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Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER SIX

“Fried Squirrels and ‘Buttermilk’”

            In Aunt Margie’s front yard, my cousins, Debbie and Daryl, were sitting in a bed of dandelions.  I have no idea what they were saying to each other as we drove up, but judging by their actions, I’m guessing it went something like this: Daryl popped the head of a dandelion into Debbie’s face and said, “Your Mama had a baby and its head popped off!”  Debbie grabbed a dandelion from the ground and said, “Hey, Daryl.  You can tell if someone is allergic to butter with dandelions.”  Daryl probably said, “How’s that?” and Debbie put the dandelion beneath his chin.

            “If your chin turns yellow, it means you’re allergic.”

            She rubbed a dandelion on Daryl’s chin, staining it yellow.  He laughed.  It looked like a loving situation: two siblings at play, but the truth revealed itself when Debbie grabbed a whole handful of dandelions (dirty roots and all). 

            “Now let’s see if you’re really allergic, you dirty little bastard!”

            She violently ground the mass into poor Daryl’s face—we could hear him screaming for help all the way from the car.  She shut him up with another handful, which she shoved down his throat, choking him.  Had they both been boys, my aunt could have named them Cain and Abel; Debbie was always trying to kill poor Daryl.  Dad beeped the horn to get their attention.

            My aunt burst through the screen door and saw her fighting children.  “Y’all cut that out!” she hollered as she made her way to the car.

            Aunt Margie was the hillbilly version of my Mom.  Both thought beehive hairdos were still all the rage and they didn’t quite understand polka-dotted dresses were not the most flattering thing heavy women could wear.  Aunt Margie didn’t dye her hair; it was starting to gray.  She thought dying hair was a luxury only afforded to “high-class city folk,” like Mom.  They hadn’t seen each other for awhile and the first words from my aunt’s mouth after Mom said, “How are you doing, Marge?” were, “You got a smoke?”

            “Hold Lucky,” Mom said, handed the little beast off to my aunt.  She held him at arm’s length as he struggled to spin around and bite her.  Mom fished her cigarettes from her purse, lit two, and traded one for Lucky.  Both inhaled deeply, exhaled and sighed, then finally hugged.

            “It’s good to see ya, Mary,” my aunt said.

            “Good to see you, too,” Mom said.  “How’ve you been?”

            “We’re holding our own up here—we’re holding our own.”

             Aunt Margie caught sight of the twins and me.  She rushed over for a hug and kiss.  The hugs were never all that bad, but the kisses…the woman had three teeth, and those teeth looked like hardened pieces of caramel.  Her breath smelled like grizzled animal fat and tobacco, and she exhaled smoke in my face as she tried kissing me full on the lips.  I was able to turn my head and give her my cheek, but it was still a horrible experience.

            “My, how you’ve grown!” she said, before making her way to the twins.

            She hugged them both, smothering the pair against her breasts as she squeezed with her burly arms.  “Look at you two!”  Somehow the twins were spared kisses.

            “Hi, Margie,” Dad said.  Before she could hug him, he added, “Otis around?”

            Otis was my uncle—the male version of Aunt Margie, only dumber.  He had given up a career in coal mining to focus on his alcoholism.  Aunt Margie refused to be “hitched to a bum,” and demanded he work, so he tricked her into believing selling crap on the side of a hill was a reputable job. 

            ‘He’s round back working on a fridge,” she said.  Business has been pretty good, lately.  Shoulda seen how many things we had out in the yard a couple weeks ago.”

            I couldn’t imagine the yard being more littered with junk!  Neither could Dad because we both held back laughter when we made eye contact.  I looked away and Dad said, “That’s not surprising, Margie.  I mean this is quite a location; I’m surprised you haven’t sold the whole lot.”  I tried holding my laugh in and ended up snorting, hurting my sinuses and making my eyes water.  Dad lived for making me crack up.  Anticipating more laughter, Mom pointed to Aunt Margie’s kids and said, “Michael, you remember your cousins, Debbie and Daryl, right?” 

            I didn’t remember meeting them before, but said “Yeah.  Hi, guys,” anyway.

            “Howdy,” Debbie said.  Daryl was still spitting dirt and catching his breath.

            Mom turned her attention to the twins.

            “You haven’t met,” she said.  “But these are your cousins, Debbie and Daryl.  They’re twins, just like you guys.”

            “They aren’t like us,” they said, refusing to acknowledge their presence.

            “I better get back in the house before lunch burns,” Margie said.  “I’ll holler at y’all when it’s done.”

            “Think I’ll go see what Otis is up to,” Dad said.  While he wouldn’t want to spend any length of time with my aunt and uncle, I think Dad saw them as a little piece of Americana.  Honest-to-God Appalachia!  He went around back.      

            The twins wanted nothing to do with their relatives in the hills.  “Can we wait in the car, Mom?” they said.

            “No, you can’t wait in the car!  You’re gonna come inside and help me and your aunt.”

            “If we have to…”

            Mom looked at me and said, “Michael, why don’t you hang out with Daryl until then?  Have him show you the woods.”

            I have a hard time to this day describing Daryl.  He looked like the banjo-playing kid in Deliverance, only with two black eyes from being knocked around by Debbie all the time.  He walked with a limp and spoke in a slow, clumsy manner (I later found out he once stuck his tongue out at Debbie, who kicked him in the jaw at the very moment, causing him to bite half his tongue off!).  The thought of venturing into the woods with him scared me, and I wished I had followed Dad around back to see Uncle Otis (safety in numbers).

            As I walked toward the woods, I wondered if Dad was having better luck.  He told me it went something like this:

            He wandered around back, where Uncle Otis was welding a green Kenmore door onto a white Whirlpool refrigerator.  Otis had a little fenced off work area where he toiled the day away, creating Frankenstein appliances.  His fence was constructed of wood scrap and chicken wire, and a sign reading “Git Back!” hung on the gate.  Dad waited as Otis finished his weld and realized he had company.

            “Well, hell!” he said.  “If it ain’t ol’ Jimmy!  How ya doing, boy?”  He called everyone “boy” or “girl” regardless of age.

            “Fine,” Dad said.  “How about you, Otis?”

            “Can’t complain.  You gonna come over and shake my hand, or ya too good for that?”

            Dad pointed at the “Git Back!” sign and said, “I figured you’d want me to stand back and not crowd you.”  

            Otis laughed.  “Aw, hell!  That sign’s fer the boy.  He comes back here and gets in the fridges.  Stupid cuss damn-near done suffocated ‘while back, so I put that sign up and told him I’d whip his ass a good’n if I ever caught him back here again.”

            Dad wandered in and shook Otis’s hand.

            “Wanna beer, Jimmy?”

            “It’s still a little early,” Dad said.

            “Ain’t never too early when it comes to beer!”

            Uncle Otis pulled two beers from a dirty old toilet bowl stuffed with melting ice and tossed one to Dad.  They both popped their tops, but only Otis drank.

            “What are you working on?” Dad said, trying to start a conversation.

            “Just welding an old door on this here fridge so’s I can set it out front to sell.”

            “You make good money doing this?”

            “Enough to keep an old commode fulla beers all the time,” Otis said, flipping down his welding visor.  “Lemme just finish this up right quick.  Don’t go lookin’ at it, or you’ll fry your eyes all to hell.  Stupid son of mine is damn-near blind and it ain’t all from touching himself down below, if you know what I mean?  He’d watch me weld all day long if I didn’t scare him off.”

            Otis finished up, rocked his visor back, and guzzled his beer.  He looked off in the distance, at nothing in particular.  Dad tried seeing what caught his interest, but there was nothing there.  Otis snapped back to attention and said, “So, that cousin of mine, Mary, around?”

            “Yeah,” Dad said.  “She’s in the house with her sister.”

            While Dad was reminded about the creepy twist in my family tree, I was walking the far end of the property with one of its more crooked branches: Daryl.  Their yard gave way to a large cluster of woods climbing up the side of a small mountain.  It would have been neat had Daryl not been there and had I not had the creepy feeling some toothless yokel might appear from behind a tree and begin an introduction with, “You sure got a purty mouth…” 

            “So what do you guys do around here for fun?” I said.

            “Dunno.  Ain’t much to do, ‘cept hunt an’ stuff.”

            I tried showing interest.  “That sounds cool.  I’ve never been hunting.”

            “Wanna go?”

            “Nah, we’re not staying long,” I said.  “We don’t have the time.” 

            I thought I’d be spared the hunt with my excuse, but I was wrong. 

            “Don’t take much time at all,” Daryl said, picking up a rock from a pile at the base of the tiny mountain.  Before I could ask him what he planned to do with it, he hurled it into the top of a tree—down fell a squirrel!  I was horrified and so was the squirrel; the initial hit didn’t kill it, but I could tell Daryl was used to hunting like that because he picked up a larger stone in both hands, ran over to the poor thing, and ended its life with a few savage blows to its head.  He picked it up by the tail and wandered my way.

            “Wanna learn to skin it?”

            “I’ll pass,” I said in horror.  “I think I hear my mom calling.”

            I ran all the way across the backyard—the length of a couple football fields—and  made my way around the side of the house, where I bumped into Debbie.

            “Oh, hi,” I said.

            “Howdy.” 

            She just stared at me, saying nothing.  I was hoping for some kind of ice breaker, even though I didn’t want to speak to her.  A pregnant hound dog wandered by, its breasts leaking milk that trailed behind in the dirt.

            “That your dog?” I said.

            “Yep.”

            It was like she could only speak in single words.

            “What’s her name?”

            “Buttercup,” she said.  “She’s a milkin’ hound.  You can tell by her titties.”

            I didn’t know what to say; I wanted to run all the way back to Jersey.  She wasn’t finished talking, though—perhaps she was proud she finally mastered the fine art of multiple-word sentences.  She was on a roll.

            “Wanna see my titties?” she said.

            I never loved my aunt more than when she yelled, “Y’all get in here if ya wanna eat!”  I ran faster than I’ve ever run in my life…all the way into the house with the tarpaper roof, to a table covered in an Appalachian Feast.

            My aunt set the table with paper plates—they looked used.  In the middle of the table was a green Tupperware bowl older than me, full of chunks of some kind of fried meat.  Having “been huntin’” with Daryl, I had an idea what kind of meat the bowl contained and my appetite fled from my stomach.  Each setting had a glass full of an off-colored milk.  I can only guess it came from Buttercup herself!

            “Damn, girl!” Uncle Otis said, coming in the front door.  “That squirrel sure smells good!”  I was hungry, but I was not about to allow fried squirrel and dog milk to enter my system.  For once, my family all agreed on something—when Aunt Margie looked at us and said, “Dig in!” we all replied, “We’ve eaten!”           

“Suit yerself,” Otis said.  “More chow for us!”  He looked into the living room and shouted, “You gonna eat with us, Paps?”

            I hadn’t noticed, but sitting in a rocking chair in the living room was an old man—Otis’s father. Paps was a frail husk; he looked like a discarded rag doll tossed on an old rocking chair for rustic atmosphere.  He could bathe a million times and never look clean, the result of years underground, working as a drillman in the mines.  His pores were packed with grime that would never let go. 

“You hearin’ me, Paps?” Otis said.  “Gonna eat?”

Paps said something no one but Otis seemed to understand.  When he spoke, it sounded like he was talking through a mouthful of marbles and molasses.  A rumbling rattle emitted from his chest, and he gurgled like a fancy coffee machine.  Every sentence ended in a coughing fit.  Black lung.

            “You sure, ol’ boy?  I’ll bring a plate to ya,” Otis said.  Between the heavy accent and his lung affliction, the only word I could make out from Paps was, “No.”  I guess when you can hardly breathe and it hurts to move, eating is not high on your list of priorities, even if it’s something as appetizing as fried squirrel and hound dog milk. 

I felt bad for Aunt Margie and Uncle Otis; even for Debbie and Daryl.  It’s easy to make fun of people like them, but as easy a target for ridicule as they can be, there was a sadness in that room—everyone waiting for the day Paps’s chest would percolate no more.  I remember the air in West Virginia filling my lungs on that trip; few places in my travels have I ever drawn as fresh a breath.  It seemed criminal that Paps couldn’t. 

I still hadn’t taken a seat and I was glad when Aunt Margie said, “Michael, I forgot to get the butter.  Can you go in the fridge and get it fer me?”  It gave me an excuse to stop thinking about how depressed I was becoming.

“Sure,” I said.

The fridge was one of Uncle Otis’s creations—his masterpiece.  The body was perhaps once an old, brown GE model from the late 60s or early 70s, but Uncle Otis had stripped it down, painted it with chrome spray paint, and worked it over with a steel wool pad, giving it a poorly-rendered brushed steel look.  The reason for such an effort?  The door!

Uncle Otis had found a discarded door to a genuine, honest-to-God, stainless steel gourmet kitchen refrigerator on one of his outings.  Uncle Otis had a talent for being able to fit the door from one brand of refrigerator to the body of another.  It looked like the door had seen better days, but it was clear Uncle Otis put his heart into repairing this one—he had buffed out the scratches as best he could, hammered the dents back out, and polished it, just like restoring an old car body.  That door was their prized possession, and to show their appreciation, they covered it in grease stains and passages from the Bible held in place with tacky magnets.

I opened the door; it was so heavy, it almost tipped the entire fridge over.  The interior of the refrigerator was pretty vacant, except for some raw meat in open Tupperware bowls, an empty bottle of catsup, and a waxy brick of butter I could only assume came from the same source as the milk: an old blue tick hound dog.    

When I closed the refrigerator door, I noticed a yellowed newspaper story from 1968 stuck to the door with a smiling watermelon magnet.  Reading the first two paragraphs, I finally found out how my grandfather had died, and why Mom didn’t like discussing his death.

REOPENING TOMB FOR 78 MEN

WASHINGTON (AP) – Slowly, agonizingly slowly

for the relatives of the 78 men whose bodies lie below,

the seared walls of Mountaineer Coal Co’s No. 9 mine

are cooling off.

And as steel bits chew through the West Virginia

mountain shielding the shafts and tunnels, officials

prepare the plans to enter the mine for the recovery

expedition and the first step in resuming digging.

I don’t know why I did it—perhaps it was a way, in my mind, to have a piece of the grandfather I never knew—but I took the article from the fridge and shoved it deep into my pocket.  I felt like I was stealing a lot more than just a piece of old newsprint, but I also felt I deserved it; after all, Mom and Aunt Margie had known the man—I could only wonder what he was like. 

            I brought the plate of butter to the table and set it down.

            “Y’all gonna at least sit down with us?” Uncle Otis said, taking a seat at the head of the table.  I sat down and looked at hound’s milk in a Dukes of Hazzard glass Dad kept eyeing.  The house was full of little gems in my father’s mind: plastic and glass drinkware from such silver screen classics as Smokey and the Bandit, to small screen classics like Battlestar Galactica.  Daryl, who rushed to the table only after tossing the dead squirrel in the sink (but not washing his hands), drank from a plastic Kool-Aid Man mug I know my father was looking for.  From a tacky lamp made from a conch shell my grandmother gave my aunt after a trip to Florida, to a shellacked frog dressed in tiny overalls and holding a little banjo, I knew my old man was trying to figure out the best way to buy every tacky thing they owned and get it into the Inferno without Mom noticing.

            I watched my aunt, uncle, and two cousins make short work of their lunch.  They maybe had twenty teeth between the four of them, but the teeth they did have seemed made to shred gristly squirrel meat into small enough pieces to swallow when chased to their stomachs with warm dog milk.  Watching them, I never wanted to eat again!  They wolfed everything down as though they hadn’t eaten in weeks (a distinct possibility)—they made my family’s eating habits seem the epitome of civilized behavior.

            When they were finished, Aunt Margie pointed toward the sink and said,“Ya sure y’all ain’t hungry?  It won’t take but a second to skin that critter up an’ fry it fer ya.”

            “We’re sure!” we all said in unison, like the twins.

            “What about your dog?  We have some table scraps?”  Lucky wouldn’t even touch their lunch, and he was known to dig in Mom’s flower garden and eat poop left there by neighborhood cats.

            Uncle Otis wanted us to “sit just a spell,” but Dad insisted we had a schedule to keep.  We packed Aunt Margie’s things into the back of the Inferno and the twins climbed in the back with all our belongings, not even saying goodbye to Uncle Otis or our cousins.  No one seemed to care, though; not many people felt comfortable around Olivia and Elvis. 

            Dad made one more quick trip to the back of the car as Mom said goodbye to Uncle Otis.  I saw him set a box in the back and take a quick peek inside.  He pulled out the Kool-Aid Man mug and smiled.  When Uncle Otis was done giving Mom a hug that was obviously a bit too friendly and bothered her, I saw him slide a wad of bills from his pocket and thumb through them.  Dad amazed me—he was a pro at buying things right under people’s noses, a handy talent to have when you’re married to someone like Mom, who criticized your every purchase, even though her own spending habits were questionable at best, too.  For Uncle Otis, I’m guessing it was a bigger payoff than if he sold every appliance and beat up car in the yard; I’m sure old toilets overflowed with cold beer and ice later that evening.

We piled into the Inferno while Otis shouted, “Y’all take care, now!  An’ don’t go fallin’ in that canyon, ya hear?!”

            We all shouted “Bye!” but Otis wasn’t done. 

            “An’ when you bring my old lady back, be sure to leave some room fer lunch!” Dad waved politely and put carin gear.

* * *

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Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER FIVE

“The Genetic Puddle From Whence I Crawled”

            We pulled off the interstate, and soon four lane highways turned into narrow two-lane roads as we made our way into the hills.  The narrow roads gave way to a dirt road Dad turned onto and carefully navigated.  There were deep ruts and holes cut by past storms everywhere—it looked more like the practice grounds for an army artillery unit, than a trail leading up to a residence.  

            “Hey, kids!  Look up there!” Dad said, pointing at a treetop where a large bird was roosting.  “A red-tailed hawk!” 

As we chugged up the trail, careful not to fall into craters along the way, the hawk took off, annoyed by the occasional revving of the engine as Dad maneuvered the Inferno from one pothole to another.  Further up, we saw a white-tailed deer sprint toward the woods and leap into the trees to safety.

            “Isn’t that great?” Dad said.  I think I was the only one impressed.  I loved seeing all kinds of different animals on our trips: bald eagles in the Northwest, armadillos in Texas, alligators in Florida and Louisiana, roadrunners in New Mexico, and the moose we once saw in a marsh on a trip to Minnesota.  Even more common animals, like hawks and deer, were a welcome sight.  We had plenty of wildlife back home in Jersey, but right in Atlantic City—aside from some birds—all we had were rats.

            “It’s just a deer and a bird, James,” Mom said, petting Lucky.  “They’re nothing compared to Lucky.  Isn’t that right, Lucky-Boy?”  The little dog, which reminded me of one of those rats back home, vibrated with excitement.

I let Dad know I at least liked seeing animals in the wild.  “That’s cool, Dad.  Thanks for pointing out the hawk.”

Even though I had to put up with Mom and the twins, I always considered myself fortunate to have seen so much of the country by the time I was thirteen.  We really had been just about everywhere in the lower forty-eight states on Dad’s trips.  I appreciated the geography of each area, the subtle things that made each section of the country different and special.  West Virginia may get a bad rap, but it’s a gorgeous state.  The mountains roll on and on and never seem to end.  All the wildlife, the wildflowers—I thought Aunt Margie was lucky to live in such a pretty place…then I saw her house! 

The front yard was littered with old, mismatched appliances and beat-up, rusty cars, all with FOR SALE signs on them.  Suddenly a yard full of pink lawn flamingos didn’t seem so tacky.  If it was a piece of scrap metal that once drove, cleaned clothes, or kept beer cans chilled, it was for sale in Aunt Margie’s front yard. 

When I finally caught sight of the house, I was surprised it wasn’t up on blocks, like most of the cars scattered about the property.  Calling it a house is giving it too much credit—shack might even be too kind.  It looked liked a gigantic fort built from scrap lumber and tar paper by clumsy kids.  The only things giving a hint people actually lived inside was the coal bin beneath the front porch and a big TV antennae on the roof.  I’m sure one good shove would have been all it took to bring the whole place down.  It suddenly dawned on me looking at that shack on the side of the hill: I was related to Hee Haw!

Outside my immediate family, Grandma, and Aunt Margie, I didn’t know much about my relatives.  Dad’s side was pretty normal—at least this is what I’ve gathered from hearing his stories; my grandparents died before I was born.  Dad’s mother and father lived on a farm outside Topeka, Kansas and were as Whitebread America as they come: Grandma baked pies and cleaned house while Grandpa took care of the fields and talked a lot about “the good ol’ days.”  They were a tight-knit family and supported Dad’s dreams.  Dad was an only child, and even though Grandpa needed him around the farm, when Dad decided to head out and see the world, my grandparents supported him.  When his writing career never took off, they didn’t say, “See, we told you so;” they encouraged him to keep trying.  When he gave up the dream to move to New Jersey to be with Mom and sell insurance policies, they gave him money and their blessings.  Dad was pretty normal, except for one thing when he was growing up: he thought he was Superman.

He didn’t just pretend to be Superman like many kids—he was convinced that just like the genuine article, he crash landed in a field in the Midwest after his birth parents placed him in a ship and sent him light years across galaxies to the safety of Earth.  He was convinced that one day his “earth father” would take him out to the barn, show him the ship he arrived in and the spot where he crashed, and his life would never be the same again.  His mother would make a costume from the blankets from his home planet that were found in his ship, and he would leave Kansas to fight crime not just in the big city, but all over the world, making the planet safe for mankind.

Even after an episode resulting in injury, he still held on to his belief that he was Kal-El, the super kid from another planet.  When he was ten, he tied a red tablecloth around his neck and climbed out his bedroom window, onto the overhang that kept the front porch safe and dry during summer storms.  He took a few deep breaths and ran as fast as he could toward the edge, jumping with all his might before going over, throwing his arms out in front of him for even more power.  He fell like a stone—straight into the dirt below where he broke his nose, knocked out four teeth, and broke two ribs.  For most children that would be proof enough that he was powerless, but it only convinced Dad to try harder.  He was more like Wile E. Coyote than Superman.

He was convinced a stress-inducing event would bring out his super powers when puberty hit.  He tried racing trains (almost getting hit twice!), and took running leaps at the barn, convinced his powers would suddenly kick in and he’d fly over the weathervane atop the roof.  He got a lot of concussions and facial lacerations, instead.  He ordered the Charles Atlas system from a comic book, going from a ninety-seven pound weakling, to Topeka’s most perfectly developed teen, but the superpowers never came.  When he finally accepted that he was, in fact, born of terrestrial parents and was little more than a dreamer trapped in the middle of nowhere, depression set in and he decided the best way to put it to rest would be by seeing the world.  That’s when he packed his bags and went off across America to find who he really was.

I’m glad Dad was a weird kid—I think growing up convinced he was the Man of Steel drove him to think big.  Most of those big dreams never came true, but he at least gave them a try, which is more than most people can say.  While he never saved the world from evil—while he never jumped into a phone booth to change into costume and fly off to save the day—to me, he was still Superman. 

Mom’s side of the family is where the real fun begins.  Her side is chock full of everything from stage magicians, to backwater hillbillies!  The only people I really knew on my mom’s side of the family were Grandma and Aunt Margie.  I knew my grandmother very well; she came for visits a couple times a year, and even when she was traveling, she always called every Sunday to chat with Mom.  Aunt Margie came for visits now and then (either my Dad paid for her to come out East, or my grandmother paid).  I always knew Aunt Margie was—for lack of a nicer way to put it—a backwards hick, but seeing where she came from drove that point home.

Aunt Margie always reminded me of a cow—I mean that in a good way.  She had huge, brown eyes like a cow, and a kindness and calm that went to her very core; a strange, almost Zen-like aura.  Like a cow, she had a faraway look about her, always deep in thought about not much at all.  She was her father’s favorite daughter, and I always got the impression Mom was jealous, not because she wasn’t as loved as Aunt Margie, but because—in Mom’s mind—everything between her and Aunt Margie was a competition and it was the one area Mom knew Aunt Margie had an edge.  There was no denying my grandfather liked Aunt Margie better; they were very similar. 

I always wondered about my grandfather growing up.  Mom spoke of Grandpa in the past tense for as long as I can remember—all I knew about him was he died about a year before I was born.  If I asked Mom to tell me about him, she’d say, “Your grandfather was a coalminer,” as though that explained everything.

Grandma met my grandfather when she was sixteen.  By the time she was seventeen, she had given birth to fraternal twins: Mom and Aunt Margie.  I figured my grandfather had to be a special guy to have married a woman as neat as my grandmother.  Years later, I found out they were never married; in fact, they had never even lived together or spent more than an evening in each other’s company.  My grandfather was little more than a horny teenager working in a coalmine who happened to win the affections of my grandmother one evening during a chance encounter.

Some family history: my great grandfather (Grandma’s father), was a magician based out of Atlantic City (The Great Gazpacho—he thought it was a catchy name; he didn’t realize he had named himself after soup).  He trained Grandma to be his assistant and the two traveled all over the country doing their act (the first time he took Grandma to the Grand Canyon was on a drive to LA, where he was hoping for a chance to break into movies—it never worked out).  My great-grandmother died giving birth to Grandma; my great-grandfather was a single father in a time raising children was still considered “women’s work.”  On a trip to Chicago in 1945, he decided to take the “scenic route” and show my grandmother the mountains—this route took him through West Virginia, where his car broke down not too far from Clarksburg.   

While waiting around the garage to have the car repaired, my grandmother met Earl Webb, who was stopping by to say hi to his friend, Bertham, a mechanic at the shop.  I’ve only seen one picture of my grandfather, an image of him standing with a group of coalminers.  In the photo, Grandpa is standing in the center of a group of hollow-looking men leaning on shovels, all wearing head lamps like big, psychic third eyes allowing them to see in the dark.  Looking at their blank stares made me think something was taken from them, something important from deep inside them that they all missed dearly.  Grandpa, though, was smiling, his arms wrapped around the two men flanking him, both looking proud to know him and stand in his presence.  It’s an old black and white photo, but Grandpa’s ice-blue eyes shine through the monochrome image and the grit covering his face.  I was amazed a human could get so dirty: every nook and wrinkle in his face full of soot, the ridges in his knuckles black with coal dust.  I guess he cleaned up well, or Grandma didn’t mind getting dirty.

He was fascinated with my grandmother because she was from “the big city,” and she was fascinated with him because he wasn’t.  By the time the car was repaired, my great-grandfather thought it was too late to head back out on the road and decided to spend the night in town.  Grandma and Earl made plans to meet later that evening; one thing led to another, and they did everything parents tell their children not to do before marriage.  The following morning, Earl showed my grandmother where he lived and gave her a piece of coal to remember him by, but that wasn’t all he gave her.  For the next nine months, she carried around more than just the memory of Earl Webb wherever she went.

When Grandma began showing signs of the pregnancy, she knew who the father was right away.  She may have been loose that evening in West Virginia, but she was no floozy—Earl Webb was the only man she ever allowed to know her in such a manner.  As Mom and Aunt Margie grew in her belly, she could no longer contort and fit inside secret compartments in magic boxes, and not many crowds wanted to see a pregnant girl in a tight outfit keep trying.  With no assistant, my great-grandfather’s act went belly up and he turned to his weakness for making money: gambling (at least I know where my mother gets it).  He spent all his time at Garden State Park, betting on horses, and before he knew it, he was in over his head, owing money he didn’t have to people you don’t want knowing your name.  They found his body in an alley not too far from the track.

With her father gone, Grandma had no choice but take odd jobs to make ends meet.  She did everything from selling concessions on the boardwalk, to housekeeping duties at the Chalfonte-Haddon Hall Racquet Club on the fifteenth floor of the famous hotel.  She sold tickets to shows, and even tried doing her own magic act, but no one wanted to hire a woman about to bear something illegitimate.  She did everything she could to earn a buck, right up until things changed inside her and she knew something big was about to happen.

She bought a bus ticket to West Virginia, making it to Clarksburg on Christmas Eve.  As she neared town, her contractions hit hard and it was just a matter of time before babies came into the picture.  The bus driver, noticing she was in pain and about to deliver, offered help, but she gritted her teeth and told him to keep driving.  When she reached her stop, the driver offered help again, but Grandma told him it was her problem, not his.  With a smile, she let him know the sentiment was appreciated, then she stepped from the warm bus into the bitter, snowy night.  As the bus pulled away, her water broke, spilling onto the surface of Highway 50.  With a blanket slung over her left shoulder and her suitcase in her right hand, she trudged off into the woods where she and Earl Webb had their fling nine months prior, and gave birth to my mother and aunt on the very spot where they were conceived.

She didn’t rest long before cleaning them up, swaddling them in the cleaner part of the blanket where they were delivered, and taking them to Earl Webb’s house.  She crept up to the front porch, tucked Mom and Aunt Margie in an opened suitcase, then knocked on the door and ran for the tree line where she hid to make sure someone answered.  When lights came on in the house and the front door opened, she made her way back to the highway to thumb a ride out West.  I don’t know if the Webbs could even read the note she left behind, but Mom still has it:

Dear Earl Webb,

You may not remember me, but we met about nine months ago when my father’s car broke down in town and we spent the night.  That evening, you and I came together in a union that resulted in the birth of these two precious girls.  I am not abandoning them, just asking that you care for them for the time being—I have every intention to provide for them. 

Unfortunately, the line of work I’m involved with calls for a lot of traveling, and raising two girls on the road is no life for growing children.  I will mail money to contribute to their support every two weeks—please consider the included funds my contribution until I can get on my feet.  When I am in a more stable position and able to provide for them, I will return and we can discuss their future.

Sincerely,

June Mangione

P.S.  The baby on your right is named Mary Catherine, and the one on the left is Margaret Rose.

I wonder what the Webbs thought, receiving such a package on Christmas Eve; my mom and Aunt Margie sitting there like little gifts.  For all I know, they may have thought they were good eatin’.  Grandma also left a fistful of cash—probably more than the Webbs had ever seen in one place at any given time.  But most of all I wonder what Earl’s face must have looked like seeing something he gave to Grandma come full circle and return to him late one Christmas Eve. 

            Grandma stuck up to her end of the bargain, sending bi-weekly support payments when she landed a gig as a magician’s assistant in California.  She later broke off and did her own act, touring nightclubs and learning ventriloquism on the side.  Six years later, she was back on the East Coast, doing shows in Atlantic City, where she had her own place.  She was finally ready to return to West Virginia, to discuss Mom and Aunt Margie’s future with the Webbs.   

             It had to be very confusing for a six year old; the mother you never knew coming out of nowhere, to see if you wanted to go live with her in the big city.   The Webbs could hardly afford to feed one child, let alone the pair, but Aunt Margie wanted to stay in the hills.  Mom, however—even at such a young age—had decided she was destined for far better than a life in Appalachia, and was ready to leave.  She took Grandma’s last name and went off to live far from the hills.   

When you think about it, Mom’s life was actually pretty neat: born behind a bus stop in the hills, raised by hillbillies in the impressionable years, and later, a strong-willed, female magician.  Still, her childhood had to skew things somewhat; my mother was far from normal, and when you factored Dad into the equation, things became even stranger.  But no matter how weird my immediate family could be, I was about to see we were far from backwards…

* * *

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Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

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Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Saint Christopher vs. the Dead Cow”

          We took the Atlantic City Expressway to the New Jersey Turnpike.  Dad turned north instead of south.

“Where are you going?” Mom said.

            “You know where I’m going, Mary.”

            “We’re not stopping for that damned cow, James.  We don’t have time!  It’s out of the way!”

            Like Mom, Dad was not without his own weird superstitions.  He began every road trip with a stop at the grave of Elsie the Cow—it was one of his favorite roadside attractions.  I don’t recall ever seeing a Borden Milk product in the house growing up, but for some reason, a road trip wasn’t a road trip in my old man’s eyes unless we stopped and paid homage to that artifact of the dairy marketing machine.

            “It’s good luck,” he said.

            “How is a cow good luck?” she said.  “It’s not even under the headstone.  It’s buried beneath tract housing.”

            Mom was right, while Elsie’s body rests on land that was once the farm we’re told she loved dearly, the headstone was moved a couple times and now rests several hundred yards away from her earthly remains.  Elsie’s final resting place now has town homes sitting on it!  The year of the trip was the same year Steven Spielberg’s Poltergeist came out and I wondered if there was any truth to building housing on a grave; I wondered if building a town home on a cow’s tomb resulted in the same horrors building on an Indian burial ground brought about…at least in Hollywood’s version.  Did the person owning the residence directly above Elsie’s skeleton ever wander down to get a glass of milk in the middle of the night and came face to face with the spectral body of Borden’s most beloved bovine? 

            “You’ve got your Saint Christopher necklace,” Dad said, “and I have Elsie the Cow.”

            Mom pulled her SAINT CHRISTOPHER, PROTECT US necklace from beneath her dress.  “Are you trying to compare a dead cow to an honest-to-God saint?!  That’s blasphemy, James—you’re going to Hell!”  To hear it from my mother, it was like she personally had the power to send people to an eternity in the company of Satan himself.  “I’m serious!  That’s like the Golden Calf, comparing a cow to Saint Christopher.”

            “Is Saint Christopher even a real saint?” I said.  I may not have been religious, but I kept tabs on things, just so I could get under Mom’s skin.  Dad tried hard not to laugh.

            “Of course he’s a real saint!” Mom said.  “What would you know about it, anyway?”

            “Oh…I just thought the church de-canonized him around the time I was born, but what do I know, I’m just an atheist.”

            “Quit being a smartass!” Mom said.  “I’m gonna have to fight hard to get you out of Purgatory, someday, Michael.”

            “Maybe not.  I’m sure the church will one day decide Purgatory doesn’t exist.”  I was on a roll.

            “Stop talking like that—“

            Dad interrupted Mom—he wanted to get back to his favorite cow.  “Look, we’ve never had problems on road trips when we stop in Princeton, first.  We can cut across Pennsylvania and still make good time.  Why break with tradition now?”

            “Because this is going to be a long enough trip without heading north, when we should be heading west,” Mom said.  Before Dad could speak, she added, “If you don’t turn around right now, I’m never gonna let you live it down, James!”

            “Fine,” Dad said, defeated.  “But if anything bad happens on this trip, I’m not going to listen when you blame it all on me…”

          We cut across Delaware and into Maryland in silence; the only noises were the sounds of the twins sharing a bag of marshmallows and Lucky chewing on one of my mother’s makeup compacts.  He got into some green eye shadow, and when he jumped up on the back of her seat, he growled at me with green teeth until Mom told Elvis to throw a marshmallow his way.  After skirting Baltimore, Dad popped in a Slim Whitman eight track, but fortunately for the rest of us, the stereo and eight track didn’t work—we would at least be spared such road trip classics as the Whitman Yodel, the Wabash Waltz, and Please Release Me.

            I tried reading comic books, I tried listening to music on my new Sony Walkman, but nothing worked.  Dad could easily drive fourteen hours straight through; I couldn’t imagine such long hauls in absolute silence, let alone crossing the country like a family of mimes.  Even the twins yakking away behind me would have been welcomed, but they didn’t make a sound.  It was up to me to break the monotony and bring the family back together.

            “Why don’t we all sing, or something?” I said, but everyone ignored me.

            “I’ll start.”  I sang, “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall…ninety-nine bottles of beer…take one down, pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall,” to no avail.  I gave it one more try; this time, louder.

            “NINETY-EIGHT BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL…NINETY-EIGHT BOTTLES OF BEER…TAKE ONE DOWN, PASS IT AROUND, AND HOW MANY BOTTLES OF BEER DO YOU HAVE LEFT ON THE WALL, EVERYBODY?”

            “None!” the twins said.  “Shut up!”

             “You shut up!” I said.  I was at least trying to make things better, but nobody cared.

            “Mommy, Michael’s being mean to us, again,” Olivia said.

            Mom swung around, almost knocking Lucky from his perch on the back of the seat and into my lap.  “Stop it, all of youse!”

            Realizing she almost hurt Lucky when she spun around, she grabbed him and coddled his rat-like body.  I returned to my issue of Fantastic Four, but the twins weren’t about to leave well enough alone.  I heard Elvis whisper something to Olivia.  Next thing I knew, she hit herself in the arm and started crying.

            “Oww!!!” she shouted.  “Mommy, Michael hit me!”

            “I did not!” I said.  “She’s lying!”

            Mom turned around again, this time brandishing Lucky like a weapon.  “I said stop!  Do I have to tell your father to turn this car around so I can get the ladle?!”

            I knew she’d never hit us with that damn ladle, but it would take years before the twins realized it was a threat bearing no weight.  They straightened right up and said, “No, we’ll be good.”  Mom looked at me, waiting for a response, but I wasn’t about to let her win with the old ladle threat.  She wanted some kind of acknowledgement from me that I heard her, but I just looked ahead at I-70 through the windshield.  Mom wanted to drive her point home, though.       

“Michael, don’t hit your sister again—“

            “But I didn’t do anything!”

            She rummaged through her purse and found Lucky’s dogbrush.  She handed the brush and the little beast to me.  ”If you need something to do, brush Lucky.”  She reached back into her purse and fished out her cigarettes. 

No sooner than I held him in my hands, he threw up on me!  The twins laughed and Mom handed me some napkins.  “Poor Lucky,” she said.  “Did Lucky-Dog get carsick?” 

“I’m about to be sick,” I said.

“He can’t help it, Michael,” Mom said.  “It’s not like he does it on purpose.”  I wouldn’t be so sure.  “Just brush him and he’ll calm down,” she said, returning to her magazines. 

I cleaned the mess from my lap; Lucky wolfed down a big bowl of dog food before we set out on the trip, and Mom must have also given him a waffle and orange juice, from the looks of things.  I noticed some tiny pieces of hard green plastic in the frothy pile—maybe pieces from one of Elvis’s plastic army men, or chunks of a Tupperware bowl Mom had crammed in the kitchen cabinets Lucky figured out how to get into.

            Brushing him was impossible.  Each time I tried getting near Lucky, he’d bite my hand.  I finally pinned him down so he couldn’t wiggle loose.  Sitting there, trying to keep my hands free from his sharp, little fangs just aching to draw blood, I thought about past road trips.

            We never got along like normal families, but we usually stuck together on my old man’s treks.  We had to stick together, just to stay sane!  Dad could drive for weeks, and if it didn’t take at least five days to reach our destination, he felt cheated.  When you’re forced to stop every twenty miles for side of the road photo opportunities, unity with even enemies like the twins was called for (Dad was convinced that one day he’d snap a picture of us without the twins making funny faces, or without us all looking so exhausted from being packed into a car for a week or more, that we looked tired and used, like truck-stop prostitutes).  When the madness of highway travel became too much to bear on our own, we’d all sing, talk, and play games.  For fleeting moments, we could even pass as a real family, but during the trip that summer, nothing would ever be normal.

            The sound of the brush running along Lucky’s scrawny, fuzzy body was actually soothing.  There was an orchestra of sound playing in the car: the brush along Lucky’s back, the twins quietly muttering to one another in the back of the car, the sound of the tires on the road, and Dad humming Dave Dudley’s “Six Days on the Road“ softly to himself, since he couldn’t play it on his eight track.  Lucky calmed down, and for a moment, I thought he was actually going to doze off.  Then he bit me…hard enough to break skin.  But that wasn’t the horrifying part—what got to me were his glowing red eyes! 

He had looked up at me while I was brushing him, teeth still green and sticky from eating Mom’s eye shadow and a marshmallow.  I gave him a dirty look and locked eyes with him; I had heard many animals assert dominance with a glare and I was prepared to put Lucky in his place.  He won the staring contest, though, when his eyes began glowing red, like a tiny demon from hell.  I wanted to hit him, to try knocking whatever was inside his head free, but I froze, allowing him to make his next move.

            “Oww, crap!” I shouted, startling Dad.

            “What’s wrong?!”

            “Lucky bit me!”

            The twins thought it was funny.  “Good dog, Lucky!  Good dog!” they said.

            We rolled past a REST AREA—1 MILE sign.  “We can stop up there and get your hand cleaned up and bandaged,” Dad said.

            Mom turned around, more concerned about Lucky than her first-born son.  Lucky’s eyes returned to their normal shade of brown.

            “Poor Lucky,” she said while taking him from me.  “He’s just feeling cooped up is all.  Isn’t that right, Lucky-Wucky?”  He kicked his back legs, licked her lips, and snuggled up on Mom’s chest.

            “Poor Lucky?  What about me?!”

            “Your father said we’d stop and get your hand fixed.  You’ll live, Michael.”  She turned her attention back to her dog. 

It was nice knowing my mother cared so deeply about my well-being; her oldest child gets hurt and it’s an inconvenience, but her mangy mutt stretches wrong and it’s the end of time.  At least Dad was there for me.

            We pulled into the rest area and the twins immediately begged Dad for change so they could raid the vending machines for soft drinks and candy.  Mom gave them money and told them to get her cigarettes from the machines, too.  The twins had their sugar—Mom had her nicotine.  All I had was a bloody hand and a father who wasn’t quite himself.

            Dad grabbed his first aid kit and took me to the men’s room to get cleaned up.  While packing theInferno that morning, Dad found the car came with its own first aid kit, a red metal box with the words of Revelation 5:16 on it: “And out of the temple came the seven angels having the seven plagues, clothed in pure bright linen, and having their chests girded with golden bands.”  There was something about a first aid kit with a message about plagues that didn’t sit well with him, so he opened it for a closer look.  Once he saw, “’I looked when he opened the sixth seal, and behold there was a great earthquake; and the sun became as black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became like blood.’ Rev. 6:12” written on a package of band aids, he decided bringing along the first aid kit from the garage was a much better idea.

            Dad finished bandaging my hand where Lucky bit me.  I wanted to tell him about Lucky’s eyes glowing red, but I knew he wouldn’t believe it.

            “I’m sorry I yelled at you this morning,” he said.

            “It’s okay.”

            “No it isn’t.  I’ve never yelled at any of you.  Not even your mother.  I don’t know what got into me and I wanted you to know I’m sorry.”

            “It’s okay, Dad.”

            “You know I love you, right?”  It was important to him to let us know he loved us more than anything; even more than side-of-the-road trinkets like stuffed Tijuana frog bands and fake Indian head dresses with state names emblazoned across them in plastic beadwork.

            “Of course,” I said.  “I love you, too.”

            He ruffled my hair and said, “Good.  Nothing can ever come between us, right Buddy?”

            “Right!”

            “If I ever act like that again, you slap some sense into me, okay?” he said.

            I told him I would and he gave me a hug.  We stepped out in time to see the twins making their way back to the car with arms full of root beer, bubble gum, chocolate bars, and a couple packs of Virginia Slims. 

            “You want something?” Dad said, pulling money from his pocket. 

            “Sure.”  I took a dollar and went to the vending machines.  I got a candy bar that was already melted from sitting in the sun all day and headed toward the car.  I crossed in front to get to my door; when I did,the Inferno lurched forward!  I jumped out of the way, dropping my candy as I dove for the sidewalk.  I felt the tire against my leg, stopping just shy of running me over!

            Dad put the emergency brake on and jumped out.  Mom was too busy opening a pack of smokes to notice what happened, and the twins were too busy laughing.  Lucky was staring right at me.  His eyes weren’t glowing, but I knew he had something to do with it.

            “Are you all right?!” Dad said.

            It happened so fast, I didn’t have time to think if I was okay.  I looked over my body—everything worked.  Aside from two skinned elbows and a knee that needed cleaning, I came out unscathed.

            “Yeah, I guess.”

            “I’m so sorry,” Dad said.  “My foot must have slipped off the brake.”

            Lucky continued staring at me.

            “It’s okay,” I said, walking all the way around the back of the car, ready to jump to safety if it decided to lurch back in reverse.  When I climbed into the backseat, Mom, who still hadn’t noticed I was hurt, said, “It’s about time,” and lit a cigarette. “How far to Marge’s?”

            “About two and a half hours,” Dad said, putting the car in gear.  “We’ll see if we can make it straight through.”

            Two and a half hours packed in a car with my family with no hope for escape.  The twins had pooled their money together and bought some soap bubbles on an early stop for gas.  About an hour into our silence, they unscrewed the top, took out the little wand, and blew bubbles, trying to float them over the back seat and onto my comic books and me.  They ended up floating up front near Mom, instead.

“What the hell?” she said, watching a bubble float just before her face.  Lucky popped it with a quick snap of his mighty little jaws, looking disappointed it had no edible interior.

            “Youse guys stop that—those things are flammable!” she said.  “If they touch my cigarette, they’ll pop and it’ll be just like the Hindenburg in here.”

Growing up in New Jersey, home of the Hindenburg disaster, the twins had an irrational fear of zeppelins.  They cringed when they saw the Goodyear blimp on TV when Dad and I watched the Giants play football; they were sure one day a flaming dirigible would blow all the way down from Lakehurst and crash on the house, killing us all.  But they didn’t buy what Mom had said about common soap bubbles being flammable—they were evil, but not totally gullible.

“Daddy, is that true?” Olivia said.

“No, sweetie, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t blow bubbles inside the car.”

We returned to silence, and I decided to take a nap against my better judgment.  Sleeping on road trips is normally a great way to pass time, unless your siblings are evil twins spawned not from their mother’s womb, but from the very bowels of hell itself! 

When I fell asleep on road trips, I became a target once my eyes closed and I was off in dreamland.  The worst thing about the Inferno was the twins had the entire back storage area from which to plot and launch surprise attacks on me.  In the Gremlin, it wasn’t so easy. 

One of their favorite things was asking Mom for her purse, saying they wanted to get some gum.  When she handed it to them, they’d grab her lipstick and draw all over my face.  I can’t count how many times I woke up with “DORK,” “WEENIE,” and “LOSER,” written on my forehead in some strange shade of red or pink only my mother and circus clowns had the courage to wear in public.  Other times they weren’t so subtle; Elvis was known to just haul off and punch me!  I’d awake to sharp pain in my arm and a charley-horse that lasted twenty miles.  Olivia loved waiting until I was sound asleep, then pumping her arm at passing truckers, getting them to blow their airhorns.  I’d wake up in a startle, thinking we were about to get creamed by an 18-wheeler while the twins laughed themselves silly.  Knowing I’d soon regret it, I closed my eyes and dozed off.  Somewhere between finally getting comfortable and a dream in which Lucky was trying to eat a priest, the twins sprung into action.

*          *          *

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!” I shouted, bolting awake.  I felt my face—it was covered in sticky lumps.  I thought they poured battery acid in my mouth!  My head echoed with the sound of a million Rice Krispies—something was popping and burning on my tongue, like having a mouthful of bees.  Elvis shoved a Coke in my face and said, “Drink this!”

I guzzled the drink without realizing it was part of Elvis’s plan—the stinging sensation got worse.  The twins stared at my face, then down to my stomach. 

“Shake your belly around, Dork-Brain,” Olivia said. 

“We want to see you blow up,” Elvis added.

I realized what they had done as Dad pulled the Inferno to a stop on the shoulder so he could see what was wrong with me. They started with a bag of mini marshmallows—biting them in half, licking them, and then sticking them to my face.  After that, they poured two bags of Pop Rocks into my open mouth.  They were putting that old childhood urban legend to the test, the one that says if one consumes Pop Rocks and Coke together, their innards will explode in a massive mess of bloated guts.  The only thing it did was give me gas, but just the fact they believed it would kill me and decided to test that theory was a reminder of just how much they hated me; just how evil they were when they put their heads together.

            “Are you okay?!” Dad said, laughing.  He knew what happened—he saw it all unfold in the rearview mirror, but didn’t stop it.  To my father, a big part of road trips was pulling pranks of each other, and in his book, this rated right alongside putting shaving cream in someone’s hand, then tickling their face so they’d scratch and make a big mess.

            “Yeah, I’m okay,” I said.

            “What happened?” Mom said, turning around.  She saw my face covered in marshmallows and shook her head.

            “The twins happened,” I told her, picking marshmallows from my face.

            Mom put her hand out.  “Gimme those.”  I gave her the marshmallows and she fed some to Lucky.

            “They tried killing me.”

            “How did they try killing you?” Mom said.

            “They put Pop Rocks in my mouth and gave me Coke!  They thought I’d explode.”

            “Did you explode, Michael?”

            “No.”

            “Well, then,” she said, popping a marshmallow into her mouth.  “Go back to sleep.”

            “I’m not going back to sleep,” I said.  “There’s no telling what they’ll do next time.”  I had visions of the twins filling my nostrils with dog snacks and letting Lucky mine for munchies.

            “Then read, or count cars,” she said, returning to her magazine.  Dad pulled the car back onto the highway and we were rolling along again.  

            My family kept to themselves.  The twins chit-chatted with each other softly enough to hide any other plans of what they had in store for me should I have fallen asleep again.  Mom flipped through beauty magazines like Cosmopolitan and Glamour.  The only thing glamorous or cosmopolitan about my mother was every ten years or so, it seemed heavy makeup and kitschy clothes came back in style, but most times, she looked like a clown with a beehive hairdo dyed a vacuous shade of black. 

            Dad was always game for chatting on trips, but I knew if I tried talking with him, Mom or the twins would interrupt, so I didn’t even try starting a conversation.  Besides, I knew what was going on in my old man’s head—he was visualizing all the things he’d buy on the road for his collection: shark’s teeth, stalactites from caves, miniature muffler men replicas, Jell-O molds shaped like states, and snow globes.  He owned hundreds of the things, but said there was always room for another snow globe. 

            I decided silence was golden and read comic books until Mom announced she had to find a bathroom.  Had one of us needed to go, she would have made a big production about how we should have gone at the last stop and remind us Dad wanted to make it all the way to Aunt Margie’s without stopping.  But since it was her bladder about to explode, it was all right.  We found a little gas station and Mom rushed off to the bathroom, but quickly returned.  She said the stench before even opening the door was all she needed to know about what waited inside.  Another stop and another quick turn around; the second stop didn’t have a toilet, just a hole where the toilet once sat.  Apparently that didn’t stop some people from using the bathroom.  Mom said it appeared several people tried using the hole, others the sink, while some were content simply using the floor!  She finally told Dad to just pull over on the side of the road.

            “Mary, there’s no place to go,” he said.

            “James, if you don’t stop, your new front seat’s soaked,” she told him.

            He pulled over to the shoulder and stopped.  There wasn’t a tree in sight, no ditches, no place to hide. 

            “I have an idea!” she said, grabbing Dad’s camera.  Dad liked keeping his camera unpacked and handy on trips, ready to capture an event in a moment’s notice.  “Kids, Daddy’s gonna take your picture.”

            “I am?”

            “Yes, James,” she said, gathering a handful of napkins.  “Come on, kids—I need your help.”

            We stepped into the grass along the highway and Dad readied the camera. 

            “Just make it look like we’re taking a nice family shot,” Mom said.  “Kids, stand over there, right next to each other so no one will see me.”

            She planned to use us as a screen!  She handed Lucky to me and squatted down behind us. 

            “All right, kids,” Dad said.  “Say cheese!”

            When I said “cheese!” Elvis stepped to the side and Dad snapped a picture of my mother that still haunts me to this day!  I punched Elvis in the arm, not caring what kind of vengeance he’d return.

            “Stop that!” Mom yelled.  “I’m peeing!”  There was no doubt about that—we have a picture to prove it!

            Elvis came back at me with a tackle, knocking Lucky from my hands.  He knocked us back into Mom, who caught her darling dog before he hit the ground.  “Be careful of Lucky’s molera!” she screamed.  “Watch his head, or he’ll die!” 

Olivia started crying.  “Daddy, Michael hit Elvis!”

            Dad just stood on the shoulder with his eyes closed, wishing the world would disappear.  A semi rolled by and blew its air horn at Mom, whose legs were straight up in the air, her huge buttocks on display for anyone traveling I-70 to see.  We could have sold prime billboard space on that butt had she not rocked forward to a sitting position so she could give the trucker the finger.  Elvis was working my arms over with rapid-fire punches—he knew better than hitting me in the face.  He had a bad habit of breaking my glasses when we fought, and Mom told him if he ever broke another pair, it was ladle time.  Olivia kept crying until Mom yelled, “Shut up, all of youse!”

            She hiked up her panties, dropped her dress, and walked back to the car.

            “Elvis, get off your brother,” Dad said. 

            “He started it!”

            “I know.  Just get off him, please.  We need to get to your aunt’s.”

            He got one final punch in as he got up—right in the gut, knocking the wind out of me.  What did I ever do to deserve such a family?

            We all climbed back in the Inferno and this time made it to Aunt Margie’s without stopping.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER THREE

“When I Dream, I Dream of Hell”

            While packing, I thought about the relationship my mother and father had; I wondered what Dad saw in Mom.  Back then, I thought what they had was a “normal” relationship, something I was destined to follow.  The thought of marrying someone like my mother made me consider joining the priesthood, only I didn’t believe in God.  I just didn’t understand why my father accepted all the grief Mom tossed his way.  I always loved my mother, but the woman gave birth to me.  Dad had a choice—he could have had his pick of gorgeous women who appreciated him, yet he chose Mom. 

After packing, I put my duffel bag by the front door.  I noticed the light was on in Dad’s den and I went to say goodnight.  That den was his Fortress of Solitude—it’s where he housed his collections.  He had huge, tacky ashtrays decorating shelves, even though he didn’t smoke.  Lava lamps, pixie paintings, and truck stop placemats were a prize find in his mind; they shared space with Hawaiian hula lamps, fake African masks, and a stuffed jackalope head on the wall, with tiny red Christmas lights for eyes.  The thing reminded me of Lucky for some reason.  Dad sat at his desk, looking over roadmaps and putting the final touches on the trip.

            “Hi, Dad,” I said.  “I’m all packed and ready for bed.”

            “Great!”  He signaled me to come over and look at his plan of attack.        

“So, you have it all plotted out, huh?” I said, knowing the answer.

            “As always!”  He pointed out our route on a map of America.  “First we hit West Virginia, to pick up your Aunt Margie.”  His finger moved east, along Interstate 64, into Kentucky.  “Then it’s off to Mammoth Cave—you’ll love it…lots of stuff to do there!”  His finger dropped down to Tennessee.  “After that, your Mom wants to stop at Graceland, now that it’s open to the public.  Better than the last time we drove through Memphis and she tried climbing the gate, huh?” he said, elbowing me gently in the ribs.  Mom could barely climb a flight of stairs, but that didn’t stop her from trying to scale the wall at Graceland.  She was convinced the King was alive and well and still living in his mansion.

From Memphis, he moved his finger west.  He crossed Arkansas, Oklahoma, the Texas Panhandle, New Mexico, and finally stopped in Northern Arizona.  “Of course there are plenty of roadside attractions along the way.” 

When Dad said there were plenty of roadside attractions, what he meant were plenty of stops for bad pictures with us all pretending we were getting along; it was our gift to him so he could look at the photos and pretend we were the perfect family he always wanted.  One time I counted them, there are over three hundred fifty pictures of my family posed before things on the side of the road: muffler men, historical markers, and fiberglass statues.

“That’s a long drive,” I said.  “After Graceland, we just drive straight through?”  It wasn’t like Dad to not have every stop planned out.  Maybe he finally realized Mom would complain about stopping for landmarks, reptile farms, and reputed UFO landing sites; maybe Mom was getting the upper hand even on trips.  I was glad when Dad pulled me closer to the map, hoping it would help me understand what he was about to say.

            “It’s a big country, Michael.  There are few things better than heading out and seeing all it has to offer.  If I could make a living driving around the country, collecting stuff, I would.  You can make a few big plans along the way, like Mammoth Cave or Graceland, but the beauty is in the discovery, Buddy.  There are things out there along the highway just waiting to be found.  They aren’t on any map; they leap out at the last second!  It’s all about freedom.  It’s what your grandpa fought for in World War Two; it’s what our forefathers died for.”

            I like to think my grandfather fought for more than a family pitstop at Stuckey’s or a wading pool full of alligators, but the open road made my Dad feel like a pioneer.  In his mind, it wasn’t about a tired insurance salesman taking a vacation with his overbearing wife and his children—it was about following in the steps of Lewis and Clark…at least in spirit.  Then he said it:

“It’s healing, you know?”

            “So I’ve heard.”

            “One day you’ll understand,” he said, lost in thought.  He looked at the clock on his desk: a big, round clock face set in the belly of a ceramic frog he bought in California.  “You’d better get off to bed.  We’re leaving before sunrise.”

            I gave Dad a hug and said goodnight.  As I left the den, he said, “Sweet dreams.”

*         *          *

            I usually had no problem falling asleep, but that night was different.  If it wasn’t my sheets bunching up, or my pillow getting warm, it was the sound of a passing car, or Lucky choking on something he found on the floor.  Normally, little things like that wouldn’t bother me; I was usually able to fall asleep anywhere, in any condition, but that night I tossed and turned for hours.  While my family was fast asleep, I laid wide-awake, thinking about the trip before us.  How could they sleep, knowing they were about to embark on a twenty-four hundred mile journey to dump a body in the Grand Canyon?  To my family, it was just another dysfunctional family vacation, but to me it was a pilgrimage.  It was after three before I finally fell asleep, and even then, I was restless and haunted by a dream.

            I was with my family at the canyon, only they were nowhere to be seen.  I stared into the canyon—it reminded me of an image of hell the way it reflected reds and oranges from the deep pit.  I heard noise behind me.

            “Ashes to ashes,” I heard my father say, followed by Mom saying, “Dust to dust…”

            I turned and saw my entire family (including Aunt Margie), standing in church robes.  Lucky floated alongside my mother, his eyes glowing red like Dad’s jackalope head.  The twins chanted in Latin as Mom opened the urn holding my grandmother’s remains.  As eerie as it was, the scene was also peaceful.  My family seemed to have come together, finally realizing how important the trip was.  We were putting Grandma where she felt she belonged, on her fiftieth trip to the canyon. 

It figured Mom and Aunt Margie had to ruin the moment.

Aunt Margie reached for the urn, but Mom wouldn’t share it with her.  The two fought like children, having a tug-o-war over Grandma’s ashes on the rim of the canyon, which started filling with flames.  Mom and Aunt Margie tugged at the same time; the urn slipped from their hands and fell in.  I leaped after it!

            Instead of falling, though, I floated above everything, watching the cremains disappear into nothing.

            “Grandma?” I said.

            “What, Mikey?”  Her voice was everywhere.

            “What’s it all mean?”

            “What’s what all mean?”

            “Everything,” I said.  “What’s it all mean?”

            “Look down, Michael.  It’s healing.”

            I finally understood!

            Floating above something so huge, I realized how small I really was.  Seeing something so gigantic put me in my place and reminded me there were things so immense in life, we can only look at them in awe and marvel at their beauty.  It was more than healing—it was life changing!

            Below me, I saw the flames take shape—a large phoenix shot up from the fire, knocking me back to the rim where my family waited.  The experience somehow changed me; it changed my family, as well. 

The twins sang “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” while Mom, Dad, and Aunt Margie hugged me like they’d never let go.  Lucky chewed on my pant leg, but I didn’t mind; my family—for the first time ever—seemed like a real, functional family!  It turned out to be the best dream ever—I didn’t want to wake up.

            I was awakened by screams.

*          *          *

            “Why the hell aren’t youse two packed?!” Mom bellowed.  “If we weren’t leaving on vacation, I’d ground the both of youse!”

            I got out of bed and made my way down the hall, where Mom was rushing back and forth between Elvis and Olivia’s rooms.  A cigarette dangled from her mouth and Lucky followed closely behind.  I wandered up and feigned confusion; I loved seeing my brother and sister in trouble and if I could stir things up even more, all the better.

            “What’s up?” I said innocently.  I had to struggle to keep from laughing.

            “What’s up?!  Your brother and sister aren’t ready is what’s up!”

            Mom rushed into Olivia’s room, pulling handfuls of clothes from her dresser and tossing them in a suitcase—it was probably the most exercise she had in months!

            “Weren’t they supposed to be ready last night?” I said.

            She stepped back into the hallway, on her way to Elvis’s room.  “Yes, they were supposed to be ready last night!  But you don’t see them ready, do you?” 

            It was time to show her how good I was, and how horrible the twins were.  “I had my stuff ready last night,” I said.  “Did you see my things by the door this morning?”

            She poked her head out of Elvis’s room; she was growing angry with me.

            “Yes, Michael, I did!  Right beside my stuff and your father’s stuff.  But you’re only as fast as the slowest person in the family, so why don’t you hurry things along and pack the twins while I make sure we have everything.”       

            She rushed down the hall with Lucky in tow.  Just before turning into her bedroom, she said, “Can’t believe this crap!”

            So much for my plan.

I stepped into Olivia’s room first.  “Where’s your stuff?”

            “In my drawers and closet, Dummy-Head!”

            I heard Elvis laughing from his room.

            “You have nothing packed?” I said.

            “You’re smart, Four-Eyes.”

            There was no winning with the twins.  You could try being nice and they pushed even harder.  It was like they believed everyone had a trigger deep down, and their sole purpose for existing was to find that button and push it.  Maybe there was truth in that theory; they could get under anyone’s skin.  Give them five minutes with Gandhi, and they’d have him swinging like Mike Tyson. 

            “He’s not smart, O.  He’s a retarded retard!” Elvis said.  He called Olivia “O” and she called him “E.”  They thought it was an absolute riot to sit in the backseat of the car and say “O-E-O-E-O-E-O-E…” for miles. 

            “Did you hear what E said, Mickey?” (I could stomach my grandmother calling me “Mikey,” but I drew the line at “Mickey”).  “You’re a retarded retard.” 

They pushed my button.  I punched Olivia in the arm—not hard, just a tap to let her know her big brother was there and not about to take her crap.  She screamed as though I cut her arm off with a chainsaw, however.  In an instant, I was blind-sided by Elvis.  I quickly regained my feet.

            Elvis was the biggest ten-year-old I’ve ever seen.  Even though I was older, he was bigger than me and able to take me toe-to-toe, so I had to resort to dirty tactics where he was involved.  I kicked him in the nuts just in time for my Mom to come rushing back to see why Olivia was crying.  Both my younger siblings shrieked in exaggerated pain.

            “Mommy, Michael got mad and hit me and then turned around and kicked Elvis in his tenders.  We didn’t do anything bad.  We were just trying to help him pack!”

            Mom hugged Olivia, rocking her back and forth as Lucky jumped onto the bed and tried eating a pair of Olivia’s socks.

            “Michael, you’re making a rough morning even rougher,” Mom said.  “Go see if you’re father needs any help.  I guess I’ll help the twins.”

            “I didn’t do anything wrong!” I said.  “I’ll help them.”

            Mom summoned her best martyr voice.  “No, Michael…I’ll do it.”

            The dreaded “I’ll do it!” shtick!  The woman could make Christ feel guilty!  “I’ll do it,” meant she wanted you to beg and plead to take on the cross she was bearing, but no matter how much you begged and pleaded, she wouldn’t let you help.  Later, she’d be furious you didn’t lend a hand and she’d never let you forget it.  Thirty years later, I still hear about that morning.  There was no way out, but I didn’t care.

            “Fine!  You do it!!!” I yelled.  “And have fun, too!!!”

            Before Mom could say a word, I stormed off to my bedroom.

            “You get back here, young man!” she said, figuring I’d stop.  I didn’t.  “Michael Gabriel O’Brien, do you hear me?!” 

I continued walking.

            “Fine, I’ll do it!” she said, defeated.  “Go help your father, then!”

            When I reached my room, I understood why Dad always had a smile on his face when he stood up to Mom.  She really was an imposing figure, and standing up to her took guts.  It felt good to finally win a round, no matter what retribution might follow.  For that one moment, she had no control over me and I’d later realize she wasn’t half as tough as I grew up believing.

I got dressed and went down to help Dad pack the car.  He was already done, though, but I noticed I could help him with something.

            “What’s wrong?” I said.

            “Flat tire.”

            “We just bought the car, though.”

            “I know,” Dad said, putting his finger in a hole in the tire’s sidewall.  It looked more like burn than a puncture.  Dad was sweating so heavily, it reminded me of Mom sweating into the spaghetti sauce the night before.

            “I don’t get it myself,” he said.  “But that doesn’t change the fact it’s flat.

            He pointed to the jack, a big, old-time chunk of steel.  “Can you hand that to me, Buddy?”

            “Sure.”

            I went to grab it, but quickly pulled my hand back.  It was hot!

            “What’s wrong?”

            “The jack’s hot.”

            He looked at the sun just poking its head above the trees.

            “Well the sun’s not heating it up.  You sure?”

            “Yeah,” I said, trying again.  I picked it up and quickly made my way to Dad, before being overcome with pain.

            “Oww!!!”

            I dropped the jack on the small of Dad’s back!

            “Oww!!!” he yelled.  “What the hell’s wrong with you?!”

            “I’m sorry,” I said, backing up.  “I was just trying to help.”

            “Why don’t you go help your mother with the twins, then?”

I went to the backyard and moped, instead…

            Mom was the yeller of the family.  Dad never raised his voice, even when he probably should have, so I was shocked when he yelled at me.  In my mind, the trip west should have been bringing us closer together as a family, but all it seemed to be doing was driving a wedge between us.  It seemed sacrilegious to yell at each other when there were bigger things on the horizon.  I hardly think Grandma would have wanted us to kick off the trip mad at each other, but that’s precisely what we did.

            When Mom finally got the twins packed—when the house was all locked and we were ready to go—Mom ridiculed Dad for buying “a piece of crap car with shoddy tires!”  He yelled back at her, surprising everyone—especially Mom—who was not used to having people stand up to her.  The twins started crying, saying my parents were going to get a divorce, and we all piled into the Inferno and pulled out of the driveway hating each other.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

Stay safe, and take care…

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER TWO

“The Big, Orange Hole in the Ground my Grandma Loved So Dearly”

            “A station wagon?!” Mom said, puffing on a Virginia Slim.  Dad stepped out, not realizing she was ready to drop the gloves and go—in his mind he believed she was complimenting him on the wise purchase of a vehicle that could carry our entire family anywhere his wanderlust desired, in comfort and “style”.  All he needed to do was take one deep look into her eyes to see the intensity of her anger, however.  The woman lived for complaining, but Dad was seemingly immune to the effects of her constant barrage of insults, and totally clueless when it came to realizing the woman he married existed to do little more than eat, gamble, and argue.  I didn’t understand it; he simply loved my mother with all his heart.

            “Isn’t it great?”

            “No!  Where the hell did you find such an ugly thing?” she said, smoothing the wrinkles in her flowered muu-muu, and blowing smoke through her nostrils.  She looked like a fat dragon trapped in the clearance bin at a fabric store. 

            “The used car lot,” Dad said.  “But it’s brand new.”

            “Brand new and ugly.  Take it back!  I don’t want this piece of crap trashing up the driveway.”

            An overweight, chain-smoking woman with a beehive hairdo standing in a front yard full of plastic, pink lawn flamingos and she had the gall to say the car would look trashy in the driveway?  While my father saw the novelty in things like pink flamingos and velvet Elvis paintings, my mother saw them as the pinnacle of high art.  She would be the first to criticize my father for buying tacky, roadside novelties, but she owned more ashtrays from Las Vegas than I had baseball cards!  She collected matchbooks and decks of cards from casinos; velvet paintings—she owned a small army of drinking birds.  I didn’t understand my parent’s relationship until many years later when the obvious finally dawned on me: in Dad’s love of all that was tacky, Mom was the ultimate piece in his collection—he married the Queen of Kitsch!  There was no other way to explain the hell that man endured, but if it worked for them, I suppose that’s what mattered.

            “I’m not taking the car back,” Dad said, defying my mother in a rare moment of bravery.  “I’ve been saving for a car and this is the one I liked best.  Please, let me have this one thing, Mary…” 

He waited for her answer.

            “Are those wood paneled doors?”

            “Yes, they are,” he said proudly; thinking—I’m sure—that she was warming up to the Inferno.  “They don’t make cars like this anymore.  It’s a limited edition.”

            “I’ll say!  You’re probably the only one in the world who buys one, too,” she said.  Then, in her best sarcastic tone, she added, “I’m sure it will be worth millions someday!”     

            Dad turned and locked eyes with Mom—he was going to fight for this one.  As they stared at each other, I sat back, noticing just how different the two were.  My old man was a pretty sharp looking guy.  To look at him, you’d expect my mom to at least be the mother friends came over to sneak a peek at, and maybe even think about when puberty settled in and they discovered themselves.  Dad always reminded me of an actor: he was strapping enough, charming enough, and definitely good looking enough.  He had a quirky manner of speaking, as though he were always stating things to a sidekick; his deep, radio announcer-like voice drove points home.  He had a swagger to his step that bordered on comedic, but to anyone under thirteen, he simply looked badass and tough.  The other mothers in the neighborhood always stopped by and talked with him whenever he did yardwork, which he did sans shirt, wearing only tight jeans and work boots.  As he talked to my playmates’ moms, he looked almost posed, sweat dripping from his chest like the condensation from the glass of iced tea or soda he always had nearby.  Like every thirteen-year-old, I saw my old man and the top of the heap of coolness, but so did my friends; I had the dad every kid only wished they had—the best dad anywhere!

            Why, then, did he marry my mother?

            Mom was what happened when you crossed West Virginia with Atlantic City: she was the walking, talking embodiment of tackiness!  She spit when she talked and interrupted people.  She cursed and told dirty jokes, all while smoking long, pencil-thin cigarettes that she felt made her look glamorous, like a forties movie star.  Whereas Dad’s physical match of a wife could have been a buxom blonde leaning against his well-defined chest on the front of a B-movie poster, Mom’s perfect match, physically, would have been a skinny guy in overalls with a piece of grass wedged between his only two teeth, or some bingo hall owner with slicked back hair and a cheap suit, with aspirations of becoming a Vegas pit boss.

            Mom and Dad met in 1967 when Dad was traveling cross-country.  He wasn’t on a voyage of self-discovery like the scores of hippies traveling at the time—Dad knew what he was looking for.  Armed with an Exakta 35mm camera, a notepad and pen, and the dream of becoming a travel writer, Dad climbed into his second car, a  ’57 Nomad not entirely unlike the Inferno, and set out from his home in Kansas, to drive up the East Coast in search of old sideshows.  While photographing the boardwalk in Atlantic City, he met my mother.

            He was taking pictures along the boardwalk, where she worked in a hotdog stand.  A morning snapping pictures of old hotels, the beach, and piers filled his stomach with an emptiness only the mismatched insides of slaughtered cattle and swine could fill, so he stopped for a hotdog.

            I wonder what it was like the moment they first saw each other—did he look at Mom and think, “This is the woman who will have my children one day!” or did he think, “I wonder if she knows she has a smear of mustard on her chin?”  There had to be something that clicked at that moment…or maybe some people really are destined to be together.    

Dad ordered two hotdogs and a soda.  Mom was always very matter of fact (okay, she was rude!), and rarely made small talk, but she asked, “Where you from?”

            “Topeka, Kansas,” Dad said.

            “What brings you all the way out here?”

            “Just taking pictures.”  Dad was very timid and sold himself short, but there was something about Mom that made him feel special.  “Actually,” Dad said with a hint of confidence, “I’m writing an article about sideshows and boardwalks.”

            “You’re a writer?” Mom said, snapping Dad back to reality.  He wasn’t a writer—he only wished he were. 

“Well, no—not really.  I mean I want to be, but I’ve never written anything.”

Mom smiled at Dad and said something totally unlike her; she said something encouraging!  “Well, everyone’s gotta start somewhere, right?”

Dad smiled.  “Yeah, I guess they do.”  There was something about that plump woman in the hotdog stand spreading relish on his lunch that made him feel invincible. 

 “How much?” Dad asked.

            “Well, if you’ve driven five thousand miles for a hotdog, you shouldn’t have to pay,” Mom said.  Her perception of distance was a bit skewed; she’d only really traveled back and forth between Jersey and West Virginia, and usually slept along the way. 

            “It’s only about twelve or thirteen hundred miles, actually.”

            “Still…that’s quite a drive.” She handed him his hotdogs and drink.  “It’s on the house.”

            “Won’t you get in trouble?”

            “Don’t care if I do.  It’s not like this is my dreamjob,” she said, pointing to a vat full of steaming water and old, flaccid franks.

            Instead of saying “thanks,” Dad summoned the courage to say, “What are you doing after work?” 

            That evening, as they walked along the Steel Pier where Harry Houdini, W.C. Fields, and Charlie Chaplin once honed their skills, and where—in the forties—young couples in love danced to the Big Band sounds of Benny Goodman and the Glenn Miller Orchestra, the first spark of a lifelong love started between Mary Catherine Mangione and James David O’Brien.  A strange love, granted, but love nonetheless.

            They stopped and watched the diving horse.  Growing up in Kansas, Dad had seen his fair share of horses, but he never saw one leap from a sixty-foot tall tower and into a shallow tank of water with a rider pressed to its back.  To Mom, diving horses were as much an everyday thing as people walking their dogs, but to Dad, it was exactly the kind of magic he had left home hoping to find.

            Splash!  Mom and Dad—standing too close to the tank—were covered in foul-smelling water.  Dad thought it was wonderful, but he could tell Mom was far from amused.  She stood on the pier, arms outstretched, looking like an angry, dripping beachball in her red and yellow outfit two sizes too small.

            “Oh, I’m so sorry!” Dad said.  He pulled some napkins from his pocket and handed them to her. 

Instead of yelling, Mom smiled though, wiping her eyes and smearing her mascara so she looked like a two hundred twenty pound raccoon.  “Ya know, I already smell like a hot dog stand—stray dogs follow me home, for chrissake!  What’s a little water, even if it smells like wet horses?” she laughed. 

Dad said he looked in her eyes and knew then and there she was the one.

            Back in the driveway, Mom was the one winning the staring contest (she could outlast a statue with her evil eye), and Dad, hoping to stave off total defeat, said, “I’ll make you a deal…“  He sounded like the greasy salesman at the used car lot.  “We take it on vacation and if it doesn’t grow on you, we take it back.  How’s that sound?”

            “Okay, but I’m telling you right now, James—there’s no way that car’s growing on me.”  Even if the car did grow on her and she ended up loving it just as much as Dad did—just to prove her point and tear away another piece of Dad’s very being—she would insist he take the car back to the lot when we returned from vacation.  She snubbed her cigarette out on a garden gnome in disgust and headed back into the house. 

            Dad stared off in the distance, smirking about something known only to him, then turned his attention back to the Inferno.  He stared at it like it was a newborn child full of potential, then said, “Why don’t you go help your mother with dinner, Buddy?”  .

            “Sure, Dad.”  I went around back, toward the kitchen, allowing Dad a moment to bask in his little victory.

            Dad bought the car just in time for vacation (he wanted to buy it sooner, but Mom kept hounding him, saying we didn’t need a new car—she said the Gremlin had more than enough room to hold her, Dad, my younger brother and sister, my aunt, me, and all our gear for our road trip!).  Dad’s treks were bad enough without being cramped; his annual family vacations were hell packed into a backseat, taking us from the world’s largest Uncle Sam statue, in Lake George, New York, to the La Brea Tarpits, in California, and every roadside attraction, reptile farm, and historical marker in between!  For Dad, a road trip was a chance for the family to bond no matter what—his chance to pretend, at least for a short time, that we were a normal, fully functioning family.  That particular year we would take a twenty-four hundred mile voyage from our home, in New Jersey, to the Grand Canyon, in Arizona.  Going to the canyon was my grandmother’s idea; she loved the place.

            Grandma visited the canyon whenever she had the chance.  My great-grandfather took her when she was young and the canyon bug instantly took hold.  She visited the canyon forty-nine times in her life, and swore she’d visit fifty times before dying.  She used to always say, “Someday you’ll have to visit the Grand Canyon, Mikey.”

            “Why?” I’d ask.

            “Because it’s healing.”

            “It’s a big, orange hole in the ground, Grandma.”

            “A hole?  That’s all you think it is?  You don’t understand.  It’s so much more than that.  It’s healing—“

            “You always say that,” I’d say.  “What do you mean, ‘It’s healing?’”

            She’d stop what she was doing and focus all attention on me, as though I just said something blasphemous.  She’d lock eyes and take my hand in hers, as though she were about to say something important; as though she were about to share with me the secret to life.  I suppose, in her mind, she was. 

“You stand on its edge and something happens,” she’d say.  “I can’t explain it—you have to experience it for yourself.  You stand on the rim and it pulls your soul down to the river for a cleaning, then puts it back with a little bit of itself.  It’s healing, Mikey.  Once you experience it, you’ll go back.  Everyone goes back…”

            Grandma was always my favorite relative (I often wondered how such a peaceful, caring woman had given birth to my mother).  I think what I liked most about Grandma was she truly seemed content with everything around her.  Maybe that sense of calm came from her canyon visits; I don’t know.  I never understood what she meant when she talked about the healing powers of that big hole in northern Arizona, no matter how many times she tried explaining it to me (and believe me, she tried every chance she had).  Whatever she saw in the canyon was beyond my grasp of bigger things when I was younger.  All I knew was the pull to the rim was strong enough to make her head out west whenever she had the chance.  The summer Dad bought the Inferno, we were heading to the canyon, with Grandma…only she was dead!

            She died in the spring—she was only fifty five.  She was on the phone with Mom, talking about her plans for visiting the canyon, when she dropped dead from a brain aneurysm.  She never knew what hit her, but Mom said Grandma knew something was coming (Mom believed my grandmother was psychic, and passed “The Gift” on to her).  Grandma drafted a will that spring and she swore she’d never draft her will until she was at least seventy-five.  Her last wish was to be cremated and have her ashes scattered in the Grand Canyon; her way of giving something back to her old friend, the big, orange hole in the ground.

            I made my way to the back door and into the kitchen, where Mom was making spaghetti sauce.  Looking around the kitchen, one would think she was cooking for an army, instead of just five people.  She didn’t use normal cookware like most mothers; she used stuff purchased from an old friend of the family’s we (even Mom and Dad), called Uncle Mike.  Uncle Mike provided industrial cookware to the restaurant industry: huge, ten-gallon stockpots, blenders that could generate more power than Dad’s old Gremlin, and her favorite piece, a two-and-a-half-foot-long stainless steel sauce ladle.  Mom was never very demonstrative; cooking was her way of showing affection.  In her mind, the more she prepared was a measure of how much she loved us, deep-down, even though she rarely showed it in conventional ways. 

            Mom looked up from her sauce vat—her face drenched with sweat.  “Michael, would you go tell Elvis and Olivia that dinner’s almost ready?”

            “Sure, Ma,” I said.  She looked back at the sauce and I noticed sweat roll from the tip of her nose and fall into the pot.  Still, I would have much rather stood there watching Mom sweat into the food I was about to eat than spending a moment with Elvis and Olivia.

            Elvis and Olivia are my younger siblings, twins who seem to share a strange, psychic link, even to this day.  When they spoke, most times they’d say the same thing in unison, or flip-flop every other sentence.  It still creeps me out—it’s something I’ll never get used to.  But the strange manner in which they spoke was just the first item in a long list that bothered me about them.

            They were evil.  There’s no nicer way to say it.  They reveled in making the lives of those around them utterly miserable.  From family, to teachers, to strangers—they terrorized those around them with their zombie-like stares and strong penchant for mischief.  They weren’t normal mischievous kids, content at making fart noises with their armpits for attention, though—that was below them.  They calculated every move like Russian chess champions, truly appreciating the depths of their malice when a plan came together as plotted.  They didn’t act out of childish curiosity—they acted out of the same cold, calculated cruelty of twisted, would-be world conquerors and serial killers.

            I went upstairs to their bedrooms, which were situated directly across from each other.  They would have shared a room, but Mom felt that was wrong and sick, so they left their doors wide open so they could see into the other’s room (close one door for even a moment and they instantly suffered from separation anxiety).  They pushed all their furniture to the back wall of their rooms so no matter what they were doing, they could stay in constant visual contact.  Regardless of how many times Mom rearranged their furniture, they’d put things back the way they liked them.

            I went to Olivia’s room, first.  She was sitting on her bed, eating from a bag of marshmallows and staring across the hall, into Elvis’s room, where he was doing the same, in mirror image.  Even with me between the two, blocking their view, they just stared at each other, as though I were a pane of glass.  Olivia’s staring was worse than Elvis’s; the way she stared at things with such purpose and intensity, you expected them to levitate, or suddenly burst into flame.  She looked like a creepy doll controlled by evil forces.

            Elvis looked like a tiny version of The King of Rock-n-Roll (during The King’s fatter years).  I would have been named Elvis, but Mom promised Uncle Mike she’d name her first-born after him.  He saved her life with the Heimlich Maneuver one Christmas when she was choking on calamari.  I am forever indebted to Uncle Mike for saving me from such a dreadful name.        

“It’s time for dinner, you two,” I said

            In unison, they said, “Tell us something we don’t already know, four-eyes!”

            “I hate both of you, how’s that?” I returned.

            “We know—we hate you even more…”

            Even though I was three years their elder, they genuinely scared me.  “Well, I’m just telling you what Mom wanted me to tell you,” I said.  I turned and walked off.  A few moments later I heard them say, “He’s so weird,” as they filed out from their rooms together, like robots.

*          *          *

            Watching my family eat dinner, one would think we were never fed.  The twins shoveled bite after bite into their mouths as though they were racing.  They barely chewed what went in, and that which they chewed was done with an audible, open-mouthed smacking.  My mother slurped spaghetti like a kid, the ends of the pasta flailing about like tentacles and slapping the outsides of her mouth and face before finding their way into her maw.  The sauce splatters looked like an extension of the quickly applied, bright red lipstick she always wore.  Dad at least didn’t make noise, but he ate as though each meal could be his last.  He had a quiet way of eating faster than anyone at the table, so he was usually the first one done each evening.  Me, I rarely had an appetite while watching Mom and the twins belch and gurgle their way through a meal, so I picked at my plate until Dad was finished and I could rush off to help him with the dishes. 

            As sloppy an eater as my Mom was, it drove her nuts that my brother and sister were sloppier.  She was a far cry from being Miss Manners herself, but she expected better from us. 

            “Youse two, close your mouths when you eat!  Where’d you get those manners… cows?!” she said with a full mouth dripping with pasta and bread.  Instead of listening to Mom, the twins defied her by rolling their food around on their tongues and letting it spill onto their plates.  Mom acted like she was going to get up.

            “Don’t you two make me get the sauce ladle!” she said, spitting tiny pieces of dinner everywhere.  The twins closed their mouths and quickly behaved.

            My mother always threatened to hit us with the sauce ladle whenever we were bad.  I can’t remember ever being hit by either of my parents, but the thought of her meaty arms swinging a two-and-a-half foot long kitchen utensil was always enough to set the twins straight.

            As loud as the three of them were when they ate, there was one other family member who put us all to shame.  Over their grunts and belches, he was heard chewing on a fork at Mom’s feet.  That’s when Dad asked the question burning in everyone’s mind: “Mary.  Dear.  What are we going to do about Lucky?”

            Lucky was Mom’s pet Chihuahua.  He was 2,358 pounds of absolute evil packed into a three-pound body!  His head looked like a tiny bruised apple with black marble eyes, fleshy bat ears, and razor sharp shark’s teeth.  Lucky shredded everything in the house not belonging to Mom—as though he consciously knew what havoc he was wreaking on our belongings, while sparing hers.  Mom babied him more than she ever babied any of us.  She wouldn’t allow a soul to say bad things about the tiny beast; even if he shredded something important (like homework, papers in Dad’s briefcase, or our shoes), we were expected to act as though we loved him as she did.  Couple that with a variety of health issues (stomach problems, rheumatism, and asthma, to name a few), and it’s easy to see why everyone but Mom hated the dog.   

            When I say his head looked like a bruised apple, I’m serious; Lucky’s biggest health issue was the fontanel on the crown of his head.  Chihuahuas, like humans, are born with a soft spot.  Normally, the skull grows together, but in some cases, the dogs go through adulthood with a section of their brain protected only by a thin membrane of skin and short fur.  This condition is known as a molera.  To shield his brain from danger, Mom carried Lucky cradled on her left forearm, with her right hand covering his head.  It was like she believed the moment she left the top of Lucky’s head exposed for even a millisecond, everything from bricks and cueballs, to pinballs and shotputs would rain down from the sky and bruise his delicate little brain.  When any of us came within ten feet of her precious Chihuahua, she’d scream, “Be careful with him!  For God’s sake, don’t touch his molera!”  Elvis once poked the top of Lucky’s head and had he not been faster than Mom, I think I would have grown up with only a younger sister.

            As much as Mom worried about Lucky’s molera, it didn’t stop her from using it to her advantage.  She discovered when she pushed in at just the right place on his brain, he froze, momentarily paralyzed until she let up.  It was like an on/off switch allowing her to control the little beast’s temper whenever he got out of hand.

Perhaps the main reason Mom was so protective of Lucky was she believed he was sent to her with a purpose: to make her rich.  The day Mom bought him, she won a thousand dollars on a lottery scratch-off, and the following weekend at the casinos, she came in big on the slots.  She attributed her luck with the purchase of the dog, so she named him Lucky.  The only thing lucky about him was the rest of us hadn’t put him to sleep!

Mom looked across the table at Dad; she was worried.  “What about Lucky?”

            We can’t take him with us,” Dad said.  “He’s got his stomach problem and all.”

            The twins flip-flopped, “Yeah-he-will-shit-and-puke-on-everything.”

            “Youse two, watch your fuckin’ language!  I don’t know where you picked up that shit!” Mom said.  The twins laughed and Mom pretended like she was going to stand again.  “Don’t make me get the ladle—!”

            They straightened right up. 

            “I’m not leaving this house to travel halfway around the world without him,” she said.  “Especially the way you drive, James.  I’m gonna need all the luck I can get on this trip.  He’s coming with us—no one will take care of him while we’re gone.  You should have thought of something sooner—“

            “We could take him to a no-kill shelter!” I said. The twins nodded their heads in agreement; the first time they were ever on my side.  “We can say we found him in the street, then pick him up when we get back.”

“Something tells me even a no-kill shelter would make an exception in Lucky’s case,” Dad said.  As much as he liked my idea, he was very pragmatic; he knew if we returned to a dead Lucky, Mom would never let any of us live it down.  “There’s gotta be something we can do, though…”

            Mom picked up the little ball of hate.  Around his mouth, Chihuahua slobber mixed with blood from cutting his gums on the fork, making him look like he was eating cotton candy.  Mom kissed him on the mouth, not caring about the pink drool.  “Don’t listen to them, Lucky-Wucky.  You’re coming with us.”  She looked at Dad and locked eyes again.  “He’s coming with us, James.”

            Dad stood up, leaving his plate behind.  “Okay, Mary, he can come along on the trip!  But I’m keeping the car, no matter what you think of it.  Deal?”

            “Deal!” she said while letting Lucky lick spaghetti sauce from the corners of her mouth.  She was in rare form and I couldn’t take anymore—she and Lucky were making me ill!

            “May I please be excused,” I said.

            “Sure,” Mom said.  “And make sure you’re all packed before bed, all right?”

“Okay.”  I grabbed my plate and my father’s, cleaned them, and went to my room.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

Stay safe, and take care…

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

FOREWORD

            Everything you are about to read is true.  When I was a kid, vacations with my family were a living hell.  One year, the hell that was our annual family vacation was taken to a new level; this is the story of that trip.

            Now that I’m older, I’ve gone back and interviewed all parties involved, hoping to make some sense of what really happened.  I present to you, here, the tale of that trip.  It may sound like I’m taking liberties with this story—that I’m embellishing what really happened—but I assure you, as far-fetched as this may sound, it’s the God’s-Honest Truth!

Michael O’ Brien

May 26, 2014

Atlantic City, NJ

CHAPTER ONE

“Into the Inferno”

            I’ll never forget that car; I’ll never forget the day Dad took me to “Smiling Sam’s Used Car Lot.”

            “The price.  It’s a little steep,” Dad said, looking at the $21,000 sticker.

            The car was a throwback to the days when fins and chrome ruled, a fire engine red behemoth of a station wagon that looked like it could fly!  It reminded me of a concept car from the fifties—I could envision it in an old black and white news clip, slowly spinning on a giant turntable with a model behind the wheel at some auto show, while a deep-voiced announcer boomed, “The car of future is here today!”  Dad wanted that car more than he ever wanted anything, I could see it all over his face.  So could the salesman.   

            “You won’t find another car like this one, pal,” the salesman said, stroking his pointed goatee.  I didn’t trust him.  I hated his red suit and the way he slicked his dark hair back, bringing even more attention to the widow’s peak pointing down at his long forehead and thin nose.  His shirt was opened wide, showing off a bed of chest hair so coarse, one could scrub pots and pans clean on it, like steel wool.  He smelled like matches and his stale hair pomade reeked like gear oil.  He rolled a toothpick around in his mouth—it looked like it was hovering just above his lips, and it clacked against his yellowed teeth as he passed it from one corner of his malicious grin to the other.  “This car’s decked out with a lot of old-style goodies,” he said, scratching the back of his hand.  Tiny bits of skin flaked off and scattered on the breeze.  “Look at those wide fenders and big white walls.  All that and it’s got more amenities than the cutting edge cars rolling out of Detroit today!  This beauty does everything you could imagine.  Hell, it does even more than everything you could imagine!”

            He knocked on the door—if nothing else, the car sounded as solid as stone.  “And that’s real, Honest-to-God wood paneling there!  You don’t see that anymore, ya know?”

            “No, you sure don’t,” Dad said, already falling for the salesman’s spiel.  Dad would buy anything pushed his way by a silver-tongued salesperson: our house was full of slicers and dicers, miracle space-age cleaning solutions, and pocket fishing poles purchased from late-night TV ads.  Our front hall closet was piled high with plastic and chrome vacuum cleaners purchased from door-to-door salesmen who totally ignored the NO SOLICITORS sign Mom put up, hoping to save Dad (and the family pocketbook), from their constant assault.  My old man may have been one of the few people in the country who genuinely believed “JAMES O’BRIEN MAY HAVE ALREADY WON ONE MILLION DOLLARS!” when he read mail-order sweepstakes envelopes.  Mom finally hid all the credit cards from him (never mind she probably spent more money on cigarettes, lottery scratch-offs, and Atlantic City slot machines than he did on impulse buys, but any chance to be self-righteous and knock Dad down a notch made her day).  Somehow, though, Dad always found a way to buy things he really didn’t need.  His one saving grace was a frugal streak—at least he rarely paid full retail for things.  “That price,” he said to the salesman.  “It’s a little more than I wanted to pay…”

            “Oh, I think we can work something out,” the salesman said, ruffling my hair.  His long fingernails raked across my scalp, sending a cold bolt down my spine.  He may have known how to play a man like my father, but he wasn’t fooling me.  “Look, I can tell you aren’t one to BS, or buy into a load of crap,” he said to Dad.  “You know cars and know exactly what you want, right?  No one’s ever gonna sell a guy like you something you don’t want, so I won’t even try.  We both know that price is too much, even for a gem like this.  You appreciate this car and I want to see you drive out of here in it.”

            He put his hand on Dad’s shoulder.

            “I’ll let you in on a little secret.  My boss upped the price on this baby.  I’m sure that’s no surprise to you—it’s how we make our money, but even I think he raised it too high and I’m not in the business of ripping people off.  I’ll make you a deal…”

            Anytime someone in a cheap, red suit says, “I’ll make you a deal,” run the other way as fast as you can!  I was only thirteen and knew better, but Dad never learned that lesson.  The year before, he bought a condo on the beach near Galveston, Texas—it was, in the words of the salesman who sold him the plot over the phone, “A deal too good to be true!”  Of course, it was too good to be true.  The property was still contaminated by the oil spill of the Burmah Agate a few years prior, and the tiny shack of a “condo” on the property was still drying out from Hurricane Alicia.  But Dad, ever the optimist, told Mom the exact same thing the salesman said to him: “It may look bad now, but once it’s cleaned up, it’ll be a dream come true!”             

“I’m in the business of putting people in cars and making dreams come true,” the salesman said, removing the toothpick from his mouth and examining it.  He saw something on the end, licked it from the point, and then popped the toothpick back into his mouth.  “How’s this: I’ll go tell my boss you’re driving a hard bargain and won’t go a penny above sixteen-k, including your trade-in.  He was talking just this morning about how he wanted to sell this one-of-a-kind masterpiece by the end of the day and I think he’ll let it go.  You should have this beauty parked in your driveway inside an hour.  How’s that sound to ya?”

            “Perfect!” Dad said.

            “Good, good.  I’ll go talk with him and be back with the papers in a jiffy!”

            I watched the salesman head into the building.  Everything about him, from the way he talked to the way he walked, was wrong.  He seemed like the kind of guy who would sell his own mother’s kidneys if he thought it would put cash in his pocket.

            Dad didn’t know what to think.  He looked at me, hoping for approval.  “So…do you like it, Michael?”

            “It’s neat, Dad,” was all I could say.  He knew that used car lot was the last place in the world I wanted to be.  I would have rather been forced to stay in Dad’s Gulf Coast condo for weeks, with all the water damage and shoddy wiring, than wait ten minutes for the salesman’s return.

            “What’s wrong?” Dad said.

            “That guy gives me the creeps.”

            “That’s just the way salesmen are.  They get desperate and try pretending they’re your friend.  It’s just one of those silly games adults play.”

            “Okay,” I said, still not buying it.  “He’s creepy.”

            “I agree,” Dad said.  “But look at this car!”  He ran his hands across the body, feeling every smooth curve and detail.  I never saw Dad look at something with such pure, unbridled delight; it was like that car was made specifically for him, and the devil be damned if he wasn’t going to be the first on the block to own one!  Lost in a memory, he smiled and said, “It’s got fins just like my first car!  It’s got fat tires just like my first car!  And I bet it’s even got power to burn under the hood just like my first car.”

            I thought about what the salesman said, about how he was in the business of selling dreams.  That car was a dream come true in my father’s eyes—a dream too good to be true, but he didn’t see it. 

            “What kind of car is it?” I said, catching my old man off guard.

            “Hmm…you know something, I don’t know.”

            Right there, I should have known something was wrong.  My father may have owned multiple sets of Ginsu Knives bought in the heat of the moment, but when it came to cars, he knew the names of models months before they were released to the public.  He could name all the parts and tell you everything you wanted to know about what made them go.  He knew the prices: from what it cost to build the car, to what the dealer paid, and what a consumer could expect to fork over.  For him to not know the name, or at least ask…there was definitely something wrong, although I couldn’t put my finger on it.

            My father wandered around to the back of the car.  “Oh, here’s the name,” he said.  “It’s an Inferno.  Never heard of them.”

            “There’s something weird about this Dad.”

            “You’re right, kiddo—that is pretty strange,” he said in a moment of clarity.  “A car like this, you’d think I would have read about it.  I’ll ask the guy for more info when he comes back.”

            A few minutes later I saw the salesman heading our way, papers in hand, with a Cheshire grin plastered on his face like he was about to take something that didn’t belong to him. 

            “There he is,” I said.  He walked up to my father and put his hand back on his shoulder.

            “I had to fight with my boss a little, but he came down to sixteen-k, just like you wanted.  How’s that grab you,” he said, tightening his grip on Dad’s shoulder.

            “Oh…that’s wonderful,” he said.

            “Dad!”

            The salesman looked at me, sneering with sharp, yellow teeth.  Had he been able to get away with it, I’m sure he would have gutted me where I stood and tossed me to the side, saved for further abuse when it better suited him.  “Is there something wrong?” he said.  “I really stuck up for you two in there.  My boss is as tough as they come, but I’m not afraid to put my neck out to put someone in a car they love.”  He turned to Dad and acted hurt.  “What, is sixteen-k not good enough for ya, pal?  I thought we had a deal…”

            “No, it’s perfect,” he said.  “Just what I wanted.”

            “Good.  You look like a man of your word, but for a second there, I thought you were gonna try scratching the sticker down even more.  I’m gonna have a hard time making rent this month with as much as I got knocked off for you.”      

“I appreciate that,” Dad said.

            I wasn’t about to let the salesman take advantage of my old man.  I gave him my best wise guy grin and said, “Why is a brand new car on a used car lot?”

            The salesman was ready, though—he was determined to beat me and put Dad in the driver’s seat of that station wagon.  “It’s the brand new Inferno, the only one offered in this part of the country.  We were chosen as a test market, kid.  My boss knows some people, so we lucked out and got the only one on the East Coast.  By next summer, you’ll be seeing these everywhere.”

            That wasn’t good enough for me.  “My Dad’s never heard of it, though.”

            The salesman patted my father’s shoulder and said, “Sure he has, right James?”

            “Right!” Dad said.  “The beauty of this baby lies under the hood, Michael.”

            He popped the hood while the salesman kept his grip.  The huge engine was a sight to behold, a massive chunk of American steel painted red with a chrome air filter cover that reflected and distorted our faces as we stared in awe.

            “It’s got a classic four-twenty-six Hemi engine with factory superstock crossram intake and two seven-sixty Holley four-barrel carbs,” Dad said, as though he were trying to sell me the car.  “Combine that with a seven-twenty-seven push-button, automatic transmission and power everything and you’ve got yourself quite a ride.”  He looked at the salesman for approval.  “And I think it even has a classic-styled doorgate in the back, complete with power windows, right?”

            “It sure does,” the salesman said.  “You do know your cars!”

            The salesman slammed the hood shut and set the paperwork down on top.  His hand returned to Dad’s shoulder when he said, “Ready to sign?”

            “I sure am!” Dad took the pen from the salesman’s sports coat pocket without even asking.  The salesman pointed a cracked fingernail at the line where Dad’s John Hancock was needed.  I couldn’t believe it; I couldn’t let it happen.

            “Wait!” I shouted, raising the ire of the salesman again.  He looked like he wanted to pick me up by the hair and toss me into traffic.  “Aren’t you going to read the contract first, Dad?”

            The salesman was tired of my interruptions.  “It’s just the usual contract, kid!” he hissed.  He turned his attention to Dad, who was far more receptive than I was.  In a calm voice he said, “It’s just the payment info, the terms of the warranty, trade-in information…the usual.  It’s not like you’re signing away your soul.”

            I froze as Dad signed “James O’ Brien” on the line and sealed the deal.  The salesman gave Dad his duplicate copy and quickly pocketed the original.  Then he looked at me, winked, and spit his toothpick at my feet—he walked away the winner of the little battle Dad never even noticed was fought.

            “And you have the down payment?”

            “Yes,” Dad said, pulling out his checkbook, eager to complete the transaction.  I watched him fill out a check and hand it over.  I didn’t know what was wrong; I only knew I wanted to hit the salesman with a low blow to the groin, grab the check, and run like hell, screaming for Dad to follow me to safety.  But had I acted on my urges, what was about to happen in the following weeks would never have occurred.  In August of 1984, that station wagon became the O’Brien family’s savior!

            The salesman opened the door for Dad and handed him the keys.  He seemed in a hurry to get rid of us now that the deal was closed.  “She’s all yours, pal!  Ready?”

            “Just a sec.  There’s something I need to get from the old car,” Dad said. 

            He jogged over to his old, yellow, ‘74 Gremlin and cleaned out the glove compartment, stuffing his pockets full of the maps, napkins, and papers contained within.  He started trotting back, but stopped and turned back for the plastic Virgin Mary on the dashboard.  It wasn’t that my father was a religious man; he simply reveled in all that was tacky.  His weakness for buying useless stuff reached new heights when it came to cheap trinkets like wind-up chattering teeth, rubber gorillas, and plastic religious figures.  Few things are tackier than a plastic Virgin Mother leading the charge on the dash of an old American Motors Corporation masterpiece, like the Gremlin.  With a gentle tug, she came free and Dad trotted back our way.

            “Almost forgot this,” he said, holding the figurine up toward the salesman, who was visibly disturbed by its presence.  The salesman stepped back and away from the figure—Dad handed it to me.  “You want to do the honors, Buddy?”

            “Sure,” I said, taking the Blessed Virgin and climbing into the front seat of the Inferno.  I tried sticking Mary to the dash, but had no luck—she wouldn’t take hold.  I peeled off the fake leather from the Gremlin’s dashboard sticking to the bottom and tried again.  My fingers were sticking together from the cheap adhesive on the figure, but the damn thing wouldn’t stick to the dash, no matter how hard I tried; it was like something was repelling my effort.  I set Mary down and climbed out to tell Dad.

            “Did you get it?” he said.

            “It won’t stick.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “Positive,” I said.

            Dad slid into the front seat to take a look.  I saw him trying to move the figurine on the dash to no avail.  He poked his head out and said, “What do you mean it won’t stick?  It’s like she’s fused to the dashboard!”

            I climbed into the car as Dad shook the salesman’s hand and said goodbye.  I poked the Mary figurine and Dad was right—it wouldn’t budge!  I took a closer look and noticed the dash was faintly melted where Mary sat; she had won the first round.  Dad climbed back in, started the car, which turned over in a menacing roar of power beneath the hood, and we were on our way.  The salesman waved goodbye to me as we drove off, but I didn’t return the courtesy—even though I was an atheist, I felt more at ease staring at the figurine.

*          *          *

            The ride home was incredible—the car had everything imaginable!  The dash looked like the cockpit of a fighter jet, covered in switches, dials, and levers.  A big compass reminding me of a snow globe sat at the helm, beside the Virgin Mother.  The wood and chrome theme adorning the car’s body extended inside, and it really did have everything you could want—and more—just like the salesman promised.  It had cup holders that held far more than a standard commuter mug; anything shy of a gallon jug of milk was easily secured within arm’s reach.  The radio had an old fashioned dial that glided with ease when turned, and even in the sun’s glare you could easily make out what station you were tuning in.  Dad was overjoyed when he noticed the radio had not only a cassette player, but also an eight track deck to boot!  He would be able to assault us with choice cuts from his collection of bad eight-tracks: Ray Stevens, Boxcar Willy, and enough trucker tunes to make even Red Sovine want to claw his eyes out.  Yep, that car had every amenity imaginable, and enough foot and headroom that even Magic Johnson could stretch out in comfort.  I could tell Dad felt like a little kid, comfortably nestled in the oversized, cushy seats, while still having full access to everything a gadget-hound like him needed.  He ran his hand across the dash, almost in tears.

            “It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Michael?”

            “Yeah, Dad.  It’s neat.”

            He pointed to all the shiny dials and buttons.  “Look at everything.  I don’t know what they all do, but I’m dying to find out.  Why don’t you pull something, just for kicks?”

            I flipped a switch in front of me—the glove compartment popped open.  Dad took a quick glance, struggling to keep his eyes on the road instead of all the gadgets calling to him.  Something in the glove compartment caught his eye.  “Is that the owner’s manual?” he said, pointing.

            On top of some papers, a small red and black book with the Inferno logo poked out.  The cover of the manual was rather plain, displaying a black and white line drawing of the car, and some text.  “Looks like it,” I said.

            “What’s it say beneath the logo?” Dad was now paying more attention to the glove compartment’s contents, than the road ahead.

            I grabbed the book and read aloud: “‘And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy.  Revelation: Thirteen-One.’”

            “I wonder what that’s supposed to mean?” Dad said.

            “It’s from The Bible.”  

            “I know that,” he said.  “I’m just wondering why it would be on the cover of the owner’s manual.”

            “Don’t know.”

            “Weird.  We’ll have to hide it from your mother.  She’d crap if she saw that.”

            “Yeah.”

            Mom would have done far more than crap if she came across an owner’s manual quoting The Book of Revelation.  Mom made up for my total lack of religion, and Dad’s lax religious ways.  She was a superstitious, Italian Catholic who infused the faith with her own fears and anxieties.  Where Dad saw humor in things like plastic religious figures, prayer candles, and other tacky, religious collectibles, Mom saw them as a gift of God, sent down to protect the common man from Evil’s sinister and tempting grip.  Had Mom accompanied us to the car lot, she not only would have pulled Dad away at first sight of the salesman, but she would have returned with an army of priests, ready to do battle.  As religious as she appeared on the surface, however, I don’t think she fully grasped the lessons taught in a lifetime of Sunday masses.  She slanted Catholicism to suit her needs: she invoked Christ’s name whenever she needed luck at bingo, used God’s wrath as a scare tactic against me and my younger siblings, and felt that God had given her the power to personally damn anyone who annoyed her in the slightest manner straight to hell.  Was it any wonder I couldn’t buy into the whole religion thing?   

            I thumbed through the owner’s manual the last few blocks before reaching the house.  Page after page was filled with passages from Revelation.  Alongside directions for changing the oil, a description of a blood-red sea where all shall die; beside instructions for filling windshield wiper fluid, a message that Babylon has fallen; and if you wanted to learn how to add radiator fluid, you couldn’t do so without reading about Death riding a pale horse, first.             Dad was right, if Mom saw the owner’s manual, she’d lose it.  I shoved it deep within the glove compartment, under all the papers Dad transferred from the Gremlin and his pockets.  When we pulled into the driveway, Mom was waiting.  She took one look at the Inferno and was ready for a fight.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

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

* * *

The world is burning, and we’re all overworked and busy. At least it feels that way sometimes.

It’s seemed amplified in recent years: a world-wide pandemic, a change in the way many of us have worked…and those who don’t have the luxuries some of us have in our jobs, forced to risk their health and lives to make ends meet. (Or quit and figure out a new way to survive.)

At first, there were almost whimsical articles about how we’d all have time to write that novel…or do other things we always told ourselves we’d do…if only we had the time. But time is a weird thing when you see people getting sick and dying, and many of those people who told themselves they’d get to that passion project after their sourdough bread was done never did.

There’s no shame in that.

* * *

This might seem a rather maudlin way to open a behind-the-scenes look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks, but if you’ve listened enough, you know Behind the Cut sometimes isn’t even about the episodes. As we look ahead to a new year, it’s natural to wonder what lies ahead…especially in a time when we’ve become used to not being as sure about things as it may have seemed we were before COVID and other things hit.

Last year was a productive year for Not About Lumberjacks. Listenership practically doubled, and especially near the end of 2021, episodes flowed. What’s easy to forget is that I didn’t release a thing until June, when “A Deathly Mistake” saw a return to regular stories.

I was writing, but like so many other people, finishing things seemed exhausting. Granted, I was also working on a contract basis after being unemployed for much of 2020, when the COVID pandemic started. A novel I had been shopping around demanded more time than short stories…until querying ran its course, and I went into the annual writing retreat with a friend in May knowing everything I’d written toward as an adult had changed.

The book I felt was my best shot at traditional publication had more partial and full manuscript requests than anything else I’d ever submitted—some by agents I dreamed about representing me—but was ultimately rejected with the typical response I often get: “This is wonderful—you’re a good writer, and this is an ambitious project—but…I’m not sure how I’d market this…”

And I get it: looking at the stories I’ve shared on Not About Lumberjacks, there’s no real unifying element…other than everything’s written by me. One month, I’m sharing a ridiculous story about friends fighting a demon made whole by the torments of their younger days…and then we’re in the woods of East Texas chasing an ivory-billed woodpecker. Hell, this year’s Christmas episode was all over the place.

So, it’s not surprising that once fantastic elements creeped into an otherwise literary novel I was shopping around that agents stepped away. (That, and just like the rest of us—many agents were overwhelmed by the state of the world; in fact, some later discussed how they ended up behind on things and did their best just to stay afloat. Taking care of existing clients in a changing world was hard enough without wading through queries on top of everything else.)

And because the novel that was passed on is the first in a series—and I am one more into writing what I love than what I think might sell—I’m not willing to set that story aside and write something more commercial.

* * *

I thought I was going to be depressed when the end came to submitting A Magic Life. I almost prepared for it, but it never came. And then I thought, “Well…give it time, it will…”

It’s not that I felt nothing when that end presented itself, but…I think part of the reason it didn’t hit so hard is I have Not About Lumberjacks.

* * *

There’s no other way I’d prefer to pay the bills than writing fiction. A perfect day for me is waking up and writing; then, puttering about after Cynthia wakes up, and hiking after breakfast. A nice lunch and then…more writing.

Writing novels was always the dream, but I also know most people who set out to write fiction full time never do. Some of the greatest writers who lived, who are alive right now, and who will write in the future do it all while maintaining a day job.

That’s another reason I think A Magic Life coming to an end didn’t hit like I expected: I have a good job. It’s obviously not what I prefer doing, but I work with a great group of people at a company that provides the most security I’ve ever had on my own.

Between work and knowing I can ultimately release A Magic Life (and all that follows) on Not About Lumberjacks, it was all a bit easier to take.

* * *

Last May was the first writing retreat with my friend, Deacon, that I didn’t work on A Magic Life. I worked on “A Deathly Mistake” for Not About Lumberjacks instead.

It’s not surprising that once I looked at traditional publication as a thing that wasn’t going to happen for me, I turned to the one thing I can count on when it comes to writing stories: this show.

No matter how weird or hard life might be at a given time (and the past couple years have definitely been different), I’m usually able to write and record a story for the show.

Even when the demands of my day job take priority, I can still find time to eke out the weird little tales I tell.

The end of 2021 was not just productive for Not About Lumberjacks, but “A Deathly Mistake,” “Calling Out of Time,” “Milkboy,” and “In Cypress Slough,” are among my favorite stories on the site. And they were all written when I was facing down the end of a work contract (and possible unemployment again), and then…while starting a full-time position in September.

* * *

I understand the past couple years have been a rough time to be creative. Some days, it’s enough just to get out of bed and make it through the day.

I spent most of the COVID pandemic hovering: waiting to see if this virus could be defeated and…waiting to hear back from agents if they were interested in the best book I’ve written to date.

It was agonizing at times…especially when the interest was there for A Magic Life, and it seemed like something more might finally happen with it.

But sometimes things don’t work out like we hope. A Magic Life faced rejection, and COVID rates began to climb again. Sitting still is good for only so long; it became clear to me that waiting longer wasn’t going to change anything. So, I wrote and recorded a story about Death collecting the wrong person, and that kicked off a great half a year of writing during a busy and turbulent time.

* * *

I don’t know what 2022 holds. I hope it’s the year COVID becomes a thing we largely tame with an annual vaccination, like the flu. I hope it’s the year people get back to selling books in person and that those sending stories around the traditional way see great things happen with them. And, of course, I hope those doing things on their own have a great year as well.

I do know—at least for me—that it’s possible to write and record stories I love during busy and choppy times. Six or seven episodes in 2022 is the goal for me, no matter how busy life gets. The time is there for the effort if I claim it, and the effort ensures there’s time—it’s a good cycle for me, and definitely one of the bigger things I plan to focus on in 2022.

Thank you for coming along…

* * *

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

After writing and recording five episodes in seven months (well, eight stories if you factor in the recent Christmas episode), I’m taking January off. I have plenty of stories in various states of readiness, so we’ll all see what comes along in February…and the rest of 2022.

I hope we all have a great year, in spite of anything that may get in the way…

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

[Listen]

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

Christopher Gronlund:

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

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

This time, it’s the now-annual Christmas episode. For 2021, it’s three stories…or four, depending how you look at it. And one of them features a character from a previous tale…

And now, the usual content advisory…

Some of the stories in this year’s Christmas episode contain violence, loss of loved ones, arguing, mention of affairs, corporate crime, car accidents (in fact, if you’re driving, be aware that the last story—“Drifted”—contains sounds of a single-car wreck), wilderness survival, mention of smoking and alcohol consumption, and—of course—swearing. You’ve been warned.

All right—let’s get to work…

* * *

Stories of Fine Taste

UPBEAT MUSIC PLAYS AS A CROWD APPLAUDS

MALE HOST

Welcome back to the holiday edition of Stories of Fine Taste, the show that shares the tales behind all your favorite recipes.

FEMALE HOST

[High pitched laughter.] Yes! We’re getting closer to a wonderful Christmas treat, but first: a recipe that will make you miss the warm days of summer picnics…

* * *

NARRATOR

Grandma’s Olive Jell-O Mold

SOOTHING MUSIC FADES IN.

NARRATOR

I always loved summers and the family gatherings that came with them. I can still see and smell tables full of food out back at Uncle Bud’s house in the hills, where we gathered for annual family reunions. I was amazed those tabletops didn’t break under the weight of such a beautiful bounty. But there was one dish my cousins and I always had a tough time with: Grandma’s Olive Jell-O Mold.

This is the story of the summer we all came to love it…

As much as I loved the food at family gatherings, the best part was seeing all my cousins in one place. As the adults drank lemonade and cold canned beer, we kids ran wild with no calls to be careful. The only rule the adults insisted we follow was to never to go back into Kirkland’s Holler.

Of course, during that fateful summer, that’s exactly what we did…

Kirkland’s Holler was a dark place between two hills on the back side of our family’s birthright lands. Even in the heat of summer, the leaves of fall never seemed to clear out, despite the constant wind racing through that gap. It was the year I read The Hobbit in school, and I can say with every confidence that Mirkwood had nothing on those woods in West Virginia.

EERIE MUSIC FADES IN:

NARRATOR (CONT.)

It was cold back there, but not just a chilling wind against our bare arms and legs—this was spectral ice boring deep into everything we were, something dark stirring in the minds of six innocent children.

Our oldest cousin started it by picking up a stick and hitting cousin Ronnie across the back. None of us—not even cousin Ronnie’s parents—liked him all that much. So, when the youngest of us, my seven-year-old cousin, Susie, joined in, it was enough to turn us all against Ronnie.

I don’t know which one of us dealt the blow that killed him, but the rock I wielded in my two hands was slick with Ronnie’s thoughts by the time the cold wind stopped and we came to our senses. We covered Ronnie’s body with stones and then washed up in Miller’s Creek on the way back to the family reunion. For some reason none of us could explain, we all went straight to the table with Grandma’s Olive Jell-O Mold. To eat it was to devour our sins against poor Ronnie.

As we gorged ourselves on olives suspended in a cloud of mayonnaise and gelatin, something in the look of all the adults’ eyes told us we weren’t the only ones to kill a cousin back in Kirkland’s Holler and acquire a taste for Grandma’s favorite dish…

Anyway, on to the recipe…

* * *

RETURN TO UPBEAT MUSIC AND APPLAUSE.

FEMALE HOST

Wow! To think, I used to like Jell-O.

MALE HOST

Hey, Marie—did you know gelatin is made out of kneecaps and knuckles?

FEMALE HOST

Why are you like this?

(BEAT)

Anyway, you can find links to all these recipes—and more—on the Stories of Fine Taste website.

(BEAT)

Which brings us to the story behind our final recipe of the day…

* * *

NARRATOR

Fred’s English Muffin Garbage Pizzas

SOOTHING MUSIC FADES IN.

NARRATOR

My parents divorced when I was five and my sister was ten. Every other weekend, we visited our dad (and his roommate, Fred) in the city.

The house my father and Fred shared was like a fort built by kids, a ramshackle place that looked like it could be toppled with one good shove. It consisted of a small mud room where people entered. A bathroom, a kitchen, and a front room rounded out the tiny abode.

There were no bedrooms. My father had a single bed in the mudroom, and Fred slept on the couch in the front room with his cat, Rat. When winter in Chicago settled in, my father slept in the kitchen—where my sister and I slept when we visited. It was like camping, the two of us in sleeping bags on the floor. Once, my dad set up his tent in the kitchen, and we made what Fred called English Muffin Garbage Pizzas in the oven—and roasted marshmallows over a burner on the stove top.

On weekends my sister stayed home, my dad and I huddled together in the mudroom bed, where he’d read Fantastic Four comics to me, and then rub my head until I fell asleep. I slept so soundly on those nights that if I never woke up again, it would not have been a bad way to go.

Even as a kid, I recognized that my father and Fred were broken men. Somehow, existing in the same space together helped the other—and on weekends my sister and I visited, that tiny house was filled with a happiness they seemed to need. We ordered pizza, listened to music, and spent time in the front room reading. Fred and my father told stories, and we played a game called Truth or Lies in which the two made us guess if the stories they told were made up or not. Fred convinced me he could fly during a round of the game. When I asked him to teach me, he shared with me a magazine article about lucid dreaming and said that first, I had to be able to fly in my dreams. It’s only now, looking back on those times, that I realize why I believed so many of their lies: they were the stories my father and Fred wished were true. They were always told with a particular yearning excluded from their truths. I recognized that early in my life.

There was one strange thing about that tiny house where my father and Fred lived: a door the led to nowhere.

It was in the front room, and I figured it must have originally been the main entrance to the house. But wandering around outside to where it should have been, there was no sign a door was ever there—and this was not a house worthy of any remodeling. When I asked my dad where it went, he said he didn’t know. It was behind Fred’s big stereo and the TV—and he said he never felt the urge to move everything to check. When I asked Fred what was on the other side of the door, he said, “A safe place…”

My sister died when I was eight years old. I was in the middle of reading through The Chronicles of Narnia with her when she lost her battle with leukemia. She loved the series, and I wanted to read the same books she read.

Later that year, Christmas fell on a weekend my dad got me. My mom dropped me off Friday while my dad was still at work. I was reading in the front room with Fred when he got up and said he had to run an errand. He hopped on the Triumph Trident motorcycle he’d later sell to my dad and sped away. (Even in the cold of winter, that’s how Fred got around.) Left with an empty house with a bit of time, I wheeled Fred’s stereo system far enough away from the door to open it and squeeze my way inside.

It was a closet.

Still…I knew there shouldn’t have been enough room, there, even for coats. So, I pushed my way through until I found myself outside in the snow. It wasn’t the tiny yard in front of Fred and my dad’s house, though—I was in a forest. When I saw the light post, I wondered if it was all a lucid dream.

Someone was walking toward me—my sister! In the glow of the lamplight, we talked about her favorite books, and I told her how much she was missed. She told me everything would be okay, and I believed her. When she said she had to go back, I didn’t cry.

When I returned to the front room, I smelled cooking from the kitchen. Fred was there with a couple hot English Muffin Garbage Pizzas fresh out of the oven. He handed one to me.

“You didn’t really have an errand, did you?” I said.

“Nope.”

“You knew I’d go through the door?”

“Yep.”

“What is that place?”

“I don’t know. I can’t explain it. But any time you need it, it’s there for you.”

Fred was right: each time I went through, what existed on the other side of the door changed. Sometimes it was a forest; other times, I floated through space. It was always what I needed in the moment. There was no explaining it, but each trip in and out changed me. No matter how bad things got in the real world, it was there waiting…until my dad met someone new and moved into her house with her son.

After the move, we lost touch with Fred. He sold what few things he had and wandered off with Rat. I always suspected he went through the door and never came back. I like to think he’s still there.

These days, I don’t have a physical safe space like what was beyond that door. These days, when I need to feel safe, I make Fred’s English Muffin Garbage Pizzas…and everything works itself out.

Here’s the recipe…

* * *

Reply All

On Cheryl’s last day at Globotek, when she sent the obligatory, “Thanks so much—I’m moving on,” email to roughly two hundred people, she forgot to use the blind carbon copy feature. So, when Brad Anderson accidentally replied to all and said he’d miss being sent to the Chicago office together and sneaking into each other’s rooms at night, it didn’t take long for news of the affair to spread throughout the company.

All morning, as people passed her desk, they stared at her as though she were on display: “The Globotek Jezebel.” Meanwhile, on the other side of the floor, Brad kept his head down as a seemingly endless parade of salesmen flashed him a thumbs-up as they wandered by.

Cheryl’s phone buzzed.

“I’m so sorry,” the text message said.

“Don’t worry about it. I should have BCCed everyone.”

“Want to get lunch later?”

“Sure. I have a going away thing with my team at 11:00. After that?”

A heart emoji.

* * *

They gathered in a conference room with the intention of wishing Cheryl good luck with her new endeavor, but instead, everyone fell silent when she entered. When the tension became too much to bear, Cheryl said, “Look. About that email…”

Roger Simmons snickered like a little boy who finally said “Hell” for the first time.

“Is something funny, Roger?”

“No. Just…”

“Just what?”

“The email. From Brad.”

“What about it?”

“It’s just…”

“Juuuuuust?”

“Nevermind.”

“No. You’re all acting like Brad and I did something wrong. You want me to clear the air? Fine!  All any of us do, here, is work. Constantly. It’s one of the many reasons I’m leaving.

“Look—Brad and I are consenting adults. So what if he and I sometimes had drinks and scratched an itch? Most of the people in this room will do anything to travel or stay late at the office and avoid your home lives. Brad and I are at least honest about it. It’s not even against company policy, as long as one of us wasn’t the other’s manager.

“I mean, Hell—Bill, here’s, been fucking Tracy over there since the company Christmas party, what: three years ago! We all know it! And you know what? Last time I checked, you two are both married. Brad and I are at least single.”

Roger looked down and chuckled.

“There you go laughing again, Roger. You know what I find funny? How anytime one of us gets you alone, you spend the entire time ranting about what a dick Steve is. But you’d never know that by how far up his ass you’ve shoved your nose!”

Angie Bates got as far as, “Cheryl, calm down—” before Cheryl said, “Coming from you, that’s a riot, Ang. You know they call you Backstabbing Bates, right? If anyone needs to calm down it’s you. I might have screwed Brad, but you? You’ve screwed over everyone in this room!”

Anthony Cavett shifted in his chair.

”What do you want to say, Tony?”

“Nothing.”

“No. You were about to say something. I could see it in your face.”

“Okay. I was about to say you’re not being very grateful. Why don’t you just leave early if you’re going to be like this?”

“Good idea. But before I do, I want you to know my botched email isn’t the only one I sent this morning. Remember that time you treated me like your personal secretary last month? Well, uhm…I noticed some strange payments to a non-existent company when I was working with you. Did a little research and traced it back to you making fake invoices, sending them to Globotek, and depositing the funds into an account you own. That’s big-time fraud right there. So, I also sent email and documents to local news stations and the FBI this morning, letting them know what you’ve been up to.

“You can close your mouth, Tony. You had to know someone would eventually spot that. Or are you really that full of yourself?

“So go ahead, all of you, and make me out to be some horrible person. What Brad and I did never affected our performance at work or anyone in our lives. The rest of you can’t really make that claim. Thanks for this little going away party—it’s been fun…”

When Cheryl opened the door to leave, Brad was on the other side about to head in.

“What’s up?” she said.

“I figured I’d stop in to say goodbye. And if anyone was giving you grief, tell them to mind their own business. You’d think we stepped back to junior high school the way people are acting about that email.”

He surveyed the blank faces in the tiny conference room.

“What’s with them?” he said.

“Oh, you know these guys—always busy thinking about work…”

* * *

Drifted

No winter weather warning was going to keep Robert Johnson from visiting his parents for Christmas. He’d made it through Colbert’s Pass without tire chains in worse conditions—he’d be damned if a bit of rain and snow flurries would stop him. Even when the storm grew to whiteout conditions the higher he climbed, he put faith in the all-wheel drive of his Mercedes G-Class SUV; or rather, faith in what the salesman told him the day he’d bought the vehicle with cash: “You’ll not find a better combination of function and luxury on the planet. This thing? It eats Range Rovers for breakfast.” And so he climbed, on and on, up and up—a methodical ascent like everything else in Robert’s lush life.

He was near the top when he felt the tires break free from the road. As the SUV pulled to the right, Robert realized it was the road that had broken free, a packed layer of snow and ice separating from a slick layer below and sliding toward the edge of the pass. There’d be no guardrail to stop him—it was buried several feet beneath the snowpack. Robert gunned the engine, giving him just enough forward momentum to miss a hundred-foot fall before rolling even further down the mountain. But it wasn’t enough to stay on solid ground. He turned into the direction of the slide and rode the ice into a massive snow drift at the bottom of a hill.

No matter how careful Robert was or how hard he struggled, he had no luck backing out. He tried his phone and the SUV’s Emergency-Call button, but the pass was disconnected from such comforts. He undid his seatbelt, climbed over the driver’s seat, and forced one of the back doors open. The front half of the SUV was buried. Powdered snow gave way beneath Robert’s feet when he tried climbing up to the road. At least the exhaust was free from winter’s clutches—if nothing else, he’d be able to run the engine and have heat.

Before returning to the warmth of the SUV, something caught his eye in the trees. One moment it was there, and then it wasn’t.

“It’s just a stag,” he told himself, even though it moved more like a man…

* * *

Robert’s night on the mountain was made bearable by an idling engine providing heat, a bag full of convenience store snacks serving as dinner, and a tall bottle of alkaline water promising perfect hydration. When he stepped out to relieve himself in the morning, he couldn’t tell if snow was still falling or blowing off the mountain by the wind. Thick flakes drifted like volcanic ash, consuming the glowing silver eye of the sun on the horizon—a mocking promise of warmth shut out by snow. The drift had grown during the night, consuming all but the rear driver’s side of the Mercedes and a spot in the back near the exhaust. If the snow continued to fall, his next night on the mountain would not be as forgiving. Robert needed a plan.

He pulled the spare tire cover off the back of the SUV and scratched HELP into the paint with his keys. Below that, and arrow pointed down to the drift just out of view. Robert propped it up along the side of the road, hoping if a plow came along that it would be legible enough that they’d stop and save him from the storm. After that, he assessed his gear. A suitcase full of clothes could serve as layers and covering if the SUV ran out of gas and heat was no longer available. A fruitcake and tea biscuits for his mother would sustain him for days if needed. He could use the plastic bag from the convenience store to collect snow and let it melt to the closest thing to room temperature to stay hydrated. If it took days to find him, he’d make it—and Robert figured his parents had already alerted others that he never arrived as planned.

* * *

He was dozing in the front seat when he felt something shaking the SUV. At first Robert thought the snow drift, like the road, had broken free of the layers below and was sliding down the mountain. Or maybe enough snow had fallen to cause a mini avalanche from the road above and had slammed into the side of the vehicle. But as the haze cleared from his head, he realized the Mercedes was bouncing up and down.

He checked the rearview mirror, but the back window was caked in snow—the backup camera covered in ice. Still, he could see a large shadow moving from the rear of the vehicle and into the woods.

“A bear,” he thought. “Or an injured mountain goat moving on its hind legs…”

Hours later, when the storm cleared and the urge to defecate became too much, he crawled out through the back door with some leftover napkins from his convenience store stop and squatted beside the SUV. “What a way to go—eaten by a bear in the most vulnerable of positions.” But no attack came his way. He buried what he could in the snow just as the engine finally puttered out of gas. Before returning to the SUV, he checked the back for any sign of what shook the vehicle. A set of tracks emerged and returned to the woods. A massive bare foot like every Sasquatch casting he’d ever seen on TV and…an unsettling round print. If it was a Bigfoot, it appeared to have a single peg-leg, like a pirate.

Robert quickly cleared the snow from the back window and removed the tire iron from the foot well of the rear bench seat.

If something was going to attack him, he’d not go down without a fight.

* * *

Sleep that night came in short bursts between falling into deep dreams and waking up cold. A bit of movement and repacking clothes around his body warmed him just enough to fall back asleep.

When Robert opened his eyes during one of his waking cycles, a massive creature surveyed him through the windshield. It had long, curved horns like an ibex. Its face, twisted and grotesque, shined in the moonlight. Its fur rippled in the breeze. A long tongue lolled from its mouth. The beast grinned at Robert with a mouth full of fangs.

He waited to wake up but couldn’t. “A lucid dream?” he thought. But unlike a movie where an audience is led to believe something on screen were real—until revealing it was all just a dream—Robert knew he was wide awake.

He reached to the passenger seat and felt for the tire iron. The cold steel made his hand ache as he clenched it in defense.

With a long, sharp fingernail, the creature tapped on the windshield. It dragged its hand across the glass and grinned.

Robert swore it laughed as it turned away and disappeared into the woods.

* * *

Nothing, not even the call of nature, could convince Robert to leave the SUV the following morning. His water bottle became a urinal; the plastic bag from the convenience store, a toilet. By afternoon, he’d grown used to the stench. As Christmas Eve fell, he’d convinced himself to go on the offense. He grabbed the tire iron and left the safety of his vehicle.

“You want me, come and get me!” he shouted.

Something moved in the forest. Two icy-blue eyes glowed brighter with each step. Robert readied the tire iron in his hand—it was not the first time he faced fear on Christmas Eve.

The beast held a chain in its left hand and a bundle of birch branches in its right.

“Why are you doing this?!”

Robert was surprised to hear the creature say, “You still carry with you the scent of a naughty child…”

“I’ve atoned for who I was.”

“Have you? How many people under your command worked today, while you set off to visit your parents? How many of those people fear you, as you fear me?”

“I’m not a monster like you!”

“Saying something is so does not make it a truth…”

It only took two strides for creature to close the distance. Robert swung the tire iron with all his might, but Krampus wrapped it up with his chain. With one tug, Robert’s only defense disappeared into the woods.

The beating came next, a rapid-fire swatting of branches flaying flesh with each strike. The defeat came quickly, at least. Krampus raised Robert up and over his head, but something happened as the beast prepared to drop Robert into the basket strapped to its back. There came the sound of other chains…and jingling.

Krampus howled as he was pulled up the hill toward the road. By the time Robert’s vision cleared, the beastly cries stopped. A comically large red tow truck with a plow attached to its front was parked at the top of the hill, its emergency lights flashing in the night. A red flare sailed through the air and landed near Robert’s feet as Not-Santa slid down the hill on his grimy boots. The smell of forest gave way to cigar smoke.

“Well, if it isn’t little Bobby Johnson.”

“Not-Santa?” Robert said.

“The one and only! Looks like you got yerself into a bit of a bind, huh?”

“Yeah. I was coming through the pass and ended up down here. Was that…?”

“Krampus? Yeah. He’s not a bad guy in his own right—we have some things in common, in fact—but each year, he steps a bit deeper into my turf. That Bavarian baddie gets his own night earlier in the month, but his lore’s spread a lot in recent years. Now he’s everywhere. And that’s good, and all, ‘cause the world is full of naughty people needing to be taught lessons. But tonight belongs to my brother and me.”

Not-Santa ran his fingers through his dirty beard. Robert looked at the word tattooed across his knuckles: PAIN. He remembered that night from when he was a kid…

 “Anyway, let’s get you outta here so you can get on to see your folks.”

Not-Santa raised his MOJO hand. A clattering chain with a large hook at the end flew through the air and landed in his palm.

“We’ll get your SUV oriented the right way and then haul you up and outta here!”

* * *

When Not-Santa was done towing Robert’s Mercedes up the hill and onto the road, he handed him a cup of cocoa.

“I’d normally put whiskey in that, but you’ll soon be driving. Mustn’t be naughty, ya know?”

“Yeah.”

As Robert took a sip, Not-Santa said, “He was right, ya know?”

“Huh?”

“Krampus. What he saw in you is right. You can work however the hell long you want, but your insistence that the people you manage be invested as much as you is bullshit. This fuckin’ SUV is worth more than most of their houses…that is, if they’re lucky enough to be upside-down in a mortgage. What incentive do they have to do what you demand of them, other than fear of being in the streets? Most of them will never make a fraction of what you make, even if they do everything by your rules. Keep this up, and in a few more years, don’t be surprised if you’re visited by a series of ghosts trying to scare you straight. Now, let’s get you off this mountain…”

* * *

On Christmas morning, Robert handed out gifts from beneath the tree to his parents. When the piles of wrapping paper were cleared, just like that fateful morning when Robert was seven, his father, Ted, spotted additional gifts behind the tree.

“What’s this?” he said.

“I don’t know,” Robert’s mom, Deidre, said.

Three gifts, one for each, all with a tag reading FROM: NOT-SANTA

Robert’s mom opened the most perfect fruitcake, and his father—a bottle of Louis XIII cognac. A note read, “These should make for some cozy evenings. N.S.” They looked at Robert.

“It wasn’t me,” he said.

Ted sniffed the air. “Did you smoke a cigar last night?”

Robert shook his head no.

Deidre said, “I smell it, too. Do you remember that one Christmas morning…?”

Robert’s parents’ words fell away as he unwrapped his gift, a first printing of Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol from 1843. Included was a note, written on a fast-food burrito wrapper. “To Bobby. Don’t become a Scrooge, ‘cause next time you find yourself stuck on a mountain fighting a soul-eating entity, you’re on your own. Keep Christmas well, and keep an eye on your dad…that hooch goes down smooth. Your ever-watching pal, Not-Santa.”

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks…Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Frizz Oli, Earle Belo, Golden Fern, Howard Harper-Barnes, Martin Landström, and pär, all licensed through Epidemic Sound.

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music.

It’s been a good and busy year for Not About Lumberjacks, and I can’t thank everybody enough. While the show doesn’t reach a very large audience, listenership has almost doubled in 2021. Thanks so much for that!

I’m taking January off to plan for another great year of stories. I have a list of what I plan to write, some roughed-out sections of tales already started, and one beefy story (the mystery set in a bog in northern Illinois I planned for 2021) pretty much ready to go. My goal for 2022 is a story every other month. As busy as the second half of this year was for me, it was also a very productive time for the show.

So happy holidays to you all—here’s to a snazzy new year ahead!

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of a chopping ax.]

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

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

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

* * *

Some people have wondered if “In Cypress Slough” was inspired by recent-ish news about ivory-billed woodpeckers being declared as officially extinct.

It wasn’t.

I originally planned to release it in November 2020, but it required research and an effort I didn’t have time for a year ago. It just-so-happened I was back to working on it this year when the ivory-billed woodpecker was declared officially extinct.

But I’m not here to talk about species humans have destroyed. Right now, I want to talk about how I handle writing characters who have experienced prejudice I’ve never had to face.

* * *

If you’ve spent enough time on pop-culture social media, you’ve likely seen someone complaining about gay characters in stories. Many a one-star Amazon book review reads like this: “I loved this book…until the author decided to push the gay agenda down my throat!” How dare popular movies include a gay character…and definitely don’t get them started on Jon Kent, Superman’s son, being bisexual!

Include a gay character in a story and some will deem you a social justice warrior. (As though that’s a bad thing to be!) I can’t imagine listening to “In Cypress Slough” and thinking, “This was great…up until Christopher felt the need to make Jorge gay! Why’d he have to go and do that?”

Of the 161 main and supporting characters in all Not About Lumberjacks stories to date, only five are gay. That’s about three percent, which is a lower percentage of gay people in society. (If you’re curious who those five characters are: the narrator of the Christmas episode, “Greetings” and his husband; one of the unnamed girls in “Tracks,” the opening story to last year’s Christmas episode story; and Jorge and Devin from “In Cypress Slough.”)

In the case of “Greetings,” Jeremy and Kurt simply exist as a couple like any other. (I wrote that story with Patrick Walsh from the ScreamQueenz podcast in mind as narrator. I’d been a guest on Patrick’s show multiple times, and I wanted to work with him on a Not About Lumberjacks story.) As far as “Tracks”—some people saw it as a story about two friends growing apart; others got the intended bit that one of them’s gay. “In Cypress Slough” is the only story I’ve written where a character’s sexuality is more than just a passing thing.

* * *

As writers, we can write about whatever we want.

If I want to write a story about what it’s like to grow up Black in the South, I can…but there are many people far more suited to tell that story—people who’ve actually lived it.

I was born on the north side of Chicago and moved to a northern suburb when I was two. When I moved to Texas at fifteen years old, I moved to a very white town…so much so, that its history of being so tightly closed has made nationwide news in recent months. (Do a Google search for “Southlake Carroll High School investigation” if you’re curious.) I never had my resume cross a desk, only to be rejected by someone because of how my name sounds. While I’ve faced hardships in life, I’ve never been discriminated against for where I was born, my sexuality, or the color of my skin.

This isn’t to say that I should only write stories about what I’ve experienced, but there are certain stories where the point of telling it is carries a greater purpose than I’m suited to tell.

I’m suited to tell a story about the bullying I endured as a geeky atheist at Carroll High School, but I’m not the best voice to tell the story about the only Black student in my class when I was there and the hell she endured for simply existing. (But you can be damn sure I based Davy Boyd from “In Cypress Slough” off the kinds of people I went to school with who tormented her family and others.)

* * *

So why, then, does “In Cypress Slough” include two gay characters?

Because representation matters.

The purpose of the story is not what it’s like to grow up gay in East Texas—it’s about a guy who spots an extinct species and what happens as a result. It just happens he’s gay, just like other characters who just happen to be straight. (Which no one ever seems to fume about.)

Initially, Jorge returned to Texas A&M university to show a female biologist the ivory-billed woodpecker footage he got. And, because I wanted to leave the story with something more for the future, I felt it would not be a bad idea to leave the story with a budding romantic [heterosexual] relationship.

But as the story behind Davy Boyd’s bullying became more prevalent, things changed.

* * *

I didn’t mention Carroll High School above just to take shots at a place I hated as a teenager. As I roughed out “In Cypress Slough,” news about the school kept popping up. And I thought about [and chatted about] what it was like back when I attended.

I have a friend from the school who’s a year younger than me. When I got my driver’s license, I gave him rides to school. People suspected this friend was gay (he is), and based on that assumption, he was picked on. By associating with him, people gave me grief as well.

When I gave other friends rides to school, no one cared…just like no one cares when a character is straight in a story. But when I gave this friend rides, suddenly I was told I did so for sexual favors. People told their friends not to get close to me because I probably had AIDS.

What my friend endured was far worse.

And so…as Davy Boyd became a reflection of the small-town bullies I knew growing up, and the friendship between Jorge and Kade developed, Jorge’s sexuality factored into the story.

But it’s still not the main point.

* * *

While I can be a bit brash and goofy at times, I’m also a pretty considerate person. Perhaps some of that comes from being picked on when I was younger…trying to consider the feelings of others even if I haven’t experienced the same wrongs they’ve experienced. So, when I write a character who’s lived through something I have not, I consider the words I put down with an additional level of care. It’s not so much, then, about the tone of the prose, but also the purpose of the story.

The purpose behind “In Cypress Slough” is telling a tale about the human toll on the environment, shared with listeners and readers through the eyes of two best friends still forced to deal with a bully from their past. It is not to say, “This is what it was like to grow up gay in the Piney Woods of East Texas…”—there are other writers far more suited to tell that tale. But that doesn’t mean every character I write must be a milquetoast, cis-gendered white dude from suburbia.

* * *

There’s a great book by Nisi Shawl and Cynthia Ward called Writing the Other: A Practical Approach. (I’ll include a link to the book in the show notes, or you can just go to writingtheother.com for more information.) The book grew out of something Nisi Shawl heard at a writing workshop…someone saying they never included characters with differing backgrounds than their own because you’re likely to get it wrong—so, why bother trying?

Nisi saw that mentality as taking the easy way out…and further white-washing literature. They set out to write an essay about how to write characters with differing racial and ethnic differences than their authors.

Taken from the book’s description:

In the course of writing the essay, however, she realized that similar problems arise when writers try to create characters whose gender, sexual preference, and age differ significantly from their own. Nisi and Cynthia collaborated to develop a workshop that addresses these problems with the aim of both increasing writers’ skill and sensitivity in portraying difference in their fiction as well as allaying their anxieties about “getting it wrong.”

Writing the Other and the personal essays on representation in science fiction and fantasy, Invisible and Invisible 2, are great books. (Hell, I’ll also recommend Matthew Salesses’s Craft in the Real World as a must-read for any writer.)

Sadly, I’ve seen writers who have scoffed at the notion of considering these things and what stories to tell (or not tell). But to ignore that is to ignore more than just craft—it’s to ignore the feelings of entire groups of people. (And that’s a shitty thing to do.)

* * *

I’ve also seen writers who say why bother trying because you’ll be attacked by “social justice warriors” no matter what you do—so just do whatever you want.

That’s a cop out.

I know about Writing the Other because I considered changing a character in the last novel I completed, A Magic Life. I had concerns about a Hualapai character born in northern Arizona, but raised by Swedish immigrants in Arizona and Colorado.

I mentioned my concerns to a diverse group of writers I know—on a Discord server for writers and fans of Fable and Foley’s Alba Salix (and other audiodramas).

Not one person told me I wasn’t allowed to write about this character; in fact, they suggested Writing the Other and ways to approach this character: making sure he’s just as important as other main characters—not just there to prop up the protagonist. Ensuring I’m writing about him as a person and not speaking for an entire People of which I am not. Portraying him in a positive light and, should something bigger happen with the book, finding someone who’s lived closer to his life and paying them a fair fee to read the manuscript for anything I might have gotten wrong.

If you’re familiar with the release of Jeanine Cummings’s American Dirt, following this advice could have avoided much of that wreck (but still not have helped with the indefensible move of plagiarized sections of the book being lifted directly from Latino authors)!

Speaking of the American Dirt debacle and this whole point, it’s summed up rather well by author and professor David Bowles (BOWLS):

“There is nothing wrong with a non-Mexican writing about the plight of Mexicans. What’s wrong is erasing authentic voices to sell an inaccurate cultural appropriation for millions.”

* * *

Representation without speaking for a group of people isn’t hard.

I once gave a talk to a local podcasting group about storytelling. One of the slides supporting what I talked about mentioned the importance of thinking things through. For that slide, I used an image of a Black woman looking up in thought.

After the talk, I was approached by a woman who thanked me for that. She loved attending local meetups about podcasting and web tech, but mentioned how the crowds around here are largely white…and how presenters usually used white people (mostly males) in all their slides containing people. She was happy just to see somebody on a slide who looked like her.

I’m friends with a writer from Perú who’s suffered what many writers like her have experienced: she’s been invited to book festivals and placed on the obligatory “Other Voices” panel discussion and then…no others. Just that! The festivals where she’s been treated equally and given a voice on panels having nothing to do with where she was born and who she is are the festivals she returns to—because they see her as a person and not an object.

* * *

My stories tend to be about people who have rarely seen the spotlight and why…or…stories in which they have their moment. While I will never attempt to write a story about what it was like growing up gay in the 80s, it doesn’t mean gay characters will never appear in the stories I tell.

I recognize there are stories left in better hands than mine, and those are stories I will never attempt to write. I don’t feel anyone is taking anything from me by pointing out that sometimes I’m not the right author for a story.

I was a right author for “In Cypress Slough.” (I won’t say the right author because it’s a story many others could have written.) I care deeply about animals and love the landscape of East Texas. I grew up around people who worked menial jobs—my dad was a mechanic. Hell, I’ve been that person working those kinds of jobs. It’s my kind of story. And, in the process of writing it—as a nod to some of my friends—I chose to make Jorge gay.

I will write characters who are different than me and sometimes find (and pay) narrators better suited for those stories. (And sometimes, like “In Cypress Slough,” I’ll narrate things myself because I’m really pressed for time.)

But I will never try telling a more important story about what it’s like growing up truly oppressed, even though nothing prevents me from doing so…other than my own nature.

For all the hardships I’ve faced, none of them are the result of me being a white guy from suburbia. I don’t acknowledge my privilege out of any kind of shame or to virtue signal—it’s simply a fact that I have opportunities many others do not. And because I recognize this and I’m not an asshole, I will always do my best to acknowledge the advantages I’ve had and put characters who might not have had such luxuries in a positive light.

* * *

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

Later this month, it’s the annual Christmas episode—three holiday stories, one of which includes the return of a character from an earlier Not About Lumberjacks Christmas episode.

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

[Listen]

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

Christopher Gronlund:

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

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

This time, two deadhead loggers find something remarkable in the Piney Woods of East Texas, putting them at odds with a large timber company.

And now, the usual content advisory…

“In Cypress Slough” deals with bullying, violence (including gun violence), homophobia, the destruction of wildlife and habitat, structure fires, mention of suicide, and swearing. Also, if you’re driving: be aware there’s a scene with approaching emergency sirens and one LOUD jump-scare (a gunshot).

Before we get going—really quick: did you know one of the founders of Podcast Movement is about to launch an audiodrama? (There’s even a possibility it’s out by the time you listen to this episode of Not About Lumberjacks.) Mitch Todd’s Andromeda Factory is on track to be out in the world soon, but you can listen to the trailer right now by searching for Andromeda Factory wherever you get your podcasts. That’s A-N-D-R-O-M-E-D-A Factory. I’ll include a link to the trailer in the show notes. And…I hear the guy who narrated this very episode of Not About Lumberjacks—ME!—may have contributed to an episode.

All right—let’s get to work…

* * *

In Cypress Slough

[Guitar Music plays…]

2010

The blur of colors in the trees changed everything: red, black, and white in exactly the right places.

“Did you see that,” Jorge said from the front of the jon boat.

Kade shook his head. “See what?”

“That bird.”

“Lots of birds out here.”

“Yeah, but that one shouldn’t be here.”

“You mean, like, it should be someplace else?”

“No. I mean it shouldn’t be here at all. It shouldn’t exist.”

Moments before, Jorge was telling Kade about the early efforts of over-water oil drilling up north on Caddo Lake. And then, there it was—so clear that it could not be disputed.

“Turn back,” Jorge said.

“I’m not turning around for a bird.”

“You’re not turning around for just a bird. I swear on everything I hold dear in life: I just saw an ivory billed woodpecker.”

[Guitar music fades out…]

* * *

Jorge and Kade met in junior high school, when a group of bullies cornered Kade in the locker room and Jorge stepped in to help. They both took a beating, but from that moment, the two became inseparable friends—parting only when Jorge left their hometown of Lumberton, Texas to study vertebrate zoology at Texas A&M University. When chemistry classes and financial struggles forced Jorge home, Kade was running his dad’s custom furniture shop and offered Jorge a job. In time, they struck out on their own, becoming known beyond the Big Thicket of East Texas for their custom builds. An article in Southern Living about their work with reclaimed sunken cypress logs found them with an abundance of orders and left them astonished by how much people would pay for something they viewed as routine work: building slab tables, benches, and desks.

Jorge convinced Kade they could make even more by reclaiming their own cypress sinkers. While Jorge never followed his father into offshore commercial diving, he shared his dad’s love for being underwater. They split their year diving the Neches River and its tributaries for cypress butt logs that fell off barges in the early 1900s and then building furniture through winter.

* * *

[A boat engine winds down…A trolling motor outters along…]

Kade turned the jon boat around, and Jorge went to the trolling motor when they slowed down.

“Just letting you know, I’m not spending the whole morning out here chasing a bird,” Kade said.

“Ten…fifteen minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

“You’re gonna get us lost. At the very least, stuck.”

[A canoe paddle being pulled from the bottom of an aluminum canoe.]

Jorge picked up a canoe paddle. “I’ll push us back out. No worries.”

He maneuvered the boat off the main waterway and into the trees. [A deep breath—in and then out.] Kade’s apprehension was noted by a quick intake of breath and a slow exhale, a reminder of the day when they were younger and Jorge convinced him to blaze their own trail on the sloughs and creeks in the trees. [Sound of trolling motor fades out.] Even Jorge was amazed how easy it was to get turned around in the seemingly multiplying stands of bald cypress trees. When evening settled in, he grew concerned, noticing the fear in Kade’s face each time he turned back in the canoe hoping Jorge had an idea about which way to go. When darkness further impaired their sense of direction and brought out the kinds of sounds that toy with an imagination, they spotted distant lights. A kind couple with a cabin at the end of an abandoned county road let them call their parents. They shared a dinner of pork chops cooked on the grill, green beans, and mashed potatoes while waiting for Kade’s dad to pick up them and their canoe.

[The sound of the trolling motor returns and fades. Overtaken by water lapping against the sides of the canoe.]

“Don’t worry—GPS,” Jorge said while holding up his Garmin global positioning device.

When they could go no further, Jorge leaned back in his seat and listened. The sound of water sloshing against the side of the boat and moving slowly around knobby tree trunks was only interrupted by bird calls and Kade occasionally taking a sip of coffee from a travel mug. Few pleasures in Jorge’s life beat sitting in a boat on still waters while thinking about how connected everything is. From where he sat, he imagined every nerve in his body stretching into the water and feeling the way south, to Sabine Lake, and emptying into the Gulf of Mexico through the pass. From there, he could go anywhere, but what mattered most was not losing himself in the moment. He stretched and kept his eyes slowly scanning the trees. He heard more than he saw: the calls of wood ducks and the grumbling of great blue herons; nuthatches and warblers and vireos. The distant call of a red-tailed hawk and the staccato drumming of a pileated woodpecker. But no sign, visually or audibly, of the bird Jorge knew he’d seen.

[Canoe paddle thud and a startled person in a boat seat.]

When he picked up the canoe paddle to push the jon boat back from the trees, he heard a startled rustle from Kade in his seat.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Kade said. “I was dozing. You probably could have gotten away with another fifteen or twenty minutes…”

* * *

[SCUBA sounds—intake of breath and bubbles…]

The two spent the day sending Jorge down into the murky waters, feeling his way along the bottom for sunken logs where Kade’s depth finder or Jorge’s instincts indicated they might have a hit. Kade dreamed about finding a barge’s worth of sunken cypress so they could focus only on building, but Jorge loved the hunt. Days out on the water with his best friend, diving into realms ruled by alligators and water moccasins, and sometimes coming up with a payday worth thousands was better than time holed up in their shop building tables and benches for overpriced weekend homes in the woods. Their efforts yielded two finds, which Kade marked in a notebook. The next day they’d return with their floating pontoon winch, Nolan’s Ryan, and pull them up. Jorge wanted to name the boat The Kildeer, [smacking hands playing rock, paper, scissors] but a two-out-of-three round of rock, paper, scissors went in Kade’s favor, and he got naming rights.

* * *

[A metal trailer hitch is released, and a canoe is slid onto a rack.]

When they got back to their shop, Jorge unhitched the jon boat and put his cypress strip canoe, The Gadwall, on the rack.

“You’re going back, ain’t ya?” Kade said.

“Yep.” Jorge went to his trailer home on the property and returned with his camera bag and monopod. “Wanna come along?”

“Nah. Gonna have a couple beers and watch the Astros game.”

“Your loss.”

* * *

[Sounds of a canoe paddled through water.]

For three days after work, Jorge paddled and floated the area where he saw the woodpecker. After a productive week on the river, Kade called for a weekend away from work. For him, it meant firing up his smoker and watching baseball; for Jorge, it meant two full days chasing a ghost. On Sunday morning, he spotted a nuttall oak along the shore stripped of its bark around a hole high up near the top. He marked the spot on his GPS device, grabbed his binoculars, and floated. [Water lapping along the sides of a canoe. The call of an ivory-billed woospecker!] He was eating a Clif Bar about an hour into his stakeout when he saw it. Even from a distance, there was no disputing what he was looking at. He now understood how the bird acquired the nickname “The Lord God Bird”; it was even more magnificent than he imaged.

As the woodpecker clung to the tree, Jorge followed the white stripes along its back to the white feathers at the ends of its wings, a pattern reminiscent of the gangly, awkward kid at school with the low-slung backpack. [Rusting and several camera shutter releases.] He slowly picked up his camera and took a series of photos. His heart raced as he viewed the ivory-billed woodpecker through the long lens on his camera. He switched over to video, watching the bird move around its roosting cavity. Before advancing closer, he checked his camera. The photos and video footage were in perfect focus—no Bigfoot-blur or distant footage to be argued over: Jorge had conclusive evidence the ivory-billed woodpecker was not extinct. [Momentary canoe paddling.] Paddling forward through the trees, his presence eventually startled the bird. [More camera sounds.] He raised his camera but was too slow. Still, he knew it would be back.

Jorge spent the day watching and filming the woodpecker in flight and at its roost. He was so enthralled with what he’d found that when darkness fell, the only thing preventing a repeat of the lost-on-the-sloughs incident from his youth were waypoints in a Garmin GPS device to get him back to the truck.

* * *

[Tires on gravel getting closer. Rustling, and a truck door closing. In the background, a crackling fire.]

When he pulled up, Kade was sitting at the fire pit between their trailers.

“I was just about to give you a call. Figured you were either lost, or that you chased it until dark and decided to spend the night.”

Jorge grabbed his camera bag and wandered over. “Or…I spent the day watching and filming it.”

“No kidding?”

“Not one bit. I got it!”

[A lawn chair dragged across dirt.]

He dragged his chair next to Kade’s and showed him some of the photos and footage.

“Well, I’ll be…” [Two beers pulled from ice. Opening and tossing bottletops into a firepit.] Kade reached into a cooler and came out with two Shiners. He unscrewed the tops, tossed them in the fire, and handed one of the beers to Jorge.

“Cheers!”

[Beer bottles clinking together.]

“Cheers.”

[A long sip of beer following by an “Ahh…”]

After a long draw from the bottle, Kade said, “So, now what?”

“I gave that some thought on the drive back. I’m taking tomorrow off. I emailed a biologist I found on the Parks and Wildlife website. Heading up to his office in Jasper to show him. I know what I’m looking at, but I want confirmation.”

“Sure that’s a good idea?”

“Yeah, why?”

“If the bird’s there, it’s there without our interference. Seems best to leave well enough alone.”

“Fair point. I thought about that, too. Cross Pine Lumber is still cutting tracts down to nothing up there. That area needs to be preserved. Some small-town sweetheart business deal gets made, and all that’s gone.”

“True. But it’s not so easy for bigger operations to move around like us.”

“That’s their problem.”

“Yep, it is. At least until they make it ours…”

[Crackling fire fades out…]

* * *

[Footsteps on a cheap floor.]

When Jorge stepped into the Department of Parks and Wildlife office, he was greeted at the desk by a biologist who said, “Jorge Martinez?”

“Yes. You must be Devin Spencer?”

“Indeed, I am. Been looking forward to this all morning. Come on back.”

[Footsteps on a cheap floor.]

Jorge followed Devin to his office, a small room in a back corner of the double-wide construction trailer serving as a field office. The desk and chairs looked like they’d been there since the seventies. Maps of the area covered the faux-wood paneled walls. The only color in the space was a small Pride flag on top of a short bookcase full of binders.

Jorge pointed at the flag. “Is that for you, or for a friend or family?”

“That’s mine. Why?”

“You just don’t meet many out people like us in the sticks.”

“Really?”

Jorge nodded.

“Interesting,” Devin said. He pointed to a chair. “So, you said you have some photos and video you wanted to show me? Can you finally tell me what’s up?”

[A creaking chair, followed by the sound of Windows 7 booting up.]

Jorge sat down and booted up his laptop. “I have conclusive proof of an ivory-billed woodpecker living near Black Creek off the Neches River. I know you’re probably thinking, ‘Oh, he’s about to show me a pileated woodpecker,’ but trust me on this.”

“I wasn’t really thinking about anything—just waiting for you. But, now that I am giving it thought, I suppose that would be the most likely outcome.”

Devin gasped when Jorge opened the first photo. Leaning in for a closer look, he said, “This isn’t a prank?”

“Nope. I have video, too.”

After Jorge showed Devin the photos, he opened the videos.

“Listen,” he said. [The kanting of an ivory-billed woodpecker.] Not only did he have its calls, but he was close enough to see the massive woodpecker vocalize.

“How did you find it?”

“I reclaim sunken cypress logs and build furniture with a friend. I always keep an eye out for wildlife—especially when he’s driving the boat and I’m up front. I gasped, too, when I saw it. I kept going back until finally finding it yesterday.”

“Do you mind if I show this to others?”

“Not at all.”

* * *

In the weeks that followed, Jorge showed biologists with the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department and, eventually, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service where the woodpecker lived. Devin took part in the state surveys, pairing up with Jorge until the organizations had plans to preserve the area. Kade spent his days marking potential locations for Jorge to eventually explore and finally revamping the company website.

[A crackling fire…]

One evening while sitting around the fire pit, he said to Jorge, “We really need to hit the spots I’ve marked lately. Before they shut this all down. You know that’s coming, right?”

“Yeah. Not sure how much of the area will get protected, but it’s in the works.”

“Does that mean you’re done being a tour guide and can get back to work this week?”

“Yep.”

[Crackling fire fades…]

* * *

[Tires on gravel.]

Two days later, when they pulled off the dirt fishing road leading up to the put-in point for their boat, Jorge and Kade were greeted by four men blocking the way. One of them held a felling ax–two-and-a-half pounds of sharpened steel at the end of a 32-inch hickory handle. A red and black buffalo plaid flannel completed the lumberjack look.

“Is that Davy Boyd?” Jorge said.

Kade stopped the truck. “Lemme do the talking.”

[Truck doors closing. Footsteps on gravel.]

They got out and slowly approached the group.

“Morning, gentlemen. Davy. How can we help you?”

Davy Boyd held the ax in his right hand and pointed with his left index finger, a rubbery, sausage-like appendage with manicured nails. “It’s too late for that, thanks to him. Shoulda put you two boys down back when I had the chance.”

Davy Boyd was the school bully leading the attack on Kade the day Jorge met his best friend. Throughout middle and high school, the two thwarted attacks by Davy and his friends until one day reaching their end. They waited in the bushes for Davy to drop Carrie Johnson off after a Friday night football game. Carrie’s father was not very keen on his daughter’s choice of boyfriend, so Davy dropped her off at the end of the long driveway and at least had the decency to wait for her to get inside before leaving. When he turned around, Kade and Jorge jumped him.

[Grunting and the sounds of a fight. The cocking of a shotgun.]

Davy took the beating and worked his way back to his truck, where he pulled a shotgun from the gun rack in the back window. He leveled it at Kade and Jorge, sending them scrambling. [Footsteps retreating.] For years, Davy reminded the two he could have shot them dead that night and gotten away with it in self-defense.

“There’s no need to be mad,” Kade said.

“No need to be mad? I have a stand of timber worth about half a million dollars ready to harvest that they’ll likely keep me from. And Earl, here, was planning to put a couple cabins on his property and retire early. But none of these things’ll happen, now, ’cause the government’s gonna come in and restrict us at best…or seize our land at worst. And it’s all your fault!”

“I worried about the same thing,” Kade said. “Hell, I even tried convincing Jorge it might not be his best idea. But he has a point, too. Why should all of us benefit at the risk of a species going away forever? Maybe that’s the only ivory-billed woodpecker in the world out there. Or maybe there’s more–I don’t fuckin’ know. I do know I wanna keep going on with what we do back here as much as y’all…it’s a sweet gig. But Jorge and I will find another place for sinkers if need be. You own half the friggin’ county, Davy—you’re not gonna run out of timber. We have the chance to save something everyone thought was gone for good.”

“I’m sorry you two are willing to roll over and take it,” Davy said. “But we’re not. They shut all this down, and there’ll be hell to pay…”

Earl McKeen pointed at Kade’s jon boat. “You put your boat in on my land. I’ve always been good with that, boys…it’s only locals who know this spot. But no more. I see you on my property, that’s trespassing now. I see you back here again, if I’m in a good mood, I’ll put salt shot in your asses. If I’m feeling mean, I might do worse. You best get back in that truck right now and find another place to launch your boat.”

* * *

[Music plays—a news station intro. A woman’s voice: “Ivory-billed woodpecker mania is sweeping the region. With a confirmed sighting of the rare and elusive species, birdwatchers from around the world are descending on the Piney Woods of East Texas…”]

Davy’s, Earl’s, and even Kade’s initial concerns and fears were not unfounded. While no land was seized, a wider than anticipated territory was established under the Endangered Species Act, leaving even Jorge and Kade seeking new areas still within the limits of their permit. But what was a bust for some was a boon for others. Once the story reached the news, Lumberton, Silsbee, Evadale, and Buna all claimed the ivory-billed woodpecker as their own, even though the bird resided well outside the limits of the four towns. Buna went as far as painting its regionally famous Polka Dot House with cartoon woodpecker heads. Chambers of commerce decorated in similar fashions, anticipating the rush of people hoping for a peek at the bird. Restaurants created themed menu items, resulting in light-hearted rivalries between local burger joints offering up Big Woody burgers, Lord God Patty Melts, and Knock-on-Wood sliders. Barbers offered sleek ivory-billed woodpecker influenced haircuts, and every independently owned hotel seemed to change their name to the Ivory-Billed Inn. It was almost hard to fault them. With a confirmed sighting, birdwatchers from far reaches lined the Neches River bordering the protected area in the hope of catching a glimpse of the rare and impressive bird. When they weren’t on the water, they needed places to stay and things to do.

* * *

[A crackling fire…]

Jorge and Kade were sitting at the fire pit drinking beer when Kade said, “Ya know, I’ve been thinking: might be best to stop diving for logs and shift to building while this all blows over. We can’t even get back on Village or Hickory creek, let alone the river. It’s crazy.”

“It is,” Jorge said. “I got an email today from someone telling me he’s willing to pay me fifty-thousand dollars to take him back and see it.”

“You gonna do it?”

“Nope!”

“Why not? That’s a lot of money for a few hours in a canoe.”

“They’ve been picking up trespassers and fining them.”

“Yeah, but for fifty grand, I’d still be tempted. Pay the fine if you get caught, and still walk away with thousands.”

“It’s not worth it. If something bad happened to the bird when I was back there and I was blamed, that would cover the fine, but it wouldn’t account for potential jail time. And as the guy who found the bird, I feel a weird sense of duty to it and the people working to preserve things.”

“Like Devin?”

“Yeah, Devin, too.”

“How’s that going?”

“We stay in touch through email, but that’s about it.”

“You should ask him out for coffee or something. See how things have been going. It’s not like we’re busy right now.”

“True. But if we shift to building mode, we will be.”

“Stop with the excuses. You deserve to be happy. Even if we switch over, there’s a lot to get in order. That’s time to at least find out…”

[Crackling fire fades out…]

* * *

[Emergency sirens in the distance getting closer.]

Jorge awoke to the sound of distant sirens getting closer. He looked at the curtains, watching lights flash against them before realizing the sirens were distant enough that he wouldn’t see them yet. This was a different kind of flickering.

From Kade’s trailer, he heard his friend shout, “Jorge! Get out here!”

He pulled on a pair of hiking sandals and charged out wearing only his sleep shorts. [A slamming screen door. The sounds of a roaring structure fire.] It was a cool evening for the season, but he felt the heat from the fire.

Kade pulled a fire extinguisher from the back of the truck and ran for their shop. “Get the hose!”

[Running footfalls. The WHOOSHING of a fire extinguisher. Firetruck engine rattling and a second distant siren getting closer.]

By the time Kade emptied the fire extinguisher and Jorge joined his side, a fire truck and ambulance arrived. In the distance, another siren was getting closer.

* * *

[Dripping water.]

When the fire was extinguished, they assessed the damage with the company lieutenant. The insulation on one side of the steel-frame unit was burned away, and much of their curing cypress toasted. The portable sawmill looked like a total loss.

“I think most of these logs and slabs survived,” Kade said. “Or will at least be usable with a bit of work.”

[A chunk of glass scooted on concrete.]

The company lieutenant toed a piece of shattered glass on the floor near their timber. It looked like the bottom of a bottle. He pointed at a broken window.

“Is there any reason either of you can think of that someone might have started this fire?”

Jorge nodded. “Yes. Why?”

“We’ll bring in an investigator tomorrow, but this might be deliberate.

[Dripping water fades out…]

* * *

[A large pickup truck pulls up.]

When Davy Boyd pulled into his reserved spot in front of the Cross Pine Timber warehouse, Jorge and Kade were waiting. He flashed them a cocky grin as he pulled off his wrap-around Oakley sunglasses and placed them on his company cap. [A closing truck door and footsteps.] Davy stepped out of his Ford F-450 pickup truck and said, “What can I do for you ladies this fine morning?”

“You know damn well what you can do!” Kade said.

“Whoa, calm down there, Kadie-Boy. I haven’t even had my coffee. And no, I don’t know what I can do. Perhaps you can catch me up to speed…”

“Someone fire-bombed our place last night,” Kade said. “You can probably imagine why we might think it was you?”

“Nope. Sure can’t.”

[Footsteps.]

Kade made a fist and took a step forward.

“You might want to think twice about that. There’s a reason I carry my keys in my left pocket.”

[Rustling fabric.]

Jorge noticed the bulge from a pistol on Davy’s right side and grabbed the back of Kade’s shirt.

“I’m serious, fellas: I haven’t thought about your place until just now—not that I give a shit. I’m guessing you’re only gonna garner more enemies now that news has spread that your little buddy’s responsible forth whole area turning into a circus. Come around here again, and you two might get hurt.”

Davy Boyd pushed past Kade and Jorge.

“They’re doing an investigation,” Kade said. “If you did it, they’ll find out.”

Davy turned around and grinned. “You know damn well if I had done it that nothing would happen to me. Now, you girls get off my property and never set foot on any spot I own ever again. Understand?”

* * *

[Typing on a keyboard.]

Jorge took Kade’s advice and emailed Devin, asking if he wanted to get some coffee and chat. Devin replied, telling Jorge to bring a Thermos and meet him at the John’s Lake Road put-in point Earl McKeen told him to stay away from. [A truck pulling up on a dirt road.] Devin was already there when Jorge arrived. Earl was in his backyard. When he saw Jorge, he gave him the finger.

“Don’t worry,” Devin said. “He does that every time. We’ve tried talking with him…telling him the day may come when he can’t put in enough cabins on his property to meet the demand for visitors.”

“Yeah. But that finger was meant for me. He knows I’m the one who reported it. Threatened to shoot us if we ever put in here again.”

“Well, you’re safe with me.”

[A canoe sliding off a roof rack. Rustling fabric and items placed in an aluminum canoe.]

After they got the canoe from the back of Devin’s work truck, he tossed Jorge a personal floatation device and packed a few dry bags into the boat.

“So, what are we doing?” Jorge said.

“I have to check all the field cameras and autonomous recording units. You’ve not been back here a while. I figured why not have coffee and chat while checking things.”

[A canoe paddled through calm water.]

As they glided through the trees, Jorge adapted his breathing to the rhythm of paddle strokes. He loved being in the bow, blocking his view of the front of the canoe and imagining himself skimming across the water’s surface. It was that time of the year before murky floodwaters clouded the shallows where hungry white bass flashed bright like giant coins and vegetation undulated beneath the surface, like long hair waving in a breeze.

“How’ve you been going?” Devin said.

“It’s been a crazy week. Had a guy offer me fifty-grand to take him back here. I told him no, of course. Then our warehouse appears to have been firebombed.”

“What?!”

“Yeah. Looks like someone knocked out a window and tossed in a Molotov cocktail. Fortunately—aside from our sawmill—it wasn’t a total loss. And then my best friend decided to pick a fight with a guy who’s bullied us since high school, and now I’m here.”

[A slow breath, in and out…]

Jorge took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. In the rush of everything, he’d not been on still water for over a month.

“So, I take it you were bullied because you’re gay?”

“Nah. At least not initially. I saw a group of guys beating up my best friend, Kade, and tried helping. We both got our asses kicked. Really, though, I think he got bullied more than I did. No one knew I was gay, but…they knew. So, they teased Kade for being my friend more than they picked on me for being gay. I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Yeah. Definitely not the best place to grow up gay. I hid it well. My dad always had his suspicions, but he let me act tough. I think he was relieved—just for my own preservation. He grew up outside and taught me everything he knew, so I was able to hide it and blend in. Until I went to college and didn’t have to hide it as much anymore.”

“Do you still see your dad?”

“Yes. My mom and my dad. How ’bout you?”

“My folks moved to Austin when I went to school, but I see them when I can. My mom was a Longhorn. I think she hoped when I visited Austin that I’d change my mind and go there.”

“You mentioned you dropped out?”

“Yeah.”

“How come?”

“Couldn’t afford it. And then business took off for Kade and me.”

“Is everything you make from reclaimed cypress?”

“Most of it. It’s become what we’re known for. I miss making more intricate furniture. What we reclaim from the water is mostly good for tables and benches.”

“Well, you might get the chance to get back to better things.”

Jorge turned around. “What do you mean?”

“State’s considering restricting sinker salvage. It’s destroying wildlife habitats.”

“I know someone who’s not gonna like that news…”

[Paddled canoe fades out…]

* * *

[A crackling fire.]

“You know I’m on your side with all this environmental stuff,” Kade said. “Right?”

“Yeah.”

“But you can see how some people feel it’s all too much?”

“Sure, I can see that,” Jorge said, “but it doesn’t mean I have to side with it. It’s like anything, really…if we’d cared more all along—been nicer all along—we’d not see so much push-back today. It only happens because we destroy everything when given the chance. Half the people who live out here are freaking out that white people one day won’t be the majority in this country, but the only reason to fear that is if you’ve been cruel all along—and you keep at it, instead of acknowledging the past and changing your ways. Same thing with protecting species. Look at how much we’ve driven to extinction because no one stopped us. Hell, our national bird was once on the Endangered Species List. If that doesn’t tell you everything you need to know, I don’t know what does.

“I love diving for logs. I love being in the shop with you, too, but I love being out on the water even more. And I know we can’t live without doing some kind of damage to other things, but I hate the thought of me not being smart enough to figure out a way to do something if it means saving something that can’t avoid its impending demise. The least I can do is care enough to consider something else. If hauling logs out of creeks and rivers destroys habitats, I’m willing to try thinking about how to shift what we do.”

[Sipping sounds.]

Kade took a swig of beer and said, “Yeah…you’re right. Of course. I suppose I got used to making simple furniture that paid well enough to let us putter around on the water a little more than half the year. Did you have a good morning at least?”

“Yeah. A great morning. Devin’s a really cool guy. And they think they might have heard another ivory-billed woodpecker. It was on one of their recorders. Distant enough that they can’t confirm it. But they’re hopeful.”

“Well, hope’s a good thing…”

“Indeed. To hope.”

“Cheers.”

[Beer bottles clanking together.]

“Cheers…”

[Crackling fire fades out…]

* * *

[A diesel pickup truck pulling up.]

Jorge and Kade were almost done cleaning up their shop when they heard the rattle of a diesel engine and tires on gravel. It sounded like a small semi tractor pulling up. When they stepped out to see what it was, they saw the grill of Davy Boyd’s pickup truck. Davy cut the engine and got out.

[A truck door closing.]

“What the hell do you want?” Kade said.

Davy looked at the shop. “Seems someone accused me of setting your place on fire. Cops came by asking me if I had anything to do with it. Any idea who might have told them to bother me?”

“No idea,” Kade said.

“Huh, that’s funny. ‘Cause when I asked around, they told me it was you two.”

“We didn’t say you did it,” Jorge said. “They asked us if we could think of anyone who might have done it. You and your friends threatening us on John’s Lake Road didn’t put you at the bottom of our list. So, yeah, we mentioned you and Earl McKeen’ names—why wouldn’t we? You, standing there with an ax, acting like some butch lumberjack and Earl threatening to shoot us if they put restrictions on the area. And you seriously wonder why we’d have them check with you? You’ve never been very bright, Davy, but come on.”

Davy looked at Kade and said, “You better shut your girlfriend up.”

[Rustling fabric.]

Jorge put his arm in front of his best friend and held him back.

[Patting hand on jeans.]

Davy patted his right hip and said, “Best listen to your little bitch.”

“Fuck you!” Kade said. “You’re pathetic. That gun…this truck. What are you compensating for, Davy? You’re only tough if you have that thing on your side or ten friends standing behind you.”

[A gun being pulled from a holster and set on the hood of a truck.]

Davy reached for the pistol. He pulled it from the holster and set it on the hood of his truck.

“There. You want to settle this, then let’s settle it.”

“There’s nothing to settle,” Jorge said.

Davy looked at Kade. “What about you?”

[A person being shoved aside.]

Kade shoved Jorge aside and said, “Yeah, there’s a lot to settle. Years of his bullshit…”

[Charging footfalls.]

Davy squared up, but Kade was on him before he could throw a punch. Years of letting other people do the hard work for him did Davy no favors. Despite towering over Kade, hauling logs out of rivers and moving slabs of timber around kept Kade fit. [Tackle sound.] He hit Davy just below the ribs with his shoulder, taking the wind out of him. [A body hitting the ground.] Before Davy could catch his breath, Kade went for a leg, toppling the mini giant. [Rapid-fire punches.] He climbed onto his chest and started punching.

Jorge let him get in a few shots before trying to pull Kade off Davy, but there were decades of grief being released in his best friend’s rage. [Fabric rustling; more punching.] Kade wriggled free each time Jorge tried grabbing him; he kept hammering Davy’s face with his fists. When Davy went limp, he didn’t stop. Even when Jorge did get a hold, Kade wrapped his legs around Davy’s body and refused to let up.

[A gunshot!]

BANG!

The sound of the gun brought Kade back. He looked at Jorge, who’d just fired a shot into a thick pile of ruined lumber.

“What the hell?”

Jorge said, “You won, all right? I had to do something. You looked like you were gonna kill him.”

As Kade caught his breath, he looked at Davy’s red and puffy face. Blood flowed from his nose. A fat lip redirected the rivulet toward his cheek.

[Helping someone up from the ground.]

When Davy came to, Jorge helped him up. Davy looked toward the hood of his truck.

“Looking for this?” Jorge said. He waved the gun in his hand.

“Give that back!”

“Why, so you can shoot us? Nah, you’re not getting this back right now. Both of you are too wound up for that. I’ll bring it by your office later today when you calm down and get cleaned up from the ass beating you just took. Right now, you’re gonna leave. You give us any more grief, and we’ll tell the cops you took a shot at us, missed, and Kade had no choice. And yeah, I know—you have friends in high places. But this is a little county, and I’m friends with a bunch of people with the state Department of Parks and Wildlife and even a few people with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. I’m sure if I told them I didn’t think you were following all the rules the county lets you break that it would put a damper on your business. So why don’t you think about that?”

[A truck door opens and closes. The engine starts.]

Davy pointed at them; then shook his head and got into his truck. Beneath the hood, the engine roared to life. [A slap!] When Kade smiled and waved at Davy, Jorge slapped his hand down and told him to stop.

* * *

Later that day, Jorge drove to Cross Pine Timber and asked for Davy. Davy looked like a prizefighter on the wrong end of a bad night.

“Can we step outside?” Jorge said.

Davy looked worried for a moment, but seemed to catch on when Jorge patted his right pocket. [Patting sounds.]

[Background ambience: a slight breeze.]

“Here you go,” Jorge said as he handed Davy his pistol. “I know I don’t need to be, but I’m sorry about all this. I’m sorry you have a stand of timber you can’t get to right now. I even feel for Earl. I feel for Kade—he’s more on your side in all this than you know. Our days of recovering sinkers are numbered. It’s up to us to figure what we’ll do when that day comes.

“I don’t care if you can or can’t see any of this from my point of view, but I want you to think about how it is for Kade. You’ve been giving him grief for almost twenty years…for no reason other than you decided to target him and make his life hell. And then you went at him harder once he and I became friends. Even though he’s straight, you gave him more grief about being gay than me. Hell, you made fun of me for being a Mexican, even though my family’s been here for probably as many generations as yours. All I’ll say about your face is this: it looks like that right now because you brought it upon yourself. You’re a grown friggin’ man still acting like you’re in high school. You’ve got a good life, so let that shit go. You won the prize—isn’t that enough?”

Davy said nothing.

“You and Kade just need to ignore each other. But I want you to mull this over: this is all on you. Had you never picked on him, this wouldn’t have happened. Also, if you ever go at him again, I won’t stop him from killing you. ‘Cause I’m pretty sure in the rage he let go when he was on top of you, that was his intent.”

Jorge extended his hand.

[The smack of a handshake.]

It took a moment, but Davy Boyd shook it before heading back inside.

* * *

[The sounds of a package being opened.]

Two days later, a package a little larger than a shoe box arrived, addressed to Bald Cypress Furnishings. Inside was a dead ivory-billed woodpecker and a note reading:

“This is what you get for shutting it all down and calling the cops on me. Send them again—this time, I’ll be ready.”

“You shouldn’t have stopped me from beating the hell out of Davy,” Kade said. “That son of a bitch…”

“I don’t think it was him.”

“Come on! You know it was.”

“No. I think he kinda gets it. Let me make this call…”

* * *

[News show music plays. A woman’s voice: “In Hardin County, Texas, a tense standoff between police and Earl McKeen, the man who killed the last ivory-billed woodpecker, ended in tragedy.”]

The last stand of Earl McKeen made the evening news even beyond the borders of the Big Thicket. An armed standoff with the man who killed the last ivory-billed woodpecker ended with him setting fire to his home and taking his life with a single bullet. Jorge and Kade watched footage of his burning house from a helicopter.

“You were right,” Jorge said. “I should have shut up. Earl might have been a crotchety old fuck, but he didn’t deserve that end. And the woodpecker did well enough without our influence. “

“Nah,” Kade said. “It lived right on the edge of where Davy was gonna harvest timber. So, who knows what would have happened with it, but it probably wouldn’t have been good. At least you cared.”

“Lotta good it did.”

“Yeah, it did. You brought a lot of people together. That bird brought hope back to this area. Maybe some kid growing up around here right now remembers this, goes off to school, and becomes a biologist like Devin instead of going to work for Davy. Maybe some of the dumbasses out here who vote for people like Davy’s dad consider this and vote for somebody better. I don’t know, but I do know I was wrong when I said you should have let well enough alone. Well enough only goes so far when people are willing to do whatever they want if they know they can get away with it. You did the right thing. Never forget that.”

* * *

[Windows 7 boots up.]

After dinner, Jorge booted up his laptop. He opened Outlook and composed an email.

[Typing on a keyboard.]

“Devin. I’m sure by now you’ve heard the news. I’m so sorry. I know it’s not my fault this all happened, but I can’t help but feel responsible to some degree. I’m glad there are people like you out there trying to make a difference. Jorge.”

[Outlook notification sound.]

He was dozing when he heard his email notification. He opened Devin’s reply.

“Jorge. Yes, I heard. I have a hard time feeling for Mr. McKeen. Take your stand, sure, but why kill the bird? I’m sorry you were on the receiving end of all this. I’m heading out in the morning to check field cameras and recorders—I’d love to have some company. Meet me at the put-in point around 6:30? Devin.”

* * *

[A truck pulls up on a dirt road.]

When Jorge pulled up, he could smell the burned remains of Earl McKeen’s house. He was happy to see Devin already there with a canoe in the water. On closer inspection, he noticed the boat had a square stern with a small outboard motor attached. He got out of the truck.

[A closing truck door.]

“Good morning,” Devin said.

“Morning.” Jorge pointed at the canoe. “What’s with that?”

“We’re gonna head up-river a bit. We could paddle, but this is much easier.”

[Sounds of a canoe being packed.]

As they put on floatation devices and packed a few dry bags into the canoe, Jorge looked north, through the trees where he’d found the ivory-billed woodpecker. One of the most beautiful places he knew now seemed devoid of life, despite still teeming with the energy of a rising morning.

[An outboard motor and canoe cutting through the water.]

As they made their way up the Neches River, they passed the spot where Jorge first caught sight of the bird. He wondered what its fate would have been had he never said a word.

[The boat engine is cut. Canoe paddling takes over.]

A couple miles up, Devin cut the engine. He and Jorge began paddling into the trees, following a winding creek deeper into the canopy. The creek gave way to a series of sloughs.

Jorge said, “My friend Kade and I got lost on waters like this when we were kids. He’s still nervous to come back to places like this.”

“What about you?” Devin said. “Does this bother you?”

“No. I love it. It’s places like this that keep me in the area. I’ve thought about leaving, but this part of the state is definitely not without its magic.”

“You’ll get no argument from me. If Kade isn’t game to get lost back in places like this, I am. Anytime you want to come out, let me know.”

“I’d like that.”

“Of course, I’d not object to seeing each other outside of all this, either. Maybe dinner sometime?”

“I’d like that even more.”

“Wonderful…”

They paddled in silence, sometimes following creeks—other times, shallow bodies of still water. Jorge lost track of time, but didn’t want to check his phone or ask Devin. Instead, he said, “Where are we going?”

“You’re patient. Most people would have asked that before even getting in the canoe. We’re almost there.”

“Where is there?”

“You’ll see…”

[The call of an ivory-billed woodpecker.]

Several minutes later, Jorge swore he heard the call of an ivory-billed woodpecker. He turned back to look Devin, who smiled and nodded.

The trees gave way to a clearing in the middle of it all, a large slough among the cypress trees. Across the water, a line of nuttall oaks stood watch on a raised shore.

“Psst.”

[Water lapping at the sides of a canoe.]

Jorge turned around to Devin handing him a pair of binoculars. Devin pointed to a tree with scaled bark high up.

Jorge sighted the tree and moved his view up to the hole. [Chirping of chicks.] Three tiny heads poked out, comical, big-eyed little wedges waiting for food. In time, their mother returned to the nest, sending the chicks into a frenzy. She wasn’t as colorful as Jorge’s woodpecker, but she was equally beautiful.

“We spotted another male,” Devin whispered. “And we’ve picked up recordings north of here that we think might be another. We’re hopeful there are enough for a recovery.”

[Coffee poured into a cup.]

He poured Jorge a cup of coffee and handed it to him before pouring one for himself. Jorge set the binoculars down and took it all in. Perhaps what he was looking at would make it on their own, a population of a species on the brink reclaiming what belonged to them long before progress and greed took over. But he knew that was unlikely. In taking his stand, the lineage of the birds before him might thrive long after he was gone and forgotten. The thought made him smile—and as he recalled all the times he was told to pay attention to menial things by teachers and bosses and other people who, in turn, missed the obvious beauty right in front of them, he chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” Devin said.

“Just thinking about how strange this has all been. And how disconnected people are to so many amazing things.” He watched the ivory-billed woodpecker feeding her brood. “The wonders of the world are everywhere, if only we’d open our eyes and listen…”

[The calls of an ivory-billed woodpecker. Water lapping at the sides of the canoe fade out.]

[Upbeat guitar music plays and fades out…]

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks…not just this episode, but some of you, every story and behind-the-scenes commentary for the six years of the show’s existence. I put 40-60 hours into each episode, which is a lot of time for something that makes no money or even gets many listens…but knowing you’re listening makes it worthwhile. So…thanks! Okay, onward…

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

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music.

In December, the other now-annual tradition continues as I share a handful of very short short stories, one of which is always a Christmas tale.

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of a chopping ax.]

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