I stopped pick-axing, looked up to see if a certain someone hadn't showed. A certain someone had not. I got back to pick-axing.
I was building this new tent site because the old tent site--I'd built years ago--was deemed too dark for making art. Sure, I could have cut down the old tree that grew up over the old tent site. But that twisted Cherry was an old friend of mine. Instead of killing an old friend, I chose the harder labor of building an entirely new tent site.
Nope, that's the kind of old soul I was.
Of course, I had a lot of friends in the orchard, so it wasn't easy searching out a new tent site. Harder still was telling the four friends who grew just below a certain circle--swirled in the tall grass--I had to kill them.
Nope, that's the kind of old soul I was.
I stopped pick-axing, looked up to see if a certain someone hadn't taken up her circle. A certain someone had not. I got back to pick-axing.
Busting up the earth was doubly hard this time of year seeing how the clay soil had been baked to brick. To bear up to the hard labor of pick-axing the slope into a flat, I searched for something promising. Let's see, today was Wednesday, my Monday. Yech, save-a-buck stew night. I never looked forward to save-a-buck stew night. My old stew with no meat was like popcorn with no movie.
I stopped pick-axing, looked elsewhere for something promising. Perhaps that blessed circle would do. I dropped my pick-axe, went over, stood in it. There I closed my eyes that I might better re-create the day I'd come upon a certain someone sitting here.
A good way to re-create a day is to see it as a movie: There he was, the leading-man groundskeeper, stepping out of the dark, stepping into the clearing, stepping off the gravel path he knew, stepping into the unknown of the tall grass, stepping up to the young woman sitting in the grass who, on the big screen, was lit up like an angel.
I stopped the movie, opened my eyes. What I needed here was a better line than the one I'd actually laid on her. Yes, something movie-worthy. It took some writing, but I finally nailed it.
I closed my eyes, got back in my movie. "Forgive me," the leading man was saying. "Forgive me for disturbing your peace, but when a mere mortal gets a glimpse of heaven devouring the earth, he must step up to said heaven, see if his glimpse is real."
The camera panned onto the beautiful face of the orchard angel. She was looking up to see what kind of mortal could say such unearthly words. And that's when the stellar mortal first fathomed them--the mindshafts the angel had for eyes. No, he could hardly register the angel's clean voice for the--
Wait.
I opened my eyes. Mindshafts? Damn, I'd forgotten about the mindshafts. No, those mindshafts weren't the stuff of movies, they were the real deal.
I got back to pick-axing, and with each blow, cursed the kind of old soul who gets so caught up in a girl's cursed beauty, he can't see what's important. No, no mistaking those eyes; the woman of the orchard was nothing short of an old soul.
Mid-afternoon Simone and Sabina came strolling through the orchard. They strolled the orchard often, stopping here and there, taking in every weed, every bug. In their early thirties, the strollers could have passed for twins, and never had there been a more exotic pair to stroll the land. They wore their blond hair piled high in turbans, the effects of which elongated their skulls, giving them airs--Egyptian High Priestess airs.
Early on, when I'd see the two strolling like this--leaning into one another, sharing what they'd found, never letting go of their serene smiles--I thought they might be lesbians. Curious, I'd asked their professor, Ezra, what he made of them. He had said, "They're not lesbians, certainly. But neither are they exactly straight. I'd call them human, but I'm not sure that's entirely accurate."
"What?"
"I'm afraid what we have here, Anton, are a couple of beings who've climbed so high up the spiritual ladder, the tractor-pull of sex has altogether given up the ghost."
I didn't know about that; I was as highly evolved as any being on this suck planet, and I wasn't above dropping in on the odd tractor-pull every now and again. Nevertheless, I thought it wise to take precautions where Simone and Sabina were concerned.
And here I was, now, three years later, still taking precautions with the two strollers.
"Hi," I said, making sure to avoid eye contact. And why avoid eye contact? Because we old souls could read eyes, and if my eye-read led me to conclude the stollers were beyond human, where would that get me? True works, or no, hard for the pauper to walk the land with dignity having shit his pants.
A few other students came through the orchard, but with no sign of the orchard angel, I gathered up my tools--had to get up the hill, freshen up before the staff meeting at three.
I was pushing my wheelbarrow out of the orchard when I caught myself scissor-stepping along the four stepping stones. I stopped, looked around.
"All's clear," I said, thankful no one had observed my ungainly performance. "No," I said, getting on my way, "ask any super model; it's not easy pushing a wheelbarrow down a runway with grace."
I stopped again, looked back at the cement discs inset in the brown lawn like over-sized coins. I looked at my pick in my wheelbarrow. I was heading towards the dumpsters behind Metals. Yes, watch me pop these coins out of the sod, get this pocket change off my beaten path once and for all.
Returning to the stones, I channeled the energy I'd built up over the years cursing them out. Away I went, pick-axing the rock hard soil surrounding the stone I deemed the meanest of them all. But damn, this wasn't a stepping stone as I knew stepping stones. This was more like a cement car tire.
Fearing the roll-away stone might gash the trunk of the apple tree--an old friend of mine, I chased the stone down, kicked it over. True, there was a hair of animal still growing deep within me that wanted to go on kicking the stone. But I was an old soul, a master of detachment. Instead of getting angry, I assessed my next course of action. I could leave the stone where it lay, under the apple tree. But then I'd have to fill the gaping hole in the path. No time for that--staff meeting at three.
Sweat pouring off my face, I rolled the cement tire back in its hole. Of course, the damned thing refused to seat right. Try as I might I couldn't get it to stop rocking in its hole. That's when I lost it. "Son . . . of . . . a . . . bitch!" And with each word yelled, I jumped down hard on the stone. "I . . . swear . . . to . . . God . . . I'll . . ."
I stopped jumping on the stone, for I had bruised my heel. I looked around. "All's clear," I said, gathering up my tools.
That's when I sensed it--the enemy stone, laughing at me.
"Hey," I said, getting in the stone's face, "if it's war you want, it's war you got." I straightened up. "But right now I got a staff meeting I got to get to." I spanked the dust out of my pants. "Ya, and now, because of you, there's no time to freshen up."
I wiped the sweat out of my eyes, grabbed the arms of my disabled wheelbarrow, and limping, dragged my injured comrade up the hill.
****
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