by Mark Nutter
I saw an accordion... a thimble...
You know what? It would take me too long to tell you about everything I saw at the Museum of Things. Just know that they have a lot of things there, all beautifully presented. You can see a lot of the things online.
Everything still reminded me of her. Every single thing. But you know what? After looking at the eight hundredth thing that reminded me of her, I realized there’s nothing that’s not going to remind me of her. That’s just the way it’s going to be. Once I realized that I felt better, and I enjoyed the rest of my visit to the museum.
I bought a few things at the gift shop and went home.
The Final Interview:
The Final Interview
One thing we’re told at Leo DiPaolo’s “Get That Job!” weekend seminar is, never give up. Until you get that job, of course. Then you can give up all you want.
But there were things from the seminar I didn’t find very useful. Things like bringing a steak to the interview. What if the interviewer is vegan? What if I get hungry while I’m waiting? Sure, steak makes a great gift, but who wants a New York strip with teeth marks?
The advice to never give up, I realized, was just bad advice, almost as bad as the steak idea. I was tired of getting bad advice and not landing a job. I decided to give up.
Man, it felt really good to give up. It felt so good, I wanted to share my good feelings of giving up with somebody, preferably an interviewer.
The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to go to an interview and do everything wrong, the opposite of what we were told to do, and then say “I give up,” right in their face, and then pee on their desk if it seemed appropriate.
I checked out job opportunities online, and one of them caught my eye: “We Are Looking For People Who Never Give Up. Quitters Need Not Apply.” Boy, was I ready to show them a thing or two.
The interview was in a really nice office in a really nice office building. I was shown in to meet the interviewer.
Seated behind the desk was none other than Leo DiPaolo!
I was stunned, for a moment. Then I stepped forward, smiled with not just my mouth but also my eyes, and gave Leo a firm handshake.
Damn, I thought, I’m starting off on the right foot.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I meant to offer you a limp hand like a gutted walleye.”
“I recognize you,” said Leo. “You’re Tom Schlatter, from the weekend.”
“So what if I am, you blow-dried freak?”
Wow, I just impressed myself. I’d wanted to say that the whole seminar. His hair was grotesquely blow-dried and his tanned face looked like a rotten prune.
I sat in the chair opposite Leo.
“I don’t know anything about your company,” I began, “but if I did I’d probably hate it.”
I put my hand down my pants.
“I have zero motivation.”
I scratched my balls.
“I’m not a team player,” I said, and belched.
I picked up a nearby donut with the same hand I’d used to scratch my balls and offered it to Leo. He stared at me.
I was running out of ideas. Think, Tom, think.
I stood and paced around the office.
“If there was a sheep here, I would kill it and roast it on a spit.”
Leo kept staring.
“After I had sex with it.”
Still nothing from Leo.
“After I dressed it up to look like you.”
“Mm hm.” Leo made a quick note.
I was getting desperate. It had gone well for a while. Now I was drying up, resorting to sex with an imaginary sheep, a sheep that looked like Leo, the last thing I’d ever have sex with. Or maybe the next-to-last thing.
I paced around even faster.
“I could make bad investments for you. I could forget your birthday. I... “
I trailed off. Leo looked bored, unimpressed.
“Oh, forget it,” I said as I fell back in the chair. “I give up.”
Leo suddenly brightened.
“What did you say?”
“I said, I give up.”
Leo stood, beaming. It was scary.
“Congratulations,” he said.
“What for?”
“For giving up. All those things you said and did earlier, like scratching your balls, you were grasping at straws. But by giving up you have shown me you understand how important it is to not give up.”
“I should have said ‘I give up’ when I came in and saved us both a lot of time.”
“You’ve got the job.”
“What job?”
Leo grabbed my hand and sunk his teeth into my upper arm. I didn’t see that coming.
Everything went fuzzy.
It turned dark outside. I could see a full moon through the window. Far away someone was playing a recording of the Credence Clearwater song: “Bad... Something... Rising,” I couldn’t quite make out the words.
I came over all funny. My fingers began to elongate. My face was burning. The hair on my head painfully rearranged itself into a perfect coif.
In a panic I ran to a wall mirror.
I screamed.
I had transformed into Leo DiPaolo.
I turned to Leo, the original one behind the desk.
“What have you done to me?!” I screamed.
“I’m retiring,” he said, as he vigorously messed up his own hair. “You got the job. From now on you’ll be running the ‘Get That Job!’ weekend seminars.”
“Plus I’m a werewolf?” I asked.
“No, you’re not. You just turn into me before every seminar. It’s a totally different thing.”
Leo put on his coat. He kept feeling his messy hair and smiling.
“Because you can only hold the seminar during a full moon, the odd werewolf might sign up. Don’t let it throw you. Good luck.”
Leo patted me on the back and skipped out of the office.
***
“Never give up. Never ever ever give up,” I said to the crowd of five hundred assembled in the hotel ballroom.
I pointed to a small group in back.
“And never eat steak that’s intended for the interviewer.”
Six or seven werewolves put down the raw meat, picked up their pencils, and resumed taking notes.
Par Amour D’un Tree
“Isn’t the forest beautiful?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said, Tom.”
We both loved our new cottage, but for different reasons. I wanted a quiet place to write reviews of cookbook reviews. Diane wanted a peaceful getaway in the forest, or so she said. But now I realize she had an ulterior motive. It wasn’t the forest she was interested in. It was the trees.
We’d been standing on the front porch for ten minutes.
“I just love trees,” said Diane with a shrug.
“Ha ha ha. You love trees, do you?”
She nodded slowly. I suspected she suspected I suspected something.
“I’m going inside to pan a rave review of the new Paleo cookbook.”
“You do that,” said Diane. “I’m staying on the porch.”
I left Diane to look at the trees. While she was thus occupied, I entered our bedroom and rummaged through her underwear drawer.
It had to be there. I’m sure she had one of those books. I’d seen them online. They had simple one-word titles, like: Arboriste. French, of course. No words, just glossy photos of trees bending over in compromising positions, some of them with their bark stripped off.
“I thought you were working,” she said as she entered. I slammed the drawer shut.
“I was looking for naked branches — I mean, clean socks,” I stammered as I hurried out the door.
It was an uncomfortable time for us. I tried to make things right in bed. I’d suggest, “Diane? You want me to hold my arm out to the side so you can attach a tire swing? Just to spice things up?” She’d roll over and go to sleep.
One night as I was reading by the fire — a gas fire, she insisted on that, that should have been a tip-off — she hurried to the front door with her coat on.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“To the movies.”
“Can I come?”
“No!” she snapped, and was gone. I assumed she was going to a Claymation movie, which I didn’t care for, I always end up shouting at the screen (“You’re not a dog, you’re clay! You’re not fooling anybody!”), so I was relieved I didn’t have to go.
I waited up for her. She finally came home at two AM.
“How was the Gumby movie?” I said sarcastically.
“It was okay.”
“You didn’t see any movie, did you, Diane?”
“I saw the movie.”
I snapped at her. “The car was in the driveway all night.”
“I walked.”
“Oh. And how did you get sap in your hair and bark underneath your fingernails?”
“I fell.”
“Fell on a tree with your legs spread open?”
“I’m going to take a bath.”
And she was gone.
***
I climbed the six flights of stairs and walked down the hallway to the door marked DERREN NIGHTLY, PRIVATE DETECTIVE. I entered.
A floozy in a tight skirt sat on the edge of the desk, filing her nails.
“I’m looking for Derren Nightly.”
“I’m Derren Nightly,” she said in a low voice. She narrowed her eyes at me. “Derren can be a male or female name.”
I didn’t want to argue with her, but we did anyway, for an hour and a half. Then we got down to business.
“What did you find out?” I asked.
Derren shook her head. “Mr. Tillman, I think you should forget all about this.”
“Show me the pictures. I can take it.”
Derren Nightly sighed. She spread a bunch of 8X10 photos on the desk. They were of Diane buying a movie ticket, going into the theater, buying popcorn, sitting and watching a movie, leaving the theater, changing her mind, buying another ticket and going back into the theater.
“She must be really unhappy if she watched a Claymation movie twice,” Derren observed.
“We have a loving caring relationship. Now show me the pictures of Diane humping a tree.”
“There aren’t any. Mr. Tillman. You’re consumed with jealousy and need to see a counselor. I recommend my sister. Her name is Travis Nightly. Here’s her card.”
Derren produced the card from her cleavage.
On the way down the stairs I tore the card into pieces. I thought it ironic that I was on the trail of a tree and the card was made of paper that came from wood pulp. Not world class irony, I know, but I was stressed.
I would just have to do the leg work myself.
Leg work. That reminded me. I ran back up the stairs to Derren Nightly’s office.
“Where did you get those stockings?” I asked.
“Frederick’s of Hollywood online.”
“Thanks.”
***
The stockings were delivered the next day. They perfectly complemented my heels, wig, and little black dress.
I looked the part of a middle-aged woman eager for some tree action.
“Where are you going?” said Diane, who had decided to stay in and skip the new Gumby vs Predator movie.
“Going out for cigarettes — I mean, a cup of sugar — I mean, a non-sexual massage.” I was still getting used to the heels and was a little rattled. I wobbled out the front door.
I wandered the dark streets of town. Somewhere there was a tree nightclub, where married women went to meet trees. But I’ll be damned if I could find it.
I did find a nightclub where married women went to meet moss and lichen. I asked some questions, but the moss and lichen kept clinging to the walls and pretended they didn’t hear me.
Dejected, I made my way home, stopping to buy a chainsaw and a purse big enough to hold it.
I guess Diane overestimated the amount of time a non-sexual massage would take. Usually they don’t go five hours. When I got back to the cottage there was a van parked in our driveway that said “Cecil’s Tree Removal Service.”
Something snapped, I guess because the only word I read was “Tree.” I pulled the chainsaw out of my purse and started it up. I stormed in the front door and ran to the bedroom. Diane was in bed with some guy. A shirt was on the floor. A name was stitched on it: Cecil.
I could hear Diane and the guy screaming over the noise of the chainsaw.
“Where is he?!” I shouted.
I looked in the closet. I looked under the bed.
“I know he’s here someplace, Diane.”
“Please don’t hurt us,” said the guy who I had come to believe was Cecil.
“If you’re the same Cecil who owns the tree removal business,” I said, “then help me find the tree she’s been sleeping with.”
“Okay.”
“And then remove him.”
“Okay. I’ll help you remove him.” Cecil jumped out of bed and grabbed his clothes. “Say, you know what? I have another chainsaw in my van. I’ll go get it, and then we can both look for that tree.”
“You’re on,” I said, and turned off my chainsaw.
Cecil ran out of the bedroom. Within seconds I heard his van start and drive away.
“Maybe he left his chainsaw at home,” I mused.
Diane and I stared at each other for a long moment.
“You won’t get away with this, Diane.”
“I’m sorry, Tom.”
“I’d like to forgive you.”
“Please do. I was wrong, I see that now. I hate that awful tree. Bad tree. I want it out my life.”
“That’s a start.”
“And... ooh, I just remembered. I also have a chainsaw, in the trunk of our car. I’ll just run and get it.”
I think Diane left even faster than Cecil. Maybe she needed gas for the chainsaw. I’d like to think that was the case.
I sat on the edge of the bed and thought things through. If I were this tree, what would I do, knowing that the husband and the wife and a professional tree removal guy were all looking for me? I would avoid airports and train stations and sawmills.
Where could I hide in plain sight? The answer was obvious: I would hide in the forest, with the other trees.
I went out onto the porch. I asked the forest to give him up, but I heard no response.
I played it safe. I cut down every tree surrounding the cottage. Innocent tree lives were probably lost. Well, why didn’t you give him up? You had your chance. Remember when I counted to ten?
I sat on the front porch and surveyed the carnage. He was out there somewhere, lying on the ground. Dead. I decided to burn every fallen tree in our fireplace, just to be safe.
That took about a week. When I finished burning I was exhausted. I sat on the front porch and fell asleep.
I dreamed I saw Diane in the distance, walking back to the cottage. You could see a lot farther now that the trees were gone.
When she got closer I saw she was pregnant.
“It’s not yours,” she said. “My tree lover was more man than you’ll ever be.”
Diane squatted and gave birth right then and there to a sapling, a very intelligent sapling apparently, because it knew how to plant itself.
It grew very fast. It became tall, strong, and handsome.
“I will avenge the death of my father,” it said. (It could also speak.)
I
t charged me, and began beating me with its branches. I was no match for it. I crawled along the ground, pleading for my life. But the young tree was determined to kill me.
At this point you’d think I’d wake up screaming from the dream, but that’s not what happened. Instead, the beating made me so tired I fell asleep in my dream and had another dream.
In this dream Diane gave birth to triplet trees. One of them beat me, while the other two dug a hole. They put me in the hole. There were hundreds of tree roots down there and they slapped me silly too.
I woke up. I’m pretty sure I woke up. I could be wrong.
I looked out at the treeless landscape. It occurred to me maybe that bastard tree had dropped an acorn somewhere out there. Maybe his acorn son would grow up to be another philandering bastard tree, just like his old man. Maybe that kid would break up another happy marriage.
I couldn’t allow that to happen.
I kept my eye out for that acorn. Come on, let’s see you grow, you little asshole acorn.
I can wait.
The Three Musketeers Vs. The Extraterrestrial Menace
Irene the seventy-year-old waitress called them the Three Musketeers. “Here come the Three Musketeers... three coffees for the Three Musketeers...” and sometimes, “I don’t see the third Musketeer? Is he getting his prostate checked?” If she’d been clever she might have said, “Is Athos getting his prostate checked?” but Irene was not well read.
Herb, the oldest, would miss the morning get-togethers if he was getting his prostate checked. Herb sat at the end of the booth, giving him easy access to the bathroom.
“Good morning, Irene. Or should I say, goodnight, Irene. Remember that song?” then Herb would sing, “Goodnight Irene, goodnight Irene...” in a phlegmy voice.
“Oh Christ,” said Nate.
Nate, the second oldest, would roll his eyes, then try to put his hand up Irene’s skirt. Irene would bat his hand away and say, “You old perv.” Everyone would laugh. Every morning.
“Just coffee today? Or do the Musketeers want some breakfast?”
“I’d like an egg white omelette, please, with rye toast,” Donnie would say. He was the youngest Musketeer. Irene would write down his order on her pad.