The Trees Are Silent

The trees used to talk to me. Not in the Tolkien, Ent kind of way, but in a conversational kind of way. When we played in the woods, we would run and run and run and run, and when we couldn't any longer, we would stop. That's when I would speak with the trees.

It happened for the first time one day when we were all very young. Probably no older than 9 or 10. We were running for the first time of the summer. It was distinctly sunny. I remember this because the sun hit me right in the eye, causing me to be temporarily blinded, and consequently fall.

"Boy, are you alright?"

This was the first thing a tree ever said to me.

I was quite frankly astonished. Before this incident, I was unaware that trees spoke. I regained my composure and responded that I was fine. "I would offer my assistance, but I cannot move."

This was another difference between these trees and Tolkien's Ents; these trees didn't move. They were fixed. Solid. Sturdy.

"That's fine; I understand."

And so began our conversations. I asked some obvious questions."Is this real? How can you talk?"

"Of course it's real. Us trees have been speaking for years. Long before you and your friends started all this running business, which I just do not understand."

From then on, whenever we would run, I would stop and talk. In the beginning it was mostly just that tree, who I would later learn called himself Francis, that I spoke with. Eventually though, I would have conversations with all of them. There was Ella, who was one of the only survivors of a terrible forest fire, Rayford, who in my opinion, had the best branches for climbing, Nicholas, who told me some of the best stories I'd ever heard, and countless others. I really enjoyed talking with Francis though. He was one of the oldest trees there, and he had this one branch that was perfect for sitting. It was more comfortable than any chair I ever sat in.

As I grew up I ventured out to talk to them less and less. Eventually people started wondering why I was out in the woods so often. I tried to bring a girl out there once, as a date, and things just didn't go over very smoothly. I didn't give up on them for good though. I returned at least once a month to chat, usually with Francis.

The summer after high school, whenever I could be, I was in the woods. I think I learned more in those woods than I ever did in a classroom. Sadly, that summer came to an end. I left, but those trees remained.

I didn't return for quite some time, and when I did, I didn't like what I found.

A parking lot.

I was 30. I had brought my wife and children to visit where I had grown up. The trees were the final part of the tour, but there was nothing there, except for pavement. Pavement and white lines. I was devastated. One of the most consequential parts of my childhood completely demolished and resurfaced.

And then I remembered something Francis had told me. "You humans are destroying us systematically. Every day a forest is destroyed so something new can spring up. Remember this though, you humans need us. There will always be trees. We will always be here for you"

I thought about that. I thought maybe, somewhere out there Francis or another like him still existed.

I've been searching for 20 years now, and so far, the trees are silent.

Batteries

A traveling salesman came to my house the other day. He proceeded to tell me he wasn't trying to sell me anything, despite his occupation. He simply needed a place to stay for the night and so far, no one had accepted his request for lodging. I told him to come in and have a seat; he could stay here.

Make yourself comfortable. Mi casa es su casa. Let me take your coat.

His name was Roy.

Roy sold batteries. All sorts of batteries. Any size you could ever want, Roy had. Roy was a scrawny fellow. He barely came to my shoulder. To be completely honest, he looked like a mouse. I liked him though. He had a pleasant way about him, scrawny though he was.

I poured Roy a scotch and we sat and talked for a while. Nothing terribly important came up. At least we didn't talk about batteries.

Then Roy went to bed. He slept on my couch.

The next morning, he was still there. He had made coffee. I didn't even know I had a coffee maker or coffee beans. I hate coffee. But he's reading the paper and drinking his coffee. He asks if I'd like a cup. I tell him no thanks and continue getting ready. He was reading the funnies. He should have been reading the want ads. I supposed he was content with selling batteries.

He asked me if he could stay another night or two.

Of course.

Take your shoes off. Make yourself at home. What's mine is yours.

I came home from the office and his battery van was still parked outside my house. I went in and started to make us some dinner. Sloppy Joes. He was still drinking coffee. I didn't know how much longer I could take the smell of it. We ate. We talked again. Shootin' the breeze. I decided that Roy wasn't a bad guy. Still couldn't figure out for the life of me why he took to selling batteries though. I didn't ask because I didn't feel it was my place.

After dinner we watched a bit of TV and same as the night before, we went to sleep. He slept on my couch.

That routine went on for a couple of days. I didn't mind. My friends seemed to take to him as well. It was nice having him around.

One night I woke up around 2:00 or 3:00 AM. I could hear something coming from the living room. I got up to check on Roy. He was sitting up on the couch with the TV on and he was sobbing. I've never been very good in those types of situations. I typically avoided funerals, tear-jerker movies, and break-ups. There was no escaping this one though. I asked what was wrong. Through the crying and the coughing he sputtered that he'd been a battery salesmen for nearly 4 months and hadn't sold a single unit. Not a pack of double A's. Not a car battery. Not a hearing aid battery. Nothing. He told me that he goes around to strangers begging for a place to stay. He called himself a leech.

A parasite.

He told me that 6 months ago his wife left him and after that he wanted to get out. Travel. Experience new things and make a name for himself. Instead, he was selling batteries. He told me how he lost everything. How he was homeless. How he thought that this battery gig would get him out of the gutter, but now he felt even worse. He told me how he couldn't provide anything for himself. He fed on the generosity of others. He told me how normally, it didn't bother him. He was just doing what it took to get by. But this time was different. I actually cared. I took the time to talk to him. To feed him. He told me that he felt awful. He apologized over and over between the deep intakes of breath and the snotting. I was more than uncomfortable. I just do not deal with crying well. I said that it was fine. I told him that I forgave him and asked if I gave him some money if it would help. I asked if I bought some batteries, be his first customer, would that help.

He just stared at me.

Once he found the words, he said that would be the nicest thing anyone had ever done for him.

I bought half of his supply. I was set for life on batteries. I could power anything.

The next day, Roy was gone and I never saw or heard from him again.

Now maybe Roy scammed me. Maybe he pulled this same stunt with millions of other gullible folks like me. Or maybe Roy was a decent fellow who had fallen on some rough times and just needed a warm couch and to sell some batteries.

But probably not.

Rhahim

So I'm out here in the middle of the desert. At this point, I can't even remember which one. It's not an American desert though. You know, a resort kind of desert, where there's a pool, an oasis, every couple a yards. That's how commercial and lazy America has become. You don't even get actual deserts. There are La-Z-Boy Recliners all over the place. A Starbucks at the bottom of every dune. If you got stranded in one of these deserts, it'd be more like a vacation than anything.

Not here though. I mean, this is some high quality desert. You really get your money's worth.

I should back up though.

This all started after my sophomore year of college. I was doing fairly well as far as that goes, but that isn't the point. First, my dog dies. That dog had been around since 4th grade. Then he just up and quits.

It gets worse.

My car was completely obliterated in a car-bombing in which a terrorist confused my car with that of a senators.

It gets worse.

One of my best friends manages to contract Smallpox and spread that around for a good bit, wiping out a town in the process. These were all people I knew.

The proverbial straw then being, my dad decides to leave my mother.

I decide to clear my head, in a different country. Trans-continental.

So off I venture. Flying over all these oceans and continents till I get here. I wish I could remember where here was.

Anyway.

I wander around for a couple of weeks, talking to natives, trying new food, typical tourist activities. None of this is really helping me much. When I was a kid, I was very spiritual. That stuff comes back to you when your entire life begins spiraling completely downhill into vast nothingness.

I mean, my dog died.

So I start looking around for some sort of spiritual confirmation. Guidance. What I find, is Rhahim. Rhahim is a spiritual guide. He tells me for fifty American dollars he will take me on a journey through the desert that will revitalize and rejuvenate me.

That sounds like exactly what I'm looking for.

I tell Rhahim, yes, I would love to go on a desert journey. I would love to open up my chakras and be born again.

Well, Rhahim died.

I should back up.

Things go well for the first 2 or so days. We're on camel back and have plenty of provisions. Rhahim is telling me to bask in the glow of the sun and to embrace the mother earth. Those kinds of things. It was really helping too. Until, one night at dinner Rhahim starts choking. I am not CPR certified and know absolutely nothing about the heimlich. His face starts turning purple and I'm in shock. Before I can fully comprehend what is happening, he's on the ground and cold as an ince cream cone. My first thought is, of course. Of course the one person who I'm dependent on out here in the desert would keel over dead in the middle of supper.

This is my life.

It's been a week since Rhahim kicked the bucket. I'm out of food and running low on water. Both of the camels have left me. No surprise there.

So I'm alone. In the desert. And I'm starting to see things. And not normal desert hallucinations, mirages, what have you. I mean, weird stuff. People. I had a conversation with Levi Strauss, about jeans. That was the most bland mirage. Others included the sand dunes moving and then dancing, a Model-T being constructed, and my dead dog.

This is not the spiritual journey I signed up for. I am not rejuvenated or revitalized. I played scrabble with St. Francis of Assisi. I am not OK. I'm hoping to God that someone finds me soon because this is my last bottle of water.

Again and Again and Again

Fiction-mostly

Lying here, I can still remember the first time we ever went somewhere together. I picked you up. There was another person with us, but that didn't necessarily matter. It was really only you and me, wasn't it?

From the second that car ride started, I knew. I knew that you were someone special. That even though you seemed the same as every other girl, that you were different. But maybe you were the same. Maybe we're all the same. Maybe everything and everyone is exactly the same.

"You aren't a perfect little snowflake"

We went to my friend Mike's house. Suburbia. It used to bother me how every house was every other house, but I guess you get used to those kind of things. We sat on that awkward little couch and watched a movie with everyone. I can't remember what movie it was but I know I hated it.

We watched so many movies. Rather, we didn't watch so many movies.

I think we payed attention to one. The rest of them are really just a blur. The same movie over and over again. On the same couch over and over again. Always cautious. Always wondering where your parents might be. The same night every night.

Maybe everything is exactly the same.

Then there was the time your mom got drunk and banged on my car windows. Or maybe the time she caught us holding hands and yelled at us for two hours. The time she yelled at my dad. The time she almost threw me out of your dad's airplane. Jokingly, of course.

She was always causing some sort of trouble. I do recall her making the best enchiladas. Even if that was the only thing she made. Enchiladas over and over again.

Maybe it's all just the same. Every awkward dinner we ever ate. The same food. The same conversations.

"You'll probably have to have your stomach lining scraped out."

But I guess things weren't that bad.

I remember the running, jump hug you gave me when you came home from Seattle. That was nice. Or maybe the time we saw those buffalo. The time we went to that coffee shop downtown.

Coffee shop after coffee shop after coffee shop. All the talks. The same one over and over.

"Constantly talking isn't necessarily communicating."

I remember the first time we met. It was raining. It was always raining. You had just had that arm surgery. You were funny. It was at Starbucks. You had on that Beatles shirt. I had brown hair. Your hair was gigantic. My shoes were velcro and you made fun of me. I thought you were gorgeous. The same thing over and over again.

"Please just let me keep this one memory."