John George sat on a log. The Pacific Northwest stretched out before him in all its damp winter wonder; though he yearned to be somewhere else, here he was, stranded by the Department of Justice on this hectare of rain forest.
He scratched his crotch and hummed Bo Jangle, shuffled his logging boots, and contemplated the old-growth tree across the glade.
His chainsaw leaked a trickle of oil onto the moss. John touched the ground, apologizing or hoping perhaps for divine intervention.
There would be no savior to meet him, no bearded white god to shake a manicured finger; there was only the trees and their spirits, silent and slowly eliminated by the logging company’s clear-cutting.
George thought about his pay for the day. He wanted his bottle of cheap hooch and some rollies. But, he’d promised his dog he would return sober and in time to feed him dinner. Even now, old Travis, the one-eyed, would be lying in the hallway, squinting at the door.
The Foreman, Mr. Mack, would descend soon. George would have to account for what the hell he hadn’t finished. The forest went quiet amid the roar of an ATV. As he reached for a flask, which he’d left at home, he folded in on himself. While he’d been sent away, the Bank seized his cabin, messed up his heart, but the green of the trees was always there. These primeval trees were older than Jesus. George wasn’t an eco-warrior or religious, just an old fella who listened to the forest’s heart.
George stood up. Mr. Mack drove into the clearing yelling, “You gonna lounge on that stump all day or ya gonna do what I pay ya for? Get cutting, old man, or you’ll be back in the slammer right quick.”
George considered the man’s words. Jail at least had three meals and a dry bed, but a bad case of cabin fever if you were there more than a season. This outfit may have bailed him out, but the beds were wet, the food was crap, and they fed the boys crap whiskey to quiet them. He knew you shouldn’t drink while out on bail, not even in the bush.
George passed an eye over the tree, over the angle, stood up slowly, and nodded his agreement. Picking up his chainsaw, he walked to a smaller, younger second-growth tree and made a decisive final cut.
Faster than a salmon dinner, the tree hit the ATV and Mr. Mack. George thought about it some — looked like an accident. He walked over to the stump he’d made, and sat down to wait.
Jody padumachitta Goch is non-binary, neuro-diverse, slightly dyslexic and Canadian. They live in the German Black Forest. Jody’s pockets are full of stories and poems. It’s hell on the wash machine. They hike with their dog, and rescue words from the lint catcher. Jody enjoys reading and editing for Does It Have Pockets and has stories and/or poetry in Wild Word, NPR Poetically Yours, Co-Op Poetry, Third Street Review, Temz Review, and more.
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