usually the Prairie Salad from the cafeteria, a mixture of nearby edible plants and pecans Employee #312566 mixes up in the evenings. When the Great Outage occurred and most people raided grocery stores for a temporary sustenance fix, Employee #312566 raided the library near GloboTek headquarters for a crash course in bushcraft and urban survival tactics. He will never run out of the fresh greens, nuts, mushrooms, and small animals that keep him alive. He tells himself that one day soon, he’ll begin making artisanal sourdough bread instead of basic hardtack, but even during the apocalypse there are well-intended tasks left undone in the rush of daily demands. Or maybe it’s just the way most human beings are wired, giving up bigger dreams for smaller tasks and the quick dopamine hit that comes with them.

After breakfast, Employee #312566 packs his computer bag and heads to work. He picks up trash on his commute from the back of HQ to the front. Over a full decade after the Great Disconnect, and plastic bags and the lids of fast food drinks are still deposited against the side of the building by the wind. He misses his old commute, with time to think about the work waiting for him each day, or queuing up podcasts when he knew traffic would be particularly heavy. 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? 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.

Entering the lobby, Employee #312566 looks up at the banners hanging from the ceiling. He whispers, “One in all. Indivisible forever,” with a sense of pride and then checks on the frogs and turtles in the old fountain. While it’s dawned on him that in the fountain, he has a replenishing food source without the danger of forays into the woods, there’s something comforting about keeping other creatures alive in HQ. Besides, the croaking of the fountain frogs has become its own kind of white noise at night, something dependable to drown out the echoing creaks of such a large building.

Old habits mustn’t fade—Employee #312566 says, “Good morning, Steve,” as he passes the empty security desk on his way to the Starbucks counter to change the inspirational quote of the day on his chalkboard. Never one to establish a coffee habit of his own (after all, the excitement of work should be all one needs to fuel their morning), he misses the smell of the drink—to the point that early on, Employee #312566 brewed a pot each day for effect. Even now, long after running through the coffee stocks on all floors, he is still surprised headquarters wasn’t raided for coffee over other supplies. How many people died in the months and years after the Great Disconnect fighting over the cherished bean, he’s wondered? Somewhere, someone must have been bludgeoned to death by a stout coffee mug reading, “I AM NOT A MORNING PERSON.”

The rest of the morning is spent of the third floor, in his cubicle, where he types away on a long-dead laptop. The sound of typing is soothing. The memory of hot-key commands in proprietary software must never be forgotten. There are reports to read and papers to organize. (When they are all in order, it is not uncommon for Employee #312566 to throw an entire filing box worth of papers from the atrium to the lobby floor, only to retrieve them and sort them all over again.)

In empty conference rooms, there are imaginary meetings in which he plays all the roles. Even though the phones haven’t worked for twelve years, before meetings start, he repeatedly says, “Can everybody mute their lines, please? I’m getting a lot of noise on the call.” It always bothered him to hear typing during meetings—people clearly not one hundred percent devoted to listening to what leaders better than them had to say. He remembers when it wasn’t uncommon to hear someone’s dog barking in the background, another reason he believed everyone should be in headquarters and not allowed to work from home. Once, an at-home employee didn’t know her phone wasn’t muted, and the entire business unit heard her child approach and say, “Mommy, I make poopie…”

At lunch, he eats a handful of squirrel pemmican and hardtack at his desk, a reminder of busier days when there was no time to disconnect for even thirty minutes, let alone an hour. Coworkers taking hour-long lunch breaks clearly weren’t serious about their work, laughing and carrying on with others in the cafeteria—or worse, leaving headquarter grounds for nearby restaurants to “get away for a bit.” Nothing said, “I’m dedicated to my work!” like eating microwaved tuna at one’s desk, a malodorous message that you, unlike all those slackers rushing off to restaurants, believe in the work you do enough to do it even through your lunch hour. At least now, the sound of those never taught to chew with their mouths closed, smacking like feral animals at a carcass on a nature show, is a distant memory.

The rest of Employee #312566’s afternoon is spent in heads-down mode at his desk, clacking away at his keyboard, organizing papers, and writing reports no one will ever read. It’s as if he downloaded the contents of his laptop into his mind, and these daily exercises are a way to be prepared better than anyone else should things ever come back. He can see his computer desktop and the way his personal drives and network drives were all laid out. With a thought, he can track any file he ever worked on, watching folders cascade as memories he refuses to let go. So, when he pretends the director of his business unit stops by his desk and says, “I need the monthly TSR report as soon as you can generate it,” he grabs piles of paper and recreates them by hand, from memory. At the end of his workday, he heads downstairs, being sure to say, “Have a good evening, Sharon,” as he passes the security desk on his way out. But his daily work is not done; in fact, now the work of survival begins.

On his way to the back doors of HQ, Employee #312566 checks his snare traps for squirrels, rabbits, and anything else unfortunate enough to have taken the bait. He’ll never get completely used to dispatching and preparing food, but it no longer bothers him like it once did. Most evenings, he prepares dinner in a makeshift grill beneath an overhang out back. After that, it’s tending to food stores, collecting water, and cleaning waste. Never a complete germaphobe, he was still a big fan of hand sanitizer and doing all he could to never get sick. Today, cleanliness is his god.

Nights are still the hardest. Before the Great Disconnect, the urge to fill time alone with deeper thoughts or regrets could always be drowned out by booting up a laptop and working some more, or answering email on his phone while paying half-attention to a Netflix binge going on in the background. Now, he turns to books, like the times before work became an around-the-clock thing and people read more. To keep his mind busy, he’s trying to remember the smallest book in his collection, so he can recite its entirety verbatim all the way through. It’s a story about a street sweeper who brings light to the masses and ends up chastised for thinking outside the box. He sees himself in the character, a curious individual with good ideas that were often shoved down by authority. He can recite the book up to the last chapter. Tonight, he has a simple goal: remember to opening lines of Part Twelve.

He mutters: “It was when I read the first of the books I found in my house that I saw the word “I.” And when I understood this word, the book fell from my hands, and I wept, I who had never known tears. I wept in deliverance and in pity for all mankind.” Over and over he repeats the lines like a mantra, until falling into the darkness of sleep to the sound of frogs and crickets.

And so it goes, until one day…

#

Employee #312566 is startled awake when the building creaks like a waking god. Lights flicker and printers groan. Air rushes through the building as the old god takes its first breath in more than a decade. The smell of the HVAC system is atrocious: stagnant mildew and the scent of animals in various states of decay in the ducts. The long hallway leading to the lobby looks like the set of an old horror movie, with dark sections of dead light illuminated by flickering fluorescents and the red glow of EXIT signs.

Employee #312566 rummages through his gear on the far side of the gym. His eyes widen as old habits never fully gone return. He plugs his laptop into the outlet; lifting the screen and pressing the ON button brings his system to life. It’s like a vital organ returning to his body, making everything right once more.

His heart races as the sound of Windows 7 booting up fills the gym. The reflex is still there: before Employee #312566 can think, he’s types his password and presses ENTER. His breathing becomes audible as he clicks the Outlook icon in his system tray. The program comes to life. He begins the Reawakening at Inbox Zero.

#

Two days later, Employee #312566 hears it in the distance—once, such a common thing now just a memory. He cannot tell how close it is as he charges through the buffalograss on his way out of the Globotek lobby. He fears he’s too late as he rushes up a nearby hill for a better look, but the old sounds always did have a way of silencing the natural world, burying the beauty beneath its din. He waits for several minutes, the distant hum growing louder, until its source finally comes into view. A glint of sunlight on the windshield, and then the Doppler effect of the first car to pass by on the highway in twelve years. He waits for others, but no more pass by. Still, if there is one, more are out there. It’s now just a matter of time.

When Employee #312566 returns to HQ, he’s overcome with shame. Soon, others will arrive…only to see the lobby overrun by grass and frogs. Carpets near broken windows reek of mildew…a cafeteria sure to fail a health department inspection.

That night, he climbs the stairs to the eighth floor and sits at the CEO’s desk. Campfires in the distance have given way to a smattering of electric lights as McMansions glow once again. He catches movement on the highway: headlights! Even eight stories up and ensconced in the CEO’s glass lookout, it is the loudest sound in his world.

What will it be like when they all return?

Employee #312566 leans back in the big, leather office chair and closes his eyes, imagining being the one in charge. His heart races when the building shifts and is sounds like somebody entered the office. He opens his eyes, almost expecting to see the CEO standing in the dark, wielding a cow femur, ready to commit his last barbaric act before The Great Reconnect.

“We mustn’t think like that,” he mutters.

He makes his way downstairs in the dark. No need to light up HQ until it’s in proper shape. So much work ahead of him, but not much time. Anxiety settles in and…it feels good. Something needs to be done in a hurry, just like the days used to be when managers commanded the lives of thousands of underlings, giving their lives a sense of meaning and purpose, measured in stress.

Employee #312566 looks down the long hallway toward the gym. He decides he will not sleep there tonight. He considers working through ‘til morning, but the day’s excitement has given him much to think about. Soon, there will be no time to think; soon the race of days will return, and everything will somehow get done in the chaos of it all. Maybe not done well, but that’s what the marketing department is for.

He climbs the winding lobby stairs against three stories of windows. It’s like climbing into the sky. At the top, on the landing overlooking the lobby, he’s face-to-face with the GLOBOTEK: ONE IN ALL, INDIVISIBLE FOREVER banner. It shines so brightly in the moonlight, he would not be surprised if it gave off heat.

He sits down above it all, and recites the final chapter to the book he’s worked so hard to recite from memory:

It was when I read the first of the books I found in my house that I saw the word “I.” …

Now I look ahead. My future is clear before me. The Saint of the pyre had seen the future when he chose me as his heir, as the heir of all the saints and all the martyrs who came before him and who died for the same cause, for the same word, no matter what name they gave to their cause and their truth…

These are the last things before me. And as I stand here at the door of glory, I look behind me for the last time…

When men accepted that worship, the structure of centuries collapsed about them, the structure whose every beam had come from the thought of some one man, each in his day down the ages…

Theirs is the banner in my hand. And I wish I had the power to tell them that the despair of their hearts was not to be final, and their night was not without hope…

As Employee #312566 nears the end of the final chapter, he looks at the banner glowing before him, burning like a messenger. He knows what he must do.

He stands tall and proud and recites his own ending:

“And here, over the entry to our lobby, I will carve in the wall the word that is to be our pulse and breath. A word that will not die, even if the last vestiges of the system crash and we are no more. The word that cannot die in this building, for it is the heart of it and the meaning and the glory.

The Sacred word:

OVERTIME.”

* * *

A big thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks. All music by Ergo Phizmiz and Kai Engel. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and music.

In a month, I’m bringing you the weirdest father and son story I may ever write.

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

[Listen]

[An ax chopping wood; THEME MUSIC plays…]

Host: Christopher Gronlund:

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

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

This time, I dig back to what might be the first real short story I ever wrote…and the only story that came to me in a dream.

All right–let’s get to work…

Narrator:

Taller Than The Moon

[Somber music plays…]

I always wanted to be taller than The Moon. “The Moon” was my brother’s nickname, he got it when he was very young, before I was born. My parents were toilet training him and—never one to sit still for any length of time—he ran from the toilet with his diapers down around his ankles, exposing himself to all in the vicinity. My folks had a slew of nicknames for him: “Moonie,” “The Great White Crack,” and “The Moon.” The latter stuck with him and was a nickname he carried all his life. Nobody, not even my parents, called him Adam Stokowski.

I grew up on a flat stretch of hard farmland in Texas. We had a couple two story buildings in town—the bank and the church—but the only truly tall things in town were the clouds of dust rising up from the infertile soil, and my big brother, The Moon.

The Moon was two years my elder and everything I could only hope to one day become. He was as fast as a gazelle, while I did my best to keep a snail’s pace, until finally being confined to a wheelchair. Every girl in town wanted to date my brother, but when I was around, they walked away. It wasn’t my fault that my spine twisted and that I spoke softly. People talked about The Moon long after he left a room; when I left a room, people only laughed. (My hearing wasn’t that bad.)

The Moon was perfect—at least in the eyes of everyone in town. He shined hope on the 251 residents of our hometown. He was my ray of light, someone who always made me feel bigger than I actually was. Maybe that’s why the town looked up to him: he had a knack for making everyone in his presence feel big.

The Moon carried our town to back-to-back state high school football championships—a big thing in Texas, regardless of the size of the school. I never understood the game’s appeal; perhaps if I did, I’d also understand why grown men and women would pile their burdens on a teenager with a football and force him to carry their hopes and dreams on his shoulders, like Atlas. The way we all looked up to him, you’d think—just like the real moon—that he controlled the tides.

The Moon became even more legendary when he landed a football scholarship at Texas A&M University, but things changed when he gave up the chance to play ball to serve in Vietnam. On his first tour, he came back with the Medal of Honor.

The town held a loud parade for him, consisting of the high school band, some Cub Scouts, and the mayor driving around in a convertible. His second tour, he came back with a Purple Heart and an addiction to morphine, which turned to heroin.

Our town fell silent.

Gone was that Prometheus smile, bringing light to all it shined upon. No longer did The Moon make everybody feel big. His depression and addiction put him under a microscope; people spoke of him only in whispers—some said he betrayed them. I wanted to step up and defend him like he did so many times for me, but all I could do was sit back, like everyone else, and watch my brother slide deeper toward an inevitable end.

I’ve read his obituary so many times that I can still recite the damn thing from memory.

November 11, 1970
Services for Adam Stokowski are
scheduled for 10 a.m. Friday at
the First United Methodist Church
on Sycamore St. Adam died
Sunday in his family’s home. He
was 25.

Survivors include Mr. Stokowski’s
father, Benjamin; mother, Carol;
and younger brother, Michael—a law
student at the University of Texas,
in Austin.

I’ve only returned home a few times since finishing college, always for Christmas. I still expect to see my brother when I visit. I expect to hear the backdoor crash open and slam shut, followed by him charging through the kitchen, but this old house died with him. Seven years later, my parents aren’t the same; seven years later, I’m not the same. Perhaps everybody in town was right: maybe in some sick way, The Moon was our only hope.

I wake up on Christmas morning. For a moment, I feel like a kid again. I crawl to The Moon’s bedroom to wake him up so he can help me down the stairs and shake the gifts Santa Claus brought the night before, but his room is silent—it’s been that way since he died, a sick museum for my parents to visit and feel sorry for themselves.

I make my way down the steps, sliding down one at a time on my rear, and I get into my wheelchair at the bottom of the stairs. I don’t go to the living room to check presents, though—Christmas has lost its magic, and my parents will sleep late this morning. I go to the kitchen to get breakfast, instead.

I open the pantry to get some cereal and I see the crude growth chart my parents made to chronicle the growth of my brother and me when we were younger. Our early years are marked off in three month increments on the back of the pantry door. Around our teens, they;re marked off annually. I see The Moon’s markers and compare them to mine. Early on, we grew about the same rate, but when I read: “The Moon – 10 years old – 1955” and I see the corresponding pencil mark, I realize that’s about the time my growth slowed, when I was eight. From age ten, he just grew and grew, while my spine twisted more and more. I was jealous of my brother then, and he must have known because he did everything he could to make me feel special. I remember how he’d pick me up so I could see things on the top shelf. I remember how I told him I’d be taller than him, someday, and how he’d hold me high above his head and say I already was. I can still hear him shouting, “You’re a giant, Mikey—you’re a giant!” as he carried me around the house on his shoulders.

I look at the growth marks on the pantry door and wish I had made eggs, instead. I think about all those years I wanted to be the one everyone looked up to. My little town now sees me as the big-city lawyer who made good, despite all my struggles. In a strange way, I suppose I got my wish: I’m finally taller than The Moon.

What I wouldn’t give to feel small once again…

[Outro Music plays…]

Host: Christopher Gronlund:

A big thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks. All music by Ergo Phizmiz and Kai Engel. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music.

Okay, I know I’ve talked about the post-apocalyptic office story forever. It’s written, but…it got out of hand? I introduced a character along the way and now I feel like I need to add more, but…anyway, I don’t know if I’ll have that ready for next month, so…with all that editing to be done, and with novel stuff taking priority over short fiction, you might get that story about the kid who makes a monster in his bathtub next time. And if that’s the case, it means that I have exhausted all short fiction that I’ve previously written. But then…maybe I might actually edit and put the post-apocalyptic office story together by then. We’ll see…

And really, at this point—as much as I’ve hyped that story—it really needs to live up to at least a couple people’s expectations. So there’s that side of me that’s like, “Eh…I should just keep coming up with excuses like, ‘Oh, it was a beautiful day, so we opened a window and I had the manuscript sitting there and suddenly a turkey vulture came in and flew off with it. Or…’Hey, I finally recorded that story, but uh…I forget to press record, so…I don’t really have time to rerecord it, so here’s this other story.’ Or even just going all out there and being kinda like, ‘Hey, a company I used to work for uh…got a leaked copy of the story somehow and…they think it’s about them, so…this could be a court case that drags out for years.'”

But while chatting with my wife earlier today, I think I did figure the way out of this, so…I do think that maybe next month you’ll hear it. If not, you’ll hear a story called “Booger.” One of those two.

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

[Outro music fades; an ax chopping wood…]

[Listen Here]

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

[Christopher Gronlund]
Each story for this year’s Christmas episode is a first draft. Granted, they are polished first drafts (and by that, I mean I wrote them, read them for any typos or any glaring errors, and then called them done), but none of the stories received much consideration beyond their creation.

It’s obviously not the way I write novels, but it’s how I write most of my short stories. Of course, that means I sometimes end up thinking, while recording, “Oh, man…I would have loved doing more with that part of the story,” but I rarely think, “I should have cut this part or rewritten everything.”

“The Crock” was written for a writing prompt. On Patreon, I support the crew doing the audiodramas, Alba Salix: Royal Physician and The Axe and Crown. They also do an actual-play roleplaying show called The End of Time and Other Bothers.

On the Discord server available to patrons, there’s a closed writing group that sometimes creates stories based on writing prompts. While I love that kind of thing, I rarely take part…because I always have enough other writing going on. But there was something in this prompt hooked me:

An evil spell is cast upon a mundane household item, but the homeowner has no idea.

Granted, the narrator of “The Crock” figures out that her mother-in-law placed a spell on the Crock Pot gift in the story, but to me, a prompt is just that: a thing to spark an idea.

With that in my head, I knocked out the story in 15 or 20 minutes on a lunch break.

#

Patrick K. Walsh does a horror podcast called Screamqueenz: Where Horror Gets Gay. It’s a lighthearted look at campy horror movies. I’ve been on the show twice: episode 228, discussing Dave Made a Maze and episode 250 talking about Night of the Comet.

I’ve wanted Patrick to narrate a story for Not About Lumberjacks for some time. So, when looking in the Evernote file I keep of story ideas, “Greetings” jumped out. And when I began roughing out the idea with Patrick in mind, the story—as they say—practically wrote itself.

I wrote the opening before bed one evening and then, the next day, I finished the story during my lunch break. Like “The Crock,” my wife gave it a quick read, pointed out a couple typos, and then I called it done.

Because I viewed the story belonging to Patrick as much as to me, I told him he could run with any idea he had as he narrated. There are a few lines made better in the moment by him, which is why I love working with other people on projects. Sometimes other people make a good moment in a story great. Patrick definitely has a knack for that…

#

I almost wrote “Naughty” for last year’s Christmas episode. I had a note in my story ideas file that was something like, “A shitty little kid does something to Santa Claus and gets what he deserves or learns a lesson in the end.”

I had NO idea what I was going to do with the story until I started writing it.

When I was young, my big sister showed me how to open wrapped gifts to see what we were getting before Christmas even arrived. It was a shitty thing to do to a single mom who busted her ass to ensure we had memorable Christmases. So I figured I’d start with Bobby getting caught unwrapping hidden gifts. From there, the story flowed.

Initially, I planned to have Santa Claus in the story, but it made more sense to have Santa’s menacing brother arrive to teach Bobby a lesson. When it came time to discuss the tattoos on his knuckle [sic], “PAIN” spelled out across them was an easy option. For the other hand, I had no idea…so I opened a web browser and searched a Scrabble dictionary for four-letter words that seemed fitting.

I had jotted down other options before settling on MOJO, but MOJO was too good to pass by. And just like that, Not-Santa had a hand with which he could dish out physical pain, and then a magical MOJO hand that could do ANYTHING.

Once it was established that Bobby was properly shitty and that Not-Santa could do anything he wanted, the story turned dark. I got to watch a couple people listen to this story in person (I didn’t even have my wife read this one before recording it), and it was great seeing the horrified looks on their faces as a kid is actually tortured on Christmas Eve…and then the uncomfortable laughter that comes with taking pleasure in a little kid being electrocuted and suffocated while lashed to a Christmas tree.

I wanted to finish the story on an upbeat note, so…in the end, Bobby learns a lesson, and Christmas day is saved.

Like the other two stories in this year’s Christmas episode, “Naughty” was written on my lunch break in a quick blast before it was time to log back on to my day job.

#

There’s something to a story written in a whirlwind that I love. Like an artist sketching ideas, sometimes what is made in the moment has more life than the polished final version. It’s possible that in one’s effort to refine a work, that the demands of expectations destroys the work’s rougher edges, where you can often see when and where an idea actually came into being.

The novels I write will always be fully realized, polished things, examined from many angles. But where short stories are concerned, sometimes I’m often fine watching a reader cut themselves on the sharp edges.

 —————————————————————-

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, episodes, and voice talent.

Next time, it’s the post-apocalyptic corporate office story I’ve talked about for over a year. At this point, it might be built up so much for some that it can’t live up to their expectations. But if I didn’t release it, the Dungeon Master in our Dungeons and Dragons campaign—who’s been patiently waiting over a year for this one—would probably kill my character at this point, so it’s in my best interests to FINALLY finish and release it.

HOWEVER…some other writing stuff is going on behind the scenes that could possibly affect the release of “Alive in HQ,” so we’ll see…

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

[Listen]

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

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

This time, after the success of sharing a handful of stories last Christmas, it’s another multi-tale episode…two of which, are seasonally themed.

All right–let’s get to work…

THE CROCK

The first private words my mother-in-law, Rosalie, ever said to me were, “You’re not good enough for my son, and you never will be.”

In front of others, she smiled and praised me, but the moment she got me alone she became such a witch. She hated that I made more money than Anthony—going as far as saying, once, that I might as well neuter him for real. (She believed I needed to be at home cooking and dropping a steady stream of children while Anthony provided for us—not running my own software company.)

And I understand things were different when Rosalie was younger, but by the time one reaches a certain level of adulthood, they should know when to keep their mouth shut—no matter how much they want to say something snarky. Despite her constant criticisms, I still tried being the better person and giving her a chance in the hope we’d one day find we had something in common.

---

Months into my relationship with Anthony, when things were getting serious, we had Rosalie over for dinner as a peace offering. Maybe I was showing off a bit by making rack of lamb, but I hoped I’d win her over with my foodie skills.

I realized there was no winning with her, however, when she raised her fork to her lips. I knew she wanted to tell me I was a horrible a cook, even though it was clear she was surprised by how great dinner tasted.

“What do you think?” I said to her.

“It’s…palatable I suppose.”

Anthony shifted in his chair when I looked at him and said, “What do you think, dear?”

“It’s…good.”

“Just good?” I said. “Funny, when I was prepping this dinner, you told me I’m a better cook than your mother.”

I expected Rosalie to confront Anthony, but instead she remained silent and gave me the evil eye.

---

For our wedding, Rosalie gave us a Crock Pot and a card that read, “It’s hard to ruin a meal using one of these.”

I wanted to reply, “You must use one all the time, then,” but I knew that’s what she wanted. I sent a thank you card and stored the Crock Pot away in the garage.

---

That summer, when we received an invitation to the family reunion, Rosalie wrote, “We’re having a pot luck, and I do hope to see the Crock Pot I bought for your wedding.”

Anthony begged me to keep the peace and do as I was asked, so I went to the garage and finally dragged it out. As I cleaned Crock Pot before making chili, I noticed what Rosalie had done…

---

Anthony comes from a large family, and the annual family reunion is a major affair. Held on the grounds of a successful uncle’s small estate, hints of the family’s humble roots are evident: picnic tables covered with plastic, disposable plates and eating utensils, and dingy Igloo and Coleman coolers—probably older than half of those in attendance—holding cheap canned beer.

When Anthony and I arrived, Rosalie seemed genuinely surprised when I set the Crock Pot down on the picnic table with all the other dishes. In no time, praise went up for my chili—to the point the pot was the first to be emptied. Family members demanded I bring more next time. From the corner of my eye, I caught Rosalie scowling. Her plan had failed.

The rest of the afternoon Rosalie lingered nearby, perhaps hoping to hear how I thwarted her. Maybe she wanted to come right out and ask, but she never did. After letting her twist all afternoon, I finally approached her.

“Rosalie!” I said. “Thank you so much for the Crock Pot. It works like magic.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Drop the act and tell me how you pulled that off.”

I smiled.

“The old soured pot? Really? I expected much more than basic kitchen witchery from you—such an easy spell to reverse. I respect the old ways, but they are quite easy to detect with newer magic.”

---

I won’t say Rosalie and I have become great friends since that day at the family reunion, but we’re getting there. We share our secrets and make Anthony nervous with our whispering. We share cooking secrets as well—we have even discussed having a mother/daughter-in-law long weekend getaway.

It’s funny how quickly things can change when you find you have something in common with another person…

GREETINGS

On December 17th, the week before Christmas, a long-term production I was on ended. Happy holidays, Merry Christmas, and all that, right? I was out a job during a time when all my office working friends were using time off they didn’t take during the year. Use it or lose it, and many friends—workaholics that they are—would lose time again. So really, I can’t complain. My husband has a good job, and I socked away a decent chunk of money because that’s the way my industry works. One day you’re on set, putting cuts and bruises on a scream queen, and the next: you’re out of work.

I went through the holidays stress-free, the envy of all my friends. January…no worries I wasn’t working. February, March, and into April: I still had money. But as spring turned to summer, I began to get nervous. I needed a job, and a make-up artist for low-budget horror flicks only carries one so far.

That’s when Kurt said, “You know what would be funny? If you used your makeup skills to look like an old man, and…you tried getting a job as a BigboxMart greeter.”

Sure, we were drinking pomegranate gin fizzes at the time, and perhaps we were a little beyond tipsy, but there was something appealing about the idea. Were my F/X makeup skills, and the little acting I’ve done, good enough that I could pull off some Depends-wearing old guy sitting on a stool at BigboxMart welcoming shoppers to the store? I aimed to find out.

The following morning I figured, if nothing else, doing an old man application and inquiring about a job would be funny enough. (Sobriety has a strange way of bringing clarity to what sounded brilliant the night before.) By the time I was done, I looked like a 75-year-old version of myself. It was off to the store.

---

I puttered along, nice and slow, and approached the self check-out attendant.

“I’d like to speak with a manager,” I said to a 20-something guy paying more attention to his phone than customers in need of assistance.

“I was just checking a message,” he said. He shoved his phone in his pocket.

“Oh, no—not that,” I said. “I’d like to inquire about a job.”

“Ah, one moment.”

The kid with the phone seemed happy to wander off. He returned with a very round, middle-aged woman with a vast grin showing off the whitest teeth I’d ever seen.

“How can I help you, sir?”

“Yes,” I said in the old man voice I practiced on the drive over. “My name is Jeremy Howie. I have a little free time during my day, and wondered if you were hiring any greeters?”

The stool at the front of the store was occupied by an old man flip-flopping between scrutinizing young people leaving the store and trying to stay awake. Clearly, they already had their man.

I was taken aback when the woman with the Cheshire grin said, “This is your lucky day, Mr. Howie. We’re in need of an afternoon greeter.”

It turns out there’s a pretty high turnover rate for the position. Not because they are poor employees, but…well, there’s no nice way to say this: they tend to die.

“My name’s Susan,” she said. “Let’s go get you an application…”

---

I went through with it. I figured why the hell not? It was something to do until something else came along. And when nothing else came along, I found myself actually enjoying the job.

Each day I refined the character, imagining what I’d be like in my 70s. I said and did things only old people seemed to get away with. I made up stories about years before me I had yet to live in real life. And I greeted and said goodbye to everyone coming and going like nobody ever had before. I was loved more than I ever felt at any other job. I’d be lying if I said, in some ways, that it wasn’t the best job I’d ever had.

And then two things happened. Around Christmas—almost a year to the day I last worked on a movie—I got a call about a production starting up in January in need of my skills. That same day, the local NBC affiliate sent a news crew to BigboxMart to do a human-interest piece on the jolliest greeter in the city.

---

That night while watching my spot on the evening news, Kurt said, “So what are you going to do?”
I took a sip of my gimlet and said, “I can’t pass up the movie.”

“You’re going to break everyone’s heart at the store.”

“I know.” I watched news footage of me interacting with customers who came in gloomy and left with smiles bigger than Susan’s, all because I hammed it up and paid them attention.

“Are you going to come clean?” Kurt said.

“I can’t do that.”

“Then what?”

I gave it some thought and began to laugh. I couldn’t stop laughing.

“What?” Kurt said.

“I have the best idea…”

---

I’d like the record to show that making decisions while drinking gin is not in one’s best interests. I strolled into BigboxMart the next morning, sans makeup, hoping I could pull it off. I asked to speak with a manager.

A few minutes later, Susan approached and said, “How can I help you, sir?”

Any fear I had that she’d recognize me was gone.

“Hello. My name is Jeremy Howie Jr. My grandpa Jeremy works here as a greeter.”

“Oh, I see the resemblance,” Susan said. “It’s uncanny how much you look like him.”

“I hear that a lot,” I said. And then: “I…uhm…”

“Yes?” There was something about the shift in Susan’s face that made me feel like the worst human being on the planet. I could try blaming the gin the night before, but maybe I really was the worst. She must have known what was coming next, because she covered her mouth in shock.

“I don’t know how to say this, but…he passed away last night.” I added, “In his sleep,” in the hope of absolving myself of an eternity in Hell.

She hugged me and began to tremble. She was crying right there at the front of the store. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “He is—was…such a special soul of a man.”

When she finally let go and pulled back, her face was so red and swollen that it looked like she’d been stung by bees.

“I’m sorry, too,” I said. “I just thought you should know why he’d not be in today.”

I was sorry…sorry I thought what seemed funny the night before turned out to be such a terrible idea.

Susan took my hand in her left palm and patted it. “We’ll mail his last check.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Will you be okay?”

“I don’t know,” I said. It was the most honest thing I said all morning.

As I walked off, Susan called after me. “You’ll let us know about his funeral, right?”

Oh, shit.

---

When I told Kurt I planned to never go back to BigboxMart, he said, “They have what they believe is Old Man Jeremy’s address. They could just show up.”

“Fuck, you’re right.”

“Or you could…”

“Could what?” I said.

“Give him a funeral.”

I looked at the martini in my hand and said, “We need to stop drinking gin.”

“Hear me out,” Kurt said. “I have a friend who owns a beautiful old building people use for weddings, bar mitzvahs, team-building meetings, and family reunions. Even a few funerals.”

“Go on…”

“He owes me a favor.”

One of the many things I love about Kurt is that he knows everyone. And some of those everyones owe him things.

“I’ll give him a call tomorrow, and you can get back to what you do best.”

I raised my martini. “To the memory of Jeremy Howie the First.”

---

There wasn’t a dry eye in the house by the time I finished my eulogy for the corpse prop I made of Old Man Howie resting peacefully in a rented casket.

“I love that you all loved my grandfather as much as he loved you,” I said.

At the back of the room, Kurt moved to a corner to contain his laughter. As I wrapped up the service, Susan had my dear husband smothered in a tight hug against her ample bosom, reassuring him that everything would be all right.

---

I feel bad about what I did, but at the same time, at least for a handful of months, something I created made others happy. My former coworkers gained and lost a friend. People stressed out from the holidays watched a news spot that maybe renewed their hope and joy in the season. Perhaps I won’t go to Hell after all.

I didn’t drink gin on New Year’s Eve. Kurt and I spent a quiet night in, knowing I’d soon be on set up in Vancouver. It will be weird returning to a movie after being away for over a year. I might even be a little nervous were it not for one thing: if I bomb out on set, there are plenty of other BigboxMarts in the area in need of old greeters.

NAUGHTY

Bobby Johnson’s mother caught him in her bedroom closet, carefully unwrapping his Christmas gifts days before going beneath the tree.

“Bobby, what are you doing?” she said.

“Fuck you, Mom!”

Deidre Johnson went to get her husband, Ted. From the hallway, Bobby heard his parents talking.

“We can just let him do it,” Ted said. “He knows what he’s getting, now…”
Bobby’s father feared his son ever since the night he tried grounding Bobby and Bobby stabbed him in the arm with a letter opener in his sleep.

“I hear you out there!” Bobby said.

Ted entered the bedroom, but stood back from the closet.

“Heya, pal. Your mom and I work hard to give you things, and part of the joy of the season is seeing you unwrap gifts on Christmas morning and being surprised. Santa Claus has yet to bring his gift for you. If you don’t behave, he might skip our house.”

“Fuck Santa Claus!” Bobby said. “I’ll show that bitch!”

Bobby Johnson was a very naughty boy.

---

On Christmas Eve, Bobby camped out beneath the Christmas tree with his trusty letter opener. If Santa didn’t deliver the videogame system Bobby wanted more than anything, there’d be hell to pay.

Sometime after midnight, Bobby felt the letter opener slide from his hand. In that state between dreaming and the waking world, he smelled lingering cigar smoke. He looked up to see Santa Claus…only it wasn’t the Santa Claus Bobby expected.

He looked like a homeless Santa Bobby once saw downtown. With a grizzled beard and a cigar plugged between his teeth, this Santa Claus held the letter opener in his right hand. Tattooed across the knuckles: P-A-I-N – and across the knuckles on his left: M-O-J-O.
Bobby wondered if the letter opener being held by the PAIN hand meant something bad was about to happen.

“Santa?” he said.

“Think of me as Not-Santa, Bobby. You know how your parents tell you mall Santas are Santa’s helpers? Well, I’m one of them, but my job is to deal with shitty little naughty boys like you. My brother is the real Santa Claus, and he got tired of keeping two lists and taking shit from kids like you. So, when I got out of prison, to keep me on the straight and narrow, he put me in charge of the naughty ones.”

“W-what are you going to do to me?” Bobby said.

Not-Santa tossed the letter opener over his shoulder and pointed at Bobby with his MOJO hand. Bobby’s head swam; when he woke up, he was lashed to the Christmas tree with strands of colorful lights. The bristly pine needles scratched his back. That’s when he saw the battery and wires.

“This’ll hurt ya, Bobby. But it won’t harm you, if you know what I mean?”

Not-Santa attached the wires to Bobby’s earlobes with clips. All it would take is touching one wire to the battery to complete the circuit.

“Now, are you ready to be a good boy?” Not-Santa said.

Struggling against the light strands, Bobby wriggled free enough to give Not-Santa the finger.

Bobby wasn’t sure if it was the electricity now coursing through his body, or the effects it had on his vision, but the Christmas tree lit up brightly when Not-Santa touched the wire to the battery. Before Bobby could yelp, the MOJO hand went over his mouth.

“You better watch out, you better not cry…” Not-Santa sang. “You better not pout, I’m telling you why…”

When he removed his MOJO hand from Bobby’s face, the naughty boy had no mouth. Tears streamed down his face when Not-Santa pinched his nose, cutting off his breathing.

“I have options, Bobby. Now…” He let go of Bobby’s nose so he could breath. “You’re gonna listen up!”

Not-Santa spent the next ten minutes telling Bobby about all the sacrifices his parents made for him. How even though he was an unplanned pregnancy, and despite an aunt’s suggestion to terminate his time in the womb, his parents went through with it. How his dad rushed through college to get a better job before Bobby’s arrival, and how his mother put in even longer hours at the crafting company she founded so they could give him all they never had.

With his MOJO hand, Not-Santa produced a diary Bobby had never found when rummaging through his parents’ bedroom, looking for things. It was a journal in which Ted and Deidre shared their dreams. Gone were hopes of world travel and so many other wants. But in their place, new entries about how much fun it would be to one day share the world with their new child and all the other things his life would bring.

Bobby had no idea his mother had her thyroid gland removed during a cancer scare, but still tended to her son’s well-being while his father finished school. So many other tales about his parents’ love for him he never knew.

“Look,” Not-Santa said. “I know I’m laying it on thick. It’s a sainted Catholic thing, ya know? But there’s a lotta truth to it all. Most kids would give up so much to have parents like yours, and you shit all over them every god-damned day. If I called the shots, I’d grab your nose and never let go. But my brother gave me the power to make shitty little skags like you a deal.

“You’ve got two choices, kid: the big gift Santa was going to give you, even though you don’t deserve it…or you and me? We’re gonna sit down and spend the next couple hours making something for your folks.

“You get to live no matter what. I’m allowed to scare you, but I signed a contract saying I’d not leave behind any lasting damage. Once I make the offer, you’re free to go, and I can do nothing more.

“So, Bobby Johnson…what’s it gonna be…?”

---

Bobby woke up beneath the tree on Christmas morning when his parents came downstairs.

“Merry Christmas!” his mother said.

His father cocked his head. “Does anyone else smell cigars?” He looked at Bobby. Given some of the things he’d done, taking up cigar smoking at seven years old would not be beyond a possibility. His mother took a deep whiff.

“Yes, I do.”

They dropped the matter, though, when Bobby shouted, “Merry Christmas!” and ran up to his parents, hugging each around a leg. For a moment, they seemed to wait to see what Bobby’s game was, but when it was clear to Ted that his son was showing genuine affection, his picked him up and smothered Bobby in a hug-sandwich with Deidre.

In no time, the air in the living room became a blur of color as wrapping was shredded from presents. When Ted had handed out all the gifts, he said, “What’s this?”

“I don’t know,” Deidre said.

Beneath the tree was a package neither had purchased. The tag read “From: Santa Claus and his Brother. To: Bobby and his Parents.”

Inside the box were two wrapped gifts. When Bobby opened the one marked for him, he ran around the living room shouting with glee. He’d finally received the videogame console he wanted more than anything.

Ted pulled the other gift from the box and said, “Who’s Not-Santa?” He held it at arm’s length, like it was a bomb about to go off. Seeing how happy Bobby was, Deidre didn’t care. She charged over and ripped the paper off the box, revealing a bottle of Dom Pérignon. Stuck to the box, a note reading: You two have more than earned this. Cheers!

Ted and Deidre Johnson stared at each other, mouths agape. Before they could further question what was going on, Bobby jumped up and down and said, “Now it’s time for me to give you my gift!”

Any onlooker who knew Bobby might have thought, “Ah-ha! He’s about to do the shittiest thing he’s ever done, right here on Christmas morning. This was all a ruse!”

But instead, he reached behind the back of the tree and handed his parents a macaroni drawing of him and a cigar-smoking, rough-and-tumble-looking Santa Claus. Written beneath the drawing, in red and green crayon: Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad. I love you. Bobby…

When his parents finally stopped crying, Ted smiled and said, “How about I make you both the best breakfast you’ve ever had? And then we can set up your game—how’s that sound?”

The Johnsons kicked their way through piles of wrapping paper on their way to the kitchen. Maybe being taken off the naughty list and placed on the good one wouldn’t be so bad after all…

---

A big thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks. All music by Ergo Phizmiz and Chad Crouch, also known as Poddington Bear. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and music.

Next time, I should finally get to that post-apocalyptic office tale I’ve teased for almost a year. But with a finished novel and some busy time ahead…it might be a story about a kid who makes a monster in his bathtub. We’ll see…

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

[Listen Here]

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

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

This time, in honor of a new year of the show, it’s a one-shot audiodrama that I SWEAR has NOTHING to do with lumberjacks.

Oh, and a word of warning for anybody driving: this episode, near the end, does contain the sound of police sirens. So it’s not you or an emergency or anything like that. It’s just the show.

All right–let’s get to work…

* * *

Waking the Lumberjack…

NARRATOR (V.O.)
We all have families, whether we want ‘em or not, and dysfunction is the glue that holds most of them together. You can spend a lifetime trying to get unstuck from it all, and still go to the grave sticky. For most of us, it’s not even worth the fight.

Some families only operate on dysfunction and fight. And I’m gonna tell y’all a tale about one: the Mighty Howes. Maybe you heard of them? Big Papa Howe, Heavyweight Champion all across Canada? He reigned supreme over Stampede Wrestling, the International Wrestling Alliance, the International Wrestling Association, and of course, Maple Leaf Wrestling. When he owned all the titles a wrassler can own up in Canada, he stormed into America like a Blue Norther, claiming titles from coast to coast.

Only two things ever slowed Big Papa Howe down: his two boys, Big Mike and Little Mike, and Big Rick Coaster.

Ah, now you remember: the epic, house-rattlin’ battles between Big Papa Howe, the Ontario Lumberjack, and Big Rick Coaster, the Bad Boy from Boston.

I’ll let’cha in on a little secret about wrasslin’: a lotta them fellers hating each other inside of the squared circle are like brothers on the outside. But make no mistake: the hatred between Big Papa Howe and Big Rick Coaster was real.

D’Ah, It’s all coming back now, isn’t it? The Loser Quits Wrasslin’ Ontario League Wrestling Heavyweight Title Challenge: The day the two got so sick and tired of each other that they agreed to a perpetual-if-needed, falls count anywhere match with no time limit. Neither of them ever pinned the other…it’s been going on for decades. If they live to be a hundred, one can pin the other and claim the title, burying the other in the pages of history.

It was a big thing back in the day, and then it faded away, lost in the hubbub of that Kardashians show and all that the Netflixes had to offer.

But maybe you’re like me and still wonder about them…if one of them will ever storm into a hospital during the birth of the other’s great-grandchild and pin them, one-two-three, finally claiming the title neither has yet to win! Well, I hate to burst yer bubble with some bad news, but Big Papa Howe is dead.

The best we have now is checking in on his boys, who just-so-happen to be on their way to the funeral…

INT. CAR – DAY

Two brothers, BIG MIKE and LITTLE MIKE drive to their father’s funeral. BIG MIKE is at the wheel.

BIG MIKE
I still can’t believe he’s gone.

LITTLE MIKE
I know. I figured we’d end up dead before him. Me, at least.

BIG MIKE
Why you?

LITTLE MIKE
Juice. Not all of us are as built as naturally as you. That shit catches up with a body.

BIG MIKE
Yeah…I’m kinda surprised you’re alive. Glad, but surprised.

LITTLE MIKE
I don’t regret it, but I figured it would have caught up to me by now. So many of us are gone.

BIG MIKE
Yeah…
(beat)
I wonder if Mom will be there.

LITTLE MIKE
Dunno. I doubt it. He was a great father, but a shitty husband.

BIG MIKE
I think she’ll be there. Hope so, at least — I’ve not seen her for a while.
(beat)
You really think Dad was a great father?

LITTLE MIKE
Yeah. I don’t say things I don’t mean. Why? Don’t you?

BIG MIKE
I don’t know if I’d go as far as great. I mean, he taught us everything he knew. He was good to us. But he was never really there for Mom.

LITTLE MIKE
That’s why I said he was a great father, but a shitty husband. Mom knew what she was getting into when she married him.
(beat)
I’m hungry. Stop at the next Timmies, eh?

INT. TIMMIES – DAY.

The door DINGS as BIG MIKE and LITTLE MIKE enter.

LITTLE MIKE
Timbits. I want some motherfuckin’ timbits…

They make their way to the coffee station.

WRESTLING FAN
Uhm…Excuse me. I hate to bother you two. Aren’t you the Flying Lumberjacks?

BIG MIKE
We are, yes.

WRESTLING FAN
What are you doing in town?

LITTLE MIKE
Going to our father’s funeral.

WRESTLING FAN
Oh. Oh, no…I didn’t know. I’m sorry. My condolences.

BIG MIKE
It’s okay. What can we do for you?

WRESTLING FAN
I was gonna ask for your autographs, but no worries.

BIG MIKE
You didn’t know; it’s fine.
(beat)
Do you have a pen?

WRESTLING FAN
I…don’t. Sorry.

BIG MIKE
I don’t either. I can go get one.

WRESTLING FAN
No, really, that’s fine. I don’t want to bother you. Especially, considering…

BIG MIKE
Do you have a phone? We can at least all take a selfie together.

WRESTLING FAN
I do. Have a phone. One second…

BIG MIKE
(whispers to LITTLE MIKE)
Pst, Mike…

LITTLE MIKE
Oh. Okay.

WRESTLING FAN
Hi.

LITTLE MIKE
Hi.

WRESTLING FAN
Let me just…uh…

WRESTLING FAN snaps a photo.

BIG MIKE
That work for ya?

WRESTLING FAN
Yes, thank you. And sorry again. About your father.

BIG MIKE
Thank you.

LITTLE MIKE POURS COFFEE.

BIG MIKE
Thought you were getting Timbits with your coffee?

LITTLE MIKE
I am. And maybe some snacks that travel well for the road.

A man from the coffee station approaches.

COFFEE MAN
I never liked you two.

BIG MIKE
Excuse me?

COFFEE MAN
The Flying Lumberjacks. You guys are lame.

BIG MIKE
We’re all entitled to our opinions. I’d chat, but we’re on our way to our father’s funeral.

COFFEE MAN
Oh, I heard.

LITTLE MIKE
You heard about our father and you still came up to tell us we suck? What kind of shitty person does that? What, did Twitter ban you and you needed a troll fix?

BIG MIKE
Calm down…

LITTLE MIKE
No, I’m not calming down. This guy knows we’re beat up and on the way to see our dead father in a box, and he tries picking a fight?

COFFEE MAN
Eh, listen to your brother, Mikey. You don’t want any of this.

LITTLE MIKE takes several quick steps toward COFFEE MAN.

COFFEE MAN picks up an INFLATABLE Moosehead Can and hits LITTLE MIKE with it.

LITTLE MIKE
A word of advice, eh: if you’re going to pick a fight with a wrestler, grab something better than an inflatable Moosehead can display that won’t even hurt a four-year-old. You have bottles and hot coffee within reach, and you act like you’re starting a pillow fight.

BIG MIKE
Don’t react. This is what he wants.

LITTLE MIKE
You’re right, you’re right. Okay…

LITTLE MIKE walks off in a huff.

COFFEE MAN
Eh, I’m glad your dad is dead.

LITTLE MIKE
What did you just say?!

BIG MIKE holds back LITTLE MIKE.

BIG MIKE
Hey, hey…let it go. You’re not going to do Dad any favors by getting locked up and missing the funeral. He has to live with who he is. Don’t remember this asshole — remember the other guy who wanted our autographs.

LITTLE MIKE
You’re lucky, you fuck.

COFFEE MAN throws the inflatable Molson can at LITTLE MIKE.

LITTLE MIKE
Oh, yeah, throw the inflatable Moosehead can, big man…
(beat)
I’m suddenly not hungry anymore…

EXT. TIMMIES – DAY.

With a DING, the Howe Brothers leave Timmies.

LITTLE MIKE makes a bee line for a truck.

BIG MIKE
Hey, car’s over there…

LITTLE MIKE HITS and RIPS the SIDE MIRROR off a pickup truck, tossing it to the ground.

BIG MIKE
What the hell are you doing?

LITTLE MIKE
Eh, it had to be his truck. No other vehicles in the lot, ‘cept our car.

LITTLE MIKE walks to the car, opens the door, and climbs inside.

LITTLE MIKE
You coming?

BIG MIKE
(sighs)

BIG MIKE walks to the car, opens the door, gets inside, and starts the engine.

INT. CAR – DAY

Back in the car, the Howe brothers continue their drive.

BIG MIKE
I still can’t believe you ripped the mirror off that guy’s truck.

LITTLE MIKE
He’s lucky that’s all I broke.

BIG MIKE
I know. I wanted to go at him, too.
(beat)
But like Dad always said, people will try getting a rise out of us, hoping for a lawsuit. He prepared us for that kind of thing.

LITTLE MIKE
Yeah, you’re right. I still wanted to bust that guy, though. Smash him all over the coffee station, eh?

BIG MIKE
I know, I know — me, too. But we’d have looked bad. People like Canadians. We’re wholesome. Even though you’re Chicago dirt with a bad accent.

LITTLE MIKE
I was made in Canada. I just came out in Chicago. You’re lucky you’re driving until I calm down, or I’d bust your rack.

They drive along, enjoying a moment of silence.

BIG MIKE
Want to listen to some music?

LITTLE MIKE
No.

BIG MIKE
How about a podcast?

LITTLE MIKE
I don’t get why you like those things so much.

BIG MIKE
It’s something different. There’s one called The End of Time and Other Bothers you might like. I hear the guy who plays that Eggerton fella is pretty swell.

LITTLE MIKE
I don’t like podcasts. Weird people make podcasts.

BIG MIKE
We dress up like lumberjacks and fight people in spandex. Don’tcha think that’s a bit weird?

LITTLE MIKE
No.

BIG MIKE
Gotcha. So…no podcasts, then?

LITTLE MIKE
I said no!

BIG MIKE
All right, all right. No music — no podcasts. Anything you want to chat about?

LITTLE MIKE
How about this: my big brother never shuts up. If I saw a shrink, that’s what I’d tell ‘em, eh. “I love him to death, but he never shuts the fuck up…”

BIG MIKE
Sorry, eh.

Silence; then…

LITTLE MIKE
No, I’m sorry. I know I’m a hard person to travel with. To live with. I’m lucky. To have had Dad. To have Mom and especially you as a big brother.

BIG MIKE
(beat)
It’s weird…I feel like you’re the big one, and I’m the little brother.

LITTLE MIKE
I know. Me, too…

Little Mike takes a deep breath.

LITTLE MIKE
I’m glad you’re here for this. I don’t think I could do it without you.

The sound of TIRES ON GRAVEL coming to a STOP.

INT. GYM – DAY.

BIG MIKE and LITTLE MIKE enter the gym where their father’s funeral is taking place.

RANDOM WRESTLER
The Mikes are here!

LITTLE MIKE
Hey, guys.

The brothers head over to their MOM as others pat them on their shoulders and offer condolences.

WRESTLER 1
I’m so sorry, guys.

BIG MIKE
Thank you.

WRESTLER 2
He was the greatest…

LITTLE MIKE
We appreciate that.

WRESTLER 3
He’ll be missed.

MIKES
He will. Thanks.

BIG MIKE
Mom!

MOM HUGS and KISSES BIG MIKE and LITTLE MIKE.

MOM
I was worried about you two.

LITTLE MIKE
You know how slow Big Mike drives.

BIG MIKE
Well, if someone hadn’t needed a rage cool-down, he could have driven.

MOM
Oh. What happened?

LITTLE MIKE
Nothing. It’s behind us. I just got a little worked up about something. The important thing is we’re here, now.

BIG MIKE
So…there he is…

NARRATOR (V.O.)
Now let me set the scene for y’all. Big Papa Howe owned a gym out in the sticks west of Nestor Falls, Ontario. So many wrasslers came up under his guidance. Some always questioned why he didn’t set up in a more populated place, but Big Papa Howe said, “If they come out this far, I know they’re serious about learning.”
(beat)
Now, in that very gym…in the middle of the practice ring, his casket rests.

BIG MIKE
Well, I guess we better pay our respects.

LITTLE MIKE
Yeah…

INT. WRESTLING RING – DAY.

BIG MIKE and LITTLE MIKE approach the casket.

BIG MIKE
Hi, Dad.

LITTLE MIKE
Yeah, hi.

BIG MIKE
Sorry we didn’t make it to the hospital, but you know how it is out on the road.
(beat)
I’m gonna miss you.

BIG MIKE breaks down crying.

LITTLE MIKE joins in.

They sniffle and regain their composure.

BIG MIKE
Ah, sorry about that.

LITTLE MIKE
No worries, eh. He was an incredible man.
(beat; chuckling)

BIG MIKE
What’s so funny?

LITTLE MIKE
Just…how big that nose of his was.

BIG MIKE
No shit.

LITTLE MIKE
It’s like a sail. You could cross an ocean in his casket with that thing, eh.

BIG MIKE
He used to say he wanted a Viking funeral.

LITTLE MIKE
I thought about that. Putting him in a boat and pushing it out on Clarkson Lake. Our luck, though, he’d float out of range before we could hit it with a flaming arrow. He floats away, and someone finds his body. Stuffs and mounts it and sells admission to see him as a roadside attraction up in Sioux Narrows or something.

MIKES
(laughing)
(beat)

FATHER KUPFER
Boys, I’m ready to begin the service.

They exit the ring.

INT. GYM – DAY.

NARRATOR (V.O.)
Some might say it was a strange place for a funeral service, but those in attendance saw a beautiful send-off for a man like a father to more than just his two boys.

FATHER KUPFER
Big Papa Howe was a friend, a mentor — a man who never knew a stranger.

NARRATOR (V.O.)
If he was looking down, I’m sure he was happy to see everybody gathered together in remembrance of all he did in life.

FATHER KUPFER
He lives on in his two sons, Big Mike and Little Mike.

NARRATOR (V.O.)
So many livelihoods started in that old gym in the north woods.

FATHER KUPFER
And our hearts are with Amelia, Big Papa Howe’s wife of 52 years.

NARRATOR (V.O.)
And it was a perfect service, until–

The front doors FLY OPEN as BIG RICK COASTER, his two sons, BIG RICK and LITTLE RICK (THE BOSTON BRAWLERS), and a REF carrying a belt storm in.

BIG RICK COASTER
Aaaaayyyy, I’ve come to pin the old man before he goes under for good!

NARRATOR (V.O.)
I have a bit of a confession: I never liked Big Rick Coaster or the Boston Brawlers, not even on account that they are Yankees.
(beat)
But on account that they are just genuinely shitty people.

BIG RICK COASTER
By the rules agreed upon by both of us in 1987, this match will finally come to an end. I have with me a certified referee and the Ontario League Wrestling Heavyweight Championship belt. Now, if you’ll kindly step aside, I have business to attend to.

LITTLE MIKE
Like hell you do!

NARRATOR (V.O.)
This was an even more low-down attack by Big Rick Coaster than the infamous Longo’s incident of 1989, when he and his boys brought a ref into the store and brutalized Big Papa Howe in the condiment aisle as he shopped for Canada Day goodies.

S/FX
Fighting – Breaking jars.

VOICE OVER PA
Wet clean-up on aisle four…

FATHER KUPFER
How dare you interrupt this service, Richard.

BIG RICK COASTER
I’m sorry, Father, but if roles were reversed, I’m sure they’d do the same to me.

LITTLE MIKE
That’s bullshit, Coaster, and you know it!

FATHER KUPFER
Please, Michael…

NARRATOR (V.O.)
This was shaping up to be as bad as the Sizzler incident of 1994, when the boys from Boston attacked Big Papa Howe while eating dinner. The battle spilled into the kitchen, and it was only when Big Papa Howe pressed Big Rick Coasters cheek to the grill that he was able to escape unpinned through the back door.

FATHER KUPFER
Let’s all let cooler heads prevail…

NARRATOR (V.O.)
I’ve never been one to watch ice hockey like they do up in Canada, but I know enough about the sport to know that sometimes games develop in such a manner that tension turns into cheap shots that leave people hurt.
(beat)
Sometimes when things swell to the point of seeming like it’s all ready to explode, a fight can release that tension.
(beat)
Amelia Howe must be quite a hockey fan because she released the tension in the room by charging up behind Big Rick Coaster and splitting the back of his head wide open with a chair.
(beat)
After a brief moment of silence, all hell broke loose…
(beat)
The Boston Brawlers instantly squared off with Big Mike and Little Mike, chuckin’ knuckles and trading chops.
(beat)
It freed up Big Rick Coaster, who made a beeline for the ring with the ref.
(beat)
Before long, the battle between the Flying Lumberjacks and the Boston Brawlers made its way into the ring.
(beat)
And that’s when it happened…
(beat)
In the scuffle beside the casket, the Boston Brawlers were knocked out of commission by a pile driver and a DDT from Big Papa Howe’s boys.
(beat)
When Big Rick Coaster turned to see his sons dropped, he was met in the face by another chair hit from Amelia Howe, dropping him flat on his old back.
(beat)
When Big Mike Howe stood up, he bumped the table holding his father’s casket. It seemed to happen in slow motion time: everybody reaching for the sliding coffin, but unable to stop it from toppling to the mat.
(beat)
It was a horrifying scene as the body of Big Papa Howe spilled from from the casket, but what seemed like the most terrible thing anyone present had ever seen turned out to be a glorious sight.
(beat)
Big Papa Howe’s right arm wasn’t so stiff that it couldn’t flop over onto the chest of Big Rick Coaster.
(beat)
The ref dropped to the mat and counted the fall — ONE, TWO, THREE!
(beat)
Father Kupfer sounded the bell, and the attendees erupted into celebration…they’d just witnessed Big Papa Howe winning the Ontario League Wrestling Heavyweight title!

SIRENS roar in the distance.

NARRATOR (V.O.)
The sound of police sirens was enough to rouse the stunned Bostonites, who — realizing they’d been defeated — fled before matters got even worse for ‘em.
(beat)
The referee stayed behind, being extra careful as he raised Big Papa Howe’s arm in victory.

INT. GYM – DAY.

NARRATOR (V.O.)
Once the police had come and gone (they agreed not to pursue the Bad Boys from Boston on account of Big Rick Coaster losing what he came for being worse than any punishment the law can dole out), Big Mike and Little Mike paid final respects to their father.

BIG MIKE
That belt looks good one him, eh?

LITTLE MIKE
Indeed.
(beat; snickers)

BIG MIKE
What?

LITTLE MIKE
Maybe it happened when he rolled out of the casket, but is it just me, or does it look like he’s smiling just a bit?

BIG MIKE
It sure does…
(beat)
Well, we better get going.
(beat)
Bye, Dad.

LITTLE MIKE
Yeah. Bye, you badass son of a bitch.

BIG MIKE and LITTLE MIKE make their way to their MOM.

BIG MIKE
We need to get going if we’re gonna make tonight’s match over in Winnipeg.

MOM
I really wish you’d not push yourselves so much.

LITTLE MIKE
Dad never missed a match and neither have we.

MOM
I understand. He was a good father to you boys. A shitty husband, but a good father.

BIG MIKE
A great father.
(beat)
We’ll come back through in a couple days and stay a few.

MOM
(kisses BIG MIKE’s cheek)
I’d like that.

LITTLE MIKE
Bye, Mom.

MOM
(kisses LITTLE MIKE’S cheek)
Goodbye.
(beat)
You boys be safe, eh!

MIKES
We will.

INT. CAR – DAY.

BIG MIKE
Hell of a day, eh?

LITTLE MIKE
Yeah. Crazy day.

BIG MIKE
You gonna be good for tonight’s match?

LITTLE MIKE
Always am. How ’bout you?

BIG MIKE
We’re Big Papa Howe’s boys — you tell me!

They drive along a moment; then…

LITTLE MIKE
If you want, go ahead and listen to one of your podcasts.

BIG MIKE
You sure?

LITTLE MIKE
Yeah. We have a few hours ahead of us. It will either keep me awake, or I’ll pull over, let you drive, and I’ll get some sleep.

BIG MIKE
Excellent — thanks! There’s one called Not About Lumberjacks I think you’ll love…

S/FX
Show intro plays…

FADE OUT

NARRATOR (V.O.)

Well, things sure turned out all right in the end for the Mighty Howes. Even in death, Big Papa Mike Howe won a title. The boys have their Mama, and she has her boys. Not much more is needed beyond that.

Maybe I was wrong about what I said earlier, that the glue holding families together is dysfunction. Maybe that’s just an ingredient on the list. You flip the bottle over and read what’s inside: Love, Grief, Humor, Dysfunction, Memories, Secrets, Shame, Honor, and a whole buncha Unknown.

I don’t know what’s in store for the Flying Lumberjacks, but I like to think they’ll do all right in the long run. There are worse things in life than having a nemesis that makes you rise to your best; I think the Howe boys and the Coasters will eventually settle their scores. When you look at it from the right angle, humanity’s just one big, dysfunctional family trying to get along at the dinner table. I hope we do…and I hope you win whatever battles you might be fighting.

Y’all take care, now — and do your thing as best as you can…

* * *

A big thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Waking the Lumberjack starred Tim Czarnecki as the Narrator.

Michael Howie as Big Mike Howe.

Me, Christopher Gronlund as Little Mike Howe…doing a really bad Canadian accent.

Rocky Westbrook as The Wrestling Fan.

Cynthia Griffith as Mama Howe.

Shawn Kupfer doubled up and played two roles: the Dicky Coffee Guy and of course, Father Kupfer.

And let’s not forget our special guest, Rick Coste as Big Rick Coaster.

Additional wrestlers and grunting provided by various talent listed above.

Theme music for Not About Lumberjacks provided by Ergo Phizmiz.

Waking the Lumberjack features the song, “Beggars and Felons,” by Power and Beauty, released under a Creative Commons license.

This episode was written and directed by me, Christopher Gronlund. A big thanks to co-producers, Rick Coste and Cynthia Griffith. Be sure to visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and music.

In one month, because people seemed to love it last year — it’s another December of micro-fiction. Allrighty, then…

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

[Listen Here]

Hello, this is Christopher. Except for the time I took a bit of a hiatus and explained it, here, I’ve never used Not About Lumberjacks to update listeners about things going on with me. It’s always been stories and the Behind the Cut follow-up for the stories.

But there are some cool things going on that I thought I’d share. I’ll keep it short.

I’m mostly recording this to let everyone know that today (October 12), I’m on the ScreamQueenz podcast with Michael Howie and the show’s host, Patrick Walsh, discussing the [not-so] horror film, Dave Made a Maze. Not About Lumberjacks listeners will recognize Michael Howie as the narrator for last November’s lumberjack story that was NOT about lumberjacks, “The Hidebehind.” So why were we on the ScreamQueenz podcast?

Every October, Patrick runs a Pod-o-Thon benefitting New Alternatives NYC, which assists homeless LGBTQ+ youth. If you’re so inclined, there’s a link to the fundraiser in the notes, or you can go to fundraise.newalternativesnyc.orq/sq to donate. And if listening to three bearded guys talking about a very fun movie is your thing, go to screamqueenz.com – and that’s a z after screamqueen – or click the link in the notes. It’s a fun episode, and you don’t need to have seen the movie to enjoy it.

In other news, I’m in the process of reading the first readable draft of my novel, A Magic Life. You may recall hearing the first chapter posted on Not About Lumberjacks; if not, I’ll include a link in the notes. It’s always good when you reread something you’ve written and love it more than you expected. I look forward to passing it off to some first-line readers soon.

And while work on the novel continues, work on stories for Not About Lumberjacks rolls on…at least for the next good handful of months. Were I one inclined to call a block of episodes a season, I might go as far as saying the new season of Not About Lumberjacks is about to begin.

Later this month, it’s not a Halloween story, but it IS a story about a monster. Booger is about a kid who makes a goopy monster in his bathtub…and all the mayhem that follows.

In November, I’m not sure if it will be another one-shot audio drama like Strange Audio from a couple years ago, or just a narrated story, but I hope for a self-contained (and ridiculous) audio drama called Waking the Lumberjack. Keeping with the November tradition of stories NOT about lumberjacks in honor of the show’s anniversary, it’s an over-the-top story about tag team wrestlers attending a funeral unlike any other.

Last December’s multiple super-short short stories seemed to be a hit, so this December will see a collection of micro fiction again…including a Christmas tale of some sort.

January will FINALLY make Not About Lumberjacks listener Tim Czarnecki happy with the release of the post-apocalyptic office story I’ve been talking about for almost a year! Alive in HQ is about an office worker left to pick up the pieces at corporate headquarters following the end of the world as we know it.

I have a few other stories waiting to be recorded, and several stories in various states of progress. Off the top of my head, something that I found that’s even older than Memorial Park. It’s rather dismal. There’s an FBI procedural about a circus. And I hope you’ll understand if I go on a bit of a literary kick early next year as I shop around A Magic Life.

Wow…this ended up longer than I expected. The good thing is there’s a steady stream of Not About Lumberjacks coming. Until then, I hope you’ll consider donating to New Alternatives, and I hope all is going well with you.

As always, thank you for listening. And…

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

[Listen]

DEAR GOD

by Christopher Gronlund

Jimmy Ingersol started calling himself Jimmy Mack when he dropped out of college and decided to live on the streets. It started as an experiment for a sociology class, taking the train from Evanston into Chicago and watching the homeless. He picked up their mannerisms and paid attention to how they dressed. He listened to how they talked and followed them around during the day. When he was ready, he dressed the part and had his story: he told people he moved to Chicago from downstate in the hope of landing a decent job. He told people things didn’t work out as planned and that’s how he ended up on State Street in the South Loop, where rampant gentrification made it one of the better places in the city to be homeless.

Jimmy had his cardboard sign: “NEED MONEY TO GET TO HARRISBURG.”

When people asked, Jimmy explained, “I grew up downstate and didn’t want to work at Wal Mart or drive a coal truck. I figured I could find a better job up here in Chicago, but it didn’t work and now I’m thinking driving a coal truck or working in an auger mine isn’t so bad. At least I’d have a job the rest of my life.”

Jimmy made more money with his cardboard sign than some MBAs coming out of Kellogg School of Management at Northwestern.

* * *

It was a chilly morning when “Jimmy Mack” met the man with the stamp.

Jimmy spent the morning weathering a new cardboard sign with his sob story. His old sign got wet and didn’t make it home to the condo he kept when he started making good money being “homeless.” He learned enough about preying on human sentiments to know that a fresh cardboard sign made the wealthy people taking over the South Loop feel like they were giving their earnings to a scam artist. A well-worn sign and downcast eyes made them feel like they were doing something generous.

Jimmy was about to call it quits when a thin man in a perfectly fitting designer pea coat approached. Jimmy made quick eye contact and then looked down in mock shame. The man stopped and handed a tiny scrap of paper to Jimmy. It looked like a postage stamp.

“Thank you,” Jimmy said. It wasn’t what he was fishing for, and he’d throw it back when the man got out of sight.

“You’re welcome,” the man said. Jimmy looked up. The man had a model’s face; a manicured hand pointed at the stamp. “That’s worth more than anything I have in my wallet.”

“How so?” Jimmy was used to certain kinds of people messing with him, telling him to get a job and stop being a bum. He was used to people handing him wet beer labels, handfuls of pennies, and club flyers—it was one of the main reasons he started working the homeless day shift. But he’d never been given a postage stamp. He wondered if the man had just handed him a valuable stamp.

“Do you ever pray?” the thin man said.

“Yeah, sometimes.” Jimmy hadn’t prayed in years, but he knew the value to acting religious and saying “God bless you,” to people who gave him money.

“And you’re still homeless. Think about that. I’m guessing everybody on the streets prays to get off the streets. And yet, here they all are.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So?” the thin man in the designer-cut pea coat said. “Prayer doesn’t work. I remember watching the news about a bus crash a few years back. Many people died when a bus slammed into the supports beneath an overpass. They interviewed a survivor and asked how they survived. ‘I prayed, and I lived,’ she said. But all those people praying up front died. The person who lived survived because she was in the back of the bus—the part that wasn’t crushed and on fire. Prayer didn’t help the people at the front of the bus anymore than it helped the woman at the back. Prayer is a sham.”

“What’s that have to do with this stamp?”

“That stamp’s real. God doesn’t have time to hear the billions of prayers sent his way. Hell, he barely has time to answer his occasional mail.”

“His mail? You’re telling me God’s got a mailbox?”

“Yes. I know it sounds strange, but it’s true. There are people who would kill for that stamp. You write a letter, put it in an envelope, drop it in a mailbox, and God will actually hear what you’re asking for once. No address needed—the stamp gets the letter to him just like that! He’ll answer three questions. Any three questions you ask.”

Jimmy wasn’t buying it. “I thought that’s what genies did.”

“Nah, that’s where they got the whole three question genie thing. God was there in the beginning, before we started making up stories like the Bible and genies.”

“I’m supposed to believe this?”

“That is totally up to you,” the thin man said, drawing his coat tighter at his neck. “What’s it hurt to try? If I’m messing with you, nothing happens and your life goes on like it is. If I’m right, you get the Big Guy’s attention. All it takes is writing a letter and mailing it. Nothing to lose—everything to gain.”

“I’m homeless, man. I don’t have a mailbox.”

“That’s the beauty of this. It’s God…man. You don’t need a mailbox. His reply will just appear after he reads your letter.”

“Whatever.” Jimmy looked down at the stamp, at a painted image of fluffy clouds with sunlight breaking through. If God had a postage stamp, it’s what Jimmy imagined it would look like. “You sure you don’t have any cash?”

The thin man pulled out his wallet from an inside pocket hidden away in his pea coat. He reached in, pulled out a hundred dollar bill, and dangled it before Jimmy. “You have a choice: the C-note or the stamp.”

Jimmy looked at the man, the money, and the stamp. Running his fingers over the surface of the stamp, he could almost feel it radiating warmth, like the sun breaking through the clouds was real. He could almost smell the passing storm. He could almost smell hope. Jimmy thought about what three questions he’d ask God.

The God thing and Jimmy didn’t get along. It wasn’t that Jimmy didn’t believe in God, but he definitely thought the guy living upstairs wasn’t all he was cracked up to be by his followers. Jimmy lost his mother to cancer when he was five, and the two women his father went on to marry following the death were witches as far as Jimmy was concerned. His father was only half there for his son. Every time Jimmy got sick while growing up, he wondered if it was cancer. He never really had friends. When he was young, Jimmy spent a lot of time praying to God.

Prayers that were never answered.

He rubbed the stamp between his thumb and forefinger, thinking about the thin man’s words: Nothing to lose—everything to gain.

“I’ll take the stamp.”

The thin man returned the hundred-dollar bill to his wallet, and then slid the wallet to his inside coat pocket.

“Be sure you make that letter count. I have faith in you—you’re quite articulate for a kid from downstate living on the streets.”

When the thin man was out of sight, Jimmy got up and headed home.

* * *

Dear God,

My name’s James Ingersol, but you already know that I bet. I’d say I’m homeless, but you’d know I’m lying. I’ll keep this short.

Some guy gave me a stamp. He told me the stamp would get this letter to you. He said you don’t have time for so many prayers, but said you answer mail to those dedicated enough to send it. So here it goes, my one chance to talk to you.

My three questions:

1. I want to know why you killed my mom when I was a kid.

2. I want to know how I’m going to die.

3. I want to know when I’m going to die.

Sincerely,

James Ingersol

* * *

The next morning, “Jimmy Mack” didn’t go to his job in the streets. Jimmy walked to the post office, dropped the letter in the mailbox, and returned to his condo where he waited.

And waited…

He sat for weeks, waiting for the answers to the three things he wanted to know more than anything. He wondered if his life of lies put him in bad standing with God; he prayed that he’d receive a reply and vowed to go back to college and stop preying on the sympathies of others to make a buck. He vowed to finish his degree and help the homeless. He pounded on his walls one night, cursing the heavens for believing in something as stupid as the stamp. Then he dropped to his knees and apologized for not believing—anything for the letter; anything for the answers to his three questions.

Jimmy Ingersol was napping on his couch when he heard the mail slot creak and something fall to his hardwood floor. He ran to the front door and looked down. The envelope had fallen face down. He picked it up and turned it over.

There was the cloud stamp!

The thin man was right—he’d finally get the answers to the three things that Jimmy wanted to know more than anything else. More importantly, all his doubting was wrong—there really was a God sitting at some writing desk in the clouds, answering letters to those lucky enough to come across the magic stamp. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened his eyes, Jimmy read the notice from the post office written across the envelope:

“RETURN TO SENDER—NO GOD BY THAT NAME AT THIS ADDRESS.”

* * *

Jimmy flew into a rage, punching a hole in the wall and tearing up the envelope.

On the other side of the door, the thin man and a large friend made their way to the elevator.

“You’re such an asshole, Loki!” the big man said.

“But it cracked your ass up, brother. The kid was taking people’s money. I’m just teaching him a lesson.”

“Suuuuuuuuure you are.”

The elevator doors opened, and Loki said, “Why don’t we go grab a brew and see what other trouble we can get into. I know a place a couple blocks away.”

Thor clapped his brother on his shoulder. “You had me at ‘brew…’”

[Listen Here]

The very first thing I ever wrote with the hope of publication involved a god-like entity fooling a mortal. It was a 12-page comic book story for an anthology.

Nine months into Not About Lumberjacks, I shared a story called The Weight of the World, which also dealt with gods.

So, I suppose, “Dear God” is in the spirit of those earlier stories.
“Dear God” was another story to come out of an old writing group I once belonged to. I can’t remember the terms of the challenge. (Each meeting, one of us would come up with a person; another a place; and the last one a thing.) I can’t even remember if “A stamp that reaches God,” or “A postage stamp…” was the thing for that meeting.
Hell, for all I know, I just came up with the story and shared it with the group and my brain is laying the old challenges over my memory.

* * *

I’ve always been an atheist, but I’ve always been fascinated by things like gods and ghosts and other things of the sort. With gods, I think much of it goes back to my mom supporting her little atheist kid, but also letting me know there were OTHER gods than Christianity God. Throw in discovering the old Deities and Demigods resource book for Dungeons and Dragons in the early 80s, and the thought of gods swaying the fates of mortals has always been a story gold mine.

In gods, all that is good and bad about humans can be pulled out of our everyday existences in the hope of living better lives. Granted, many twist lessons meant to enhance our lives in the hope of controlling others or getting ahead, and that’s why I think stories like “Dear God” are interesting.

Jimmy Mack/James Ingersol cheats to get ahead. It’s nice seeing someone like that getting caught by the law; it appeals to an ingrained sense of justice most humans seem to have. Bad people get caught, and good people get rewarded. And when a bad guy is caught by a god, there’s an even greater sense of justice occurring.

* * *

A friend (Laura Lange, host of the Peaceful Life podcast), mentioned that she envisioned Tom Hiddleston as Loki and Chris Hemsworth as Thor. While the story was written well before the Thor Marvel movies were filmed, I definitely envisioned the two actors as well as I narrated the story.

Loki and Thor are two characters I’ve always liked. They may have been the first Norse gods I knew about. They complement each other well, and are ripe for stories.

Add to that how popular they are right now in the minds of many thanks to the Marvel movies, and it was definitely the right time to record “Dear God.”

Until next time, be good…because you never know who’s watching you…

* * *

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, episodes, and voice talent.

As I mentioned at the end of “Dear God,” I’m working on wrapping up a novel, so I’m not sure when the next episode of Not About Lumberjacks will be released. It might be the post-apocalyptic office story I’ve mentioned for MONTHS, or it might be a story older than any I’ve ever shared on the show…

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