[Listen]

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

Christopher Gronlund:

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

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

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

And now, the usual content advisory…

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

All right—let’s get to work…

* * *

Stories of Fine Taste

UPBEAT MUSIC PLAYS AS A CROWD APPLAUDS

MALE HOST

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

FEMALE HOST

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

* * *

NARRATOR

Grandma’s Olive Jell-O Mold

SOOTHING MUSIC FADES IN.

NARRATOR

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

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

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

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

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

EERIE MUSIC FADES IN:

NARRATOR (CONT.)

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

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

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

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

Anyway, on to the recipe…

* * *

RETURN TO UPBEAT MUSIC AND APPLAUSE.

FEMALE HOST

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

MALE HOST

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

FEMALE HOST

Why are you like this?

(BEAT)

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

(BEAT)

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

* * *

NARRATOR

Fred’s English Muffin Garbage Pizzas

SOOTHING MUSIC FADES IN.

NARRATOR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a closet.

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

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

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

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

“Nope.”

“You knew I’d go through the door?”

“Yep.”

“What is that place?”

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

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

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

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

Here’s the recipe…

* * *

Reply All

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

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

Cheryl’s phone buzzed.

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

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

“Want to get lunch later?”

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

A heart emoji.

* * *

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

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

“Is something funny, Roger?”

“No. Just…”

“Just what?”

“The email. From Brad.”

“What about it?”

“It’s just…”

“Juuuuuust?”

“Nevermind.”

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

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

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

Roger looked down and chuckled.

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

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

Anthony Cavett shifted in his chair.

”What do you want to say, Tony?”

“Nothing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s up?” she said.

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

He surveyed the blank faces in the tiny conference room.

“What’s with them?” he said.

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

* * *

Drifted

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

“Why are you doing this?!”

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

“I’ve atoned for who I was.”

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

“I’m not a monster like you!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Not-Santa?” Robert said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

“Huh?”

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

* * *

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

“What’s this?” he said.

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

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

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

“It wasn’t me,” he said.

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

Robert shook his head no.

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

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

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

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

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

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

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

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

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of a chopping ax.]

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

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

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

* * *

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

It wasn’t.

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

As writers, we can write about whatever we want.

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

Because representation matters.

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

What my friend endured was far worse.

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

But it’s still not the main point.

* * *

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

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

* * *

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

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

Taken from the book’s description:

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

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

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

* * *

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

That’s a cop out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

[Listen]

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

Christopher Gronlund:

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

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

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

And now, the usual content advisory…

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

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

All right—let’s get to work…

* * *

In Cypress Slough

[Guitar Music plays…]

2010

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

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

Kade shook his head. “See what?”

“That bird.”

“Lots of birds out here.”

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

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

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

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

“Turn back,” Jorge said.

“I’m not turning around for a bird.”

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

[Guitar music fades out…]

* * *

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay?”

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

* * *

[SCUBA sounds—intake of breath and bubbles…]

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

“Your loss.”

* * *

[Sounds of a canoe paddled through water.]

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

“No kidding?”

“Not one bit. I got it!”

[A lawn chair dragged across dirt.]

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

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

“Cheers!”

[Beer bottles clinking together.]

“Cheers.”

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

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

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

“Sure that’s a good idea?”

“Yeah, why?”

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

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

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

“That’s their problem.”

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

[Crackling fire fades out…]

* * *

[Footsteps on a cheap floor.]

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

“Yes. You must be Devin Spencer?”

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

[Footsteps on a cheap floor.]

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

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

“That’s mine. Why?”

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

“Really?”

Jorge nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

“Nope. I have video, too.”

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

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

“How did you find it?”

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

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

“Not at all.”

* * *

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

[A crackling fire…]

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

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

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

“Yep.”

[Crackling fire fades…]

* * *

[Tires on gravel.]

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

“Is that Davy Boyd?” Jorge said.

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

[Truck doors closing. Footsteps on gravel.]

They got out and slowly approached the group.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

* * *

[A crackling fire…]

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

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

“You gonna do it?”

“Nope!”

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

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

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

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

“Like Devin?”

“Yeah, Devin, too.”

“How’s that going?”

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

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

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

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

[Crackling fire fades out…]

* * *

[Emergency sirens in the distance getting closer.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

[Dripping water.]

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

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

[A chunk of glass scooted on concrete.]

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

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

Jorge nodded. “Yes. Why?”

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

[Dripping water fades out…]

* * *

[A large pickup truck pulls up.]

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

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

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

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

“Nope. Sure can’t.”

[Footsteps.]

Kade made a fist and took a step forward.

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

[Rustling fabric.]

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

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

Davy Boyd pushed past Kade and Jorge.

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

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

* * *

[Typing on a keyboard.]

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

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

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

“Well, you’re safe with me.”

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

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

“So, what are we doing?” Jorge said.

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

[A canoe paddled through calm water.]

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

“How’ve you been going?” Devin said.

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

“What?!”

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

[A slow breath, in and out…]

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

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

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

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

“Do you still see your dad?”

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

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

“You mentioned you dropped out?”

“Yeah.”

“How come?”

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

“Is everything you make from reclaimed cypress?”

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

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

Jorge turned around. “What do you mean?”

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

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

[Paddled canoe fades out…]

* * *

[A crackling fire.]

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

[Sipping sounds.]

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

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

“Well, hope’s a good thing…”

“Indeed. To hope.”

“Cheers.”

[Beer bottles clanking together.]

“Cheers…”

[Crackling fire fades out…]

* * *

[A diesel pickup truck pulling up.]

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

[A truck door closing.]

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

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

“No idea,” Kade said.

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

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

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

[Rustling fabric.]

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

[Patting hand on jeans.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

Davy looked at Kade. “What about you?”

[A person being shoved aside.]

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

[Charging footfalls.]

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

Jorge let him get in a few shots before trying to pull Kade off Davy, but there were decades of grief being released in his best friend’s rage. [Fabric rustling; more punching.] Kade wriggled free each time Jorge tried grabbing him; he kept hammering Davy’s face with his fists. When Davy went limp, he didn’t stop. Even when Jorge did get a hold, Kade wrapped his legs around Davy’s body and refused to let up.

[A gunshot!]

BANG!

The sound of the gun brought Kade back. He looked at Jorge, who’d just fired a shot into a thick pile of ruined lumber.

“What the hell?”

Jorge said, “You won, all right? I had to do something. You looked like you were gonna kill him.”

As Kade caught his breath, he looked at Davy’s red and puffy face. Blood flowed from his nose. A fat lip redirected the rivulet toward his cheek.

[Helping someone up from the ground.]

When Davy came to, Jorge helped him up. Davy looked toward the hood of his truck.

“Looking for this?” Jorge said. He waved the gun in his hand.

“Give that back!”

“Why, so you can shoot us? Nah, you’re not getting this back right now. Both of you are too wound up for that. I’ll bring it by your office later today when you calm down and get cleaned up from the ass beating you just took. Right now, you’re gonna leave. You give us any more grief, and we’ll tell the cops you took a shot at us, missed, and Kade had no choice. And yeah, I know—you have friends in high places. But this is a little county, and I’m friends with a bunch of people with the state Department of Parks and Wildlife and even a few people with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. I’m sure if I told them I didn’t think you were following all the rules the county lets you break that it would put a damper on your business. So why don’t you think about that?”

[A truck door opens and closes. The engine starts.]

Davy pointed at them; then shook his head and got into his truck. Beneath the hood, the engine roared to life. [A slap!] When Kade smiled and waved at Davy, Jorge slapped his hand down and told him to stop.

* * *

Later that day, Jorge drove to Cross Pine Timber and asked for Davy. Davy looked like a prizefighter on the wrong end of a bad night.

“Can we step outside?” Jorge said.

Davy looked worried for a moment, but seemed to catch on when Jorge patted his right pocket. [Patting sounds.]

[Background ambience: a slight breeze.]

“Here you go,” Jorge said as he handed Davy his pistol. “I know I don’t need to be, but I’m sorry about all this. I’m sorry you have a stand of timber you can’t get to right now. I even feel for Earl. I feel for Kade—he’s more on your side in all this than you know. Our days of recovering sinkers are numbered. It’s up to us to figure what we’ll do when that day comes.

“I don’t care if you can or can’t see any of this from my point of view, but I want you to think about how it is for Kade. You’ve been giving him grief for almost twenty years…for no reason other than you decided to target him and make his life hell. And then you went at him harder once he and I became friends. Even though he’s straight, you gave him more grief about being gay than me. Hell, you made fun of me for being a Mexican, even though my family’s been here for probably as many generations as yours. All I’ll say about your face is this: it looks like that right now because you brought it upon yourself. You’re a grown friggin’ man still acting like you’re in high school. You’ve got a good life, so let that shit go. You won the prize—isn’t that enough?”

Davy said nothing.

“You and Kade just need to ignore each other. But I want you to mull this over: this is all on you. Had you never picked on him, this wouldn’t have happened. Also, if you ever go at him again, I won’t stop him from killing you. ‘Cause I’m pretty sure in the rage he let go when he was on top of you, that was his intent.”

Jorge extended his hand.

[The smack of a handshake.]

It took a moment, but Davy Boyd shook it before heading back inside.

* * *

[The sounds of a package being opened.]

Two days later, a package a little larger than a shoe box arrived, addressed to Bald Cypress Furnishings. Inside was a dead ivory-billed woodpecker and a note reading:

“This is what you get for shutting it all down and calling the cops on me. Send them again—this time, I’ll be ready.”

“You shouldn’t have stopped me from beating the hell out of Davy,” Kade said. “That son of a bitch…”

“I don’t think it was him.”

“Come on! You know it was.”

“No. I think he kinda gets it. Let me make this call…”

* * *

[News show music plays. A woman’s voice: “In Hardin County, Texas, a tense standoff between police and Earl McKeen, the man who killed the last ivory-billed woodpecker, ended in tragedy.”]

The last stand of Earl McKeen made the evening news even beyond the borders of the Big Thicket. An armed standoff with the man who killed the last ivory-billed woodpecker ended with him setting fire to his home and taking his life with a single bullet. Jorge and Kade watched footage of his burning house from a helicopter.

“You were right,” Jorge said. “I should have shut up. Earl might have been a crotchety old fuck, but he didn’t deserve that end. And the woodpecker did well enough without our influence. “

“Nah,” Kade said. “It lived right on the edge of where Davy was gonna harvest timber. So, who knows what would have happened with it, but it probably wouldn’t have been good. At least you cared.”

“Lotta good it did.”

“Yeah, it did. You brought a lot of people together. That bird brought hope back to this area. Maybe some kid growing up around here right now remembers this, goes off to school, and becomes a biologist like Devin instead of going to work for Davy. Maybe some of the dumbasses out here who vote for people like Davy’s dad consider this and vote for somebody better. I don’t know, but I do know I was wrong when I said you should have let well enough alone. Well enough only goes so far when people are willing to do whatever they want if they know they can get away with it. You did the right thing. Never forget that.”

* * *

[Windows 7 boots up.]

After dinner, Jorge booted up his laptop. He opened Outlook and composed an email.

[Typing on a keyboard.]

“Devin. I’m sure by now you’ve heard the news. I’m so sorry. I know it’s not my fault this all happened, but I can’t help but feel responsible to some degree. I’m glad there are people like you out there trying to make a difference. Jorge.”

[Outlook notification sound.]

He was dozing when he heard his email notification. He opened Devin’s reply.

“Jorge. Yes, I heard. I have a hard time feeling for Mr. McKeen. Take your stand, sure, but why kill the bird? I’m sorry you were on the receiving end of all this. I’m heading out in the morning to check field cameras and recorders—I’d love to have some company. Meet me at the put-in point around 6:30? Devin.”

* * *

[A truck pulls up on a dirt road.]

When Jorge pulled up, he could smell the burned remains of Earl McKeen’s house. He was happy to see Devin already there with a canoe in the water. On closer inspection, he noticed the boat had a square stern with a small outboard motor attached. He got out of the truck.

[A closing truck door.]

“Good morning,” Devin said.

“Morning.” Jorge pointed at the canoe. “What’s with that?”

“We’re gonna head up-river a bit. We could paddle, but this is much easier.”

[Sounds of a canoe being packed.]

As they put on floatation devices and packed a few dry bags into the canoe, Jorge looked north, through the trees where he’d found the ivory-billed woodpecker. One of the most beautiful places he knew now seemed devoid of life, despite still teeming with the energy of a rising morning.

[An outboard motor and canoe cutting through the water.]

As they made their way up the Neches River, they passed the spot where Jorge first caught sight of the bird. He wondered what its fate would have been had he never said a word.

[The boat engine is cut. Canoe paddling takes over.]

A couple miles up, Devin cut the engine. He and Jorge began paddling into the trees, following a winding creek deeper into the canopy. The creek gave way to a series of sloughs.

Jorge said, “My friend Kade and I got lost on waters like this when we were kids. He’s still nervous to come back to places like this.”

“What about you?” Devin said. “Does this bother you?”

“No. I love it. It’s places like this that keep me in the area. I’ve thought about leaving, but this part of the state is definitely not without its magic.”

“You’ll get no argument from me. If Kade isn’t game to get lost back in places like this, I am. Anytime you want to come out, let me know.”

“I’d like that.”

“Of course, I’d not object to seeing each other outside of all this, either. Maybe dinner sometime?”

“I’d like that even more.”

“Wonderful…”

They paddled in silence, sometimes following creeks—other times, shallow bodies of still water. Jorge lost track of time, but didn’t want to check his phone or ask Devin. Instead, he said, “Where are we going?”

“You’re patient. Most people would have asked that before even getting in the canoe. We’re almost there.”

“Where is there?”

“You’ll see…”

[The call of an ivory-billed woodpecker.]

Several minutes later, Jorge swore he heard the call of an ivory-billed woodpecker. He turned back to look Devin, who smiled and nodded.

The trees gave way to a clearing in the middle of it all, a large slough among the cypress trees. Across the water, a line of nuttall oaks stood watch on a raised shore.

“Psst.”

[Water lapping at the sides of a canoe.]

Jorge turned around to Devin handing him a pair of binoculars. Devin pointed to a tree with scaled bark high up.

Jorge sighted the tree and moved his view up to the hole. [Chirping of chicks.] Three tiny heads poked out, comical, big-eyed little wedges waiting for food. In time, their mother returned to the nest, sending the chicks into a frenzy. She wasn’t as colorful as Jorge’s woodpecker, but she was equally beautiful.

“We spotted another male,” Devin whispered. “And we’ve picked up recordings north of here that we think might be another. We’re hopeful there are enough for a recovery.”

[Coffee poured into a cup.]

He poured Jorge a cup of coffee and handed it to him before pouring one for himself. Jorge set the binoculars down and took it all in. Perhaps what he was looking at would make it on their own, a population of a species on the brink reclaiming what belonged to them long before progress and greed took over. But he knew that was unlikely. In taking his stand, the lineage of the birds before him might thrive long after he was gone and forgotten. The thought made him smile—and as he recalled all the times he was told to pay attention to menial things by teachers and bosses and other people who, in turn, missed the obvious beauty right in front of them, he chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” Devin said.

“Just thinking about how strange this has all been. And how disconnected people are to so many amazing things.” He watched the ivory-billed woodpecker feeding her brood. “The wonders of the world are everywhere, if only we’d open our eyes and listen…”

[The calls of an ivory-billed woodpecker. Water lapping at the sides of the canoe fade out.]

[Upbeat guitar music plays and fades out…]

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks…not just this episode, but some of you, every story and behind-the-scenes commentary for the six years of the show’s existence. I put 40-60 hours into each episode, which is a lot of time for something that makes no money or even gets many listens…but knowing you’re listening makes it worthwhile. So…thanks! Okay, onward…

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

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

In December, the other now-annual tradition continues as I share a handful of very short short stories, one of which is always a Christmas tale.

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of a chopping ax.]

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

[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!