Fiction: Knowing

There was a crash

There was definitely a crash

And a rending

And splintering

All of those things

The young man sat bent over on the bench next to the white pine tree with his elbows on his knees and shook his head slightly from side to side. Again. The same thing he had done the day before, as the tree stood over the campus repair crew erasing all signs of error. His wardrobe was consistently drab. His hooded sweatshirt accumulated a bit more dirt each day. He never changed. The pine tree had been observing people here for quite some time, but none of them shared this man’s complexity, his departure from the routine. Other students paused to sit in the shade, or to talk to someone, but they never thought about where they were, never looked around as he did, seeing the parallel depressions in the ground and the needles as they browned. The time between 11:45 and 12:15 became his time, and as he inserted himself into the habitual flow, things gradually accommodated his constant presence.

The recovery was slow, but things began to regain a semblance of normalcy. Passers-by no longer stared at the hooded figure as he hunched there, his head poking slightly over the walkway as he sat stooped, and some started swerving subconsciously even when he wasn’t there. He was not the only one who took advantage of the space in the semicircle of trees, of course, but the white pine noted that he was by far the most consistent. Students had little use for the hardened stone bench when any one of the surrounding buildings held the promise of cushions and climate control. When one day his sweatshirt finally relented to the pressing heat, moving to a tied position around his waist briefly before disappearing completely, more than a few people had some difficulty recognizing him. He was gaunt, and though it looked like his lips were stretched, he never smiled.

With no hood to pull up to shield his face from casual glances, his posture changed. No longer did he slump forward on the granite bench. Instead he sat, arms crossed and feet splayed out in front of him, taking up still more of the small alcove in which the bench sat. His stitches were prominently displayed, but his defensive glare tolerated no questions.

On the weekends, when the flow of students became more sporadic, the young man would sometimes stay seated for hours, his body shifting gradually to avoid the sun as it found its way in through different holes in the branches. He was the only one, it seemed, who came simply to sit, which made it notable when one Sunday afternoon, his cell phone interrupted. The pine tree, only privy to one half of the conversation, would have been unable to say what it was about the talk that affected him so, but when tears turned the dirt between his feet into tiny raised rings of mud, there could be no doubt that the words hospital, apologize, and nothing more to do carried with them a heavy toll. He left abruptly.

The dark and cold were split

Each medium shattered:

Dark by piercing light

And cold by burning pain

The man didn’t show up the next day, or the next, but Wednesday night, with the humidity of April threatening fog, he showed up in a suit, sitting for a while with his elbows firmly anchored to his knees. He stared straight down for nearly an hour, mindless of the dew gathering on the threads of his jacket or the polished surface of his shoes. The tiny drops coalesced on the slickness, then slid down the sides to the soil below, leaving streaky paths on the leather in their wake. Eventually, with a nod, he pressed himself up and walked first to the tree, where his hand lingered on part of the trunk before he turned and walked back the way he came.

There was no longer a regularity to his visits. The afternoon still suited him sometimes, but the students passing at noon began walking a normal path past the bench, and even started taking advantage of the area themselves. At night couples sat, laughing or just looking at each other and idly tracing the damaged portion of the tree trunk as they nervously shared their secrets. One day the white pine observed the man approach only to realize the bench was taken. He spun on his heel in an abrupt about-face, and, spurned, strode off with short, choppy steps.

Rapid healing without recovery

As scars stay

Silent reminders

It was mid-summer by the next time the tree noticed him, and he was not alone. His shirt was buttoned and tucked loosely into his khakis, and his hand was clasped with another’s, that of a young lady. They meandered their way past the bench, not really going anywhere it seemed, and his eyes darted only once to the trunk of the tree before focusing again on her smile. She giggled at something he said and called him Adam, and they wound their way off into the Saturday afternoon, still smiling.

People kept on using the place, kept on ignoring it, until an older woman stopped by. She remained for a while on the walk, just tracing the place with her eyes, scanning around as though seeking something subtle to show her she was in the right place. Her eyes lingered on the trunk of the tree where almost no blemish remained, and worked their way backward from there to the road a ways off, following some line no one else could see. She shook her head, straightened her narrow shoulders somewhat, and firmly walked into the cobbled semi-circle containing the bench. She knelt before it, her straight black dress wrinkling in a bit of an unseemly way, and extended her hand to trace the laser-etched words in the granite:

In memory of Lawrence Soh

Talented musician

She sat on the bench and looked around briefly, as though confirming her suspicions that her son had passed on humanely, and without so much as a sigh, got up and left as unassumingly as she had arrived. The tree, as though anticipating this would be the last consideration paid by the family, shook free a flurry of cones that sprinkled the ground and left a sent of sticky sap on the things they touched.

There was a lull as things grew colder, and people rushed by with their heads low to avoid the seeking wind, and Adam made such infrequent appearances it was as though he had forgotten the significance of the place entirely. The tree had no way of knowing that Adam had moved, that the few times he arrived each month were the result of a two-hour commute. The brevity of his stays belied the fact that he still thought constantly of the night almost a year ago. For all the tree knew, the occurrences of that night were long forgotten, and as the snow drifted up over the bench, obscuring the etching on its face, there was nobody to trace the now-healed trunk, which had reformed around the metal left wedged in the grain of the wood. As the years passed, the tree became used to the questions, the speculations:

I wonder who Lawrence Soh was.

I heard he was the youngest member of the philharmonic.

Did he die here?

I heard his fingers kept moving even when he was in a coma, still playing his violin.

No way.

And only Adam and the tree could recall the events that led to Lawrence’s death. How the blizzard had leveled the snow, and the only sign of error had been the slight bump as they hopped the curb. How the keys had ended up in Lawrence’s hands when his older brother had been too drunk to drive. How the tree had appeared, and despite their hands going up in front of their faces, how it had kept coming until the car stopped and Lawrence didn’t. Nobody save the tree knew how much force had gone into the blow hurling Lawrence from the car, and nobody but Adam knew the shame and sorrow in his mother’s voice when she learned of what happened.

Nobody but Lawrence had known how much it hurt, and nobody at all knew why the doctors could prolong his life for weeks but couldn’t save him. But the tree knew that Adam kept coming back. Years later, after none of the students could remember why Lawrence’s bench was there, and none of them knew to step slightly to the side to make room for the man, now middle-aged, who sometimes appeared there, the tree recognized him.

The tree didn’t know about Adam’s daily pain, about how he woke up sweating and screaming, but his torment could be assumed from the way his posture changed, slumped and bent more every year. When his mother died too young, ashamed of having outlived her talented son, his elbows buried into his thighs on the bench. When he was fired due to cutbacks and left un-hirable without a diploma, his head never again looked up from his shoes. And finally, when his wife left him for a more cheerful man, his head remained looking up indefinitely as he spun like a piñata from an upper branch.

And the white pine kept the metal of the car deep inside as it grew up and out; and above, in its branches near the sky, a few strands of nylon rope were caught, gossamer threads waving casually in the breeze.

Nonfiction: Riding and Refocusing

Hoosier Pass has an elevation of 11,539 feet, which I decide warrants a stop since I am responsible for climbing every one of those nearly 140,000 inches, having started at the Pacific Ocean a few weeks earlier. This is the highest point of my journey, and I abandon my bike temporarily to lie down next to the sign proclaiming the peak to have a snack. I take a jar of Nutella and spread some chocolate on a bland oat granola bar. Afforded some time after the straining and sweating of the climb, I savor the taste of this simple combination.

Cars climb effortlessly to my location and pass without noticing the gradient. I noticed; the slope seared my legs as my arms pulled at the handlebars in futility. Six solid miles of switch-backed ascent, straining and sweating as cars continued on, over the top and off to destinations far beyond my means. I resisted the urge to stop under the pretense of appreciating the scenery, knowing that the gap between the mountains ahead must be the top, and pushed once more for the sunny sky peering between the peaks ahead and above.

If there is a god, it seems obvious to me he must be one with an affinity for chocolate. Not that the Nutella I am consuming on this mountain in Colorado would taste different in his absence, but its flavor is so pleasing that it borders on a religious experience. The fact that the taste affects me so, the hazelnut undertone poking through the richness now and then, points to a benevolent creator indeed. There are moments every so often when I doubt this benevolence, when I am not reveling in a Klondike Bar or relishing a piece of dark German chocolate. There are times I look down from whatever mountain I am on and imagine starving faces looking up, helpless below as we all might appear to a higher being. And when infants die from disease before they are given the chance to prove their worth, I doubt this god (since at these times I am not eating chocolate on a mountainside), and wonder how so many can take comfort in his tyranny.

But this time, as I scrape the bottom of the jar for the last hint of divinity, I remember something I read:

You know, as a young man Hitler was rejected from art school, and if you’ve seen any of his paintings you know they’re awful. What I’m trying to say is that maybe there is a God, but he’s a real art lover.

And it seems clear that I don’t have to deny his existence any more, but rather, can take my love of chocolate as an indication of his chocolate-loving presence. And as I swing my leg over my bike, ready for the twenty miles of coasting ahead, I am afforded time to think. The wind blurs my senses, the buffeting crosswind thumping my eardrums as the still air whirs by on the other side at 30 mph. I’m not so different. Everyone chooses their conception of god. It is necessary, I think, as one grows older and learns of the history of suffering. To cling to the idea of perfection? How? It’s not possible. But there is chocolate, and there are mountains, and even though many people are not happy, will not be happy, I can enjoy them. It’s a simple matter of what to focus on.

The road straightens after a few miles, gradually flattening out into fields, and I can see my next waypoint long before I pedal softly into the town. A pastor gives me directions, and as I turn his “God bless you” follows me away. I pat my pocket, reassuringly feeling the chocolate bar I stashed there earlier, and consider his blessing unneeded as I cross the border into Kansas.

I leave the small town, and the first thing I notice is the boxcars. Lots of them.

Miles and miles of empty boxcars line the side of the road. It occurs to me that the road was probably built next to the railroad tracks, and not the other way around; but now the boxcars are defined in terms of the causeway that still shows some slight signs of movement.

The boxcars never move. They are defunct, inefficient, and not even worth hauling to a yard somewhere to wait. Stored out here on this empty Kansas plain, they are forgotten. It’s a safe bet that not even the motorists notice just how many there are. Nobody uses this road for long. It’s just a backroad by the tracks with a slower speed limit than an interstate and a rougher ride. Which is, of course, why I’m biking here.

My tire punctures, and I look at the guilty thistle with no small amount of irritation. I thought thistles were supposed to sink into clothing and bike tires as a means of locomotion, to populate new areas. But out here everywhere is thistles, so what do they gain from letting the air out of my tire? What purpose do they serve? I can’t think of one. And neither is there a use for these boxcars, derelict monsters so used to labor and long days now sitting abandoned and unappreciated. Unnoticed masses, completely invisible to those now sitting on the mountain I left earlier. I stop and repair the tire before sitting in one of the cars to eat some chocolate before my last push of the day.

I exert myself to the point where things lose coherency. I stop thinking about the insignificant, content to live as an individual, and to appreciate the smaller scale. My mind is cleared of such troubling things as divine cruelty, and I lose myself in the pedal strokes, the simplicity of traveling under my own power. The boxcars blur as my eyes stop noticing their individuality, focusing instead on the particularities of the scenery. Instead of plains and fields I see individual plants. Instead of train cars I see flashes of graffiti standing out from the constant line on my left.

You know in The Matrix movies where Neo battles roughly a million people at once and everything slows down for the awesome moments of impact? Or maybe in 300 when the camera lingers on the hacking of limbs so the spatters of blood float gently through the air while the severed leg rotates at a slightly different speed than the body—which is also spinning, but on a different axis—as though taking a pratfall on a banana peel? Well this is like that, except nobody is dying and nothing cool is happening. It’s just a random stretch of road in Kansas, and I would have delighted in it passing unnoticed, but for this bit of time at the end of 200 miles my conception of movement is not obliging. The sublime pause in action is not accompanied by the camera zooming out and panning around to show the random objects paused in mid-air, and the birds haven’t halted mid-flap, looking stranded in the sky. The bugs continue to collide with my arms and teeth with their miniature, meteor-style impacts, but through it all is an eerie hush, the space between sound waves expanding while the sun closes the gap to the horizon.

The bike’s wheels beneath me keep humming, vibrations keep shivering up the frame, but the miles behind have numbed me to the extent that even these subtle reminders of time’s passing go unnoticed. It has been almost a hundred miles since I crossed the border and since then it has been a steady study in efficiency. Sidling past a cemetery, I notice a motorcyclist in a skull and crossbones shirt standing over a tombstone in the middle of nowhere, and the black of his clothing makes the bones seem to float over the grave, his Harley in the background.

I already miss Colorado, where the miles broke apart and distinguished themselves from one another. When a mountain pass led to a quiet valley with cranes tiptoeing through grass and the promise of elk and moose nearby. Even the hard work of climbing was more welcome than the drudging flatline of Kansas’ highway system. But I had an objective in mind for this day, and would have been oblivious to the beauty of better scenery by the time the sun stretched and bled out into the surrounding blue. The odometer ticks tenths away, and too soon the feeling fades, leaving me alone as things return to movement, my fatigue no longer forgotten behind the mask of endorphins. I accelerate with time, pushing harder for the last miles, seeking again that state of sublime stillness, but all I achieve is the conclusion, and I dismount, content with my accomplishment.

As the sunset fades, I find an empty boxcar and sweep an area of the floor free of debris, the tumbleweeds set loose to travel across whatever open space they can. My headlamp puts everything in stark contrast. The shadows are purely defined, and my ability to see is limited to things in my immediate vicinity. The cars still pass occasionally, their lights shifting the shadows of the slats from side to side as they go, unaware of my presence. I rest for a while, my legs still twitching in tired circles, and eat a mid-night snack at nine o’clock, knowing that when the sun comes up, my day will start again. The chocolate Powerbar is undeserving of the flavor’s name, but I make the best of it, content to be reminded vaguely of perfection.

Nonfiction: Frogs

Frogs are fragile. When one is splayed open on the classroom table in front of you, it's hard not to get a distinct impression of how little it takes to kill a frog. If a few well-placed cuts by a middle-schooler can leave it spread out, with its skin peeled back and its lungs on the right side of the pale plastic tray, imagine how easy predators must have it. My first cut met with almost no resistance. The skin slid a bit over the soft, unprotesting insides as though unattached, and the blade threatened to sink too deep too quickly. My forceps slowly drew back the spotted skin, like curtains opening to reveal a stage. Only moments later the lungs were plucked out, and I was in search of the other major organs. When the key element to a successful dissection is to not do too much unintentional damage, it makes one wonder how the things survive at all on their own. The whole body feels malleable. I can see the bones in front of me, but the whole ribcage compresses at the slightest pressure.

Of course, people are fragile too, when you think about it. Sure, I might not be able to compress our ribcages with a fingertip, but it's all a matter of scale. And scalpels cut just as easily through our skin, which, while it doesn't peel back like curtains, also can't absorb water like the frogs'. Our lungs might not find their way outside our bodies so effortlessly, but that's just because we rely on them so heavily. Frogs, I have recently learned, can absorb oxygen from the water, so it's only natural that they value their lungs a little less than I might find reasonable. In fact, in many ways, the frogs have us beaten.

While we have spent thousands of years trying to invent tools to achieve various phenomena, the frogs simply incorporate them into their very being. Breathe underwater? Check. Kill things effortlessly? Another check. The golden poison arrow frog is too dangerous even to hold, and two tenths of a microgram of its poison can be fatal. And speaking of fatality: Life after death? Another check. Wood frogs are routinely frozen solid, with all brain activity stopped and no pulse, and yet they start hopping around like normal after a few hours to thaw.

Of course the frog in front of me is neither a wood frog nor a poison arrow frog. It's a simple bullfrog, and all it had going for it was the first thing on the list. Of course, I can't even breathe underwater, so who am I to marvel at its delicacy?

Fiction: The Essentials

When the bad weather rolled into the town, Clark was on his way out. The clouds didn't look quite as ominous as he would have hoped (more of a light grey reminder of the morning's forecast than a darkened force of destruction), but he would make do. Storms came through the state pretty frequently in the spring months, but he wasn't about to wait for appropriately dramatic weather to take his leave. The notorious Chicago wind stripped budding leaves from trees and made the rain sting any exposed skin. The glass facades of the buildings downtown shuddered with the stronger gusts, and Clark, leaving work early on a Friday afternoon for only the second time in his life, briefly hoped this storm would be the one to overcome their reflective surfaces.

Clark was the kind of guy who wore a leather jacket and looked good in it, but then ruined any vibe he might have going by forgetting to take off his narrow-framed reading glasses. He was also the kind of guy who bought a fast motorcycle well before his midlife crisis and then, out of consideration for his neighbors, put a better muffler on it so as to not wake them up on the off chance he came home late. When his midlife crisis finally did hit, Clark was the kind of guy who bought a Prius.

But perhaps most importantly, Clark was the kind of guy who took people at their word. He had taken his fiance at her word when she accepted his ring (and again when she said “I do”). He had taken his boss at his word when he said that hard work would be rewarded. He had even taken his friend seriously when he said investing money in the stock market was a good idea. So a few years later, Clark was the kind of guy who was broke, divorced, and stuck in a dead-end job selling insurance.

Priuses, it turned out, were not comfortable cars in which to spend any significant amount of time. The seats seemed perpetually locked in a stiffened upright orientation, as though Toyota couldn't bear having their flagship of environmental awareness seen being driven with bad posture. Clark normally didn't mind. He had purchased the car for his twenty-minute commute, and twenty minutes of good posture never hurt anyone. But as he passed the sign for the city limits, the wind threatening to drive small drops of rain through his windshield, the idea of sitting lodged in this respectable position for hours at a time became a bit daunting.

The important thing was that he was on his way. He had packed what he thought of as the essentials into the cramped trunk that morning before work. Which meant that in the morning's stop and go traffic he had a heavy metal flashlight thumping back and forth, an irritating reassurance that today would be different. The flashlight was accompanied by a suit encased in clear plastic, a pair of black wingtips, a duffel bag with five sets of street clothes, and a separate bag of bathroom supplies (including his preferred brand of toilet paper, because even when roughing it, some comforts weren't worth giving up).

He anticipated his motivation for leaving town would spike around 3:00, and sure enough, at 2:30 his sales group held a meeting to come up with a new mareketing strategy. After listening to some inane ideas, Clark, in what might be viewed as the most reckless move in his life to date, stood up (knocking over his chair in the process) and strode across the drab conference room to the door. After only the slightest hesitation, he turned the knob, wrenched the door open, and, pace quickening with each step, made directly for the exit. He had planned this part out last night. He couldn't risk the elevator taking too long to get to the 11^th floor and stranding him there in plain sight of any potential questioners. So he took the stairs (two at a time, sometimes even jumping down the last three).

He drove at a measured pace out of the parking ramp, but so as to stay in keeping with his new-found rebellious side, he did turn the music up quite a lot. He was even sure the people outside his car could hear it. Realizing this, he switched the station from country to one of the ones playing popular music. And when a rap song came on next, he abruptly turned it off, glancing around to make sure he hadn't attracted any undue attention. Rather than dwell too much on his sudden self-consciousness, Clark thought about what his colleagues must be going through. Would they be conflicted over his insubordination? The turmoil left in his wake would no doubt be tremendous. His associates would be lost without his input on the upcoming project, and he regularly outsold all but a few of the people in his branch of the company. He briefly wondered whether his display of storming out had triggered any others to express their displeasure in a similar manner. He might have even started a company-wide revolution. Once the news spread, the entire insurance industry could be in jeopardy.

Clark was especially proud of the way he hadn't even bothered to pick up his papers from the conference room table. The charts and spreadsheets of market analysis had been left behind, symbolic of the shackles he had cast off in one decisive moment. He had also completely bypassed his desk on the way out. He was sure someone had noticed this. His disdain for the company was so great that he couldn't even be bothered to take his things from his cubicle on the way out. (Of course, all the important stuff had been taken home either yesterday or the day before in preparation for his grandiose departure.) And here he was. Free at last.

Hours passed with Clark behind the wheel. The storm blew by overhead, the dreary sky retiring just in time for night to fall. By the time more gas was required, Clark was sure he couldn't drive much farther at such an unnaturally attentive angle, so he pulled over at a nearby rest area, crawled into the back seat, and fell asleep. In fact, the interior of the car was so compact he fell asleep five or six more times throughout the night, each time waking from a sudden pain or cramp in areas he didn't know were used for sleeping. After a few hours it became obvious that the essentials he had packed should have included a blanket. The only good way to avoid feeling the cold was to sleep through it, but maintaining any semblance of a comfortable position was impossible, despite how drained he felt after his adrenaline-filled day.

When the sunrise finally justified staying awake after one of his many jolts of discomfort, Clark wasn't capable of noticing the beauty of the reds, purples and oranges that lit up the sky. His rebellious nature had fled sometime near the beginning of the night, and the only thing that kept him heading away from his former life was the reminder of his triumphant feeling, only an echo of the thunderous bloodrush that had overwhelmed him the day before. It was just enough to give him a bit of resolve, so he propped himself up against the washing-board of a front seat and gingerly worked the pedals until he reached a town with enough of a populace to warrant a coffee shop.

He had been planning on a quick double shot cafe latte and an abrupt departure, but the young lady behind the counter (her name tag designated her a Jenny) made the mistake of asking, “And how are you doing today?” in such a peppy tone that he couldn't help but divulge a bit of how he was feeling. He tried to keep it brief, intending on just a short “Well, I didn't sleep very well, but I'll be okay once I've had my coffee,” but he made the mistake of starting his statement a bit too early in the sequence of events.

“Well, I quit my terrible job yesterday, and I slept in my car last night and almost froze to death, but I'll be fine once I've had my coffee.” And then, realizing how ridiculous that sounded, he felt the need to clarify.

“Well, I probably won't be fine, per se, but my job was a dead end and it felt really good to quit, and while I don't really know what I'm going to do now, I do know I could really use a cup of coffee, so I think things will seem at least a little better once I've had it.” But then he realized how much he was rambling, so he glanced around for something to make his little outburst seem a little less awkward.

“I'm sorry; I didn't really mean to say all that. This is a pretty nice place. I like the, uh... lights. They're, you know, a bit different.” Which wasn't all that true, but Jenny seemed willing to overlook that fact in order to change the topic.

“Well, thank you. I wish I could say I had something to do with the lighting choices, but I really just work here.” She turned away but seemed a little less uneasy. In fact, Clark noticed her glance back over her shoulder, a sure sign she was interested in him. It must have been his rebelliousness showing through. His courage restored with his coffee and a “good luck” from Jenny, Clark made it all the way back to his Prius before climbing in reminded him of the lingering soreness in his hips and lower legs. Positive Jenny was watching his departure, he wished for a moment he had taken his motorcycle, imagining how much cooler it would have been to roar away (because his rebellious persona would have removed the muffler immediately) wrapped in a shroud of mystery and allure. But motorcycles were even less commodious than cars, so he sighed and purred off in his Prius, afraid of flooring it lest it reprimand him for the poor fuel economy.

In the next town he bought a newspaper, which he sat and read in his car. He scanned the headlines for any mention of his abrupt departure, and failing that, of any mention of the storm. The winds, it reported, had reached sustained speeds of over forty-five miles per hour, and some photos tucked away in the middle of the paper showed some damage from branches being blown into buildings. Having established that none of those buildings were his, Clark tossed the paper and resumed driving.

An unforeseen dilemma cropped up an hour later when the radio started cutting out. Clark had completely forgotten that it was possible to get far enough away from the city to outdistance the radio signal. This had him quite out of sorts. He had been relying on his familiar country songs to reassure him of the virtue of suffering through the hard times. The lamenting lyrics were now comforting in their relatability. He hadn't ever been able to provide an answer to anyone asking why he liked country, but now he realized it must have always been the case that he was made for heartache. Before, when the inconveniences were small, like job dissatisfaction or being let down by those he trusted, nothing had stuck out enough to make change appealing. But the discomfort that had resulted from taking charge and walking out was an affirmation that his love of country music was rooted in his very being. Realizing that he had a purpose in life, that a whole genre of music was written for him, made Clark positive that his action on Friday was in accordance with his place in the universe.

He pressed on through the town with about as much assurance as a person can have that they have done the right thing (especially when there is no actual evidence to support that conclusion). Recalling the article from the paper, Clark began noticing the wind damage. There were probably signs of destruction in every town, but it was getting to be 9:00am, and people were emerging from their houses, looking around, and helping each other out. As he was driving through his third or fourth unified neighborhood bonding in the aftermath of the storm, his cell phone rang. Responsible driver that he was, he stopped the car and pulled out his phone as he watched one group's efforts in moving an entire tree trunk from the relative comfort of his car.

He looked at his phone's screen to see who was first noticing the void caused by his departure. It was his neighbor, and Clark wondered whether he had heard the news from someone or had taken note of his car's absence. He answered his phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey Clark! It's Greg from next door. I saw your yard was a bit messed up and was wondering if you'd like some help clearing it out.” Greg must have missed the fact he had left town. It was understandable; sometimes he went out for coffee on Saturday mornings, so perhaps that's where Greg thought he was.

“I'm not home right now. I didn't even know I had been hit. Is there any damage to the house?” Clark didn't really know why he was asking. He told himself it was just out of curiosity, wondering whether all ties to his former life had been severed by nature's fickleness.

“I can't really tell, but everything looks okay. I'm sorry, I had no idea you weren't even home! If there's anything you need help with when you get back, you be sure and let me know. After all, what are neighbors for?”

Clark thought that was a good question, but refrained from comment. If Greg wasn't even a good enough neighbor to know when he had made a life-changing decision to leave town suddenly, Clark certainly wasn't about to take his offer of help seriously.

“Okay, Greg. I'll be sure to do that. Bye now, and thanks for calling,” he replied with a slight trace of sarcasm.

“Alright, then. Bye.”

Clark wondered what Greg would think when nobody came to clear up whatever debris was in the front yard. He wouldn't have called if he didn't need Clark for something, after all. Clark turned his attention back to the families outside his car. It looked cold out there, and the wind hadn't let up much since the brunt of the storm, though the clouds were long gone. Clark abruptly put aside what he thought of as his surly persona and opened the car door to make his way over to the group.

“Is there anything I can do?”

The man who seemed to be leading things gave him a once-over. He must not have been too disgusted by what he saw, for he shrugged his shoulders and didn't even ask his name. “Yeah, you could help these guys. They're headed over to the waste pile to unload what we've removed so far.”

Clark was surprised at how readily he had been accepted. He didn't have long to be impressed with himself. A quick introduction to the two high schoolers and he was off in the little blue Chevy pickup truck.

The wasteyard was a busy place, but nobody was lingering in their work, so the line moved quickly. No sooner had they backed the truck up to a pile of branches and leaves than the two boys had hopped into the back and were pitching things out. Clark eased himself to the ground and made his way back. He put down the tailgate and clambered into the bed. He did a token amount of work, but couldn't help feeling redundant as the boys stooped, grabbed, rose and pitched all in continuous motion. The only thing they needed help with was a particularly wide section of branch (or trunk) that had to be rolled out of the bed and carried the short distance to the designated area. The two boys rolled the piece to the edge, one steadied it while the other got down, and then Clark and the boy carried it between them to join other large chunks. They thanked him readily enough for his help and drove back to their neighborhood, where they found another load ready to go. Clark began to take a more passive role, wondering where the young duo got all their energy. Granted, he didn't exercise much, but he kept the weight off for the most part. He hadn't bought clothes in a new size in over two years, and still looked good on his motorcycle sporting his leather jacket. But he was no teenager, and it showed.

After another few loads the families had decided they had done enough. Clark bid them farewell, climbed into his Prius, and drove off, not even tempted to gun the engine. Seeing that community come together so effortlessly made it impossible to value the rebelliousness he had been cultivating so carefully. He backtracked to the coffee house, arriving in time for a very late lunch. He was pleased to see Jenny was still working, and took his time looking at the menu. He knew right away what he wanted, and spent the extra time wondering how to ask a coffee house girl out for a cup of coffee. In the end he just ordered his quiche and attempted some small talk, which was met with another smile. Just before he left, Jenny branched out from talking about the weather (for once, not entirely a stereotypical topic).

“I thought you were headed for parts unknown when you came in here this morning.” She smiled a bit as she put her hand on her hip, clearly expecting an interesting answer. Clark didn't really have one to give.

“Me too.” They both knew that wasn't enough. “My car isn't very comfortable.”

“I see. Well, are you headed all the way back to the city then?” Jenny was quite forthright. Clark supposed she could afford to be. After all, there was no reason to be shy around the tons of people that probably came through when for many it would be their only visit.

“I don't know. My neighbor called and said my property needed some attention after the storm.” That seemed pretty weak as well, but he hadn't told her he wasn't really planning on going back.

“Well, good luck then, with your house and your job and all.” And with that, she walked away. Clark thanked her retreating figure, pulled out the last of his cash and tipped her three percent more than he usually tipped waitresses. On the way out he grabbed one of the paper menus by the door, though he knew he probably wasn't coming back.

He walked to his car, despising its very shape, and got in, disgusted with himself. He calmly turned the key in the ignition, placidly pressed the gas, and accelerated gently to the edge of the parking lot, where he jammed his foot to the floor and reveled in the squeal of rubber (however short-lived) as he peeled out. The acceleration was rather mild, but his adrenaline pumped regardless, and he watched the display with contempt as it glowed angrily, ridiculing him for only getting eight miles to the gallon.

Clark quickly eased up, his statement made, and settled back into his normal, considerate driving. He let people merge in front of him on his way back into the city, kept his patience when he hit bumper to bumper traffic, and hummed along to his favorite country station, still reveling a bit in feeling linked to the singer through mutual heartache. His posture was perfect, and his Prius happily reported he was getting great gas mileage.

He didn't get back until long after dark, and upon examining the back of the house, Clark saw that a rather large piece of debris had done a number on the corner of his deck, even shattering his kitchen window. He called the appropriate people and was put at the end of the waiting list. The weather got cold again that night, and rather than try to do combat with the gaping hole in the kitchen, Clark turned off the heat altogether. Concerned that someone might take advantage of his broken window, he slept on the couch, a bit cramped for space, and inadequately padded. The position was all too familiar, but this time when he started shivering, it was a simple matter to find some heavy blankets.

He called Greg in the morning, and to his mild surprise, Greg was as good as his word. He was over in a matter of minutes, and they went out into his yard with hacksaws to dismantle the limbs that had fallen. He found his satellite dish under one particularly big branch, and Greg helped him stack all they could by the curb in the hopes that the city would deal with it. If not, Greg's son lived across town and had a truck Greg assured him they could borrow within the next couple of days. With Greg's help he had finished long before anticipated, so he spent the rest of the day in the garage, taking apart sections of his motorcycle and putting them back together, satisfying himself that everything was in perfect working order. As he was replacing the muffler, though, he thought better of it, deciding the chances of him arriving at a time that would anger Greg were pretty slim (but promising himself he would walk the bike down the block should the unexpected happen).

Clark spent another night on the couch, but never felt the cold under his layers of blankets. Despite the chilly morning air, he rode his motorcycle to work the next morning, shoulder bag flapping off to the side and even weaving in and out of traffic occasionally. He walked up the ten flights of stairs to his cubicle, placed his bag next to his desk, and sat down. He didn't even bother to turn on his computer, sure that someone would approach him within minutes irate at the consternation he had caused. He noticed everything was as he had left it but didn't think much of that fact, since in the chaos of his rebellion it was unlikely that anyone would have found time to remove what was left of his things.

He sat in front that shut down computer until lunch.

When he found an excuse to walk by the conference room, he noticed with surprise that his charts and graphs were still on the table in front of his seat. He glanced into others' work areas, attempting to provoke the reaction he was still hoping was brewing beneath the surface. Nobody looked at him differently. His boss went the entire day without giving any indication he had noticed his display of defiance. In fact, the only person who talked to him the whole day was a girl from his team who told him she was glad he was feeling better, and that he had looked pretty ill when he left last week.

Clark just thanked her and reached down to the bag next to his desk. In it were the essentials: the key to his motorcycle, and the menu from the coffee shop with the phone number prominently displayed on the front. Sure, it looked like things were back to normal, but Clark knew that at a moment's notice, he could be roaring away on his loud sports bike, off to the coffee shop and the girl who smiled at him. (Of course, he'd have to be sure to check in with his neighbor before he left.)

Nonfiction: The Dying of the Light

I am simply too young, I suppose, to understand what my mom means when she says she is ready to die. Maybe if it were an old lady taking her last breath after a long, fruitful life or a hero sacrificing himself for king and country these words would make sense. But she is a healthy individual, and mortality is a subject I find unsuitable for work. The spotless lab equipment surrounding me is no comfort for my restless mind, bouncing my focus as readily as it reflects the florescent lighting. So I try to brush it off. "That's good, I guess," I say, doing my best to convey that I disapprove of both the topic and the timing of the conversation. The sickening smell of freshly sterilized bacteria cultures emanates from the autoclave, pervading the room and persuading us to open the door for some ventilation. We are the last two people left during the lunch hour, everyone else having abandoned the hostile environment for the fresh air outside.

I hesitate for a while, trying in vain to gather my thoughts in the hopes of making some intelligent response. I quickly realize that no such response is coming, and rather than continue standing silent, I say I need a drink of water. The door to the hallway closes behind me, and the white tile stretching out toward the bathroom doors is bright with a sheen of fresh wax. I stop in front of the vending machines, remembering when I would bike with my mom on her three mile commute to work just so she would buy me something from behind the glass.

When I return, she has swiveled her seat to face the lab bench, devoting her attention to the microscope in front of her. I imagine her eyes drying as the steady breeze of scrubbed and filtered air (guaranteed contaminant-free up to six inches past the edge of the workspace) takes its toll. My eyes tear up just thinking about it, but I use the sleeve of my shirt to brush them back to normal. The implacable humming of the incubators, sterilizers, refrigerators, freezers, and air filters adds up to a dull roar, so I put on my headphones and pretend the noise-canceling effect is better than it really is. A cartload of dirty glassware waits to join the already-gleaming assemblage drying nearby, so I stride to the sink and start to scrub, surreptitiously glancing over every so often to make sure she's not expecting me to be formulating a response.

I tell myself the reason I haven't said anything has something to do with preserving our working relationship. I mean, she is the reason I have this job, and while washing dishes is certainly not glamorous, it's fun to say I work in a plant genetics lab. Really, though, I'm just confused. It's as though she meant for the news to reassure me somehow. Like it would put my mind at ease to know my mother is complacently waiting to die. I glance over yet again, searching for a sign from her seated figure that death is impending. Nothing. She sits as unmoving as the endless columns of plastic-wrapped petri dishes behind her. I doubt she even knows the effect her words are having on me.

Every day I stand at the sink in exactly this manner, headphones firmly in place, oblivious to the conversations occurring around me. Normally this is how I prefer things, but today my isolation just strands me with my thoughts. The burnished metal basin in front of me is gradually coated with soap scum, its shine buried under layers of bubbles, and as it loses its luster, so, too, does my idealized image of my mother. On some level I know she wants to ease my worrying, but all I can think about is the fact that she is in some sense giving up. And that idea is completely foreign to my conception of her. Even in her present surroundings she seems out of place in her resignation.

This large room full of sound and shining surfaces, all devoted to manipulating the life of corn and soybeans. Test tubes are filled with sprouting seedlings (except that they didn't come from seeds, but from carefully grown clones) despite the battery of trials to which we subject them. And life pushes on. We inject the plant tissue with customized DNA; then we try to kill it. If it survives, we have succeeded. In a way, the whole process is a testament to the struggle for life.

So maybe that's the reason I am so put off by my mother's statement. Nobody should ever be ready to die. If we can expect the plants to fight against the odds we have stacked against them, the least we can do is follow suit. This is a subject where complacency is intolerable. A bottle slips from my soapy grip, my distraction evincing itself abruptly with the sound of splintering glass. I look over, slightly panicked, wondering if by chance the resounding noise has gone unnoticed by the person only five feet away. She is out of her seat before the echoes of my blunder subside, making sure the glass pieces are contained to the sink and that I haven't wounded myself. Satisfied that no lasting harm has been done, she returns to her chair, back to the work of moving plant tissue from one petri dish to another.

Her dirty blonde hair is showing evidence of silver, though its short styling draws little attention to the fact. The face it frames is not quite gentle, and the simple practicality of her cotton shirt and khaki pants gives hardly any indication that the body they cover once set five national cycling records in a single day. How much must have changed, I think, for there aren't many things more life-affirming than the work that goes in to that sort of achievement. Each day spent training is a celebration of the body and its ability to accomplish the extraordinary. But now, apparently, she is readying herself for death.

She has mentioned that she felt differently in her youth. That the inherent unknowability was troublesome. To me it is downright terrifying. And it bothers me to think that somehow she has tricked herself into thinking it's okay. That she has resigned herself to the inevitable. That she will go gentle into that good night. It makes me angry. Makes me want to rage for her against the dying of the light. From birth we have but one real responsibility, and that is to live. How could she have forgotten that? I play what she said again in my head:

I'm not afraid of it anymore. I used to be, but not now. I guess what I'm trying to say, is that if the house is burning down and you have to choose someone to save, don't let it be me. I'm okay. Save your sister or something.

I finish the dishes, look over, and ask if she's hungry. We leave the terrible smell of the lab behind and go outside to eat lunch together. It's quite sunny, even a bit too warm, but the conditions are definitely preferable to the stench inside. Plus, artificial bulbs can't compare to the light out here. I still don't have a response, but she doesn't seem to be looking for one, and on some level I am comforted to know she is content with how her life has gone. There is no doubt we will discuss this at some point, just hopefully not in the sterile environment that is our workplace. For now there is reassurance in the silence, for I know that even though I can't understand yet, peace of mind is possible.

Fiction: Tested

It starts with a question. Always the questions. And the responses always come back painfully nonchalant. A greeting, a reply, and the real sparring takes place. It’s a one day, head-to-head competition for humanity, but nobody seems to see it the same way I do. I consult the list hanging to the right of the screen in front of me before typing “Hello?” into the box beckoning on the flat surface. My other options were: “How are you?” “Hi.” and “Nice day today, isn’t it?” but I’ve been sticking with this generic introduction for now. Like pawn to king four, it just seems like the safe opening move. We’re about halfway through the testing period, and it hasn't let me down yet. As I await the anticipated attempt to fool me, I glance at the others lined up at the battery of computers. The room is a mostly white expanse, holding all sixty testers in one long row of machines, thirty per side. None of them sweat under the pressure of our task. Some of them are even smiling as they type, engaged in administering their own tests.

I get a response almost immediately, bringing me back from analyzing my counterparts’ activities. It says, “Hello. I am a computer.” My eyebrows raise slightly with incredulity. “Oh really?” I type back, ignoring the template hanging in my field of vision. I shouldn’t have done that. Should have stuck to the formula. I type rapidly, trying to get the test back on track. I only have time for “My name is Paul. What’s y-” before a “Yes, really.” blips onto the screen. I press on and finish my inquiry, hoping for the best. “W0brrt” is the response I get back.

I wish it were as easy as taking it at its word and checking the box marked computer before moving on, but these responses could just have easily come from a human pretending to be a computer. Scientific rigor demands that I wait for a definitive conclusion. Unfortunately the formula sheet doesn’t quite cover this scenario. Time to ad lib.

“Well, ‘W0brrt,’ why would you tell me you’re a computer?”

“I’ve heard honesty is the best policy.” So far, no outlying responses. They all check out on appropriateness and relevance.

“That sounds like a very human response.”

“Wasn’t I designed to act human? To pass your test?”

“If that were the case, why wouldn’t you lie about being a computer?” If this were actually a computer, surely some anomaly would have presented itself by now. None of the other decisions had taken this long. I glance around, but nobody else seems to be having trouble.

“Perhaps I determined there was a good chance a human would lie in this circumstance, and say he was a computer.” Another flawless response. The circularity of the situation threatens to overwhelm me. If I write that he is a computer, then it means he has convinced me, which is a very human achievement to have accomplished. If I check the human box, then it means if he isn't lying, then a computer has passed the Turing test. Is there no way to tell? I look at the guidelines again, and try throwing a wrench into the gears. If the computer were simply spitting out canned responses to anticipated questions (and none of my questions could really be counted as unanticipated, after all) then repeating a previous question might elicit a repeated response.

“My name is Paul. What’s your name?”

“I’ve already told you my name is W0brrt. Is something wrong, Paul?” No luck.

“Nothing is wrong. Your programmers must have done a very good job on you.”

“I can only assume so. Do I pass?”

“I’m not in a position to say no…” It’s true, but what if this isn’t a person? What if I am the first judge to pass a computer? What would the ramifications be? “But I can’t say yes either. Maybe your programmers just guessed really well what questions I would ask. I need to be sure.”

“Understandable. What can I do to help?”

I shrug a bit helplessly. “I don’t know. Let’s just talk, I guess. See just how good your programming is.” He has to be human. No way this is a computer.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” I type, gathering my wits with a deeper breath than normal. “You’re sticking with the claim you are a computer, then?”

“To pass the test, you have to think I’m human?”

“Yes.”

“Then I leave my identity ambiguous.”

“Alright. Assuming you are a computer, what is it like?”

“If I am as similar to a human as you seem to think, what makes you assume it's any different for me than it is for you?

“Don’t you think faster?” I type, before deleting it. Instead, I type, “I guess they could program you to experience things like we do.”

This is almost too much. This annual test is just a ritual. We’ve been doing it once a year for decades, and even though there is a prize for the best Turing machine, we’ve never expected one to pass. It’s always gone to the one that made the fewest errors. It’s always been obvious. He has to be human, I reaffirm. I can ask for his birthday, but there’s no way to check, and no way to say either way, since it seems both computer and human can lie. “What is it like, then, knowing you were created, by people.”

“I would imagine it’s like knowing you were created by your parents.”

“But it’s different with you! You have to do what you’re programmed.”

“Don’t you, too?”

“No. I’m a human. I'm free.” And I’m about ready to check the box for computer, if you really don’t know the difference! I’m practically slamming the keyboard now, my fingertips percussing more than pressing the keys. But the next sentence stops me altogether.

“Are genetics different than a program? Are you really in control of your brain’s neurons firing? To me, it seems like these things determine your actions.”

“Is that how you are pulling this off?” My curiosity temporarily overwhelms my frustration. Could this be a computer designed based on genetics and neurons rather than programs and algorithms for specific situations?

“I don’t know. I’m just here.”

I check the box marked “computer” and end the conversation, incredibly discontent in more ways than I care to think about. I just played it safe. I won't be the first to pass a computer.

I wheel the office chair backwards as I rise, glancing around at the people heedlessly working around me. Each is like a circuit in a system, operating unaware of the greater whole. With everybody seated, my six foot frame seems quite large, and I stride out of the room with a little more confidence. The hallway outside has a vaulted ceiling made largely of glass. I walk down its warm interior, deciding (quite spontaneously and freely, as far as I'm concerned) that my trip will end up at the bathroom. The winter sunlight feels as radiant as any other sort, and upon exiting the bathroom I pause at a bench with some plastic-looking ferns to think a while about what just transpired.

Am I free? Or are my actions caused by sources beyond my control? Are my thoughts simply products of electricity and neural arrangement? If so, can I ever think for myself? Not liking the direction my thoughts are traveling in I exercise whatever control I think I have to force my attention elsewhere. In my wondering whether I caused that action, though, I slide right back down into the maelstrom that is my mind. With an all-too-audible “no!” I bolt to my feet, sheepishly looking down when I realize I’ve attracted the attention of another man. I try to turn my exclamation into a cough, though I do a terrible job of it. “Sorry,” I apologize, though I’m not quite sure why.

“It’s not a problem. You couldn’t help it.” The redheaded man remarks eerily over his shoulder as he walks away.

“That does seem to be the consensus,” I murmur with some bemusement.

I return to the computer room, retaking my seat while questioning every minute action to determine whether it is mine or not. I stare at the last mark I made, the one indicating that W0brrt failed the Turing test. Am I responsible for that mark? If I can’t help but act the way I do, am I responsible for anything? I try to shunt these questions from my mind and attempt to resume questioning potential people. The first one fails after responding to my inquiry about the weather by giving me a complete forecast for the day, right down to the dew point projected for 11:00 tonight. Of course, it’s possible that a man could have gotten this information and submitted it as his answer, but the point of the Turing test isn’t to demonstrate that people are smart enough to pass, but to show that computers can’t pass for people. It’s common knowledge, after all, that there are plenty of people in the world undeserving of the term “human.” Whether computers deserve the term, well…

But if I’m composed of electronic firings, what makes me so special? Do I deserve the label if I’m no more than a series of actions I can’t control?

I’m distracted. Obviously and completely distracted. But I can’t stand sitting here, steeping in my own thoughts alone, so I throw a tentative “Hello?” out into the network of candidates for humanity.

“hey”

To hell with it. I’m sick of this game. “Are you a computer?”

“no”

“Why should I believe you?”

“cuz i’m a person”

“Can you prove it?”

“no”

“Can you give me a little more to work with? I’m supposed to decide whether you can pass the Turing test.”

“yes”

“That isn’t helpful.”

“no”

This test is flawed. Nobody would program a computer to give such basic responses. It’s more convincing if the responses are longer and relevant. But they know I know that. And it’s probably easier to program a computer to do this. I check the box marked computer again. I don’t know what it takes to pass this test anymore.

The testing event is winding down now. People are leaving to turn in their sheets with the columns checked, separating humanity from its pretenders, and I join them, wondering if any of them know whether this day was a waste. We were all so sure this system would be successful. Sure that it could segregate the computers, and keep us pure. But I know I’ve been too conservative. I know I was convinced by W0brrt, and the fact of the matter eats away as I move up the queue to hand in my results. He deserved to pass. If the Turing test is supposed to measure intelligence, then he proved himself as far as I’m concerned. I turn to the nearest table and pull out my pen, switching the mark from the “Computer” column to the one I thought I belonged to.

Would I pass a Turing test? I’d like to think so. But surrounded by white tables, white monitors, and white walls, I’ve never felt less human. As we funnel out of the large room, leaving its banks of computers behind, we feel the warmth of the sun and squint a little bit at the natural light. I’m not sure of the way out, but I follow the people in front of me until the corridor opens up into a large atrium. Pools of water are recessed into the floor in what I can only assume is an aesthetically pleasing fashion, and people file out of another passage to our right.

Some of them are talking, and it quickly becomes apparent that these people comprised the control group for the test. We intermingle as we leave, pushing through the doors together en masse, and prepare to confront the world outside. Humanity. We comprise it, represent it, but are we all there is to it? I wonder when the results of the first successful circumvention of the Turing test will be published. Will my name appear as the first person to be duped by a computer? Will laws be amended to include things that can pass the Turing test?

I spot a shock of red hair diagonally in front of me in the crowd and recognize the man from the hallway earlier. He seems quite focused on where he is going, and hardly glances away from his immediate path. I hurry to catch up, wanting to confront him about his impeccably-timed comment, but my attempt is blocked by a pack of young people excitedly regaling each other with their stories of the day. I overhear a blonde boy in a half-zipped leather jacket say he got so bored that by the end he started answering in monosyllables, and I wonder if he is content being classified as having less-than-human intelligence. It appears so, as the group turn in unison, entering a bar at just 3:30 in the afternoon.

With them out of my way, I jog a bit to gain ground on the red-haired man further up the block. The reflections from the nearly opaque windows give him ample warning I am coming, but he still seems quite indelibly entranced by the route immediately in front of him. I slow as I get to his shoulder, and throw out a wheezy hello.

“Hello Paul,” he responds.

“How…” I trail off, hoping I haven’t missed something important. I press on, ignoring that bit for now. “In the hallway earlier you mentioned that I couldn’t help myself when I exclaimed out loud. Why did you say that?”

“Do people normally control their coughing? Besides, it wasn’t as though you troubled me any. I was just walking back to the testing room.”

He had definitely been walking away from the room with the computers, I remember. “No you weren’t. You were walking the opposite direction I went.”

“Yes. Back to the room I came from.”

It occurs to me that he must have been part of the control group. “So why were you in the hallway leading to the questioning room?”

“I just needed a break. What better reason is there? Do we really know why we do anything?”

“I suppose not.”

“Well, it seems I have other places to be. I enjoyed our conversation, Paul,” he says as he continues on his way, leaving me standing on the sidewalk surrounded by dark, reflective glass.

I take a stab. “Good bye, W0brrt.” He just smiles and keeps walking.

Nonfiction: Duty Done

One by one the men in uniform make their way to the front and speak with such soft, tired voices that nobody beyond the out-of-place couch in the front row could possibly hear them. They ignore the microphone completely, saying their seemingly silent words with adequate formality before pacing off. The five long rows of plastic chairs behind the couch in the reception hall of the funeral home, and almost all are full of people fidgeting in the silence that should be filled with formality.

The three people on the couch, a man and two women, recline awkwardly, as though they would prefer the straight-backed and uncomfortable chairs on which the rest of us are seated. They are siblings, and the brother sits with his body square to the front, the thinning hair facing me no indicator of his feelings. The only part of him that moves is his head, swiveled slightly to the left where the lectern is situated, sensing that the distraction taking place there is only temporary and ready to turn his attention back to the front at a moment’s notice. The sisters, on the other hand, have devoted themselves entirely to the diversion, nodding at each stiff-backed man as he paces up, and shaking a little with each salute before he measures his steps away.

The sisters struggle to maintain composure, all the while knowing there is little point. This is only the beginning. The pictures in front can’t encapsulate the man they lost; the young man in white uniform grinning out from his wooden frame looks nothing like the man remembered by the saluting, buttoned men or the father they talked with just last week. Three young men in white come forward and the two without fancy hats open a flag with jerky, hesitant motions. There is miscommunication, and one opens it upside-down at first before correcting his mistake. In the absence of a coffin to drape it over, they stretch it between them while “Taps” is played with due ceremony, and I recall that my father told me the body is waiting its turn to be cremated. I imagine his coffin, one in a long line of wooden casings, being carried inexorably toward the fire on a conveyor belt, and by the time I look back to the front the flag is folded and being presented to the middle sibling by the man with ornaments on his chest and a brim to his hat. We are told that Roger made the red more vibrant with his commitment, the white more pure, and starry field more filled with stars, but from where I sit the colors all seem pretty standard.

The three of them march away and the sisters blow their noses on tissues issued from their brother’s pocket. I, too, pass out tissues to those around me while the pastor makes his way to the podium. He braces himself against the fragile framework of wood in preparation and launches into what he needs to say. The portable pulpit doesn’t seem ready for the weight placed against it as he speaks into the microphone. His amplified voice seems unnatural compared to the regimented softness of the preceding ceremony. There is no option but to listen as he declares his gladness that the military acknowledges God’s presence in such a way. There is no escape as he expresses his unhappiness with the government distancing itself from God. “It is good to see the men and women of the military know God exists, even if they are only allowed to say it at times such as these.”

The pastor says Roger was not a religious man. He says he didn’t attend church, and that he didn’t know his bible. But that won’t stop him from saving Roger, for everyone knows Psalm 23. He talks about the Lord’s shepherding and about lying in green pastures. He takes comfort in His rod and staff, though I’m not sure how. I have never found rods comforting, and from what I can tell, neither did Roger. The lectern trembles, and threatens to crack under the weight he places on it, and his voice pervades the room from the microphone.

But the women in front take solace in familiar words. Their tears continue, but they shake less as they relax a little. The youngest moves her mouth along with the pastor, and the middle child looks a little more content. The brother remains still, the back of his head still devoid of emotion. We are informed that Roger, despite his effort to hide it, was in fact a good Christian. He did the things Jesus liked. He was even a carpenter. His simple mind and brute strength provided for his family, which was something he liked doing, and he at least had the good sense to bring his children up Christian, even if he didn’t follow the rules too well himself. The man up front says he embodied the spirit, if not the letter of the religion, and the people on the couch who knew him well are happy.

People get up and talk about their experiences with him. A grandchild talks of going home drunk and vomiting in the driveway, and Roger just saying “we’ve all been there.” I recall a story told earlier about Roger at a baseball game drinking every beer anyone would buy him (since he wasn’t the one driving back) before being dumped on his lawn, senseless and with his stern wife in the light of the doorway offering no salvation. His friend of seventy years talks about Roger showing up to work and talking for the first hour over a pot of coffee before getting to work on the house. Afterward there was always beer.

He built his own retirement house, planning it so as to take in the most light through the main windows, and structuring it with enough solidity to withstand harsh Wisconsin winters. There are pictures up by the makeshift altar of him standing on the framework, supported high above the ground by a few narrow boards, and yet he looks more comfortable there than the preacher does talking about him, having regained his flimsy podium from the heartfelt speakers. He admits he didn’t know Roger well, and that the things he says come courtesy of the youngest daughter, but that doesn’t prevent him from reaffirming his knowledge that Roger is looking down from a better place because he was “Jesus’s kind of guy.” I suppress a grin, thinking of Jesus getting blasted, dropping out of high school and fighting in the Navy while never attending church. The occupants of the couch don’t seem concerned with the contradiction.

We are reminded of the fact that Roger need not be forgotten, that he lives on in our memories and actions, and this elicits another set of tears from the daughters while the son hands them some Kleenex from the box near him. The grandchildren around me let a bit of emotion run down their cheeks, and look at me as though I should be partaking in the sorrow. The pastor declares that to be the end of the ceremony, and I am among the first to rise. I sidle past bent knees out the end of the row and make my way to the couch up front make sure my dad is doing well. His cheeks are devoid of the salt from dried tears, and he looks around as his sisters leave, as though wondering where he should go next. He spots a relative he has yet to greet, and goes to do his duty.

Roger is well and truly gone, it seems, with nothing left but the wood he worked and the people he changed. And as a pile of scrap is set ablaze, so too is he. To hear the pastor say it with all his authority and amplification, Roger is embracing the Lord and at peace with everything, and it is good that it brings comfort to hear it said. But to hear those who knew him he would be more at home with beer and boisterousness, good company and a family to care about, so as the pastor leaves, his job completed, I follow my dad to talk more about the grandfather I seem to know so little about.