[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 a behind-the-scenes look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and likely contains spoilers of the latest episode. You’ve been warned…”

* * *

John Irving doesn’t write a novel until he can work from the ending back to the beginning. Other writers plot out everything before they sit down and begin writing stories. These kind of people are called planners by other writers.

And then there are writers who begin with little more than an image that intrigues them. Haruki Murakami once said, “When I start to write, I don’t have a plan at all. I just wait for the story to come. I don’t choose what kind of story it is or what’s going to happen. I just wait.”

These kinds of people are called pantsers by other writers because they write by the seat of their pants.

I am a pantser. I was going to begin this episode of Behind the Cut talking about how the last handful of Not About Lumberjacks stories were started with no end in mind. But then, when I looked at the Quick List on the site containing all the stories, I realized almost everything I write is an act of discovery.

* * *

In the fall of 1979, one of my best friends introduced me to a little game called Dungeons and Dragons. As fifth graders, we were just realizing there was a subculture that played wargames, and something blurring the lines between that and telling stories intrigued us.

But in those first couple years, the stories were contained within the walls of dungeons. Players might figure out a different way through a challenge, but you were bound by the environment.

Then came an adventure module called The Village of Hommlet. Sure, adventurers eventually found a dungeon, but the first part of the game was wide open. Players could do anything! And I loved running friends through that adventure because not knowing what would happen next fascinated me. From that point on, I loved running games in open places where maybe I had an idea for the evening, or even a larger story arc, but if my friends wanted to do something else entirely, I ran with it and made up adventures in the moment.

It was great training for writing stories.

* * *

When I started writing the latest Not About Lumberjacks story, “Milkboy,” I only knew I would base it on a shitty thing a friend and I did to our best friend in, I think, 1990…maybe ’91. Before common access to the world wide web was a thing, if you had a geeky computer friend like my friend Mark, you might have hung out on a bulletin board system—a computer running a network people called to share messages and files. (Yeah, it was all pretty much on some person’s computer in, probably, some crappy apartment like Tim and Mark’s.)

Mark belonged to a BBS and eventually let his roommate, Tim, create a profile and access things. Me as well.

One evening, Mark and I decided to create a fake online persona named Milkboy and mess with Tim. The earlier parts of “Milkboy” are wholly true. The real ending, though, went something like this:

Tim did want to meet Milkboy in real life. Mark and I knew we had a problem.

One day Tim was so kind to take Mark and me to the Modern Museum in Fort Worth, Texas…and then to dinner at a pizza place on the way home. There, Mark and I told him that we were Milkboy. Tim was rightfully hurt, and Mark and I felt like shit. (To this day, we’re surprised Tim didn’t stick us with the bill and leave us stranded in Fort Worth. But then, you can probably tell, Tim was kind of a better guy than Mark and me.)

It’s a funny story to tell when hanging out and talking about stupid things done in one’s early adulthood, but it’s not worthy of publication. It needed something more.

* * *

I’ve talked about my love for the “What If?” game before. I enjoy looking at even a mundane situation and asking, “What if…” and seeing where it takes me. Often, as a storyteller, it eliminates storylines that aren’t very strong.

Not knowing where I was taking “Milkboy,” one of those “What ifs” was, “What if Tim found out the truth and fucked with us in return? What if Tim not only said he wanted to meet Milkboy, but was going to introduce us to him?” (Yeah, this person we made up.)

That’s an interesting turn, which led to figuring out how to pull it off.

And that’s what I ran with for “Milkboy.”

* * *

I’m proud of all the stories on Not About Lumberjacks, but the stories created for the show—not the stories I’d written before it started—impress me the most.

For a moment, though, “Milkboy” seemed like a story just going through the motions. It was good, but…if put against, say, the last five stories on the site, it would have definitely been a bit of a dip. It didn’t feel right—it needed something more.

* * *

There are probably more than a half-dozen quotes about sculpting attributed to Michelangelo with a gist of, “There’s something wondrful in that block of marble, and it’s my job to find it and make it real.”

I’ve read and watched interviews with other artists about how they know a piece is done, and most of them say something to the effect of, “I know it’s done when it feels right.”

“Milkboy” did not feel right…just as “Calling Out of Time” didn’t feel right until I reached the end. “A Deathly Mistake” as well…really most stories on Not About Lumberjacks.

“Milkboy” needed something more than, “Hey, let’s fuck with Tim. Oh, look—Tim turned the tables on us. Oh, wasn’t that funny?”

But what?

* * *

If you’ve listened to “Milkboy” you know it was released on Tim’s birthday. You know I’m still friends with Tim and Mark. So…I knew two things: the story needed another turn that put it into the realm of ridiculous…and, in the end, it had to be a heartfelt tale of decades-long friendships.

Enter Demon Milkboy…

* * *

Initially, I just thought it would be funny if Milkboy/Lance kept showing up. Turning it into a tale of obsession…either the guy Tim got to play Milkboy sticking with the role like a method actor, or…just being a bit off and obsessed with the three main characters.

Again, it was a good turn, but it still felt small to me. But as I started writing the scenes where Lance started following us, it started getting creepy. And…because, along the way, I realized I was writing a gift to Tim for his birthday (and a gift to Mark, as well), I knew it would end up being heartfelt no matter how far I chose to take it.

My goal was to make Tim and Mark laugh by how ridiculous the story would become (like something out of an old GURPS one-shot role-playing game night), I knew if the story could be a love-letter to our friendships, all the better!

* * *

I will go to my grave laughing every time I think about Demon Milkboy singing his version of the happy birthday song to Tim…particularly, the “Milkboy will never leave you…” line. It works better with the demon voice. [Demon Milkboy Voice] “Milkboy will never leave you…” See? Anyway, there are plenty of laughs once Demon Milkboy drops from the sky in front of Mark and me on the access road to I-35 in Denton, Texas (the town where I met Tim). But Tim and Mark, and many other friends, helped me battle my own demons. We’ve all helped each other through so many rough times over the decades, so…I figured out Demon Milkboy needed to become a symbol of the hard things that shaped us all before we even knew each other…but also a symbol about how the three of us are still alive because there were times we all thought about ending everything…and kept going because we had each other’s support.

* * *

There was still one problem with “Milkboy”—I felt bad for killing Lance.

Something I’ve mentioned to no one until now: Lance is based on a guy Tim and I worked with in our early 20s.

Like I said, Tim and I met in Denton, Texas when we both answered a newspaper job ad as door-to-door salesmen. We were to sell a sort of encyclopedia set-slash-learning system for kids.

Weekends found us traveling around Texas and Oklahoma, trying to sell our wares to people near military bases, middle-class neighborhoods, and they once dropped me on a reservation in Oklahoma. It was a shitty job, but I kept it because I liked Tim…and this guy named Jeff.

To see Jeff, you’d think he could own the world. He was handsome and fit; talented and kind. He had every reason to be a narcissist, but he was more interested in other people than himself. He had a way of making you feel special in his presence.

One night in Oklahoma, I was wandering the edge of my sales territory and saw Jeff across a highway in his. We both sucked at being salesmen, so we decided to hang out. That’s when Jeff confessed to me how much he struggled with life. He told me he hadn’t eaten in days because he was broke. (I at least had a second job on a sprout farm, so I at least had free access to garbanzos, adzuki beans, and other forms of protein. And, God—plenty of greens!)

We scrounged up enough change to get Jeff a hotdog at 7-11. I have no idea if they still sell hotdogs based on all you could fit into the little cardboard hotdog containers, but at the time…if you could cram that thing full of food and close it, you could have it for a flat price.

Jeff packed every space around the hotdog with chili. He could barely close it. I reached into his pocket and dug change to pay for it because the container was about to fall apart in his hands.

We wandered to a school yard, where Jeff planned to sit on a swing and eat his first bit of food in days.

He dropped the hot dog in the dusty dirt below the swingset…and then he broke down in tears.

He plopped down on the swing with his stomach, hovering inches over the exploded chili dog on the ground. He sobbed like he’d just lost a loved one…it was a mournful howl.

A passerby might have thought, “It’s just a chili dog, dude,” but there was soooooo much more behind those tears: feelings of failure, shame, and who knows what else?

When Jeff’s crying slowed, he looked up at me and said, “Would you think any less of me if I ate this thing out of the dirt?”

Of course, I wouldn’t—and I watched someone who looked destined for greatness I could only imagine eat a cheap chili dog off the ground, dirt be damned! Later that night, he told me about how he had a hard time making friends; how he felt like a failure in his family’s eyes; how he had so many aspirations growing up, but how life didn’t turn out the way he always thought it would.

Like I said, we all have our demons…

* * *

I didn’t want “Milkboy” to be a self-indulgent story full of inside jokes that wouldn’t appeal to a wider audience. I wanted it to be relatable to everyone, even though it’s perhaps the most ridiculous story I’ve shared on Not About Lumberjacks. (If I never wrote and shared “Booger,” I’d say “Milkboy” is definitely the weirdest story on the site, but people still tell me about how much the sounds in “Booger” got to them…)

Anyway…I went into “Milkboy” not knowing where it would end up, and, in the process…ended up writing one of my favorite stories ever.

Stepping into the unknown is never easy—whether it’s a story or life itself—but if you do it enough, preferably with the company of a handful of loved ones, sometimes the ending surprises you in the most wonderful of ways…

* * *

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

In November, the annual tradition continues as I share the most NOT Not About Lumberjacks story of the year, in honor of the show’s sixth anniversary! What’s the story about, you may be wondering? Well, two deadhead loggers find something remarkable in the Piney Woods of East Texas, putting them at odds with a large timber company.

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, we step back to the days of computer Bulletin Board Systems for a story based wholly on truth. (No, seriously—this was a pretty much true story, until we reach a certain point.) When two friends create an online persona to mess with another friend, they get what they have coming to them for their deception.

I know I said this month would be a mystery set in a bog, but that’s now been bumped to the first release of 2022. It’s a good story, and I didn’t want to rush it just to get it out. Besides, it was time for something lighthearted and goofy.

And now: the usual content advisory. Milkboy deals with emotional manipulation, stressful working conditions, infected food, passing mention of a grizzly death, demonic possession, and cartoonish violence. Oh, sooooooo much cartoonish violence! And, of course, there’s plenty of swearing.

Also, if you’re driving: be aware that anytime you hear characters in a vehicle after the mention of Yummy’s Greek Restaurant in Denton, Texas…there will be yelling, squealing tires, and even a collision. Really, from that point on…just expect the story to get louder and more ridiculous with each new paragraph.

The character of Tim in Milkboy is a real person…in fact, he’s the artist behind the two versions of the Not About Lumberjacks logo! I’m releasing Milkboy today, on October second 2021, in honor of his birthday. I’ve been fortunate over the years to receive artwork from Tim as gifts on my birthday, so it was time I wrote a story as a gift for one of his. I hope this effort finally absolves me from the sin of creating Milkboy and catfishing Tim before catfishing was a thing.

All right—let’s get to work…

* * *

Milkboy

[Jaunty guitar music fades in, joined by a trumpet.]

This is a story about the shittiest thing my friend Mark and I ever did to our best friend, Tim.

Mark had a Tandy 2500 386 SX computer (with an 85 megabyte hard drive), and we put it to good use the night we created Milkboy.

Milkboy was a digital construct, catfishing before catfishing was a thing—an online persona created to see if Mark’s roommate, Tim, would take the bait.

Of course, he did.

That Tandy system, while belonging to Mark, was a shared thing in the apartment where he dwelled, a system allowing Mark, Tim, and me to log into a bulletin board system run by Mark’s manager at Two-Dice Pizza. (We chatted with strangers in the Dallas/Fort Worth area long before any of us had easier access to the World Wide Web.)

* * *

[The bleeps and bloops of a dial-up modem]

It was my idea to make Milkboy. Tim started spending more time on Jared’s BBS than hanging out with us. Looking back, I can’t blame him: he worked several jobs—among them, illustrating children’s books, delivering newspapers, and managing fireworks stands in the summer—but his most tedious task was dealing with Mark and me. Much like an exhausted parent, when the day was done, Tim wanted to connect with someone who didn’t add to his life the kinds of stresses we did.

And so, one evening he logged into the BBS and met a guy who went by “Milkboy.”

We chose the name Milkboy because Tim’s dad was not only born and raised in Wisconsin, but he was a shining Son of the Dairy State. He bowled, played accordion, and drank beer. His work ethic ran rampant in Tim’s veins—and in Milkboy, Mark and I created a fake persona that took away the stresses of Tim’s busy days. Between all his tasks, Tim chatted online with a guy who loved Wisconsin as much as he did; who loved They Might Be Giants as much as he did; who loved the exact comic books as much as Tim. It was all so obvious to Mark and me that we figured Tim would quickly realize he’d been had, but I guess when your two best friends are the kinds of people who would make up a fake person online in instead of—you know—being kinder to you…you’d believe something too good to be true when compared to your reality.

* * *

Each day, Milkboy became more perfect. If Tim talked to us about how much he loved Too Much Joy’s new album, suddenly online, Milkboy did the same. Milkboy loved Legion of Superheroes comic books, Twin Peaks on television, and could sing along to every Dead Milkmen tune. If Tim liked it, Milkboy loved it! Milkboy was a refined work in progress we enjoyed creating more than any character in the stories we wrote and the role-playing games we adored.

Not quite two weeks into our deception, Mark was the first to bring up that maybe we’d gone too far.

“It was funny when we first made Milkboy, but I’m starting to feel bad. It’s not that funny anymore. It actually feels kinda mean…”

I agreed, but…it’s a rare day when you’re part of something so new, and I wanted to see how far our online ruse could be taken. That was apparently enough of an argument for Mark to say, “Yeah, you’re right. I’m curious, too…”

* * *

And so, Milkboy’s presence grew in our lives, a thing making the three of us happy—until somewhere, almost a month in, when Tim said something Mark and I had not anticipated.

“I’m gonna see if Milkboy wants to meet up in person…”

We knew right then that we should have stopped the night Mark asked if we’d taken it too far.

Mark said, “That’s great, Tim! Cool.” Then he turned to me and said, “Hey, I’m gonna walk over to the store for some snacks—wanna come along?”

“Sure,” I said. “Need anything, Tim?”

“Nah, I’m good. I’m gonna go message Milkboy.”

* * *

[A quiet evening outside.]

Before we even made it to the parking lot, I said, “We need to go back in there and tell him the truth, Mark. I’ll tell him it was all my idea because it was, so he takes it out mostly on me.”

“He’ll kill us,” Mark said. I’m not even fully joking…he’s so stressed right now that I can see him braining us with that metal T-square he uses for art.”

[Footsteps on pavement.]

Mark was lost in thought while we climbed the hill between the apartment and the gas station store. At the top, he said, “We can have Milkboy say he’s moving back to Wisconsin. That he’d love to meet Tim, but there’s some family thing needing attention, like when you went back to Missouri when your dad died. You can play that shit up and sell it. Tim felt so bad for you. Milkboy disappears and we swear to each other, here and now, that even if we’re all still friends in thirty years that we never tell Tim the truth about Milkboy.”

“Just have Milkboy fade away?” I said.

“Yep. A message or two to Tim, and he’s gone forever.”

As long as Mark and I stuck to our new plan, it was a foolproof fix to our reckless problem.

On the way back to the apartment, Mark said, “I’ll send the first Milkboy message tonight while Tim’s delivering newspapers in Denton. We’ve got this…”

* * *

[A front door opens and closes. The sound of plastic bags.]

When we returned to the apartment with a couple bags of junk food, no sooner than we walked through the door, Tim said, “It’s done, guys. I messaged Milkboy, and he said he’d love to meet up in person.”

I don’t know what our faces looked like, but Tim said, “What’s wrong, guys? I thought you’d think this is cool.”

“No, it is,” Mark said. “Really cool. You’re sure he said he wants to meet you in person?”

“Yep. I’m gonna reply in a moment, but there was a message waiting for me. He wondered if I wanted to meet up next week at Piccolo’s Pizza. You guys, too!”

“He wants to meet all of us?” I said.

“Yeah. He sees your posts on the board and he thinks you’re cool, too.”

“Okay…” Mark said. “Yeah, sure, Tim—we’ll meet up. Sounds great…”

* * *

[The bleeps and bloops of a dial-up modem. Typing on a keyboard.]

When Tim left the apartment that night to deliver newspapers, Mark and I logged into the BBS to check on Milkboy.

We couldn’t access the account we created.

We looked at the boards and saw a few Milkboy posts we hadn’t made—mostly about music, and a post about the updated GURPS rules on the role-playing board.

In the final issue of Grant Morrison’s run on the Animal Man comic book, Animal Man meets Grant Morrison in person. Of course, it’s scripted; Morrison wrapping up his time on the series and making a heartfelt statement about childhood. A writer in control of a character. We were the writers behind Milkboy, but somehow he seemed to take on a life of his own.

“It has to be fuckin’ Tim,” I said. “He somehow found out, and he’s fucking with us in return. I bet you he strings us along a few days and then next Friday, before we all go meet Milkboy, Tim’s suddenly like, ‘Oh, Milkboy had to cancel at the last minute.’ Hell, it’s Tim…he’ll probably feel guilty by tomorrow and confess.”

* * *

But Tim didn’t confess.

Each day, Mark and I waited for him to cave in…but he never did.

And each day, new Milkboy replies on the boards popped up.

Mark decided to message Milkboy while Tim was working—not to call him out, but to see if he’d conveniently reply only when Tim got home from his paper route.

“How’s this sound?” Mark said. “Hey. Heard we’re all meeting up on Friday for pizza and beer. Looking forward to it. We can swing by your place on the way and pick you up if you want so you can drink more than just a couple beers?”

[Soft music: horns, guitar, and xylophone.]

An hour after Mark sent the message, he got a reply from Milkboy: “Oh, man…that would be so cool. Thanks! But I’m meeting up with a friend from Wisconsin after dinner with you guys. That’s the only time he could hang out…he’s in town for the weekend visiting family. You know how it is.”

Maybe the Animal Man theory wasn’t too far-fetched…

* * *

When Friday rolled around, waited for Tim to say Milkboy bailed on us, but he never did.

We sat in Piccolo’s Pizza waiting for a stranger from the BBS to arrive. Mark was likely thinking the same thing I was: Tim was going to take this to the absolute end. He’d order a bunch of food and beer—maybe even order a couple expensive drinks for himself, since I was driving—and then he’d tell us he figured out the horrible thing we did to him and stick us with the bill. We’d pay it, of course, knowing we deserved worse than that, and Tim would have something to always go back to, like Mark reminding us how horrible it was for Tim and an old girlfriend to dare me to drink Mark’s Sea Monkeys for fifteen dollars.

But Tim’s big reveal that he was onto us never happened; in fact, we watched him stand up and wave his hand to a guy wandering into the restaurant wearing a They Might Be Giants Lincoln t-shirt.

If you were given the task to make the most attractive of all geeks, you’d make Milkboy. There was a kindness to his handsome gaze; a brightness in his friendly eyes framed by designer eyeglasses. He had a Superman curl of hair on his forehead, and as I watched him make his way through the pizza joint to our table back by the kitchen, he was built like the Man of Steel as well. [Sounds of a restaurant fade in.] I could see him fronting a boy band, but give him a little scruff, and he could easily play the bad boy who made hearts swoon in movies.

“Are you Tim?” he said.

“Yes…”

He stuck out his hand. “Great to finally meet in person, Tim. I’m Milkboy, but you can call me Lance.”

After Tim shook his hand, I reached out and said, “Hey, Lance. I’m Chris.”

He almost crushed my hand as he said, “It’s Milkboy to you… Remember that.”

* * *

Mark and I may as well have stayed home. The dinner discussion consisted of Tim and Milkboy talking about all the things they loved. Tim practically shrieked with delight when Milkboy talked about how he was reading his old Kamandi comic books—and Milkboy swooned with each band Tim mentioned. Mark and I fashioned Milkboy to be a reflection of Tim, but real-life Milkboy was better than anyone we could imagine. By the end of dinner, Tim and Milkboy discovered their fathers actually went to the same high school in Wisconsin!

When the waitress brought the bill, Milkboy pulled out a wallet thick with cash and said, “It’s on me, guys.” (At least he finally acknowledged that Mark and I existed.)

From the moment Milkboy left, to the time we all went to sleep, Tim couldn’t stop talking about how wonderful dinner was.

* * *

In the weeks that followed, Tim spent more time hanging out with Milkboy than us. They were inseparable. Tuesday comic book days became Tim and Milkboy days. Tim even blew us off on Mystery Science Theater 3000 nights to go watch at Milkboy’s house.

Yeah, Milkboy had a house. A product of stout Midwest breeding, Milkboy’s father taught him the value of a dollar at a young age, when Milkboy knocked on doors offering to shovel driveways in the winter, plant flowers in the spring, mow lawns in the summer, and rake leaves in fall. Milkboy wasn’t rich, but by our terms he sure as hell was. According to Tim, he even had a Shinobi arcade cabinet in his living room.

When Milkboy came to the apartment to hang out with Tim, the only time Tim’s new best friend acknowledged us was when Tim left the room. If Tim got up to go to the bathroom, Milkboy would turn to us and say, “I don’t know why Tim hangs out with you losers. You’re a part-time pizza man and you barely work at all. He deserves much better friends.”

Upon Tim’s return, Milkboy would look at him and say, “I was just chatting with Mark and Chris about the new Tick comic book…” which would send Tim off to talk about the week’s comic shop haul.

* * *

When we finally told Tim some of the things Milkboy said to us, Tim didn’t believe it.

“I know you two are jealous about how much time I spend with him, but I still like you. It’s just…he seems to get me better than you guys…”

* * *

And so, life clicked along like that, until the following month when I got a call from Mark. I could tell by the background sounds that he was at work.

[Sounds of a busy restaurant kitchen.]

[Mark: through telephone.] “I’m sure you planned to come over tonight anyway, but you need to head over right now. I’m leaving work. I have some big news to tell you…”

[A car driving along the highway.]

On the drive over, I imagined all the things it could have been: maybe Mark had sold another indie comic book story—he sounded that excited. Maybe he finally got a tech gig instead of delivering pizzas for Jared at Two-Dice. Or maybe it was about Milkboy…maybe Tim finally announced that he was bailing on Mark and becoming roommates with his new best friend. I was not expecting what Mark told me.

“Milkboy’s a drama student at the University of North Texas. He works nights at a convenience store where Tim delivers papers. Apparently, they hit it off and chat. Tim overheard you and me talking about Milkboy. He got so mad that he wanted to fuck with us back. So, he asked his chat-buddy at the gas station if he wanted to make a little extra money acting like Milkboy.”

“How the fuck do you know all this?” I said.

“I heard Jared talking about it at work. Tim messaged him and told him we were using his BBS to mess with him. So, Jared changed Milkboy’s login, and he and Tim took over.”

“That’s shitty of them!”

Mark raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, yeah…so, we’re the shitty ones. We deserve it. But Jared?”

“He thought it was funny.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that…”

* * *

The next time Milkboy visited the apartment, we waited for the usual barrage of insults from him when Tim left the room. We were watching Northern Exposure with Tim and Milkboy when Tim announced, “Be back in a couple…gotta go get rid of some of those sausages I had for lunch…”

[Footsteps on carpet moving away.]

Before Milkboy could tear into us again, Mark cut him off.

“Stop right there, Captain Thespian. We know you’re a big ol’ pile of bullshit. A drama student? And you have the gall to rip on us for the way we live our lives?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I said, “We know Tim paid you to pretend to be Milkboy.”

His gaze went to a beer stain on the carpet.

“When Tim comes back,” Mark said, “you’re gonna walk out that fuckin’ door and never show your face again. Understand?”

“I can do that,” Milkboy said. “Tim’s cool, but this whole thing is fucked up. And you two are assholes. Who the hell makes up a fake person to mess with their best friend?”

“It was a joke,” I said.

“Grow the fuck up, lint boy. That’s not a joke—that’s fuckin’ cruel!”

“Lint boy?”

“Yeah. You crash on everybody’s lint-covered floors and are only concerned with making enough money to buy comic books every week. You’re a little boy!”

“Hold on,” I said, “You recognized how fucked up this whole situation was, but still went along with it? Must not be making much acting money if you’re working overnights at a convenience store. You’re no better than us.”

“Am too.”

“What are you,” Mark said, “A fuckin’ fifth grader? ‘Am too…‘”

The three of us bickered back and forth until Tim returned to the living room.

“What’s going on?” he said.

Mark answered. “We know you know about Milkboy. And we know you paid this asshole to pretend to be him.”

Milboy stood up. “Tim…you’re a good guy, man. You definitely deserve better friends than these two. Later…”

[A door closes.]

* * *

When Milkboy closed the door behind him, Tim said, “What did you two say to him?”

“He was about to start insulting us,” I said. “Mark let him know we found out he was an actor.”

“How?”

“I overheard Jared at work,” Mark said. “He told me everything. When did you figure it out?”

“A few weeks in,” Tim said. “I realized Milkboy never posted when you were at work and Chris was at home. He only replied when you were all online. So, I contacted Jared. He thought my plan to turn the tables on you two was funny. Then I started chatting with Lance on my route and asked if he wanted in on it. We only planned to have him show up the night at Piccolo’s. He was gonna say that he had to go home to Wisconsin and that was gonna be that.”

“That was our plan,” Mark said. “We were gonna have Milkboy message you a couple times, saying he had to go home, and then he was gonna fade away.”

“We’re sorry,” I said.

Tim said, “You should be. Especially ’cause it’s almost my friggin’ birthday, guys! But it is kinda funny, and I can apologize to Lance next time I’m on my route. But if you ever do something like this again—I’m not fuckin’ kidding—I’ll kill you motherfuckers with my T-square.”

* * *

[Music.]

Things went back to normal for the three of us. We played Dungeons and Dragons, worked on comic books together, and hung out while drinking beer and watching TV. Then one evening, things got weird.

Mark and I were hanging out watching Mark’s Akira video when Tim got home from a series of school visits for his kid’s book.

[A door opens and closes.]

“Really fuckin’ funny, assholes!”

“What?” Mark said.

“Paying Lance to follow me around today. Fuck you!”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Tim?”

“Every fuckin’ school I went to, I saw Lance watching me.”

“Tim,” I said. “I swear. I mean, I know I don’t believe in God, but I swear to God…we learned our lesson and we wouldn’t do that.”

“Chris is telling the truth,” Mark said. “It wasn’t us.”

“You sure it was Lance?” I said.

Tim shot me a look. “Yes!”

“Well, maybe he’s fucking with you on his own,” Mark said. “Maybe he’s going all method actor and keeping up the role. But we have nothing to do with it this time. Seriously, Tim—it’s not us.”

* * *

It wasn’t just Tim who started seeing Lance.

Mark swore Lance was following him one night while delivering pizzas. And I never rode the Northshore Trail at Grapevine Lake faster than the day I was riding and saw Lance standing in the middle of the singletrack ahead of me. All three of us kept seeing him. [A man shouts, “Hey!” Running footfalls slap pavement.] Tim was the first to try chasing him down, but Lance turned a corner and disappeared. [Two people walking outside on a quiet night.] Mark and I saw him one night while walking to get snacks…standing just on the edge of the light cast by the gas station. We turned around to head home, but Lance was suddenly in front of us. [Two sets of running footfalls slap pavement.] Fight won over flight, and we rushed him…but he got over the hill between the apartments and gas station before us and was nowhere to be seen.

Like he’d just disappeared…

* * *

On a night Tim and Mark weren’t working, we decided to go to the source. [Interior of a car speeding down a highway.] We hopped in Tim’s Ford Escort and drove up to Denton—to the Howdy Doody convenience store at Bell and Coronado.

[Convenience store door chime.]

Lance was nowhere to be seen.

Tim approached the cashier and said, “Hey, the guy who’s usually here at night. Do you know where he is?”

“Lance?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?”

He pointed at a newspaper. On the front page was a story about how police were still looking for the killer of a guy found murdered in his apartment a week before. The article said it looked like a bear attack. The victim’s name? Lance Fusco.

We’d all seen Milkboy earlier that day.

* * *

[Interior of a car speeding down a highway.]

“All right,” Tim said on the way home. “We’re stopping at the grocery store on the way and stocking up. Mark and I are calling in sick to work the next few days. We’re holing up in the apartment, and we’re not leaving—for anything! If, for any reason we do have to go out, we go out in a group. All three of us, understand?”

The next couple days, we were like kids during a blizzard that closed school. We played video games and Dungeons and Dragons. We watched movies and we drank beer. (Okay, so maybe it was a bit better than being kids stuck at home.) We had several days of fun, until the day Mark and I did something stupid. On Tim’s birthday, while he took a nap to stay up for a night of celebrating, Mark and I made a quick run to Denton to surprise Tim with a Middle Eastern spread from Yummy’s Greek Restaurant.

* * *

[Interior of a car speeding down a highway.]

We were speeding along the I-35 access road on our way home when it happened: a body fell from the sky right in front of us. [Squealing brakes and a loud THUD!] Mark locked the brakes, but couldn’t stop in time. It was the most horrible sound I ever heard. When we came to a stop, we looked at each other.

Mark said, “Did that look like…”

“Milkboy…?” I said.

[Doors open and close. The hissing of a radiator.]

We got out of the truck, looking at the prone body in the headlights in front of us. Neither of us wanted to be the first to approach. We waited for the other to take the first step. [Footsteps.] I took a deep breath and started toward the body. That’s when Milkboy got up.

[Gravel rustles.]

It was Milkboy, but it wasn’t Milkboy. [Breathy growl.] He looked more like the vampire from Fright Night than Milkboy—a mouth full of fangs and glowing red eyes.

[Demonic voice.] “I’ve been looking for you two…”

[Feet leap from gravel.] He moved on Mark first. [Metallic noise.] Mark reached into the bed of his pickup and grabbed the cross-wheel lug wrench. [Demonic hissing.] The cross seemed to repel Demon Milkboy. The old Baptist side of Mark kicked in. “By the Holy Gospel of Jesus Christ, stand down! You will find no safe harbor in our souls, for we are imbued with His spirit! In Christ’s name, I command ye—leave now, demon, or suffer His wrath!”

[Footsteps stop.] Demon Milkboy stopped his advance. He turned to me.

“Yeah, what he said.”

[Demon Milkboy laughs.]

[Demonic voice.] “Then I will take your friend…”

[Feet on gravel and a WHOOSH! Wings flap.]

He leaped up and flew off into the night.

* * *

[A racing engine and squealing tires.]

The tires of Mark’s Mazda B2000 pickup truck squealed as we pulled into a Chevron parking lot looking for a pay phone. [A car door closes] Mark leaped out, forgetting change. [Rummaging through coins.] I grabbed a quarter from the dashboard, [A car door opens and closes. Running on pavement] ran to the phone, [Coin inserted into a payphone] and inserted the coin. [Fingers pressing buttons on phone] Mark dialed so fast that he messed up the number. [Hanging up receiver; triggering coin return, coin returned to phone, and dialing.] He hung up, pulled the coin return, and tried again.

[Tim: through phone.] “Hello?”

“Tim, it’s Mark. You need to get out of the apartment now. I can’t explain, but Milkboy’s coming. Get the fuck out of the apartment!”

[Metal rattling through phone.]

[Demon Milkboy through phone.] “Tim can’t talk right now. He’s…occupied…”

* * *

It was easy to forget there was a time in Mark’s youth when he walked door-to-door in the hills of Tennessee, spreading the Gospel and witnessing for Jesus Christ. None of us had any reverence for faith as adults; in my case, I never did. But Mark was once a Born-Again-in-the-Blood-of-Christ-Jesus Southern Baptist, known in the hills as the boy touched by the Lord Hisself. There were aspirations to get him on A.M. radio he was so fired up on God’s Word. But his family returned to Texas, where Mark discovered comic books, Dungeons and Dragons, and goth music were far more fun than church.

[Pickup truck with engine trouble rolling down the road.]

We puttered along I-35, hoping the radiator would hold up long enough to get us back to the apartment. We were silent at first—me thinking about how I had been wrong about Jesus and demons and everything my entire life.

“Okay, I think I have it figured out,” Mark said. “That thing is some kind of quantum manifestation. Remember Animal Man 26…like that. But not just a story…totally for real.”

“It’s a fuckin’ demon, Mark.”

“No. I mean, I get what you’re getting at. It’s real, but it’s not what it seems. It’s like how some particles, when observed, react to certain laws. But it’s all chaos when we’re not looking. It’s playing by certain rules…and expects us to do the same. So, when we get to the apartment, we’re going in with the full armor of God.”

“What the fuck is that?”

“The Belt of Truth. Speak only the truth when we confront it. We’ll also be protected by the Breastplate of Righteousness—we deserved to be called out for fucking with Tim, but none of us deserve this. The Gospel of Peace will protect our feet. As stupid as we can be at times, we’re still good people not out to hurt anyone. The Shield of Faith, the Helm of Salvation, and wielding the Sword of the Spirit might be a little bit harder for you, having never believed in any of this crap. I’ll go in first and pave the way. You just think about saving Tim and putting all this behind us.

“My biggest fear is how strong it will be when we get to the apartment. It’s gonna feed off Tim’s residual Catholicism in a way no former Baptist could ever sate it.”

* * *

[Two car doors close. Footfalls on pavement.]

The apartments were silent when we pulled up. Lights were out, and no one was around. We walked to the door of Mark and Tim’s place and listened.

We heard singing…

[Demonic voice.] “Happy birthday, Best Friend. Happy birthday, Best Friend. Milkboy will never leave you. Happy birthday, Best Friend.”

Mark looked at me and said, “Remember: Full Armor of God,” as he reached for the doorknob.

[A door opens and closes.]

[Flames crackle, wind blows, souls howl.]

The inside of Mark and Tim’s apartment looked like a fire and brimstone plane of Hell. A rope bridge crossed the living room, suspended over a drop into a fiery abyss that seemed to have no bottom. In the dining room, Tim was bound to the chair at the head of the table. [Muffled cries for help.] Demon Milkboy wore a party hat and lit the candles on a [Squishing sounds] worm-riddled birthday cake with his fingertips. The rest of the table was covered with books and dice and figures from our last Dungeons and Dragons session.

[Demonic voice.] “It appears we have company, Best Friend.”

“Leave him alone!” Mark said.

[Demonic voice.] “Leave him alone? But it was you who started this…two puny humans too stupid to realize it is unwise to meddle with things you do not understand!”

“We were just fucking around.” I said.

[Demonic voice.] “There is power in words. You two, of all people, should know that. What you have manifested will now be your undoing!”

[Flames intensify.]

The demon raised its hands like something out of Fantasia’s “Night on Bald Mountain” scene, causing the flames in the abyss to rise.

“Run!” Mark shouted.

[Footfalls across a rope bridge.]

We charged across the rope bridge as the fire climbed higher. Mark’s feet and body glowed, and I swear I saw a shield pushing back flames as he scrambled across. [Snapping ropes.] The bridge gave way just as we reached the other side—[feet scratching on gravel] just enough to cause me to lose balance at the edge. [Clasping hands.] Mark extended a hand, making sure I didn’t fall in.

[Demonic voice.] “I see you wear the Armor of God,” Demon Milkboy said. “Tell me, Christopher—what do you really think about Mark?”

I imagined the Belt of Truth around my waist.

“I hated him at first. He wasn’t nice to me when I met him—he thought he was better than everyone he met. He was so fuckin’ pompous, and there wasn’t a face on the planet I wanted to punch more than his. But we each chilled the fuck out and got to know each other. There are now times I spend more time with him than Tim. I’m the writer I am largely because of Mark. More confident, too. I hope when we’re older that we still have each other’s backs.”

Mark laughed and said, “Didn’t work out the way you hoped, did it?”

“Well, what about you, False Warrior of Lies? What do you think of Chris?”

“I thought he was log-dumb when I met him. He’s still the goofiest person I know, but he’s not stupid—I was wrong to think that. And I resented him because I knew how much Tim loves him. But he’s also the reason I know Tim. We’re all sort of a fucked-up package deal, and I’ll die right here for either of them.”

“Your wish is my command!”

[Heavy footfalls running.]

Demon Milkboy rushed Mark, but I was faster. [Body tackle.] I hit him at the waist and knocked him back. [A whoosh and a thud.] One mighty swat from the demon was enough to knock me to my hands and knees.

[Demonic voice.] “The goofy one will be the first to die!”

I braced for the hit, but it never came. [Angelic energy.] A bright light filled the room. When I turned back to look, Mark held a twenty-sided die in his left hand and a silver glowing sword in his right.

[Demonic voice.] “Oh, you want to throw dice and play your little sword game? Be my guest! Your THAC0 is twenty. You cannot harm me!”

“We may throw the dice, but the Lord determines how they fall!” Mark said. [A 20-sided die tumbles across a table.] The d20 tumbled across the table and came to rest near the birthday cake.

[Demonic voice.] “Ha! You rolled a one! You are a weak little morsel.”

The light from Mark’s sword dimmed. [A heavy punch.] With one punch, Demon Milkboy knocked Mark across the dining room and into the abyss.

“Maaaaark!!!”

When the initial shock of losing Mark wore off and I remembered that I could still save Tim, I shouted, “What the fuck is wrong with you? Why the fuck are you like this? None of this makes sense! Who the fuck hurt you so bad that you go and do shit like this?”

I waited for the demon to come down on me with all its might, but it didn’t. I stood up and got face to face with Demon Milkboy.

“I asked you a question? Who hurt you?!”

[Demonic voice.] “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do! Someone hurt you really bad to make you like this.”

[Demonic voice.]“SILENCE!!!”

“I’ll shut up if you just tell me who hurt you!”

[Demonic voice.] “Everybody! Everybody, okay?! Everybody who picked on you at Walt Whitman Junior High School. Every motherfucker who pelted Mark with biscuits in the cafeteria. Every person who made Tim feel so self-conscious about himself that he shoulders unnecessary emotional weight every day. Every person who gave Lance a wedgie before he bulked up in self-defense. I am a manifestation of all that and more—I am the pain of youth made real!“

[A sizzling droplet.]

A single tear sizzled and evaporated as it rolled down Demon Milkboy’s cheek.

“I know that shit hurts,” I said. “But it’s in the past. That was then. It doesn’t mean the memories go away and stop stinging, but you find the people who love you and don’t let go of them.”

[Demonic voice.] “That’s easy for you to say. Nobody loves me…”

[A clasping bear-hug.]

I hugged Demon Milkboy as hard as I could.

[Demonic voice.] “STOP!!! NOOOOOO!!!”

It felt like I was holding a burning tree trunk as the demon struggled to get free. [Sizzling and yelling.] I bore the pain and held tight as it smoldered and lost power. When it was done and gone, I held Lance Fusco in my arms.

“What the fuck is going on?” he said.

[Hellish sounds diminish. A call for help.]

As the hellscape faded in the apartment, we heard Mark call for help from the closing abyss.

[Running. Clasping hands; a body dragged to its feet.]

[A sealing portal.]

Lance and I rushed to the edge and pulled him up right before it was sealed beneath the carpet. We removed the gag from Tim’s mouth and untied him.

“Are you okay?” I said?

“Yeah. I think so. I have no fucking idea what just happened, but I’m fine.”

“What about you, Lance?” Mark said.

“Yeah, I’m okay. The last thing I remember was sitting in my apartment thinking about how I still have such a hard time making friends. I got pissed at myself and started pounding myself in the head. I heard a pop, like my skull opened and released something.”

“It’s a long story,” Mark said. “I dropped Tim’s birthday dinner into the abyss, but we can order pizza, drink some beer, and catch you up on the last week. You’re welcome to stay and celebrate Tim’s birthday with us. Maybe play some D&D…”

“I’d like that,” Lance said. “Happy birthday, Tim.”

“Yeah, happy birthday,” Mark and I said in unison.

“Thanks, guys. If nothing else, it’s been memorable…”

We all looked at the birthday cake on the table. The roiling mass it was before morphed into a normal cake. Mark started singing.

“Happy birthday to you…”

Lance joined in: “Happy birthday to you…”

Then me: “Happy birthday, dear Tim. Happy birthday to you…”

[A breath blowing out candles.]

[Jangly guitar music plays.]

I don’t know what Tim wished for when he blew out the candles on that cake, and I never asked him. Maybe I will someday. I don’t know if Mark or Lance made a wish, but I did—I figured, “Why the hell not? We just fought a fuckin’ demon!” And so, in that moment, I wished we’d all still be friends when we grew older and gray.

I’m happy to report it’s one of the only wishes in my life to ever come true.

[Guitar music intensifies, and then fades…]

* * *

[The sounds of full-blown Hell. Flapping wings; feet landing on rock.]

DEMON MB:             Master…

SATAN:                      What is it, little one?

DEMON MB:             Master, I am sorry I failed you, but in my stumbling, I have discovered a new way to rule His children above. A manner of temptation and addiction unlike any we could have dreamed. A mechanism of division that will impregnate their existence with chaos and compel them to destroy each other without our influence.

SATAN:                      Oh? Do tell…

DEMON MB:             No, let me show you…

[The Bleeps and Bloops of a Dial-Up Modem.]

[Fingers typing on a keyboard.]

SATAN:                      [Laughter] Oh, how sinister. Oh, how utterly delicious…

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks. My voice is gone—you can probably tell. Uhm…I need to work at that kinda thing a little bit better! Probably should have read all the demon voices at the end because hooooooo, I’m sure that got a little rough at the end. But…happy birthday, Tim! You suffered through so many years of friendship with us, so…my voice just suffered for you. Anyway…

I’m gonna probably do the rest of this almost in the demon voice because it comes through better.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Birdies, licensed through Epidemic Sound. To save time creating an ambient Hellscape, I licensed one of Michaël Ghelfi’s many ambient tracks. If you’re in need of background sound for role-playing games, parties, your workday, or something to fall asleep to, Michaël has your back. I’ll also be sure to leave a link to his website and YouTube channel in the show notes.

Sound effects are always made in-house or from freesound.org. I’m really losing my voice. Anyway…do I have a call at work tomorrow? If I do, they’re gonna be like, “What the hell?” and I’ll just go into the demon voice—and they’ll be like, “Wooo, something’s wrong with Chris. Why the fuck did we hire him?”

In November, the annual tradition continues as I share the most NOT Not About Lumberjacks story of the year, in honor of the show’s sixth anniversary! Yes: six years. What’s the story about, you wonder? Two deadhead loggers find something remarkable in the Piney Woods of East Texas, putting them at odds with a large timber company.

Anyway…visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music.

So…until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks. My voice is gone—you can probably tell. Uhm…I need to work at that kinda thing a little bit better! Probably should have read all the demon voices at the end because hooooooo, I’m sure that got a little rough at the end. But…happy birthday, Tim! You suffered through so many years of friendship with us, so…my voice just suffered for you. Anyway…

I’m gonna probably do the rest of this almost in the demon voice because it comes through better.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Birdies, licensed through Epidemic Sound. To save time creating an ambient Hellscape, I licensed one of Michaël Ghelfi’s many ambient tracks. If you’re in need of background sound for role-playing games, parties, your workday, or something to fall asleep to, Michaël has your back. I’ll also be sure to leave a link to his website and YouTube channel in the show notes.

Sound effects are always made in-house or from freesound.org. I’m really losing my voice. Anyway…do I have a call at work tomorrow? If I do, they’re gonna be like, “What the hell?” and I’ll just go into the demon voice—and they’ll be like, “Woah, something’s wrong with Chris. Why the fuck did we hire him?”

Anyway…visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music.

In November, the annual tradition continues as I share the most NOT Not About Lumberjacks story of the year, in honor of the show’s sixth anniversary! Yes: six years. What’s the story about, you wonder? Two deadhead loggers find something remarkable in the Piney Woods of East Texas, putting them at odds with a large timber company.

So…until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

And now, some bloopers…

[Jaunty guitar music fades in, joined by a trumpet.]

[A wet belch.]

Christopher Gronlund:

Oh, belchy-belchy! Oh…? That smelled like a really good dinner belch. Cynthia’s been cooking lately…really good stuff. Lotta lime in that belch! Mmmm! [Sound of smacking lips.]

* * *

[Sound of distant emergency vehicles sirens.]

This fuckin’ sucks…

[Sirens intensify…Christopher mimics them.]

Now watch this be the day the apartments are actually on fire and they’re like, at the door pounding…like, “You gotta get out now! Everything’s on fire.”

And I’m like, “I’m in the middle of recording.” And they’re like, “Don’t matter, Hoss — if I gotta throw you over my shoulder and carry you down them stairs — that’s what I’m gonna do.”

And I’d be like, “I’d like to see you try. I look like a big guy, but I’ve got the weight of a fat guy, motherfucker.”

* * *

“The cross seemed to repel Demon Meek— … MeekBoy! He’s not meek—he’s fuckin’ evil…”

* * *

[Inhalation of breath, followed by a belch.]

* * *

Oh, this is shredding my voice!

[The sound of the cap on a metal water bottle being unscrewed.]

* * *

With one punch…Ugh, my voice. Getting shredded!

* * *

[Spoken line, but slightly garbbled.] With one punch…With one punch— [Mimics microphone sound.] Whoob whoob…Why is that sounding soooo bad?! [Throat clear.]

* * *

[Demon voice without deep processing]

Everybody who picked on you at Walt Whit— [Deep breath.] Everyone who picked on—Uhhhh, my voice! This is…this is terrible!

* * *

As the hellscape— Oh, my voice is gone. I-I can’t finish this, maybe… [Throat clear.]

[Music fades out.]

[Listen]

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

This time, Cynthia Griffith narrates a story I wrote about an unemployed writer lands her dream job, but it comes with much more than she bargained for in the form of an African Grey parrot named Horus.

All right–let’s get to work…

Cynthia Griffith Narration:

Horus.

In the eighth month of my unemployment, I did something I hadn’t done since my early 20s: I picked up the local newspaper to look at the classifieds. My LinkedIn account had long gone stale, bringing in more spam than job offers. I’d long passed the frustration of loading my resume to company websites, only to then be forced to fill out all the information again through a form–never to hear if it was received, let alone if I was ever considered for the position. I even thought about Craigslist, but I’d heard stories. So the newspaper it was.

Trying to find a copy of the local paper wasn’t as easy as it used to be. For a while as I drove around town early on a Sunday morning, I thought maybe they had ceased publication. The possibility seemed odd, considering the town had grown from 5,000 people to almost 30,000 people in the 20 years since last looking at the classifieds. As long as a generation that grew up with newspapers still breathes, our small-town paper still finds a way. I finally found the one machine in town offering The Herald; it looked like the same machine from the 90s, which was probably already 20 years old when I first picked up a copy while looking for work when I was younger. It was in the parking lot of an old strip mall that now sits mostly vacant. The few shops and restaurants remaining come and go, the victim of people my age thinking, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to own a quaint little shop in our hometown?” only to find out that, no—it wouldn’t. A faux town square meant to look like it’s always existed on the other side of town buried the ambitions of the 80s strip mall about the time I graduated college in the early 90s.

I put a quarter into the machine and tugged at the door. Locked! I inserted another quarter and the worn door flopped open by itself with a creak and a clang. Fifty cents for the local paper dispensed from a machine so old that they never bothered to update the price. I tossed the paper onto the passenger seat of my car and got in on the other side. Before clearing the parking lot, my phone rang. My mother.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

“Nothing’s wrong. Why would something be wrong?”

“It’s a quarter after 6:00 on a Sunday morning. You sleep in.”

“I got up to pee and decided to call to see if you were getting an early start on your job hunt. It’s a new week.”

“Yes, Mom—I know. I’m picking up a newspaper at this very moment.”

“Good for you, Sarah. The early bird gets the good job.”

My mother had a funny way of reworking clichés into things she didn’t believe were clichés. Growing up, I heard things like, “Every cloud has another brighter lining,” “You need to get your ducks to the pond,” and “Don’t cry over spilled milk when there’s gin on the floor worth crying over…”

That last one. I wouldn’t call my mom an alcoholic, but from 4:00 in the afternoon to 9:00 in the evening, there was always a gin and tonic in my mother’s hand.

“Yep, that’s me,” I said. “The early bird.”

The dead air on the other side of the call meant that my mom really didn’t call about my job hunt; something more was coming. I counted in my head, “one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand…”

“You know,” my mother said. “I hope you find someone really nice next year. You really need two incomes to make it in the world today.”

No wish for a good job in the new year; for my mother, the solution was a man providing another income. Never mind that my mother never worked a job a day in her life. I’m convinced my mother and father fucked only once—my mother probably finding it all too sloppy, especially the mess that accompanied my entry into the world. I don’t know what my mother really wanted from life, but I know she never wanted a kid. My mother and father were a couple existing in space only, two electrons circling a nucleus of lies sold to them when they were young. I knew Susan, my nanny, better than I knew my mother. That strange way my mother looked at me, as though I were some kind of specimen, would take the rest of my life to decipher if I decided to carry that weight. But it was my mother’s burden to carry—not mine. I’m good at letting go of things.

“I like being alone, Mom. If I meet someone in the coming year, fine. If I don’t, fine.”

“You shouldn’t be okay with that, Sarah. I don’t know why you have to make everything so difficult. You can always come home and write and not have a worry in the world.”

“A little worry keeps me going. I really need to get going to get a jump on the job hunt. Tell Dad I said hello and that I send my love.”

“Okay, I’m going to go pee, now.”

I wanted to say something about how most people would have taken care of that before calling their grown daughter and pretending to check on her job hunt, but I wanted off the phone even more. “Okay, Mom. I love you.”

” Good day, Sarah.”

I thumbed through the local paper as I drank coffee and polished off a doughnut I picked up on the way home. The big news story was the upcoming annual holiday parade on Main Street and an angry letter to the editor about the “War on Christmas,” despite our town calling it a holiday parade from its start back in the 50s. That’s what constituted front page news where I lived, and I always found comfort in that. I like a place where the environment doesn’t take over the thoughts in one’s head.

It had been such a long time since looking at the paper for a job that I wondered who actually used the classifieds to look for work instead of going online with their search. There were postings for restaurant help, cleaning services, and plenty of warehouse jobs requiring skills like being able to count in multiples of 12, the ability to see colors, and not having issues standing for 10 hours. There were ads for plumbers, laborers, and delivery drivers; pickers, packers, and loaders. It’s not that I saw any of those jobs beneath me, but I was doing well enough that I could go another couple months before nerves really set in—and I knew there were people more in need of immediate work than me. Then I saw it:

Wanted: Writer’s Assistant.

Established novelist seeks writing assistant. Duties include: research, office tasks, and occasional errands. Perks include time to work on your own projects. Writing samples required.

(214) 555-1212

Ask for Lauren

I expected Lauren to live in a nice neighborhood when she told me she lived in Highland Park and to buzz her at the front gate, but as I drove along walled properties obscured even further by trees—only occasionally catching a glimpse of the massive houses situated far back on plots of land that gave way to even more space—I wasn’t expecting her to live in one of the houses off of Preston Road even I dreamed about living in when I was younger. My parents never wanted for money, but even they talked about Highland Park as though it were a magical place a million miles away from our family home in Southlake. I drove along a long wall covered in ivy before seeing Lauren’s address near an elaborate wrought iron gate leading into the property. I pulled up and pressed the buzzer. A few moments later, I heard an older woman’s voice say, “Yes?”

“Hello. My name’s Sarah Nelson. I have a two-o’-clock appointment with Lauren Mitchell.”

“Hello, Sarah. Please drive up. I’m wrapping up with another candidate now. I’ll meet you at the front door.”

The gate opened and I drove along the winding driveway, lost in a tangle of bare trees and landscaped evergreens. Sometime back in the 30s when the house was built, great care was given to present the home to visitors in all its splendor. A bend in the way revealed a mansion nestled in trees that opened like a stage curtain (I could only imagine it in the spring). It was the kind of place built as a reminder that Dallas is not without its own old money families.

I pulled around the large circle before the house and parked behind a Toyota Prius with a NAMASTE bumper sticker on the back. The sound of the fountain in the center of it all soothed any tension that had built up on the drive over. At the top of the stairs leading to the house, I bumped into the interviewee before me, a 20-something-year old who looked like she was trying a bit too much to look like a writer. Everything about her was meant to look natural and thrown together, but the effort was apparent: a floppy hat, scarf, and sweater—even though it was one of those December days in the upper 70s. Her skirt was light enough to billow when she walked, as though she were constantly followed by an unseen breeze. She put on a pair of vintage sunglasses and looked at the only part of her ensemble she had nothing to do with: a Band-Aid on her finger. The white-haired woman behind her exuding a natural style one cannot buy said, “I will get back to you later this week. And I apologize again about the bite.”

The interviewee said, “It’s okay,” but I could tell it wasn’t. When I said hello, she ignored me and scurried for her car.

I recognized Lauren Mitchell immediately, only I knew her by her pen name: Marie Sinclair. She smiled at me and said, “Do you recognize me?”

I hoped I wasn’t blushing. “You’re Marie Sinclair.”

“That’s a good start.” She stepped aside and said, “Please. Come inside.”

I made the connection that I’d already seen the inside of the house, in an issue of D Magazine featuring the homes of famous Dallasites. Of all the homes in the feature, Lauren’s was the home I dreamed about. The stone, French-style mansion could have been uprooted, moved to the North Shore of Long Island, and been Fitzgerald’s inspiration for a party in The Great Gatsby. A slate roof gave the appearance of sunlight breaking through dark clouds, making everything beneath appear bright and perfect. Stepping back and taking in the blue sky, gray roof, white building, manicured green shrubbery, and golden-brown lawn was like looking at a world layered in a parfait glass.  

“You’re the only one I’ve interviewed who recognized me,” Lauren said.

I wanted to say, “Of course I recognize you–you’re the writer I’ve aspired to become. To have a short chat about writing over a cup of tea would be wonderful, and here I am in your actual house!” Instead, I said, “I appreciate your writing and thank you for this opportunity.”

My mother would have been proud.

“Well, thank you. Between us, you provided the best writing samples of the three final candidates.”

My thank you was interrupted by a loud squawk.

“That’s Horus.”

Lauren stopped at the door leading into her study and gestured for me to enter. I couldn’t have imagined a better room in which to write. It was like stepping back to the mid-18th century. The rug on the floor looked like it had seen great leaders rise and fall; the plasterwork on the walls and ceiling seemingly applied by a giant wielding a massive pastry bag. Why bother with a desk lamp when you could have two crystal chandeliers lighting the way, and the Louis XIV style chairs may have been the real thing. What really caught my eye was to the side of the most ornate desk I’d ever seen: a cage as tall as me. Sitting on a perch attached to the top of it was an African Grey parrot. I smiled and said, “You must be Horus?”

The bird tilted his head to the side, and I looked at Lauren. She nodded, and I approached the cage. Horus climbed down from his perch and waddled to the edge, just about eye level to me. I extended my hand while thinking about the interviewee before me with the Band-Aid on her finger. Horus stretched out and then offered to me the back of his head. I ruffled his feathers against the grain and presented my hand. He rested the tip of his beak on my index finger and scrutinized it with his dry tongue. His pupils dilated, and he said, “Hello.”

“Hello, Horus,” I said.

The rest of the interview was a breeze; I was offered the job before leaving.

It was never lost on me how fortunate I was to stumble upon that classified ad. Lauren explained to me that she went to newspapers in smaller towns in the area because she figured someone still reading papers had better odds to be what she was looking for. She said, “I have nothing against 20-year-olds, but I hoped someone with a little more experience would respond. Also, I just didn’t want to fuck with Craigslist.”

I didn’t feel that I worked all that much during my days there. I did some proofreading, organized mail, and kept Lauren’s schedule, but most of the time I was allowed to work on my own writing. Lauren even read the occasional page at random, and always said, “You’ve yet to lose my interest.” Sometimes when she read my writing, Horus leaped to her shoulder from his cage and appeared to read along.

“He looks like he understands,” I said one day.

“He’s a very smart bird. Have you ever held a parrot?”

“Once when I was a kid. At a zoo.”

“Would you like to hold him?”

I nodded, and she picked up Horus and handed him to me.

I scratched the back of his head and said, “You’re such a sweetie.”

Lauren laughed.

“What?” I said.

“You didn’t use the baby voice. Everybody uses the baby voice.”

“Honestly, there’s something about his eyes. Like if I used the baby voice I’d piss him off.”

Lauren smiled and said, “Well, something tells me you’re safe.”

As I moved into my fourth month working for Lauren, she said, “Do you like your commute?”

“I don’t mind it,” I said.

“But you don’t like it?”

“Not particularly. The area’s grown so much. No matter how much they widen LBJ, it’s crowded and mean.”

“So was LBJ. If I may be a bit presumptuous, I assume the guest house out back is larger than where you’re living now?”

“Yes, I believe it is,” I said, knowing full well it was.

“It’s vacant and needs some work, but it’s yours if you’d like.”

“That’s very generous, Lauren, but I can’t accept that.”

“Sure you can. Think of it as passing a 90-day probationary period. You’re not going to find a better offer elsewhere, and I’m going to bother you until you accept.”

I don’t know why, but I looked to Horus. “What do you think?”

He ruffled his feathers and squawked, “Yes!”

“By needing some work,” Lauren meant the guest house by the pool only needed a little light dusting. Like the interior of the main house, everything in the guest house was designed to be magazine perfect. I hate to admit it, but I kept waiting to see what the catch was. A job, a free house, and all the time I wanted to work on my own writing didn’t come without a cost.

The phone rang one afternoon while I was sitting by the pool reading a galley for the book Lauren finished before I started working for her. It was my mother. After our Hello’s, she got right to it.

“I’m worried about you, Sarah.”

“Why, mother?”

“It’s not right. It makes no sense. This woman gives you everything and asks for nothing in return? Do you think she’s…you know…?”

“What, Mom? What do I know?”

“You know,” she said. And then she whispered, “gay…”

“I’m not going to justify that with an answer.” I didn’t care if Lauren was gay; I only cared if perhaps she was and had feelings for me that I would never have for her. I would never have wanted to see Lauren hurt.

“You say you work for her and that she likes your writing, but don’t be surprised when she asks you for…” More whispering, “You know…”

“No, I don’t know. Mom, I’m done with this call.”

“Don’t hang up on me, Sarah. I’m trying to help. Your writing isn’t that good—”

“What?” The years spilled out of me. “How the hell would you know if my writing is good or not? You were never there for me when I was young, and all you do is pick at me as an adult. You’ve never even read my writing; in fact, you’ve always told me it was a silly dream—that I should just get married and settle down! You know what? I’m tired of this shit. I’m done speaking to you. Not just this call—I’m just done!”

I hung up and blocked my mother’s number.

When I calmed down, I looked up and saw Lauren and Horus watching me from the conservatory.

The day after telling my mother I was done dealing with her shit, everything seemed to turn for me: the right agent, publisher, and then editor. Writing under the pen name, Cynthia Burkehart, my first published novel received more praise than I ever imagined, and all that came with supporting the release was more exhausting and fun than I believed it would be. Only on rare occasion was it insinuated that Lauren had anything to do with my success; Lauren insisted from the start that she’d help me find my way as a writer, but finding my way to publication was up to me. My third novel was my first bestseller, initially doing better than the book Lauren released that year. But there was a benefit to having history as a writer. While my releases and successes came in flashes, Lauren’s climbs and slides were never as quick. I was winning sprints while she was winning marathons.

And that was what my life was like for over a decade, until the day Lauren Mitchell–a.k.a. Marie Sinclair–died.

For all the things I took care of for Lauren over the years, we never discussed a will. I found nothing in the office cabinets, so I wandered into the library. That’s when I heard someone say, “I have never found a good way to ease into this, so I’ll just get right to it: I am not what I seem.”

I picked up a marble bust from a table and charged into the office, ready to defend myself and Horus.

There was nobody there.

“You can set Mr. Irving down,” Horus said, sounding almost wholly human. “While Washington would make as good a bludgeon as any author, there is no need to defend yourself against me.”

I was slack-jawed with surprise.

“I realize this is strange, that you might think you’re losing your mind. But I assure you, Sarah, you are not.”

“You’re talking. Not like parrot talk, but talking-talk.”

“Yes.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Yes. Normally, anyway. But as I mentioned, I am not what I seem. There is a safe behind the portrait of me on the wall. In case you’ve ever wondered: yes, that is me, and it is an original Audubon.”

“How old are you?” I said.

“I do not know for sure, but I remember The Battle of Hastings. So at least 950 years old or so. The memory fades a bit after a few hundred years.”

“There is no way.”

“I realize this is overwhelming. The contents of the safe should make things more clear.”

I carefully removed the Audubon painting from the wall and set it on the desk. Horus gave me the combination to the safe. Inside was a stack of large envelopes and an old, leather-bound book. I spent the afternoon going over everything with Horus, amazed by how quickly I came to accept him speaking like a human. The legal transfer of all of Lauren’s possessions to me were in order. I was overwhelmed by that, but even more struck by a letter in Lauren’s hand ending with this:

I never had a child of my own, Sarah, but know this: you were more than any son or daughter I could have imagined.

You’re in very good hands,

Lauren

The rest of the day was spent bombarding Horus with questions:

“Why wouldn’t Lauren have told me about you?”

“I am sorry. I take a strange pleasure in the initial reveal. I may be old, but my ego and sense of humor remain intact. I love the looks on people’s faces…”

* * *

“But what if someone along the way just dumped you off at a pet store or decided, ‘I’m going to make a mint off this talking parrot’?”

“Honestly, Sarah. Are you about to give up a parrot that genuinely speaks? And if you decide to suddenly throw away your writing career for touring with me, I am quite stubborn, and all a crowd will get is squawks and, ‘Polly wanna cracker.'”

“What if Lauren had suddenly died on you before I came along?”

“As you’ll soon see, we’ll set up the office phone so if something terrible happens to you, I will be able to call 911. A news story about a parrot calling the authorities and squawking out his address will ensure I end up someplace safe, with all this still in my possession.”

* * *

Later I asked, “What’s up with that book?” That book being the old book found in the safe with all the papers.

“That’s my journal. These days, everything is typed and stored on the cloud, but back then, the people I shared lives with wrote for me in their own hand. You’ll be amazed by some of the hands you’ll meet in that tome.”

He wasn’t kidding: he’d spent his years in the company of world leaders, artists, writers, and businessmen. I couldn’t believe the things I read in the journal.

“You came to America with Charles Dickens?”

“Yes,” Horus said. “1842. It was a rough crossing of the Atlantic on the HMS Britannia, and I was not about to return to England and relive that experience. Besides, Dickens never needed my assistance.

“I was given to Washington Irving, which was quite to my liking. Through him, I met other American writers. This may be hard to believe, but I am the inspiration behind Poe’s “The Raven”—and Melville’s Moby Dick is really the symbolic story of my crossing of the Atlantic in rough seas…”

I was regaled with tales of the New York City literary scene during Victorian times. To hear Horus tell it, his influence is all over early American fiction.

“I wanted something much different from British literature; something over which people would argue. It’s a wonderfully efficient way to keep a thing alive: insert just enough difference and provincial pride into opposing forces and watch people generations removed from a thing still argue about which is better.”

Regarding his name, he said, “No, I am not as old as the pharaohs, but as a very ancient bird, Horus is much better than my given name: Edward.”

I asked him how he got to Texas of all places.

“Irving gave me to Melville.” He laughed. “Listen to me, I make it sound as though I were an object to be traded, but I must admit to being limited in my mobility. As Melville aged, I went to live with an editor Melville was sure would become a great writer. It never happened, though—he refused to take my advice. He was more suited for business, anyway, and in the early 1900s, when oil was discovered in Texas, I suggested we head west. I typically move from family to family, but I stayed with the Mitchell’s for several generations. Lauren’s grandfather made a good life for himself and settled in Dallas after finding his fortune. I was passed on to Lauren’s mother and eventually to her. Now, I belong to you.”

I didn’t like the way that sounded, as though Horus were simply a knick-knack on a shelf. But then I remembered how the ages had influenced him and what he meant was that he’d given his service and care to me.

When everything was settled after Lauren’s passing, I asked Horus if he wanted to move elsewhere—even another country.

“Oh, no,” he said. “The trip to America was bad enough. While I fly, I have no desire to fly in a plane. I’d be crated, drugged, and quarantined. Stick a feather in my cap and call me macaroni—I’m happy to be in America, right where I am.”

And so was I.

There came a point in the years that followed where I locked into a stride and became the kind of writer Lauren once was: steady and patient. I toured less and wrote more, all the while with Horus right there at my side, reading from my shoulder. It’s not like I was without other friends, but I was always quite content with a solitary life even before meeting Lauren and Horus. The friends I had in publishing were plenty; I had more than I could ever want.

And then one day it was my turn to interview the person who would replace me and care for Horus when I was gone. I wasn’t as concerned as Lauren in finding someone creeping into middle age as I was when Lauren found me; besides, while the old newspaper machine was still in the parking lot of the shopping center near my hometown, it hadn’t seen a newspaper in ages. There were still, however, bulletin boards on college campuses, so I placed my ad at SMU, UTA, The University of North Texas, and Texas Women’s University.

Wanted: Assistant.

Established novelist (yes, some people still read and write novels) seeks an assistant. Duties include: research, office tasks, and occasional errands. Perks include time to work on your own projects. Samples of your work—whatever that may be—required.

(214) 555-1212

Ask for Sarah

Just as Lauren narrowed it down to three candidates, so did I. And just as Lauren chose me for recognizing who she was, I chose Ayana Danjuma; not solely because she recognized me, but because she was the only candidate who wanted to write. When I told her books were barely a thing anymore, she smiled and said, “I know, but I’m not going to let them die on my watch.”

For 22 years, just as Lauren did with me, I read Ayana’s stories and nudged her in the right direction. And I’ll be damned if she didn’t publish a novel right about the time the NeuralNet crashed and people looked for some kind of entertainment outside of cyberspace. For over two decades we worked together…until my days finally came to an end.

We’d reached a point with medicine where most of the things that killed us when I was young were no longer a fear. My lungs were never the best, though, and it’s not like I could swallow a pill and grow a new set. A series of colds, bouts of bronchitis, and pneumonia finally wore me down to a point where I was done fighting. I’d live on in Horus’s stories.

Ayana was in the guest house when it happened. Horus flew down from his perch in the bedroom where he’d insisted on staying while I was weak. I felt the tug at my sleeve and looked down to see Horus standing on the blankets. He was smarter than any human I’d ever met, yet it always amazed me when he’d do parrot things; so much so that I wondered if it was biological wiring or something he did just to calm me down.

The last thing I remembered was him saying, “This is the only part of being me that I hate.”

Epilogue

From the Journal of Ayana Danjuma

August 21, 2057

And that was what my life was like for more than two decades, until the day Sarah Nelson—a.k.a. Cynthia Burkehart—died. A pall fell upon the house, until the day I was in the library and heard a voice from the office:

“I have never found a good way to ease into this, so I’ll just get right to it. I am not what I seem…”

* * *

Christopher Gronlund:

A big thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks – and thank you to Cynthia Griffith for narrating Horus. All music by Ergo Phizmiz and Podington Bear, released under a Creative Commons license. Not about Lumberjacks is also released under a Creative Commons license. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and music…and cfgriffith.com for information about Cynthia.

Next month, the adult son of a hoarder finally figures why his father collects things when the two set out to retrieve some dogs seen running loose in a field.

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

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

Woman’s Voice:

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

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

And now: onward!

* * *

“Calling Out of Time” started with a tweet.

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

* * *

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

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

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

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

[Listen]

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

Christopher Gronlund:

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

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

This time, it’s a story about a phone booth that appears out of nowhere, helping someone connect to their past in a most-needed way.

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

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

The second thing before we get to the episode is I’d like to tell you about a book series by my friend, Jennifer Moss.

If you’re looking for a fun and exciting binge, this is it—a series of mysteries with a metaphysical twist. The first is TOWN RED, in which Detective Ryan Doherty has to save his career by solving a double homicide of husband and wife entrepreneurs. During the investigation, he meets the mysterious Catharine Lulling—a psychic empath who knows just a little too much about the murders. As Ryan is drawn into Catharine’s unconventional world, he has to figure out if she’s for real…or the real killer.

Check out TOWN RED by Jennifer Moss—rated five stars on Amazon.com.

I’ll also be sure to include a link in the show notes.

All right—let’s get to work…

Calling Out of Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?”

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

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

* * *

Buffalo Grove, Illinois – 1983

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

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

“Hello?”

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

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

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

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

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

He took a breath and said, “Yes.”

“Amir Nazari?”

“Uh-huh…”

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

“Are you a friend of my father?”

“I…I knew your father, yes.”

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

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

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

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

“Can you go get something to write with?”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

As he returned from the kitchen, Soraya came downstairs.

“Who was on the phone?” she said.

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

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

“Hello? Who is this?”

The man on the phone said, “Soraya?”

“Who wants to know?”

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

He shook his head no.

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

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

* * *

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

* * *

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

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

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

“Morning, Francisco.”

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

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

“What’s that?”

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

“Nope.”

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

“Yeah…”

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

* * *

Buffalo Grove, Illinois – 1983

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

“Hello?”

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

“The…kitchen.”

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

“Okay.”

“Tell you mother and father–“

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

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

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

“Yes, I am.”

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

She hung up and charged downstairs.

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

When Amir called again, he was greeted by static.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Goodbye, my friend.”

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

Buffalo Grove, Illinois – 1983.

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

“Hello?”

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

“A bad wire?”

“Yes. Go tell them right away.”

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

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

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

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

“To check the wires in the attic?”

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

“Okay.”

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

“Okay.”

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

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

* * *

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

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

“I was up later than usual.”

“Working on a story?”

“Yes…in a sense.”

“How’s it coming along?”

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

“What questions?”

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

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

“Yeah. That’s a good plan.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

* * *

Epilogue – Buffalo Grove, Illinois – 2021

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Happy birthday, Uncle Amir.”

“Why, thank you.”

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

* * *

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

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

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

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

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

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

Woman’s Voice:

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

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

And now: onward!

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

Want to know what he’s doing today?

He’s the CEO for another software company.

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

In the end, the regrets most people have are:

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

* * *

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

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

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

John saying, “The weird thing about having cancer and all that time to think were the epiphanies. You’d vow that if you made it, everything would change. You’d cherish every second of life like few other people could. Then you get through it and, at first, others are happy for you. You’re the center of attention. But that goes away so fast, and then you’re back at a job to make ends meet and no one cares. You know how fleeting life is, but you still have to survive, so you go back to living like nothing ever happened. Such a profound experience wiped away by the rush of everyday life.”

And then Tommy saying, “Figuring out how to find some kind of happiness in spite of all the shit we eat day in and day out…that’s the closest thing to enlightenment I know of.”

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

Know what?

No section of new music ever came easier to me.

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

I had my pick!

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

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

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

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

[Listen]

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

Christopher Gronlund:

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

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

This time, it’s a story about endings leading to new beginnings; a tale about finding joy in the darkest of places: Death.

Before that, though, a couple things. First: the usual content advisory. This story deals with a variety of topics, including sudden and drawn-out deaths (including the death of a child). It also includes discussions about cancer, drug and alcohol use, struggles with self-doubt, and—of course—the usual bits of swearing.

The second thing before we get to the episode is I’d like to tell you about a book series by my friend, Jennifer Moss.

If you’re looking for a fun and exciting binge, this is it—a series of mysteries with a metaphysical twist. The first is TOWN RED, in which Detective Ryan Doherty has to save his career by solving a double homicide of husband and wife entrepreneurs. During the investigation, he meets the mysterious Catharine Lulling—a psychic empath who knows just a little too much about the murders. As Ryan is drawn into Catharine’s unconventional world, he has to figure out if she’s for real…or the real killer.

Check out TOWN RED by Jennifer Moss—rated five stars on Amazon.com.

I’ll also be sure to include a link in the show notes.

All right—let’s get to work…

* * *

A DEATHLY MISTAKE

[Xylophone music plays.]

Death stood waiting at the foot of John’s bed. Despite being the model of health, a blood clot formed in his left leg days before would snake its way through his pulmonary artery and find its final resting place in John’s lung. Death had seen it countless times—frequently, the collected soul jolted upright in bed, trying to figure out what was happening in their final moments. Other times they barely moved, leaving Death checking to see if it was over.

“Excuse me. John…”

John stirred and then recoiled to the head of his bed when he saw the scythe-wielding, cloaked figure at its foot.

“Everything will be all right. I am not here to hurt you.”

“What the hell’s going on?”

“Unfortunately for you, I have come to collect your soul. You are dead.”

“Bullshit!”

“I understand the sentiment, but it changes nothing. Follow me…”

* * *

Death stepped from John’s bedroom and into the dining room of the tiny apartment. The small, round table filling the space was spotless, apart from a frosted glass vase housing an unused, chunky white candle. In most homes Death visited, kitchen and dining room tables served as a catch-all spot for mail, keys, books, and other odds and ends having their own place, yet seemingly drawn to the gravity of tabletops.

John stepped out and turned on the kitchen light.

“Can I at least get a drink of water before we go?”

“You are dead, John. You no longer require such things.”

“But I’m thirsty.” He opened a cabinet near the gleaming sink and removed a glass. Death watched John fill it with water from a filtering pitcher on the counter.

“You were a very clean person, Jonathan Paul Smith.”

“I like to think fastidious.”

“Well, for someone so…fastidious, you seem to be taking this quite well.”

“That’s because I don’t believe this is real.”

“Well, I assure you, it is. You are about to find out.” Death pointed a long, bony finger at the glass of water. “Drink up.”

John brought the glass to his lips and drained it in a few quick gulps. Death cocked his head to the side.

“What?” John said.

“That water should be on the floor.”

“But it’s not.”

Death crossed John’s living room and opened the front door. He poked his head out and looked around.

“What are you doing?” John said.

“It’s just…well…I usually walk the deceased through their home—kind of one last reminder of their mortal lives and possessions. Then I open the door and we go through the light. It is a thing I do.”

John joined Death and peeked outside. “Looks like an ordinary night out there to me.”

When Death closed the door and turned around, John stabbed him in the stomach with all his might.

“You should not have done that, John…”

* * *

This time, when Death opened the door, outside was gone and replaced by the brightest white light John had ever seen—brilliant enough that it should’ve hurt, but didn’t. As his eyes adjusted and he realized he was in the proverbial tunnel, a feeling of warmth and calmness flooded his every sense. It may have taken lifetimes before the light dissolved around him, or it may have taken only a fraction of a second, but when he blinked his vision clear, there before him stood the Pearly Gates. Death approached the old, bearded man guarding a thick book placed atop a lectern.

“Hey, Pete. I’m here to turn over Jonathan Paul Smith.”

“Which one?” the old man said.

“Uhm…five-thousand-one Maple Avenue. Apartment fifteen-twenty in—”

“That’s wrong!” John said. “I’m at five-thousand Maple Avenue. Five-thousand-one is across the street.”

“Oh, shit…”

Saint Peter double checked the massive book before him. “He’s right. You showed up at the wrong place. The Jonathan Paul Smith you were to guide is currently dead in his bed from a pulmonary embolism. There’s still time to go get him.”

“Wait!” John said. “So, I’m not dead?”

“Oh, you’re dead, all right,” Death said. “When you stabbed me, your hand passed through my body. Anything living touches me, and it dies. You really shouldn’t have done that.”

“I thought you were some costumed, nut-job intruder! I had every right to defend myself. That’s why I got a drink of water—that pitcher was right beside my knife set. And wht the fuck is up with your voice?!”

“Calm down, calm down…these things happen from time to time. It’s like how sometimes cops serve no-knock warrants on the wrong house and end up shooting people they weren’t even looking for—”

“But this is your fault! And you know it ’cause you went from all, ‘I understand the sentiment, but it changes nothing,’ to, ‘Oh, shit!’ just like that!”

“Nah, don’t worry—there’s a fix. You know how sometimes people report seeing the tunnel during near-death experiences? Once I take you back, that’s all you’ll remember. Unless, you know—you don’t want to go back? You have the option to stay here, now. We’ll give you a moment to think about it.”

It was a ridiculous notion: just a handful of seconds to weigh living against dying. It’s not that John’s life was bad, but it wasn’t very exciting, either. As he gave it greater thought, he came to the conclusion that living was a thing he did simply because he was there, so why fight it? But it was never something he would have chosen had existing been his choice. Still, he was never fond how his life had become a conditioned thing, with parents, teachers, and even bosses dictating its shape. But already, the After Life seemed like a continuation of the expectations of others. How could eternity in the clouds really be any better than the drudgery of an Earth-bound life?

“I hate to hurry you,” Saint Peter said, “but you’re holding things up.”

John turned around and saw a line thousands of souls deep…each escorted by an otherworldly figure in a black cloak.

“What’s up with all of them?”

“Ah, you think there’s only one of us,” Death said. “Makes sense. I can only do so much—there are scores of us, as you can see. Factor in other faiths and their versions of the end, and who knows how many Harvesters there are. Hell, this is just one version of the Christian end, but through stories, it still persists.”

“Harvester?”

“Yeah, that’s the job title. Every culture harvests something. It’s pretty universal.”

“So, how does one become a…Harvester?”

“By making the choice to do so. By not wanting to stay here or go back.”

“No job interview or anything like that?”

“Nope! But if you’re thinking about giving it a go, I ask you: why would you want this job? It’s not always easy.”

“Living’s not always easy. I got really sick a decade ago. I had a house, a good job…everything. But I had to declare bankruptcy, and now I obsess over my health so I don’t get sick again. I live in that tiny apartment because it’s all I can afford. And every year when I get a little bit ahead, rent and other things go up, and I can’t get out. It’s almost as tiring as having cancer was.

“You’ve seen my place: I’m organized. I sure as hell wouldn’t have been harvesting the wrong people like somebody I know.”

“Fair point. All right. Pete, do you have a Deceased Entity Asking To Harvest form handy?

* * *

Back in John’s apartment, he and Death sat on the couch.

“Can we move to the kitchen? That’s bugging me.”

John pointed to his corporeal body near the front door.

“If you want to be a Harvester, you can’t be bothered by that.”

“But it’s me.”

“It was you. In time, that body will decay enough that someone will smell it and a wellness check will be done and the cops will be confused as hell, wondering why there’s a body right by the front door with a knife beside it. But that’s not our concern.”

“Is that why you brought me back here? To teach me a lesson?”

“Nah.” Death pulled a pen from his robe and handed it to John. “You need to fill out that D.E.A.T.H. form.”

“Then what?”

“Then you’re my trainee. You’ll shadow me awhile before getting your robes, scythe, and assignments. Then I’ll watch you until you’ve got it down and are ready to work on your own.”

John worked his way through the Deceased Entity Asking To Harvest form, and when he signed it, the paper disappeared. He set the pen on his old coffee table.

“Hey, hey…that’s mine. These things aren’t easy to come by in the After Life.”

John picked it up and handed it to Death. “Sorry.”

* * *

The first body they harvested was the correct John Smith, an overworked consultant who was perhaps rightly incensed by his company’s new policy that everyone fly coach instead of business class on international flights. A cramped middle seat from New York City to London did him in.

“You’ll see quite a bit of this,” Death told John. “People who eat stress twenty-four-seven and barely move. It wrecks a body: blood clots, heart attacks, strokes, addictions—all those things…”

* * *

After the first few harvests, John noticed time seemed to expand and contract, just like in the tunnel of light. He and Death seemed to never slow their pace, but if John had a question or needed to clear his head, time seemed to accommodate his needs.

“So, what’s the deal with the scythe?” John said after a nursing home harvest. “Does it do anything?”

“Nah, it’s just there for looks. Imagery, ya know? It was supposed to remind people that time was fleeting—that they should make the most of their lives. As much as we like to sell that bullshit, it’s beyond the control of most mortals who just struggle to get by. But it’s what people expect, so I carry it. Really, it just depends on who I’m harvesting that night. Some people expect the scythe, so they get the scythe. Sometimes I get to be a big, glowing angel or someone’s most cherished relative, friend, or spouse showing them the way. It’s like Halloween every day. Hell, sometimes I don’t even need to show up…some people find their way on their own.”

“What about animals?” John said. “Do we harvest animals?”

“Nah, they don’t need us. They’ve always been good just knowing what to do. It’s humans who need rules and guidance.”

“All right. What about atheists?”

“They just die. Like, for real. They seem good with it, so why rub it in their faces?”

* * *

The last harvest of the shift was an auto accident—the deceased, a crushed five-year-old boy who didn’t survive the impact from a red-light running drunk.

John watched Death morph into the likeness of the kid’s father, who was unconscious at the wheel.

“Hey, buddy—sorry you woke up from your nap,” Death said while guiding the young soul away from the wreck. “Why don’t we go get some ice cream, huh?”

He took the boy by the hand and led him toward the light.

After processing the harvest, Death said, “Not as easy as you thought it would all be, eh?”

“No, that one was rough. Do you ever get used to it?”

“Used to it, no. But you come to accept it a little easier with time. All of it: hearing the cries from someone losing a spouse after six decades of marriage; the screams of a soldier on a battlefield swimming in their own guts—seeing their leg ten feet away before the world goes dark. Things even worse than that, where human cruelty is on horrible display, and you remember how unfair it can all be. Tyrants butchering people and never getting paid back for their horrors. The sickest minds doing even sicker things to innocent people. I’ll admit, I used to make notes and remember the worst offenders in life…scare them to Hell and back when their time finally came, but the novelty wears off. Perfect deaths, horrible ones, and everything in between…you may never get used to it, but you come to accept it. No one—not even us—has a say in the end…”

* * *

After the evening’s last harvest, John’s vision blurred for a moment. When focus returned, he was in an apartment not unlike his last mortal dwelling. It was a bit cluttered, mostly with books and electronics, but not dirty. Whoever lived there enjoyed reading, listening to music, playing video games, and tinkering with computers. An entertainment cabinet housed a handful of gaming systems, and the stereo setup next to it was ready to play records, cassettes, and CDs. A small pile of laptops and other computer components was stacked in a corner near the sliding balcony door. Outside looked like Bladerunner.

John watched Death pull his robe off over his head, revealing a person roughly his own age. With the exception of a scruffy beard, unkempt brown hair, and the beginnings of a slight paunch beneath a Body Count t-shirt, the person standing before John could have been his doppelgänger.

Death tossed his robe on the couch and said, in what John assumed was his real voice, “Can I get you a beer or something?”

John stared out the sliding door, at cars floating by in the sky.

“Pretty wild, huh?”

“What’s going on?” John said.

“This is my place.” He extended his hand. “Real name’s Tommy, by the way. Thomas, but nobody—not even my mom when she was mad at me—ever called me that.”

John shook his hand and said, “Why are we here?”

Tommy pointed to a thick book on the coffee table. “That’s the Employee Handbook. You’ll stay with me until you’re done reading it and pass the test. Don’t worry, it’s not like a sit-down thing full of stress. You read the book, and when it all settles into your head, that’s that—you get your robes and can set off harvesting on your own. Now, how ‘bout that beer…”

* * *

[Fade in to the sound of videogame music and sounds…]

In the days that followed, when he wasn’t watching Tommy harvest souls, John’s After Life was consumed by the Employee Handbook, a tome that read more like a psychology textbook and crash course in world cultures than a set rules. While his mentor did bong hits and played video games, John learned about more versions of Death and the After Life than he could have guessed existed. The only rules seemed built around being a Harvester: length of shifts, time off policies, and other guidelines one might expect from an ordinary job. The benefits package included a library where one could learn anything they wanted from a variety of experts. The Library also served as a center for recurrent training, keeping Harvesters in the know about how society had changed since the time of their deaths. Where Heaven, Hell, and all other things After Life were concerned, it depended on the person and their beliefs. But for Harvesters, the retirement plan came, in part, with shaping an ideal After Life of one’s own devising.

“Let me see if I have this right,” John said. “We harvest souls and, in our free time, work to discover what we want our own After Life to look like?”

Tommy finished a bottle of Miller Genuine Draft and said, “Yeah, that’s pretty much it. Not too difficult, unless you make it so.”

“But you don’t seem to be working toward creating your After Life.”

“‘Dude?! I’m living it! Look out that window—that’s the world from one of my favorite movies ever. I train people for a job I like..that I hope they come to like, too. And then…I have all this. Might not seem like much to most people, but it’s simple and suits me well.”

“You don’t want more than this? You can have anything.”

“Why complicate a good thing, man?” Tommy picked up his bong and took a long hit of OG Kush.

“When I was alive, I had a good job. I worked for an older guy who owned an electronics shop. He made the leap from fixing TVs and radios to computers. All day long, I was in the back of the shop with him and his daughter, fixing things while watching movies or listening to music. We ordered take-out and talked about whatever came to mind. I went in, did my job really well, and then came home and chilled. There’s nothing wrong with ambition, but there’s also nothing wrong with just finding simpler things and enjoying them. A good job and peace at home goes a long way.”

John knew people who tried convincing themselves they were content working and relaxing, but very few actually took it easy. Work was always within reach on a laptop or phone. Tommy, however, meant it. In life, he took care of responsibilities and reaped the rewards of a job well done. In death, his life was no different.

“How’d you die?”

“Wiped out in a tornado in 1995. We were all working in the back of the shop and FOOM! Last thing I remember were all those computers and tools coming at me right before the building collapsed. Fortunately, my boss and his daughter made it, but I sure as hell didn’t leave behind a pretty corpse.”

Nineteen ninety-five. The decor of the apartment and electronics now made sense. John was a toddler when Tommy died while living his best life. John wondered, were there people from prehistoric times in the After Life still trying to figure it all out?

“So that’s seriously it?” John said. “I harvest souls and work on my perfect self? My perfect place?”

The Employee Handbook disappeared from John’s lap.

“You’ve got it, dude. Only here you have better odds than you had in life. And if you have no idea what you want, well…you got nothing but time…”

* * *

In the time that followed, John waited for the job to grow monotonous, but it never did. While it became routine, delivering souls to their destinations never left him feeling flat. Seeing the subtle differences in people’s versions of Heaven always intrigued him. And even when shuttling souls to Hell, not all versions were like Dante’s Inferno. For some, it was an absence of seeing their god. For others, it was facing what they did to apparently deserve damnation. The Employee Handbook warned against interfering with even manufactured suffering where none should have existed. It didn’t seem fair, though, seeing kind people who did nothing wrong in life convinced by cruel people they were somehow unworthy of love and deserved an eternity in Hell simply for not being as cold-hearted as those they trusted.

Tommy reminded John: “We were all fucked up as humans, and we’re still fucked up as eternal souls…hopefully, just not as much. It’s not our place to try fixing things. Everyone gets to where they need to be in time. Nirvana and all those other states of perfection? Total elitist bullshit—some religions just market themselves better. ‘Oh, you’ve figured out all known things, so now you can ascend to a state of perfection…’ There’s no way to know everything, and to follow the rules of others to achieve a perfection that doesn’t exist is all-too-human. Figuring out how to find some kind of happiness in spite of all the shit we eat day in and day out…that’s the closest thing to enlightenment I know of.”

And that’s what John strived for. In life, he recognized that even the most droll corporate job meant something to somebody using a product, whether it was life-saving medicine or staying in touch with loved ones around the world. The spreadsheets and numbers behind it all may not have been very exciting, but the tedium he faced hopefully bettered the lives of others and gave him a sense of pride in his work. Seeing souls to their final destinations was even better.

If nothing else, it was easier than figuring out what his own ideal After Life would look like…

* * *

[Quirky xylophone music plays…]

When he wasn’t working, John spent most of his time visiting Tommy, going as far as taking an apartment next to his best After Life friend. During the occasional probationary shift, and then working fully on his own, John missed Tommy’s guidance and companionship. The task of Harvesting seemed to carry more weight when completely alone with a soul in between their final breath and eternity. It was a mixture of honor and anxiety, an important task he never wanted to fumble. Visiting Tommy after those shifts was always a relief.

“Rough day at the office, huh?”

“Yeah,” John said.

“I don’t want to make it worse, but I’m supposed to report back about how your After Life is coming along.”

“Oh…I’ve just been so busy with work. You know how it—” John stopped himself.

“Yeah, I know how it is. Always busy…but not really.”

“I hope me not moving along with my After Life doesn’t affect you.”

“Nope, I’m good. If it takes you a thousand years, that’s all on you. But it seems like you’re doing the same thing you did when you were alive. And if that’s what you wanna do, great! You’re a cool dude, and I love hanging out chatting with you. But something seems to be missing inside.”

After an exceptionally long bong hit, Tommy looked up and said, “What is it you always wanted to do, John?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s kinda sad, man.”

“It is. When I was sick, it bothered me that I wouldn’t leave anything behind. No kids, no art…nothing. The weird thing about having cancer and all that time to think were the epiphanies. You’d vow that if you made it, everything would change. You’d cherish every second of life like few other people could. Then you get through it and, at first, others are happy for you. You’re the center of attention. But that goes away so fast, and then you’re back at a job to make ends meet and no one cares. You know how fleeting life is, but you still have to survive, so you go back to living like nothing ever happened. Such a profound experience wiped away by the rush of everyday life.

“I know the way I lived prevented me from doing things I wanted to do, but the way my world was set up didn’t help matters any. It’s a nice thought to quit your day job and take that leap into the unknown, but most people who do that don’t make it. We just hear about those who did and are told that’s norm—not the exception.”

“See, this is why I like you—you’re a wise man when you want to be, Jonathan Paul Smith. I’ve got another question for you. The night I harvested you—”

“Mistakenly harvested me.”

“You’re never gonna let me live that down, eh? Okay, fine: the night I fucked up and harvested the wrong guy…why didn’t you say anything about the Pearly Gates? That was what that other John Smith believed—not you.”

“I just figured people believing that were right all along.”

“Did you always buy into what others sold you?”

“Yeah, I kind of did. It was just easier to do what my parents and others expected of me along the way.”

“Lemme ask you: what did you want to be when you grew up?”

“Huh?”

“Come on, almost every kid had a thing they really wanted to do before they were told to ‘grow up and be responsible.’ What was yours?”

“I wanted to be a musician.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed that in all my time.”

“Yeah. When I was…maybe seven or eight? I snuck into our dining room, which had a view of the TV. I was supposed to be asleep. My dad was watching This is Spinal Tap for the millionth time—the Stonehenge scene. I assume you’ve seen it?”

“Hell yeah—I love that movie!”

“I figured—my dad loved it, too, which was weird because he was so straight-laced. But when Nigel started playing the mandolin—I know it was supposed to be funny, but I was enthralled. Just this little instrument cutting through it all, sounding like nothing I’d ever heard before. I checked out band and orchestra at school, but it’s not instrument they taught. I asked my dad where I could take lessons and he told me I’d do best to just do well at school. So that’s what I did.”

“What’s stopping you from learning now?”

“I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“You have access to The Library and its Librarians. There’s virtually nothing they don’t know.”

* * *

The After Life Library dwarfed any in the Living World, an imposing marble Beaux-Arts exterior that gave way to exquisite woods bathed in a misty glow from chandeliers hanging from a gilded plaster ceiling. When the spectacle of it all finally settled, John approached the mahogany research desk, a massive thing that made those behind it seem like judges on the stand.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I’d like to learn how to play mandolin.”

A tiny, gray-haired woman in half-moon glasses leaned over the desk and gazed down at John. Her smile was as kind as every grandmother John had ever known. Combined.

“Do you have a preferred style, dearheart? Classical, bluegrass, traditional Irish? Pop/rock? Something else?”

“I’ve not given it that much thought.”

The old woman flipped through a thick book and seemed to find what she was looking for faster than a computer. She filled out a slip, placed it in a carrier, and inserted it into a pneumatic tube. As John watched it race up a wall full of tubes and disappear into the ceiling, he wondered if, like so many other things in the After Life, The Library was shaped by his thoughts and desires. Did it look different to each patron, or this way to all?

“You can take a seat, dear,” the Research Librarian said. “Your Instructor will be with you in a moment.”

John plopped down in an over-sized leather lounge chair against a nearby wall. Another Harvester occupied the chair beside him. John nodded politely and folded his hands in his lap.

“Your first time in The Library?” the other Harvester said.

“Yes. You?”

“Oh, no. I’ve been coming here for hundreds of years. I passed in 1611.”

“What are you here for, then?”

“My quarterly update. In time, all we know falls away as society progresses. It is important to meet the needs of those we serve. There will come a time when the technology, art, and all other things once familiar to you will seem foreign. But should you decide to continue the path of a Harvester, the Librarians will be sure all you know is current. It is the best part of the job—the never-ending learning.”

The Harvester nodded to a middle-aged bald man with a goatee walking toward them, and then turned his attention back to John. “If you will excuse me, it is time for my appointment.”

John wondered what it took to become a Librarian and all they did. Was it like his old job where the recently-deceased were subject matter experts being interviewed by trainers who shared the information with others? Were there computers hidden away in The Library containing even more information than the Internet and all the libraries in the Living World? He considered getting up to ask the older Librarian who helped him, but a man with a long gray beard called to him.

“John?”

By the time he stood up, the man closed the distance and stuck out his hand. “Name’s Jeremiah, but you can call me Jerm.”

John shook his hand and said, “Nice to meet you, Jerm. I’m—well, you know who I am…”

* * *

Jerm led John to one of many doors along a wooden paneled wall. When they stepped through, the hallway reminded John of an English university, with marble floors, smooth paneling, and tall windows stretching to the ceiling, allowing columns of light to spill down upon them and illuminate the way. Another doorway led to Jerm’s office, a room that looked more like the interior of a cozy pub than a study.

“Would you like a beer?” Jerm said while pointing to a table.

“Sure. Please.”

Jerm stepped behind the bar and, after a bit of time at a tap, came to the table with two perfectly poured pints of stout. He raised his glass and said, “Sláinte!” After they toasted and took a sip, he said, “So…what is it you want from all this?”

“I don’t know,” John said. “I just…always thought the mandolin was a great instrument.”

“I agree with that assessment. Do you wish to play casually, or would you like to perform?”

John hadn’t given it much thought, but “Perform, I guess,” seemed like the right answer.

“All right. And would you like to just get there, or would you prefer the experience of actually learning.”

“Learning, I guess? I mean…that’s how it works, right?”

“Usually, yes. But if you want to walk out of here today knowing how to play, that can be arranged.”

“Let’s just start with learning.”

“Good. I was hoping you’d say that. We’ll get you started with some basics and then a really sweet little tune…”

* * *

Several weeks later, while John and Tommy hung out after work, Tommy said, “When are you going to show me what you’ve been learning? I’d love to hear it.”

“Trust me, you don’t.”

“Oh, that voice. What’s wrong?”

“I’m not very good.”

“No one is at first, I’d imagine. You’ve never played an instrument. Stick with it, though, and I’m sure you’ll get there.”

Tommy was right. Soon, the struggle of stilted notes, sore fingers, and missed strings gave way to something sounding enough like the song John was learning that he shared it with Tommy.

“That’s badass, dude!”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I know you have a ways to go before you get good enough to perform, but that’s a damn nice song.”

* * *

Every few weeks, John added a new tune to his repertoire, going from rough to competent—sometimes even good. His confidence, even when learning new tunes, found him comfortable enough to practice while Tommy played video games and got high.

“Ya know, I never had a roommate, or even a friend I spent much time with,” Tommy said. “I was really kind of a loaner when I was alive, but this is the best…just hanging out, doing shit we love, and BS-ing all night.”

John stopped and smiled. “It really is…”

He’d never had a roommate either—never spent much time with others. Just work and home…TV and reading and cleaning.” Even when young, he was socialized with adults—his parents and their dull friends—not other kids. And that made for a boring adult.

John never picked up on social cues others at work seemed born with. During quarterly team-builder events at the office, he sat on the outskirts of it all, watching the extroverts hold court. On the rare occasion someone proposed meeting up outside of work, he was a master of excuses, playing reasons he couldn’t do things like cards until the potential friend took the hint.

Tommy was different—someone who had a knack for pulling from John deep thoughts he’d long suppressed. But his best friend was much more than a therapist. Whatever strange forces aligned and brought the two together, one seemed to help the other as though they were brothers.

“I really love that tune…you’re getting good, Hoss.”

* * *

Jerm also seemed impressed by John’s progress, saying he’d seen few people as dedicated as him. John never had hobbies. No woodworking, camping, or painting; music, boating, or juggling. Nothing. The closest thing he had was exercise, and that was part of a routine he did after ending up sick—not a thing he did for any kind of enjoyment or sense of accomplishment. It made sense that he fixated on playing mandolin—it was the first serious hobby he ever had. And the better he got, the more he realized performing was not what he wanted.

* * *

[Xylophone music gives way to video game sounds.]

“I’ve been thinking about my upcoming performance.”

Tommy paused his game and put down the controller.

“You’re gonna tell me you’re backing out, aren’t ya?”

“Not backing out—just not wanting to do it anymore. I know that sounds like the same thing, but it’s not.”

“Definitely sounds like the same thing to me.”

“Yeah. But when I started playing, I thought that was the goal: to play for others and get good enough that people pay to listen. That’s what my parents and others would have expected from me. Now I’m not so sure.”

“What’s the goal, then?”

“I guess to just enjoy something for the sake of enjoying it. Not trying to turn everything you’re vaguely good at into money or fame. Filling your time with joy instead of drudgery.”

Tommy looked out the balcony door, seeming to ponder the glowing world just beyond the glass. After what seemed like a full minute, he nodded his head and said, “Yeah, I can dig that…”

* * *

During John’s next lesson with Jerm, it was like he’d picked up the mandolin for the first time. Instead of trusting muscle memory honed by a repetition he always worried bothered Tommy, John tried processing every note in his mind, resulting in missed strings and frustration.

“What’s wrong?” Jerm said.

“I guess I have a lot on my mind.”

“Ah. What’s bothering you?”

“I’ve been thinking about the performance.”

“What about it?”

“I…just…”

“It’s natural to be nervous,” Jerm said. “But it’s nothing to worry about. I’ve arranged for a handful of other Librarians to attend, and they plan to invite enough people to fill this little pub. And your friend, Tommy, will be there. You’ll be amazed by how much a familiar face to focus on can make even the most packed and rowdy room fall away.”

John strummed the edge of the table as if he were holding a pick and the table was a pair of strings, a nervous habit he’d developed since starting to play. He always told Tommy he was practicing tunes in his mind, even though he wasn’t.

Jerm got up and poured two stouts. When he returned, he set one before John and said, “You don’t want to perform, do you?”

“That obvious, huh?”

“It was a safe guess. But I’ve seen it enough that it was a safe guess.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“I’ve disappointed you.”

“Nah! Not in the least. I just don’t want you to disappoint yourself. If you want to perform, give it a go—see if it’s your thing.”

“I thought it was…because that’s what I thought musicians did. Why practice a thing so much that you don’t do anything more with it? But I really just like playing here with you. I like playing for Tommy. And the whole performance thing seems kind of manufactured: me featured here for people you’re inviting probably as a favor to you.”

“Damn, your parents did a number on ya, huh? It’s no favor…that’s what people have done for as long as we’ve played music. You ask people you know if they want to come along and hear a friend play, sing, act…whatever it is they do. There’s no pity in that.

But I understand it feels weird. Manufactured, even—like you said. In many ways, everything for us in the After Life can feel manufactured if we let it. It’s why most of us keep going like this, instead of leaving it all behind for some idealized construct. Maybe some of the people who move on have it all figured out—I wish them the best. But for most of us, even in the After Life, life goes on.

If you truly don’t want to play, then don’t. You’re always welcome to drop in on Tuesday night sessions…have a few pints and play with the lot of us. I just want you to look me in the eye and tell me the truth about what you really want to do.”

John looked across the table, directly at Jerm. He took a breath and said, “I just want to play for the sake of playing.”

“Right, then. Sláinte!”

“Sláinte.”

“You still don’t look happy,” Jerm said.

“Huh?”

“There’s something more going on in those eyes of yours.”

“That obvious, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“I wanted to talk to you about something else…if you have a moment?”

“I have a whole pint of a moment—and even more time if you need it…”

* * *

“So did you tell Jerm you’re not performing next week?”

“Yep!”

“How’d he take it?”

“Fine, once he realized I wasn’t chickening out. He invited me to come play with friends on Tuesday nights.”

“You gonna take him up on it?”

“Yeah. You want to come along?”

“Sure—sounds like a good time.”

“Excellent.”

Tommy continued playing his game, but John didn’t pick up his mandolin.

“Lemme pause this,” Tommy said. “What’s up?

“I’ve been thinking. About my After Life. I enjoy Harvesting, but I think I might want to become a Librarian. Jerm said he’d help guide me. I’d still live next door, and we’d still hang out all the time. What do you think?”

“I think you’re a good guy, Jonathan Paul Smith. And as good a Harvester as you are, you’d make an even better Librarian. That’s what I think.”

“Yeah?”

“Hell yeah! Anything else on your mind, or can I get back to my bong and my game?”

“Nope. That’s it.”

“Cool. Can you play that tune I really like?”

“Absolutely…”

[Video game sounds as “Si Beag Si Mhor plays on mandolin.]

* * *

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Jerry Lacey, with Timothy Lewis providing the track for this episode’s blooper reel—which runs in a moment. Both artists’ music is licensed through Epidemic Sound.

The stumbling and intermediate mandolin tunes in this episode are played by me. The better version is by Candy Schell, one of my all-time favorite people, who also happened to be a badass musician. While Candy mostly plays the fiddle, she kicks ass at many things.

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

Next time around, it might be a story about a strange phone booth, a tale about a geeky teenager who finds something incredible while shopping in an antique shop with his grandmother, or something else that—right now—is little more than an idea.

One last thing: the rest of the year shouldn’t see such a long gap in stories. The pandemic year was—obviously—an odd thing, and another writing focus I had has run its course. I have a lot of cool things planned for the future of Not About Lumberjacks, including the possibility of finally starting the Patreon account some of you have requested.

Don’t be surprised if a very short episode about that pops up in your feed in the not-too-distant future…

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

[Listen]

It’s been a strange five months.

On New Year’s Eve, I sat down and recorded some thoughts in the moment about the year that was…and the year ahead. In that recording, I said, “I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do in 2021 with Not About Lumberjacks, but I do want to do more with it.”

I mentioned submitting my novel, A Magic Life, and expressing a bit of concern about what would come next if nothing happened while querying agents. While there’s still a possibility of an agent catching up on their inbox expressing interest in the book, I’m now done with commercial submissions. For short fiction, I have this site—and with more novels covering the story started in A Magic Life, I will likely release that here as well, making Not About Lumberjacks the exclusive home to all my fiction.

I sounded rather ambitious on that New Year’s Eve recording—going as far as saying I hoped to release eight stories in the current year, season, whatever it is we call my November to November cycle, here. With only two episodes released so far, I don’t think that’s gonna happen.

There is a new story ready to record, and I like it quite a bit. It’s a story—not surprisingly—touching at least thematically where I am right now when it comes to work and writing. It’s a story about death, acceptance, and finding the things that mean something to you, despite the struggles of the drudgery of days. There’s a musical aspect to it that I need to figure out, but I’d love to have it ready by the end of the month.

After that, I am not without ideas. Now that I’m vaccinated, I resumed the annual writing retreat I do with a friend. In preparing for the long weekend earlier this month, I looked at a file of story ideas I keep. I have 73 ideas waiting.

Granted, some of them have a thematic overlap, while others may never see the page, but I am not going to run out of ideas any time soon. It’s more a matter of making time to record and putting episodes together. With Not About Lumberjacks now seeming to be my main focus, I hope to get regularly moving on sharing stories, here, again.

Most of this update are things I think most people who follow me and the show know about, but there’s something new knocking around my head. I’ve had a good handful of people suggest I start a Patreon account for Not About Lumberjacks over the years. I always rejected that idea because I never wanted money to be tied to the stories I write and share.

But on the writing retreat with my friend, and in talking with people in recent weeks, family, friends, and fans have made it clear they want to help out, financially. All said they don’t expect any pledge to be connected to story output—they just feel I should be paid for the time I put into the show.

Looking at it that way, it’s something I’m open to. I have wanted to share more behind-the-scenes glimpses at my process and things I’m up to. So videos, blogs, updates like this one and the New Years Eve chat, and whatever else comes to mind would be the reward for support.

The Patreon thing is still just a collection of thoughts right now, but I also know I’d want everything open to everyone making a pledge. Whether someone offered a dollar a month—or twenty—they’d all have access to everything.

If you’re like me, when supporting someone online, it’s a thing done because you appreciate their work and efforts. Exclusive perks are nice, but I know some people (myself included) only have so much in their budgets.

So that’s what’s been up with me. I’m interested in hearing what you think, so leave a comment or email me at NALStories (at) gmail (dot) com if you’d like. That’s NALStories—all one word—at gmail.com.

Until next time: by mighty, and keep your axes sharp…

[Listen]

Hey, it’s Christopher and it is 6:54 p.m. on New Year’s Eve 2020.

I’m trying something totally new here: just sitting down in front of the mic and talking about the year that was. Normally, I usually have some notes about what I want to talk about, and, obviously, if I’m doing a story, I have the entire story printed out. But tonight I just kind of wanted to babble.

I wanted to kinda challenge myself to see how quickly I could turn an episode around…I came up with this idea probably about ten minutes ago. I grabbed an image for this entry, I got some water together, and now I’m sitting down and talking.

I think we can all agree that it was a crappy year. For me, it started with a hope that the novel I’m shopping around, which is called A Magic Life, would get representation and hopefully even sell. And I had reason to have those high hopes. When I started submitting the novel, agents were requesting full and partial manuscripts—and some of those agents were the agents that you send things to with the hope that, “Okay, they represent a lot of really great people—and maybe they won’t even pay attention to me, but they seem open right now.” So, when you’re hearing back from agents who represents some huge writers, you naturally feel good about the year.

Even after losing a job in early January of 2020, I had high hopes even there. I was working a contract gig, and the group that I was working with wanted me back. They thought they’d be able to bring me on board [in] March or April and then, of course, COVID hit. And with that, hiring freezes happened, agents kinda didn’t know what to make of things, and…it’s only been in the last week or so that I’ve seen some agents coming out and saying, “Yeah, like everybody, I did my best just to get through the year. And I’m sorry that I’ve not really taken on new writers.”

So, what started off a great and hopeful year with A Magic Life ended up kinda sucky. I mean, it really was just like that—I was getting good responses for my query, and then silence. And I don’t blame those agents. I think many of us, especially early on, we had no idea what this year was going to become. Some people thought, “Oh, you know it’s just gonna be a month or so.” And then others—probably more realistic—and said. “Eh, it’s probably going to be a year or two.” And as time went on in 2020 I started seeing savings dwindling because the job that wanted to hire me wasn’t hiring anybody. Suddenly things were being pushed back, and they were saying, “Maybe September? Uh…we have no idea.”

I did get lucky when things were about to begin totally running out, and in July. I did find another contract. It’s at the same company and well…I almost lost that contract in November; then again in December. And, fortunately, they’ve looked at what we’re doing and decided, “Well, we’ll keep him around at least until March—maybe longer—it just depends how everything goes in 2021.” And I guess that’s what made me want to sit down and talk about not about Not About Lumberjacks on the last day of the year.

No matter how bad things get, fiction is always there for me. Whether it’s novels, short stories, or coming up with adventures for Dungeons and Dragons for my wife, it’s a thing that I’ve always depended on. And with A Magic Life not really doing much, once the pandemic hit, the only thing I really had control over was Not About Lumberjacks. And in what was such a bad year for so many people became a better year for this show.

Maybe because of the pandemic, I saw the show grow a little bit—and again, it’s something I’ve talked about: I really don’t get lots of listens for the show. But I’ve at least seen maybe that forty listens that I get in the first week climb up to fifty and sixty even when releasing something like this. The Behind the Cut episodes usually get fewer listens than the actual stories—and now Behind the Cut is doing as well as stories used to do.

It’s still not enough that most people would continue with a show like this—especially when I consider all the hours that I put into it. But aside from time spent with my wife, time out hiking—Not About Lumberjacks is one thing that I could rely upon. And that makes me wanna do a bit more in 2021.

I’m still not sure, entirely, what I’m going to do. But I’ve had friends and even some listeners whom I don’t really know in real life say, “You know, have you ever considered setting up a Patreon? What about a YouTube channel?”

I do have a YouTube channel—I just don’t do a lot with it.

My wife had a good year as an artist, doing some artwork for an animal sanctuary she loves. Not directly affiliated with them, but a side thing that donates money to a sanctuary—and they embrace that. So, in the process of her year, she set up the ability to print t-shirts. And then one day she said, “You know, I can print a couple Not About Lumberjacks t-shirts.”

So she did, and we posted a couple of photos of those, and I was amazed how many people were like, “Print these! I want one!”

So, I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do in 2021 with Not About Lumberjacks, but I do want to do more with it. Something as simple as the bloopers that I put at the end of this year’s Christmas episode was a huge hit. I don’t know if I did a Patreon that would be like one of those little perks. I don’t know if I would do a monthly or even quarterly state-of-the-show video. I don’t know if I’d just sometimes out on a hike just whip out the phone and just throw down some thoughts. Or even more things just like this where I have nothing written—not even bullet points—where I just sit down in front of the mic and babble.

I’d definitely be lying if I said, “Twenty-twenty didn’t hurt me.” Seeing that cycle of savings from my day job and then losing a job and seeing those savings go away, whether it’s due to a layoff or some kind of health emergency—it’s gotten old.

It’s funny when people talk about the movie Up. That beginning where everybody’s like, “Man, that’s just so beautiful, but so tragic.” I mean that’s almost my wife in me, except we’re both still here. Fortunately.

Every time the jar fills up it goes away. If we wanted to have children, a health condition I have ensures that we couldn’t. So many scenes in that beginning hit home. But another aspect of that movie that hits home even—even though I’m not really fond of Up, is the thought that just sometimes everyday life has its own magic.

While I was unemployed, my wife and I found all these new hiking trails. We came up with some cool ideas this year. And even though the whole thing with submitting A Magic Life actually hurt—and why wouldn’t it? It seemed like this was gonna be the year, and now, it seems like I’ve gone through every option and I’m coming to an end.

If nothing happens with that book, there are two more after it. And I’m not the kind of person who just bails on a project and goes to the next thing that might make some money or might not. This is the story I’m invested in, so I’m going to write those other two novels no matter what. Maybe they get released here—maybe they just end up in a drawer. I don’t know. But every single time I said, “I don’t know,” about 2020 and even the future, the two things that I’m sure about are that my wife and I will always make it somehow. I mean, it’s just what we do. We’ve been doing that for twenty-nine years, and we always keep going. And as we’ve talked about 2021, both of us have some good plans.

As for me, one of those things is the other thing I can rely upon: this show. As I mentioned in the most recent Behind the Cut, I plan to release eight episodes this year—and by “this year,” I mean, the November-beginning of a new year for Not About Lumberjacks, to November of 2021. But that still means six new episodes before Thanksgiving next year.

Earlier today. When I was knocking around on Twitter, I saw somebody who posted the very last Calvin and Hobbes comic strip. It’s that one where Calvin and Hobbes—Hobbes is carrying a toboggan and Calvin is charging through snow. And he says, “Wow, it really snowed last night. Isn’t it wonderful?”

And then Hobbes, looking up in wonder, says, “Everything familiar has disappeared. The world looks brand new.”

Calvin stretches his arms out and says, “A new year. A fresh clean start.”

Hobbes almost throws out jazz hands as he says, “It’s like having a big white sheet of paper to draw on.”

Calvin, with his hands on his hips, says, “A day full of possibilities.”

They climb aboard the toboggan and Calvin looks back and says, “It’s a magical world, Hobbes old buddy.”

Off they go down the hill.

“Let’s go exploring.”

And I guess that’s what I wanna do in 2021—I want to go exploring. I wanna get out on more hiking trails—I wanna do more things that I don’t do. I want to spend even more time with my wife. And I wanna make next year’s writing better than even this year’s writing, which, even in one of the crappiest years ever, was better than the year before.

So, thanks to everybody who listens. I know I don’t have a big show, and it may never be a big show. Or maybe it’s the thing where instead of querying agents, that someday an agent comes across and says, “What’s up with the show—You have a ton of stories? And then you mentioned that you have novels and other things?!”

So who knows what the potential of the show is. But that doesn’t necessarily matter to me as much as every year piling up more stories, putting in the effort to record ’em, and then seeing if anybody cares enough to listen. And enough people do—so, again, “Thanks!”

Here’s to 2021.

Let’s go exploring…

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

Woman’s Voice:

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

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

And now: onward!

* * *

In the second year of Not About Lumberjacks, I had an idea: take all those bits of stories I had tucked away—the kinds of tales that don’t merit a full episode—and release a handful of micro-fiction for the holidays.

I called that first episode “Stocking Stuffers,” because it was seven short stories instead of the usual bigger one. Anchoring that first effort was a story that begins: “It wasn’t Christmas Eve until Dad and Grandpa got into a fistfight.”

It was very loosely based on a true story about one of the few Christmases I spent with my dad after my parents divorced and went their separate ways.

The second episode of Not About Lumberjacks, “Pride of the Red Card,” was another blurring of the lines of truth and fiction where my father was concerned…that time, a tale centered around soccer.

The latest batch of Christmas stories is anchored by another narrative about my dad…this time, about one of the only Christmases I spent visiting him in Kansas after he and my stepmother moved from Chicago to the Sunflower State.

Of course, every one of these stories based on truth is full of lies. In the latest tale, I didn’t cut my finger on the trip back to Chicagoland. In “Pride of the Red Card,” there was no alcohol given to me as a reward for taking out a player on the soccer pitch. And the morning in that first Christmas story saw no family reconciliation…it was just awkward as hell…as it always was around my dad’s family. (And my grandmother was even still alive.)

* * *

The majority of stories on Not About Lumberjacks are completely made up…that is, they are not based on any actual realities. But fiction has a way of being quite true, even when it’s entirely fabricated.

If you listen to enough stories from the show, themes become apparent. As ridiculous as “Alone in HQ” is, the topic of overworked office drones living for a job they cling to comes up in my writing more than a couple times. Many people, like me, struggle with the job that pays the bills and the things they yearn to do full time. It’s a theme I deliberately throttle back, lest it becomes the driving storyline of every tale on the site.

So, what about the stories I’ve based on reality? A story like Bobo—the most factual Not About Lumberjacks story—could almost be considered an essay.

But I still see something like that as fiction. Here’s why…

* * *

When James Frey made news by admitting that much of his book A Million Little Pieces was fabricated, so many essay collections released in its wake contained disclaimers that things may not be as true as authors remembered. In other words, writers have a way of embellishing things. (If you can imagine?!)

Beyond that, people rarely talk like they do in stories. When talking with my wife of almost 29 years, conversations often begin with previous knowledge that, if I dropped it into a story, would be bad writing. A reader would have no context of what we were talking about much of the time, so you try providing that known information without sounding stilted. But no matter how hard you try, you usually do…at least a little bit. Add to that not remembering conversations from the past verbatim, and fiction always seems to seep in.

Let’s return to the story Bobo. The collection of facts it presents wouldn’t be as interesting without some flair in its telling. Everything in that story happened to me, except having a cheeseburger thrown at me while pumping gasoline by the same people who really did throw an apple at me while telling me to fuck off for being a clown.

But I still speculated that the poor kid I traumatized that day on her birthday would need therapy, and in the most recent tale about my father, the actual splinter removal mentioned wasn’t quite as terrible as I sell it. I mean, it sucked and there was blood, but there wasn’t as much blood as I made it sound.

I’ve always maintained those who say truth is stranger than fiction aren’t reading the right fiction. But even where I understand the point of the statement—with no ill intent on a writer’s behalf—even truth is usually exaggerated in its telling.

* * *

I used to be against letting any actual event I experienced find its way into the stories I write. While I still lean mostly toward pulling from my imagination with most tales, once I realized even the most ridiculous things I’ve written contain truths, I gave up pretending reality didn’t shape the fiction I write.

That’s not to say every character is a reflection of me in some way—a lot of people always think that. I can write a completely terrible character who has nothing at all in common with me, but I’d not include someone like that in a story if there wasn’t some truth important to me I’d hope a listener or reader would take away by the end.

When writers are advised to write what they know, it’s not about creating autobiographical works, but rather, presenting emotional truths based on experiences the writer knows well…in the hope of connecting with readers.

And by doing so, whether a story’s set in a past the writer never lived through or deep in the future on imagined planets, the truth shines through…even in the midst of the greatest lies ever told.

* * *

Hey, this is where I’d normally have the outro music fade in and wrap things up, but it’s the last episode of 2020…and I’d like to talk about plans for 2021.

I average six episodes of Not About Lumberjacks a year, but I’m shooting for eight in the November 2020 to 2021 season. That could, of course, change based on what happens with other writing, but in this crappy year that’s almost behind us, this show has been a bright spot for me and people who let me know they appreciate the effort I put into it.

Twenty-twenty-one will be a bit of a challenge because that six-episodes-a-year average is bolstered by a first season where I actually released thirteen episodes. Most years, five episodes has been the norm…and I think one year saw only four.

So why am I shooting for eight?

Because, when I look back at all I create in a year—even in the years I finish a new novel—few things mean as much to me as the stories on Not About Lumberjacks.

I’d love to say I can put out a story a month, and I definitely have enough ideas for that, but with a fulltime job that’s likely to end in March when my contract is over, other life things—and other writing—eight episodes might even be pushing it.

Still, it’s my goal for this year of the show. I hope you’ve already enjoyed “Geocached,” and this year’s Christmas episode—I’ll do all I can to keep you in stories in the year ahead…  

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

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

In January, I kick off a new year with a story about Death! Don’t worry…it’s mostly light-hearted…

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