Home The setting was fall and under a darkening sky. Clouds like dull iron drifted smoothly over the windswept field and my long-bladed hunting knife hung upon my belt-loop in a tan sheath. I ceased in my hurried step and glanced up at the ominous overcast and at the darker region over my shoulder behind my east-facing back. A wind whipped up from that direction and was brisk, biting and invigorating. I spread my arms out to my sides and challenged the wind with my wingspan and pose. Reward when the gust had entangled my hair and ruffled my bright red sweatshirt with its bright red hood, then slowed, and died as I continued on. Fall was my favorite season. I loved to look at the steely sky and the broken, dying skeletal fingers of shed trees reach toward it with their own type of gray, trembling as the wind, wintry foreboding, bellowed as it does only when the leaves lie dried and crisp upon the earth. Autumn was the only time of year when the air was unhumid and welcoming, depopulated of its flying, biting things, and of the spring stench of mud and the back-breaking, soaking snow. The landscape was often spared also from the eye-burning brightness of the blinding yellow sun. In this time of year clouds dominated the landscape overhead, these wispy things incredibly making disappear the most powerful, largest thing in the solar system. There was no pattern hidden beneath my indiscriminate perambulation that day; I was simply wandering along any path I might happen to step onto, an haphazard exploration of the acreage which for so long lay undiscovered around me. I had lived in the area for as long as I could remember but had only begun to explore it very recently. Previously I had gone on with my life in my ordered fashion: home, to school, back home and so on. Now that I had started to look around and see all of the things I might do, the world opened up to me like the unfolding of hands in prayer, bearing to me all of the things whispered in fevered breath, all the secrets told into them. Why I suddenly found myself needing to delve into the world around me remained a mystery I had thus far been unable to resolve. Rather than apply myself to this problem I had chosen to ignore it and let it settle itself. I let my instincts, instead of my intellect, take over and they had led me to the surrounding countryside. I had found nothing of much interest to me during these days exploration, and hadn't really expected to, but I had noticed the abundance of wildness in the wilderness. Scavenger rodents, flitty birds, tiny insects which fell beneath my step. Innumerous variety of mostly dead and occasionally green plants, rotting trees that snapped at the slightest pressure and greenwood. When I saw these things separately, as individual objects, rather than simply a 'forest' or 'the woods', I was overwhelmed and frustrated for reasons I could not understand. Never before had I examined things as they were instead of how I perceived them, and now that I saw things in this way, I didn't know what to make of it. I sighed and stopped moving, rather disappointed in myself. Though my journey was nearly complete, I was tired and unzipped my shirt, sitting down in the high grasses and gnarled weeds of the wide-open field. I could just see over the overgrown underbrush and in the distance ahead, my destination. It was dark enough for lights, but the trailer which inhered meagerly and in dilapidated fashion just a hundred or so yards before me and alone in the field was unlit. The place was inhabited, I knew, and was even at this very moment. I could sense, but not see, movement within. A presence, weighty and dim. At a distance, the pressing purple mountains that seemed to be crushing the poor dark thing, writhed with the unfeeling breeze. My gaze fell upon the rustic, rusting portable home that slumped, banal and sullen. The high grass was cut low in a twenty-yard square surrounding the trailer and a narrow, gravelly dirt road on the opposite side of the trailer led from the front door one quarter-mile to the paved road. The proximity of high, wild grass led to an abundance of wild critters that ran roughshod around the home. Field mice, garter snakes, strange green insects, spiders. Especially spiders. Spiders were everywhere, it seemed, and as is their nature, showed themselves only when it was quiet and dark inside the house, when people were asleep. It was not uncommon to wake up in bed with a spider or two by your side, or in your hair. The snakes were scared easily; not so the spiders, which liked to crawl all over you. The insects were creepy, but harmless; not so the spiders, which were both. The tall grass could have been cut farther back, and thus make avoidable most of these things. But it wasn't, and they weren't. An old Chevy rested on weary wheels beside the untared thoroughfare in front of the place. It was an old, repulsive thing that was rarely used or looked it. The tires were wearing thin and losing air pressure; the windshield was cracked in more than one place; and the body was rusted and in need of paint. On top of that, it had nearly two hundred thousand miles on it and wouldn't last much longer. What happened after that was something unthought of. Inside the black, low-to-the-ground transport, it smelled like wet leaves, oily rags, pine and cigarettes. The ashtray was full and a tiny scented tree hung by a tiny green string from the rearview mirror. The back seat was torn and fluffy stuffing had popcorned out. The foot space in back was filled with fast food containers, crumpled paper and other such trash. It was used only to get groceries or in emergencies, as none of the residents had a job to go to or from. Instead, they survived off the gentle lumbering monstrosity that is the government of the United States. The trailer had been white, originally, but after years of neglect by its owner, had become covered with grime and dirt kicked up from the road by winds and cars. Now it was a filthy grayish black color, which seemed to be ingrained in the trailer itself. It was sinking in the middle, the resulting turning up of ends, suggested a slight, grotesque smile. The trailer was clearly aged and in desperate need of repair. There were dents and tiny rusted holes lending character to the outside, like it had been kicked and beaten and stabbed. Nothing so romantic had caused this: it was the result of blatant disregard. The roof was leaky and weak, though it was repaired every year. Homemade remedies against the powerful storms stuck ineffectually in various states of disrepair on the flat roof. An old ladder leaned against the structure and, as there was nowhere to put it, would continue to do so, the resulting triangle threatening to doom any who passed through its noontime shadow. Wood heaped chopped and unstacked in a large pile off to the side. At least two cord of wood was there, with long pieces jutting out with strange angularity, bristling like a porcupine. It was a danger. It might collapse if a piece was taken too soon or from the wrong place. And who was to know which was which? You took what you could, and let come what may. Even if it fell apart, it was a mess anyhow, and it wouldn't matter much. Things fell apart all the time; it was necessary to move on. It would all burn up sooner or later in a tiny black woodkiller. The woodstove inside the trailer was meanwhile cooperating with some of this unfortunate fuel and the sad looking stovepipe to create a gray geyser of smoke, which drifted off in search of a wind. I watched yearningly until it disappeared and imagined what it was like inside. Hot, always hot. The sun did it in the summer; the son at all other times. He'd bring the wood over from its tall dangerous mound and create a miniature imitation beside the stove: enough to keep the stove roaring its fetid breath and suffusing the entire interior of the trailer with frightening, intense warmth. Then the father would stock the stove full, stoking it to keep up the intense heat. As he did this, the already fierce fire would redden his face, and dark shadows would jump and dance about, slaves to the fire's whim. He would take the brunt of the heat as the hungry fire leapt at the fresh abundance of oxygen when he opened the door to feed it short, thick pieces of wood. Often, this would result in the loss of eyebrows and a horrible stink about the house. And the son would watch as the ravenous, deep red animal consumed the wood he had chopped and carried. He'd watch as his father destroyed that for which he had worked so hard. There were two windows that looked longingly out at me. Pale sheets of glass cool to the touch. They were rectangular and blocked a viewer his ability to peer inside by means of shades, which were drawn down perpetually. It was impossible to see in or out, no matter where you looked. The windows were at a slight tilt, since the trailer itself was of this same condition. They looked like they would slide down and meet in the little bow in the center. As it was, the dark portals, as to another time and place, were shaded from without, as well, the darkness coming would have effectively hazed my attempts to look inside, even had the shades been pulled back in a rare, welcoming gesture. It was dark and hot in there. I sighed, prey for the easterly encroaching darkness. The dirt road which led away from there was little more than a widened path, and it ran right up to the trailer, then did not continue. It was unnecessarily windy and served only the residents of the mobile home, as there were no other residences along its length. The domicile was the picture of isolation. There was a two-mile radius from the trailer in which no other homes were present. It was as if it had been quarantined and sealed with yellow, stringy police banner, then forgotten, and no one had returned. The paved roadway, with which the dirt drive connected on the opposite end, was hardly better than this latter, as it was interrupted with arrogant capriciousness by frost heaves and broken nuggets of blue-black pavement. From there, it led past other such side streets and north, to town, or south to another, more distant and metropolitan city. I pivoted and looked from whence I had come. Trees to that direction as well, and a barely visible break in the monotony: the path through which I had walked not ten minutes ago. The path I had followed thus far had been cut violently as I stomped down the brittle, weak things that stood in my way. It was a winding, random course I had made through the field, not at all straight or narrow and lacking in style as well. It looked as though I had sheered a swath with a scythe, wandering without purpose or ambition. Such was not the case, however, as I had made my way asp-like for lack of attention. The day was glorious, and was I to blame for enjoying it to the best that I could, and not following the shortest distance between there and there? No. Blame God for making the world the way it was; the world outside for being so beautiful; blame not me. I became angered at my objectless thoughts, so suddenly, and unsnapped my sheath. I removed the knife and got to my knees, stabbing ferociously at the ground, at the earth, striking out for no reason but the silly thought that I had bid enter my mind; that someone might blame me for my rightfully chosen path. I thrust again and again against the unforgiving ground. Thin, shallow marks marked the giving ground, tiny little holes no one would ever notice but myself. Abruptly, I ceased. I stared at those holes for a long time. As the eastern darkness spread, I came to in revelation. I stood up and looked about me. The moon had intensified behind the curtain and the air was becoming chill. I looked down at where the holes should be. Certainly, they were still there. Perhaps I had kicked dirt into them and they had already filled, never to be noticed or duplicated, the most unimportant things in the world. Even I could not see them. I could, however, see the meandering course I had taken before the sun had begun to set on the day; I could see, also, my final destination, the strange darkness of the sure-to-be-occupied dinged-up trailer not so far ahead. Though people might not know of my unearthly, earth directed violence, which indeed even I had begun to forget about, though I stood upon the evidence at that moment, some would surely see the long, erratic path I had taken to get to where I currently stood. They would see it and notice it, and remember it, long after I had left the field. It would lie there, and the random assortment of plants I had trampled and killed would struggle to become upright, futilely, but never giving up. It would take new fauna to fill the course, and then only in quite some length of time. I smiled to myself and was accosted once more by the wind as it picked up speed and whipped me about the thighs with thin stalks of grass. I continued, the day nearly dead now, on my way toward my lot, cutting a straighter swath. I had neared the trailer now, and my hand was twitching over my knife, not nervous, but anticipatory. I could do it, I knew. I must do it. I rounded one of the trailer's turned up ends and approached from the front. There were three wooden steps before the front door. The wood was old and gray, nails were pushed back out and tiny pressure faults had been created. They complained loudly as I used them. There was a screen door first, which opened outward. I had to back down a step and lean awkwardly until I had opened it past my body. It rattled as it crashed against my right hip, trying to close. I stepped back up and put my hand on the old dull doorknob. The inner door itself was made of some ancient, once strong wood, which had by now deteriorated to the point where it looked and felt light, like it was hollow, which maybe it was. I turned the knob and stepped forward through the creaking door and into a rich deep darkness. The heat assaulted me and brushed past, trying to make uniform the entire world's temperature. As I entered, the screen door, white and with chipped paint, closed behind me silently. I quickly moved aside and shut the wooden door behind me lest the light linger too long. It was indeed dark and hot in there. I stood stationary while my eyes adjusted. The darkness was as palpable as the heat, and nearly as complete. The windows on this side, to my left and right, were also shaded, and they seemed to glow as the light outside pressed urgently against the shields. Soon, I could see a little and heard to my left the sound of a television coming from the far end: The father's room. I was standing in what in most trailers of the same design would be the living room. It was the largest room and connected to a hall, which was pressed to the rear side of the trailer; the opposite side from where I stood, taking it in. It led off first to a bedroom on the left, then the bathroom, very small and necessarily also on the left, and ended leading directly into the father's room. To my right was the kitchen, separated from the would-be living room by a counter about five feet high and a quarter of that wide. Where the counter ended and directly to my right was the open space, which afforded access to and from the kitchen. Instead of being a living room, the room that I was examining served as the junk room. There were clothes banked against the walls and used wrappers strewn about the uncarpeted floor. An ugly couch sat to one side, looking bruised and battered. More than this, though, it was thought of as the fire room. This was where the tiny little monster showed off his bite. I could hear the fire from where I stood, a loud, oppressing whooshing, punctuated by crackles and pops. The stove was small and low, the pipe leading straight up and out. It was made of dark iron that showed black against even the lightless gloom. An almost absence of presence. It radiated heat like a black sun. Already, I had begun to sweat. I removed my sweatshirt and tossed it aside. I crossed the room and started to the left, down the hall, jutting out my lower lip and blowing air up to my sweaty brow. As I progressed, the air became slightly cooler, more bearable. I looked left into the dark bedroom. Unoccupied, I could see, but little else. Next, the bathroom. It was lighter in there, the tiles looked to have absorbed any light they might have seen and were burning with it. Also empty of people. I followed the hallway to its terminus, and peered into the father's bedroom. A television lighted the room more than enough for my dilated pupils to see within. A slovenly looking bed stood center stage. A broken dresser with drawers in various states of openness was pulled against a wall. Clothes hung from there like the drooping phallic that remains following the old snake-in-a-can-of-peanut-brittle trick. The bed was against the rear wall and was facing the dresser, upon which rested the TV. Currently, it was turned to Jeopardy. I grinned shiningly. The category: Shakespearean Villains. The answer: This character removed the eyes from Gloucester, then crushed them beneath his foot. "Cornwall." "Eh? That you?" The man lying prone on the bed had noticed me. The television spoke: "Who is Cornwall?" "That is correct, select again!" "I'll take Shakespearean Villains for $200, please." "He was a villain during the Ides of March." "Brutus." I spoke intensely, looking at my father the same way. A contestant echoed my answer. "Yeah it is," He spoke with a voice like rocks grating together. "You do what I told you?" "Yeah," I took a pack of cigarettes from my jeans pocket and threw them toward him. I had run into town early that morning to get them. I'm underage, but no one cares. He took one out immediately and lit up. The glow from the TV and from the match formed shadowy concavities on his face. His long, equine face, shallow, gaunt cheeks and high fragile cheekbones made him look impossibly ugly. I could tell nothing else in the darkness. "You're done then. Get outta here." He spoke absently and maybe had waved a hand at me. I couldn't tell, as I had turned around and was almost into my bedroom when he had given voice.
Copyright © 1999 Matt Matics |