[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, four strangers are brought together when affected by a strange virus.
And now…the usual content advisory: This story deals with illness, including mentions of COVID-19. It’s also not without moments of anxiety, regret, abandonment, nightmares, and even death. I know that makes it sound like it’s a rough tale, but this is still a story of hope.
Oh—and just like almost every episode—there’s some swearing. You’ve been warned.
All right—let’s get to work…
The Cold of Summer
The old woman in line at the pharmacy couldn’t stop coughing. During cold and flu season, it would have been bad enough, but in early summer during an expanding pandemic, it was cause for alarm.
The two people in line who were keeping their distance stepped back ever farther, while two others appeared to regret crowding the old woman seemingly on the verge of producing a lung from the depths of her torso and letting it hang from her wide-open mouth.
“I’m so sorry,” she said between hacking fits. “I’ve had a catch in my throat for weeks that just won’t go away.”
Meesha Salib pointed to the mask she was wearing and said, “Madame, you should be wearing one of these.” Before vowing to come back when it was less crowded, she pointed at the other two and said, “You, too, as well. I am not angry—just concerned.”
“Well, you should be angry,” Todd Bancroft said from the back of the line. “We should all be angry thatthere are still people not wearing masks. They’re putting us all at risk.”
“I forgot mine,” Darnell Walker said. “Seriously…it’s just been one of those kinds of weeks.”
Todd’s mask inflated as he let out a dramatic sigh.
“I’m so sorry,” the old woman said to the remaining three in line.
Keighla Murray said, “It’s okay,” and took another step away.
* * *
Meesha Salib was lying on the couch before bedtime when she started to sniffle. She didn’t feel right—like a balloon was slowly expanding in her head and on the verge of popping.
She got up and raced to the bathroom, head tilted back and continuing to sniffle in an effort to make it to a piece of Kleenex before having her nose run everywhere. Her skull pounded as she blew.
She grabbed the box and headed to bed.
* * *
It felt like a bloody nose when it first hit Todd Bancroft. He was at his desk, posting on Twitter about how rude people were at the pharmacy earlier—how an old woman was likely to give him COVID-19; how only one other person in the pharmacy line even wore a mask. Right before clicking the Tweet button, his nose ran, falling from his face and onto his keyboard.
“Shit!”
He pinched his nostrils together and ran to the bathroom for a wad of toilet paper. Pressing it to his nose, he grabbed another wad and returned to his desk, trying his best to clean what he could reach on his keyboard. It would take more to clean beneath the keys, but as his head began to pound, he said, “Fuck it,” and went to bed.
* * *
Darnell Walker’s nose ran into the open copy of Biochemistry & the Molecular Biology of Plants resting on the kitchen table. He’d been struggling to keep his eyes open through a section about using biotechnology to create genetic diversity in plants for an hour, wondering the whole time why he thought returning for a master’s degree was a good idea. But he wasn’t the first parent with two young kids and a busy job to put in extra time in the hopes of a career that would afford him more time doing what he preferred—not what he had to do to make ends meet.
“Aww, fuck!”
As he rushed to the kitchen and wiped his nose with a paper towel in the kitchen, his wife, Kara, wandered in and said, “Did you say something, babe?”
“Yeah, I just…my nose ran into my book. I’ve felt kinda crappy all day. Think I’ll clean up and head to bed…”
* * *
Keighla Murray was binge-watching the second season of Stranger Things for the third time when her nose began to itch. On screen, as Steve was surrounded by monsters in a junkyard, her nose began to run.
She wiped it with the back of her hand, but it wouldn’t stop.
“Dammit!” She picked up the remote and paused the episode before stepping to the kitchen and grabbing a paper towel. It felt like sandpaper as she wiped at her nose, as though every nerve in her face had poked through skin and invited the pains of the world into her head.
She turned off the TV and went to bed.
* * *
Meesha plops down on the floor with a handful of loose papers, a pencil and pen, and a set of thin markers. She feels like a kid as she draws panels and thumbnails for the next page in a comic book story about a girl whose curiosity shapes the world around her. Her super power: if she wonders why people are cruel to each other, after rolling the reasons around in her head for a bit, the problem is solved.
She’s moved beyond the grand designs, and is now left with smaller stories. In them, she sees the greater purpose of the comic book: a character who can see how people feeling like they need permission are given the freedom to pursue their dreams, all from a seemingly chance encounter with a stranger who appears, helps them, and moves on.
It’s better than superheroes beating each other up and rescuing weaker people in need of their help. What’s more heroic, Meesha believes, than helping others help themselves?
The colors of the markers bleed through the paper, staining her older sister’s copy of COSMOPOLITAN used as both a drawing surface and something to catch color instead of the floor. Zahra will throw a fit when she sees another one of her magazines covered in marker colors, but none of that matters. Right now, Meesha’s made something from nothing. A story of hope.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” her mother says.
“What?”
“Wasting your time drawing cartoons.”
“They’re comic books.”
She knows her mother doesn’t see a difference.
“Your sister might not amount to much, but your father and I except better from you.”
“But Zahra’s is popular, Mother; she has it made.”
Something about Meesha’s childhood home does not seem right. It’s a feeling more than anything tangible, like something bad lives inside the walls…like the house itself is alive and ready to close in on them all.
Meesha’s mother says, “It wasn’t easy for us, you know?”
“I know.”
“We just want what’s best for you. You have opportunities your father and I never had. You’d do well to read or study—not draw your little cartoons.”
The room seems darker than it should be. The nearby dining room is lost to moon glow, even though it’s the middle of the day.
Even something about Meesha’s mother seems off. She looks no different, but some primordial instinct deep down says, “Run!”
She wakes to the bright light of a new morning.
* * *
The moving truck pulls away from Todd’s fifth childhood home. There are no friends to say goodbye—no neighbors gathering to wish his family well as they move to a new military base. “What is it like to stay in one place for more than a couple years?” Todd wonders.
He watches the moving truck climb up the street and disappear from view as it turns left at the stop sign. Looking back toward the house, his parents are gone—the family car is nowhere to be seen. Todd tries the front door, but it’s locked. Peeking in the front window, something moves from the living room to the hallway.
He bangs on the front door.
“Mom? Dad?”
He tries the doorknob again, and the door opens wide.
Of all the houses he’s lived in, this one let in the most light. But the house is dark, like twilight settling in, even though it’s a bright morning outside.
Todd hears the door to the basement close.
“Dad? Are you here?”
He wanders the house, listening to his steps echoing in the empty space. It doesn’t even smell like they were ever here. He finds himself in the short hallway, staring at the basement door. He reaches out.
A must settles in his nose. One more breath, and it’s joined by the stench of burned plastic and ozone, like insulation scorched from a wire. Todd descends the stairs by the light of a flickering TV.
It’s not the basement belonging to the house. It’s the basement of the first home he remembers, when his father was stationed at Great Lakes Naval Training Station, in Illinois. A large room with a musty red and black, indoor/outdoor tartan carpet covering hard concrete. A blue couch shoved against one wall, and a TV on an old dresser against another. Metal groaning from the utility room on the other side of the cheap door at the bottom of the stairs.
Todd sees someone sitting in an oversized chair just feet in front of the television. He can almost hear his mother say, “Toddy, you need to move farther back so you don’t hurt your eyes watching shows or playing your games.”
He spots his old Nintendo precariously situated on the dresser beside the TV. The screen is now black, except for Mario’s score, total coins collected, which world he’s in, the time, and the words GAME OVER. It’s funny how much illumination a few white words on a black screen on an old tube TV can give off.
A frail, adult hand holds the game’s controller. Todd moves around from the side of the chair and looks at the hunched frame sitting alone in the basement.
Todd is forty-five years old, but if he had to guess what he’d look like in twenty years, it’s exactly like the dead man in the chair.
He wakes up in bed, covered in sweat.
* * *
Darnell rushes through proofreading a study about improving drought tolerance in corn. He looks at the only personal thing on his desk at work: a photo of him with his wife, Kara, son, Myles, and daughter, Zoey. They keep him going on days like today, when everyone in the lab seems on edge, even though there are no funding issues or pressing deadlines. But somehow, Darnell always has pressing deadlines; the newest person on the receiving end of the all the things at work others believe are beneath them.
Words run together as Darnell watches the clock on his computer creep toward five-o’-clock. He’ll grab a bite to eat on the way to his kids’ school, where he’ll take a saved seat beside Kara and watch a group of sixth graders struggle to play a selection of popular tunes Darnell wouldn’t recognize if they were played by professionals. Zoey will have her moment on bassoon, an instrument Darnell has come to love when he’s not busy trying to cover its honking during practice sessions conflicting with his studies.
“Walker,” his boss says, “when you’re done with that, we need you to take a look at these.”
His desk vibrates as a stack of paper several reams thick is plopped down.
He points at the lower right corner of his computer monitor. “I have to leave by five today.”
“We need this reviewed before you leave, today” his boss says.
“I can’t miss another thing with my kids.”
“You either want this, or you don’t. We’re paying for you to finish school. I understand that family’s important, but family doesn’t pay the bills.”
Darnell thinks about how he imagined it would be: no more field studies. Lab work and then jumping to a museum that would allow him evenings and weekends with his family.
He runs a finger along the stack of papers and picks up his phone.
He types, “So sorry—I have to work again.” and sends the text message.
When he arrives home, the house is dark. No dinner left out for him, just a note from his wife reading, “It’s getting old.” He sees pillows and a blanket tossed on the couch.
He looks at Biochemistry & Molecular Biology of Plants on the dining room table, but he’s too tired to study tonight. He opens the refrigerator door, but nothing looks good.
He goes to check on Zoey. She stirs and sits up as he cracks the door and peeks in.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, sweetie,” he says. He sits on the edge of the bed and pats her arm.
“I’m sorry I missed your solo.”
He listens to her sniffle and force an, “It’s okay,” meant to make him feel better, even though they both know it’s not.
It’s dark, but Darnell can make out something wrong with Zoey’s face. Her mouth is a black hole.
“What happened to your teeth?”
“They fell out, Daddy.”
“What? What happened?”
“I was playing bassoon and saw you weren’t there and they started falling out. Everyone laughed at me. They said I ruined the concert.”
Darnell rubs her arm; skin flakes off in big chunks, like dry, cracked earth. Before he can say anything more, Zoey is reduced to dust, and he bolts upright in bed.
* * *
It’s such a slow morning at Crofter’s Crafts that a fourth cup of coffee does nothing to help with Keighlas’ focus. The empty cups in the small garbage can by her feet—hidden away from the view of customers—remind her nothing will help get her through the long day ahead. One register over, Haisley Nash watches TikTok videos at full volume, despite being told by their manager not to. When Manager Brad walks the floor near the registers, a burst of adrenaline from the anticipation that Haisley is about to actually get in trouble—maybe even fired—does more for Keighla than caffeine.
“’Mornin’, Haisley,” he says.
She stops smacking her gum long enough to say, “Huh?”
“I said good morning.”
“Oh…yeah.”
As he walks off, Keighla calls after him. “Hey, Brad?!”
He turns back toward the registers, and Keighla points at Haisley.
“Oh, yeah.” He walks to Haisley’s register. “I’d normally have this conversation in my office, but…we’ve decided to give you a two-dollar-an-hour raise.”
Haisley pops her gum and says, “Cool,” and then returns to her phone.
Keighla chases Brad down as he heads toward his office.
“You gave her a raise?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She deserves it.”
“What?! Why?”
“She’s our best cashier. We’d hate to lose her.”
“She’s the worst! She ignores customers and blares her phone all day. She smacks her gum and takes breaks whenever the fuck she wants to.”
Brad’s eyebrows come together; his face turns red.
“You need to get back to your register.”
“There’s no one here, Brad. We need to have this talk.”
“You need to get back to your register…now!”
“Or what?”
“Or we’ll have to let you go.”
Back at her register, Keighla breathes deeply—in and out; in and out. Between Haisley’s phone and Brad’s chiding, she realizes maybe the four cups of coffee did have an effect.
When Keighla’s nerves settle, Haisley turns down her phone and says, “So what did you do this weekend? Did you work on that novel you’re always talking about?”
Keighla’s face grows warm; she tugs at a burning pink earlobe. “Yeah.”
“Did you really?” Haisley says.
“Yes, I did!”
“Don’t lie to me, Keighla. I can see in your face you didn’t do shit this weekend.”
Keighla’s earlobe droops. She brings her hands to her cheeks and feels loose flesh. She pulls her phone from her pocket and opens the front-facing camera. A face lined with wrinkles; hair brittle and white.
“You’re never going to finish that book,” Haisley says. “If you’ve even started it at all.”
She turns the volume on her phone back up, and Keighla wakes up covered in sweat.
* * *
Meesha rarely called in sick to work, even though a teaching assistant could always fill in for her. She had her father’s work ethic and a strong desire to make her mother proud. This cold, though…she knew it made no sense that she could get it that quickly from the pharmacy line. COVID took days—even over a week—to appear. This was a matter of hours.
She thought about keeping her work laptop on after sending email to the department head, telling them she would not be in. There seemed to be no line between work and life now that she was home all the time on lockdown. But she logged out and closed her laptop, tucking it away into the backpack usually used when going in.
Meesha made a cup of mint tea and headed back to bed. From her nightstand, she pulled out a pencil and sketchbook. She wondered if her parents were right, that she wouldn’t have the life she had if she had kept drawing all the time. She did everything she was supposed to do. But as she drew a woman sitting on a tree stump on the sketchbook page, she wished she knew how her other life would have turned out, had she not done all that was expected of her.
When she was done with the drawing, she set it in her lap and cupped her hands around the warm mug. She brought it near her face and inhaled, letting the steam soothe her; for a moment, taking away all the pain from whatever it was she picked up at the pharmacy.
Is this what days could have been like? Slowly waking up instead of rushing to the university? Time to ease into the days before doing what she always wanted to do, rather than all she did for others?
She placed the mug and sketchbook on the nightstand and stretched. It didn’t take long before she returned to sleep.
* * *
Todd typed, “COVID dreams” into a Google search and was not surprised to see a list of results. The first thing he read: “People are reporting strange, intense, colorful, and vivid dreams—and many are having disturbing nightmares related to COVID-19.” Another link, and he was surprised to find a WebMD article that didn’t attribute a condition to cancer. Ten minutes later, after scanning several articles, he was convinced he didn’t have the virus—but he definitely had something.
The dream seemed so real, and the lingering dread didn’t ease its grip on him. He hated moving so often while growing up—not having a sibling or any friends. The closest thing he had, now, were a few people on Twitter who were as ready to pounce on others as him.
He did another Google search: “Fisher Vitale.” The first search result displayed a Facebook link. The second: an obituary.
He clicked the Facebook link. Todd hadn’t seen Fisher since fifth grade, but from what he was able to see, it looked like what he’d imagine one of the few friends he ever had with a few decades added on. He saw old photos posted by Fisher’s longtime friends with messages about missing him. Birthday wishes, even though it looked like he’d been dead for three years. One photo in particular caught Todd’s attention: a group of kids at a birthday party he attended. There were comments below the image about how much fun that day was; how great it was being a kid. They were right: Todd remembered how excited Fisher was when he unwrapped the Grimlock Transformer Todd bought him with his saved allowance.
And then he saw it: a comment from someone he didn’t remember and a response from Fisher:
“Who’s that kid on Mikey’s right?”
“Oh, man…I can’t remember his name. His dad was in the Navy, and he moved away that year. He gave me a Grimlock Dinobot. I bet it’s still in my mom’s attic…”
The day seemed already done, so Todd went back to bed.
* * *
Darnell wandered out to the kitchen, where Kara was making a pot of coffee.
“You okay, babe?” she said.
“Yeah. Just wiped. Why?”
“You were doing that weird dreaming snore where I know you’re alive, but you were kicking and muttering and doing that nose whistle thing.”
“I had a bad dream.”
“About what.”
“Just…” He didn’t want to talk about it. It was one of those dreams that seemed so real, the kind that take over all thoughts the rest of the day. “I don’t remember much about it, other than it was bad. I’m so damn tired. I’m not going into work today…”
“Want me to make you breakfast?”
“That sounds great, but I think I’m going to call Tom and head back to bed…”
* * *
When she woke up, after checking her phone, Keighla called her boss. She was happy to get his voice mail.
“Hey, Brad…It’s Keighla. I’m sick and I won’t be in today.”
Not a minute later, her phone buzzed. She thought about not answering, but not enough time had passed to say she fell back asleep and missed the call. At least she didn’t have to put on a fake sick voice.
“Hello.”
“Hey, Keighla—what’s up?”
“I’m sick.”
“Can you try making it in today? We really need you.”
“I have the Coronavirus.”
“What? Have you been tested?”
She hadn’t, but she still said, “Yeah.”
“How long ago?”
She wanted to say, “This right here? This is why no one likes you, Brad.” Instead, she said, “Last week.”
“What?! You’ve thought you had COVID for a week and you kept coming into work?!”
“Well, Brad, it’s not like you let us use what little time off we have. People gotta start their pandemic scrapbooks while the rest of the world burns.”
“You need to fax me the results?”
It came out of her mouth before she could stop it. “Who the fuck has a fax machine in their house these days, Brad. I’m sick! I’m not going out to fax anything. I’m going back to bed…”
She hung up, not caring if she’d still have a job when she was better. She wondered if she actually did have the virus. It wouldn’t be so bad, being so sick that in days, she might go to sleep and not wake up.
She put her phone back on the nightstand and closed her eyes.
* * *
The dreams continue for days: struggles with desires versus expectations; a lifetime of abandonment; time always seeming to slip away; trying to figure out what to do with a hollow life.
Meesha is shocked when the man without a mask at the pharmacy steps into a dream one night and tells her mother to let her be. In return, Meesha’s there for him the following day, telling him to relax and breathe during a nightmare—that soon, he will have more time with his family. Todd apologizes to Keighla for his outburst in the line at the pharmacy, and she tells him she was also raised by a parent in the military and understands.
None of it makes sense.
* * *
On the final night of the cold, the old woman stands in a sunlit meadow in an otherwise dim forest. Her hair is loose, long and gray and hanging down to her thighs. Before her on the stump is a dark-gray stone basin. Meesha, Todd, Keighla, and Darnell approach to see what she is looking at. The basin is full of water, the color of the stone dark enough to create a mirror effect on the surface. The old woman from the pharmacy smiles when their four faces come into view of the water’s reflection.
“I’d like to show you something,” she says.
She touches the center of the water with her fingertip, sending out ripples to the edge of the basin. They bounce back, and when they meet in the center, the water swirls in a kaleidoscope of colors. Minds are awash in the strange haze of dreams, where understanding is compressed by time, where a lifetime can be felt and comprehended in a moment.
The life of the old woman unfolds before them: her mother telling her only good girls find good husbands; they see no friends outside of her family. All the hard work she put into keeping a home that, in the end, became an empty vessel holding only regrets.
The colors in the water basin stop swirling. The old woman turns to the group and says, “None of you need permission. But if you feel you do, I give it to you. In the end, the happiness you feel and the ripples you send out is what really matters. I wish I had known that sooner.”
She touches the water’s surface again, and the four others feel it’s where they belong.
“I’m going to sleep, now,” the old woman says.
For the first time in days, they awaken feeling refreshed.
* * *
Meesha Salib was looking at a cluster of flowers along the side of Hosack Meadows Trails when Darnell arrived.
“Claytonia verginica,” he said. “Virginia spring beauty. It’s one of my favorite flowers in the area.” He pointed to his face. “I remembered my mask this time.”
Keighla arrived next, kicking her way through the long grass ebbing and flowing like a green tide. Her eyes crinkled into a smile when she spotted the other two.
“So this is for real?” she said from behind her mask. It wasn’t a question—it was a lifetime of hoping one day something bigger would happen that would change the way she looked at everything.
“So it appears,” Darnell said.
Todd Bancroft lumbered his way along the trail, huffing the entire time.
“Do you still have the cold?” Meesha said.
“No,” Todd replied. “I’m just that out of shape. I need to get out more.”
After giving Todd a moment to catch his breath, Darnell said, “All right—question: how did you all know to come here?”
“I don’t know,” Keighla said. “I had a dream last night about the old woman from the pharmacy. She touched a bowl of water on tree stump in the dream. I just knew to come here.”
Darnell looked at the other two. “I assume we all had the same dream?”
Todd and Meesha nodded. When they all turned to look, growing from the stump’s center was a red and yellow flower that looked like a tiny fire in the breeze.
“That shouldn’t be here,” Darnell said.
Meesha was the first to approach. “What is it?”
“A pine lily. They don’t grow up here.”
“Her name was Lily, wasn’t it?” Todd wasn’t alone in the knowledge.
“This does not make sense,” Meesha said.
Darnell crouched down for a closer look at the flower. “And yet, here we all are.”
“So, what do we do now?” Keighl said.
Meesha pointed down the trail. “I suppose we go for a walk and figure it out.”
“That works,” Darnell said. “But first, I think we should all agree right now to stay out of each others’ dreams…and if anyone gets sick…stay the hell away from the rest of us…”
[Quirky music plays…]
Christopher Gronlund:
Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.
Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Oscar Colling and Ethan Sloan, licensed from Epidemic Sound. Haisley’s tune is “Toss the Salt” by Sionya, featuring Emmi…also from 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.
November’s tale is Not About Lumberjacks’ anniversary episode, which is always the most NOT about lumberjacks story of the year. It’s narrated by Jesse Harley, an award-winning filmmaker and one half of Canadian Politics is Boring, a history and comedy podcast.
You probably want to know what you’re in for, eh? Well, When Wayne finds strange items in geocaches along the old lumber roads of northern Minnesota, he becomes obsessed with discovering who’s leaving the items behind. What he discovers changes the way he looks at life…
Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!
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