He wasn’t sure why he’d done it, but he knew it was right. It was nature, so it wasn’t evil or cruel; it was just how it had to be.
He turned on the hose and watched the red dilute, become pink, and eventually run clear.
His walking stick, now split in two, lay wet and clean on the garden table. He’d repair it with glue and Duct Tape, and soon, it would be as good as new—firm, familiar.
He was proud, with muscles that ached in the best way, so he poured himself a glass of sun tea as a reward, then sat for the rest of the afternoon in the quietness of his garden.
He wasn’t sure why he’d done it, no, but he knew it was right. He knew it was natural.
Mom was dead, and so began my journey through life as a parentless adult. She’d left me the little she had, most of which I used to get out of debt, and with the rest, I purchased a plot of land, but I didn’t have enough money to build on it, so I lived in my car.
I wasn’t allowed to camp on my property, an ordinance I wasn’t aware of before purchasing the land, so I parked down the hill on a street called Dover, in the industrial part of town, with wide, dirty roads and warehouse buildings. At night, the working men and women went to the bar or home to their families, and I’d find my usual spot near the old Takeyama building, where once they made ceramic statues, but now was used to store textiles. I’d put my seat back as far as it would go and try to remember my childhood, but it wouldn’t come into focus, morphing and vanishing like a disgraced ghost.
During the day, I’d explore my land and get acquainted with Mother Nature. I felt some type of peace up there; the bugs and the birds didn’t require my smile to feel comfortable, and the trees didn’t downplay the tragedy of my current calamity.
But at the tip-top of the hill, there were no trees or bugs. At the tip-top of the hill, there was nothing at all. The sight of the nothingness caused me distress. I began to haul rocks and branches to the top, but still, it felt empty. I tried planting flowers, but they never sprouted. It was an eyesore that warped my disposition. I know that sounds mad, and I’m aware of my eccentricity, but what wild poison seeps into the soul when a desire for something is hindered by an acute nothingness?
One soft-spun autumn day, I dug a hole at the top of the hill to die in. Not wanting to be found picked apart by wild animals, I’d built a wooden pen at a slope with a hatch gate, and shoveled the dirt from the hole I’d dug into it. My plan was simple: I’d tie twine to the latch and pull it open to let the dirt slide into my grave, immediately shooting myself in the head as the dirt rushed out to bury me. But when I laid down to carry out my plan, I’d soured on the idea of death. I didn’t want to live, but I was even more certain I didn’t want to die.
I stopped going up the road to my property. Instead, I would sit on the hood of my car and try to remember my mother’s face; she had the sleepy eyes of Eartha Kitt and the strong nose of Julius Caesar, but although I could see the collective features that made up her divine face, I couldn’t put them together. In my mind, her face was like a shitty puzzle where the pieces didn’t fit right; I jammed the shapes in, but it only creased them, and disfigured her.
“Hello, young man,” said a voice. “Day’s a beaut, wouldn’t you say?”
On the sidewalk, a man with a vibrant feather in his hat and kind eyes looked out from wrinkled, suntanned skin. His southwestern-patterned shirt hung loose, and he’d tucked his swamp-green pants into his well-worn hiking boots. He leaned on a knotted walking stick that looked like it had seen better days, with Duct Tape bulging in the center.
“May I help you?” I said.
“What is the best way to the top of the hill?”
“Right down this road, but that’s private property. If you head a mile down, the regional park has a public entrance.”
“No. No, I’m not interested in the regional—at least not for a while. You’ve heard about the trouble?”
I had heard about the trouble—everyone had. A man had been bludgeoned to death.
“Yep. Nasty business. It’s a cruel world, but this is private land,” I said, motioning up the road to my property.
“I’ll pay the owner a visit,” said the man. “I’m sure they won’t mind.”
“I am the owner and don’t want anyone going up there.”
The man nodded and smiled. He looked up the road leading to my property, then down the road to the regional park, then back to me.
“What troubles you, boy?”
“Nothing. Nothing troubles me. Why should it?”
“You’re sitting on the hood of a beat-up car when you have God’s gift just up the road. All to yourself, at that.”
It struck me how much the man resembled Willie Nelson. This realization softened my stance, and so I dropped my guard. Who could resist the redheaded stranger?
“Well, up on that hill, there’s nothing. Oh, it’s beautiful leading up there, sure, but at the top, it’s all brown, and nothing grows.”
The man laughed and waved a hand.
I continued, “It’s not a joke. I don’t have much, and I just wanted—needed—one thing that was…alive—something perfect—just for once.”
“Was it like that when you purchased the lot?” said the man, leaning on his walking stick.
“I thought it was dead because of the season—the summer was a scorcher if you remember?”
“I do. Oppressive.”
“Exactly. And I thought once autumn came around, something would grow. You know, bushes, dandelions—tarweed—but here we are in November, and it’s still shit-brown.”
The man walked over and placed a hand on my shoulder. He stared me in the eyes and said, “There is no such thing as perfect, just different tempos—different notes. Nature’s song is sweet because of its variation. Do you understand what I mean?”
"I think I do. You’re right, and you know what, I don’t mind if you go up there. You have my blessing.”
The man smiled, gently squeezed my shoulder, then said, “Why don’t we both go up there—to the tip-top—and we’ll plant this walking stick in the ground like a flag. What do you say?”
I wanted to reach out to hug the man—to sob—instead, I slid off the hood of my car and told him to hop in.
We drove up the winding road in a comfortable silence. I’d never felt so calm in another person’s presence. When we approached the entrance to my plot, I slowed the car; a stoic hawk perched atop the gate post.
“Look at that,” said the man. “Look at those gorgeous feathers.”
“Look at that beak, sharp,” I said.
The hawk flew down and snatched a squirrel digging beneath an evergreen. I made to open the door, to help it—to save it—but the man caught me by the arm.
“Killers, but not cruel,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“They’re killers, hawks, but they aren’t cruel. They kill because that’s their nature. It needs to eat, right?”
“Sure, but what would it matter if we saved this one squirrel?” I asked.
“It’s not our business.”
The hawk flew off; the limp squirrel dangled.
We got out of the car and climbed up the hill, crunching on dry leaves and twigs through the evergreens. When we reached the crest, I looked out across the tops of the trees and further out to town. It was a beautiful view, but the deadness of my hilltop made me feel low.
I wanted life.
I wanted trees.
I wanted flowers.
I wanted perfect.
“What is this?” said the man. “Are you planning on burying something?”
“It’s nothing.”
“It looks like a grave. You weren’t planning on doing anything foolish, were you?”
The man circled the hole, examining my box of dirt.
He continued, “Clever. Not sure it would have worked as well as you thought, but clever. You were going to bury yourself? But why go to the trouble?”
“I didn’t want my body to be picked apart and dragged all over by coyotes. But, I’ve decided not to go through with it, so you don’t need worry ab—”
“I wouldn’t care if you did.”
I laughed. “Okay. That’s a weird thing to say, but okay.”
“It’s none of my business,” he said, stepping into the hole and lying down.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I want to see how it feels. You laid down here before deciding you wanted to live? It must have been a powerful feeling.”
“I did. It was.”
“What stopped you?”
“I thought about time,” I said, walking up to the hole and looking down at the man. “I thought about how little of eternity we see, and when you look at life as such a blip, it’s easier to…I don’t know, stomach.”
The man grabbed the twine lying beside him.
“Careful,” I said. “I don’t want to have to dig you out of there.”
“I’m just trying it on—trying on death. Most of the time, people don’t know how close they really are to death, you know? They’ll be moments from it, but they don’t know—they don’t know what awaits them. Like our squirrel friend, one moment digging beneath a tree, the next its belly punctured by the talons of a hawk.”
The man climbed out of the grave and picked up his walking stick. “Lay in there again. I want you to tell me how it feels now. Now that you’ve decided you want to live. Tell me about life and death. Tell me about nature.”
I cocked a brow.
“Go on,” he said. “Humor me.”
I shrugged, climbed into the grave, and lay down. The sky had become overcast, and as I stared up into the gray, sprinkles hit my cheeks and nose. I closed my eyes and thought about my mother, and all of the pieces fit perfectly.
“I told you it was gorgeous,” said Dylan. “And it’s a steal, really.”
“Why is it priced so low?” said Kelly.
“Because the dude ran off—skipped out on the mortgage. We’re almost at the top. I bet you can see the entire town from up here.”
Beneath the towering evergreens, past wild berry bushes and moss-covered rocks, the couple climbed the hill. Kelly was the first to reach the top. She gasped.
“Holy shit,” she said.
“Holy fucking shit,” said Dylan. “It’s breathtaking.”
The couple pulled out their phones and snapped pictures of the hilltop, but the photos couldn’t do it justice. They’d never seen so many red poppies.
When I sat down to write this story, I placed a target on our homie with the stick. Foolishly, I thought myself to be his god. I was prepared—itching—to strike the man dead. I put on my pleather killing gloves and began to type out his fate, but I must have blacked out, for when I awoke, I was face up on the hardwood floor, and something was on my chest. My first thought was that I’d pulled the twine, releasing the dirt into my grave, but it was only my cat, Poocumbers, curled up asleep atop me. When I returned to the story, it was too late; it was spring.
“Go on,” he said. “Humor me.”
Yes, yes, lie down. 😅 Great little tale and the red poppies are a nice touch.
Love the return of the feather man. One of my favorites from you: story had me hooked and the thoughts about death and remembrance are beautiful.