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After cleaning up the utensils and bowls, and packing away the leftovers, Olds asked him about his life. Johann was busy making another pot of tea and he looked up for a second with a strange look in his eyes. He smirked and continued to put the herbs and needles into the boiling water.
"It's a long story," he hesitantly replied. He pulled the black hoodie off his head and ran his fingers through the rollicking mess of his dark-haired scalp. Several twigs and bristles and berries fell upon his shoulders.
Olds leaned back against the log. "I like long stories," he said, and then added, "I mean, if you don't mind telling it."
"No, no...it's just... no one's ever asked me for my story."
He was right about that, too. Everyone in Timbrook knew his story, and his family's story, and no strangers to the area ever stayed long enough to ask anything other than 'May I use the bathroom by that stump?' or 'What's the fastest way out of this god-forsaken landfill?'
Hesitantly at first, he told Olds everything he knew about his family, and the more he spoke, the more confident he grew.
"I was born in Timbrook quite a few years ago. I'm not exactly sure how long ago it was because no one in the village knows how to tell time. In fact, I'm still a little confused myself about the entire concept.
"Anyway, my mother was named Humphrey. She was supposedly named after a goat my grandfather owned that had the unusual power of turning acorns into chestnuts with just a loud snort in their general direction. A strange gift, I'll admit, but one which made my grandfather quite popular at wedding parties and local church inquisitions. Now, my father's name was Kelp O'Really, he was an Irish immigrant who escaped the Emerald Isle by pretending to be a boat's figurehead. He hung onto the bowsprit of a ship, dressed like Helen of Troy, and stood stiff as a board for several weeks, until a wayward rat crawled up his dress and made him lose his grip...both literally and figuratively.
"He swam to shore and wandered about a little before traveling south with an opera company. He played the opening and closing curtains in their productions. He sometimes made a little extra if there was an intermission.
"When he arrived in these regions, he worked as a 'tree-cutter'. Now, being a tree-cutter is hard work, for as you can see around you, the trees in these forests are quite large, and thick, and...primarily made of wood. A person needs a good set of strong teeth to cut through these forests, let me tell ya."
Olds, with a baffled look upon his face, interjected: "Pardon me, did you say that...you need a good set of...teeth?"
Johann handed him a cup of tea and then began pouring one of his own. "Oh, yea, just look around you."
Olds pondered this for a moment. He had a very uneasy feeling about continuing this particular line of questioning, but it seemed that he was indeed a glutton for punishment. "Let me get this straight," he slowly asked, "Do these, uh, 'tree-cutters', as you call them..."
"Yes..."
"Are you trying to tell me that they use their, uh...teeth," he pointed at his own mouth and grinned a toothy grin, "...to cut down trees?"
"Yes," Johann replied, wondering what part of 'tree-cutting' did Olds not understand. "What else are you gonna use?"
Olds felt a shiver start at his toes and continue on up his spine until the hairs on the top of his head quivered. "I don't know...maybe a saw?"
"A what?"
"A saw. Y'know, a saw?"
"I've never seen a saw."
"You've never seen a saw?"
"No, I'm quite sure...if I had ever saw a saw, I'd tell you that I had seen a saw. Now, I have seen a see-saw...but it was only so-so."
The befuddled cavalier then began making a pushing-pulling gesture with his arms. "Y'know, it's a metal thing, with a handle...and you move it back and forth across the tree...and it has these little notches...that..."
Johann looked upon Olds like he had suddenly started speaking in Portuguese.
"Well, anyway," the knight spurted, his head shaking rapidly, "What about an axe?"
"I never saw an axe. Why do you ask?"
"Surely you know what an axe is?"
"Yea...that's what the earth spins on, right? Or is that an axle?"
"No, I think you're right...axis...but, that's not what an axe is."
"So, how do you use an axis to cut down a tree?"
"You don't..."
"Oh, so you use an axle then..."
Olds slapped himself in the forehead ― but he actually felt like carrying out such an action on Johann. "No, you use an axe! You know...an axe?"
"I already told you, I never saw a saw, or an axe. However, I saw a play once...it had three acts...but, it was only so-so." Johann smiled and took another sip of tea. "Anyway, why do you keeping asking about what an axis?"
Oldsmobill beamed a crooked smile and resembled a lunatic just off his meds. "Because, it's one of the earliest tools ever developed by mankind."
"An axis?"
"No, an axe is!"
Johann grunted and folded his arms. "Sorry...never saw one."
Olds finally gave up. He took a long drink of the tea and leaned back against the log. "Uh, right...please continue your story...before suicide possibly becomes an option."
Johann immediately started right where he had left off, as if someone, somewhere, had decided to push the 'play' button.
"For numerous amounts of time bits, my father was a single man, and with the pay a tree-cutter makes in his prime, as well as all the free wood chips he could eat, he was, needless to say, a very popular little critter.
"He met my mother at a 'grooming festival.' It's a party of sorts, where people from around the area gather together and pick the lice, ticks and whatever else they can find squirming around on each other, and eat the little delicacies. It is said to be an ancient primate tradition, and is quite popular with the swinging-singles crowd. My father had told several of his friends that he had fallen in love with my mother the first time he laid eyes on her, and knew that she was a very strong and healthy woman because there aren't many humans that could possibly survive with so many juicy parasites feeding upon them.
"They were soon engaged and eventually married in a traditional Timbrookian wedding, complete with a maimed wildebeest leading the ceremonies. After their vows, as is customary in these parts, they slapped one another about the head and torso with a pair of chicken carcasses, before lovingly spitting into each other's mouth.
"They spent their honeymoon hitchhiking to Switzerland and rolling unsuspecting tourists for their pension checks. Upon returning to Timbrook, they moved into their very own, nicely decorated ditch.
"For several more globs of time, my mother and father lived happily in the valley. He spent his days gnawing out a living in the surrounding forest and she spent her time brutally interrogating my brother and me about how we spent our lunch money. After a few yards of time had passed, my mother and father decided to move to a much nicer area of Timbrook, so we spent our days and nights on the northeast side of town digging a much larger ditch. My brother and I were very close, as we often roamed and played in these forests and swamps, spending most of our days eating sticks and grubs, and extorting acorns from the local field mice. Yes, those were the happiest days of my life.
"Unfortunately, my youthful bliss was not to last for very long. My father, his teeth nearly worn down to the gums, could not produce the kind of quality work that he had once been able to do with a young, strong set of choppers. He became despondent, and spent fewer and fewer evenings gleefully calling us all sorts of vile names and acronyms inside the family ditch, but instead, began spending more of his time at the village pub, where his anti-social behaviors caused him more than a few horrible beatings.
"One day, we received word that he had left the valley after a four-day binge on some type of silicone-based lubricant. It seems that he staggered down the road — past the swamps and forests that surround the village — and eventually wound up in the city of Fouldune, about fifteen miles from here. We found out much later that he had joined a band of dyslectic rabble-rousers, who, after stealing a wagonload of concentrated swamp gas, decided to go to France, and, as they themselves had described in a ransom demand: "Ellitsab eht pu wolb."
"I have not seen or heard from him in all these many gallons of time. My mother, at first, seemed to take his leaving quite well, for she still had both me and my brother to take it out on. We took our punishments in stride, though, for we knew it would help her get over the old codger's leaving.
"A few sunrises after my father's exit, my brother and I were out foraging in the woods for injured rodents, when a friend of ours by the name of Terry Wetbottom, came running up to us and frantically relayed that our mum had sold everything she owned, including her prosthetic arm and extensive wig collection, and after kicking the mayor of Timbrook in the 'family ball-bearings', she had hitched a ride on a passing wagon train and headed west.
"When we came home, we found the ditch to be completely empty. Not only was our mother not there, but everything — every pot, pan, chair, piece of clothing, and eating utensil — was gone. She even took the portable hibachi. The only thing she left us was a single red boot; a few buttons; three crayons (all of one color: aquamarine); an incomplete set of encyclopedias (just the books entitled: 'G', 'K' and 'XYZ'); and a note, which was scratched on a dried cornhusk. It said:
'Dear Banes of my womb,
I'm going to Berlin to become a cabaret star.
Sorry that I can't leave you little mongrels anything, but you know how sentimental I am. You can go live with your aunt and uncle and blend in with their other canine pets. Don't talk to strangers unless they offer you large amounts of candy. If you're ever in Berlin, look me up.
p.s., I'm changing my name to Kiki Montrose.
p.s.s., Remember, life is a cabaret ol' chums, life is a cabaret.
Truly, but let's not get mushy about it,
"Mum."
(Don't ever call me that in public)'
"And that was the last we heard from her."
Olds sat his cup down upon the pile of leaves next to him. His eyes were wide and glowing in the firelight. His mouth was slightly opened with a faint breath passing between his lips. He slowly whispered, "That is absolutely the most devastatingly depressing story that I have ever heard."
Johann looked up from the fire and smiled. "She wasn't much good at mothering anyway. Y'know, she used to tell me and my brother about how much she admired fish and reptiles because they just lay their eggs in a small trench before rapidly fleeing the scene of the crime. She'd always say: 'Nurturing beastly creatures isn't in their job description ― and they will have none of it ― so why should I? Am I not better than a lizard or a mackerel?' I remember her husky voice...rasping really...singing a lullaby as she nestled us into our pile of damp leaves and cat hair:
"Momma turtle swims across the sea,
And lays her eggs in the sand and foam.
Off she goes, back to the sea, saying:
"You lil' buggers are all on your own!"
"She really sang that...as a lullaby?" Olds asked.
"Yea," Johann replied, "She said that having and raising kids wasn't nearly as enjoyable as making fun of them."
Olds sat back down and looked uncomfortably about the campsite.
Johann sighed, "Oh, well, I guess everybody has their own personal dreams and delusions," he took another sip of the tea, "I guess hers was to be a cabaret singer."
"Was she a good singer?"
"Only if you're a wounded wolf or a lost bear cub."
"Oh," Oldsmobill replied. He threw a few sticks on the fire. "Was she a good dancer then?"
"Yea...like a pig on ice."
The fire grew in intensity and orange sparks lifted into the night sky. Olds was finishing another cup of tea and leaned over and fluffed his bedding, which was just a pile of dry oak and maple leaves. One of Johann's shirts lay at the head of the pile for Olds' head. The blonde trooper didn't mind sleeping in the woods, he had done it many times, but he had an insane fear that spiders might crawl into his ears at night and lay their eggs in his brain. So, he was quite adamant about being able to lay his head on something besides just leaves.
Johann leaned against the tree trunk. His thin, little bedroll was lying next to him. A small pile of leaves lay at the head of his makeshift bed. He didn't worry about spiders, and if they did happen to crawl into his ears and lay their eggs inside his head, he'd probably be grateful for the company.
He poured the rest of the tea from the pot into his cup, using a piece of cloth as a filter to keep the pine needles and remains of the soaking herbs out. It was a little tepid now, but that was fine by him.
"So," he continued, "my brother and I moved in with my aunt and uncle, who lived just around the corner from our old home. Truth is, we were actually quite content there, seeing how my uncle had an agonizingly successful dental practice, and I do mean agonizingly. My aunt was a great cook, especially when she found something besides leather belts and old ironing-board covers as ingredients. Unfortunately, tragedy soon crept into our lives again..."
"Oh, dear god..." Olds whispered into his cup.
"Now, my brother, Pustule, was a very big man, even for a boy. He stood about seven feet tall and weighed over three hundred pounds, which is pretty amazing considering our diets consisted mainly of wood, slugs and the occasional feral cat. My brother was almost all muscle, except for his head, which was almost all fat, with just a little gristle. Well, one night, he went over to a barn-razing in the nearby town of Carbuckle, a small trough northwest of Fouldune. While there, he tried to impress one of the local harlots by the name of Gargle McSwill, by attempting to wrestle a cow. Now, cows don't last long in Timbrook, but there are a fair number in the surrounding farmlands, and cow-wrestling is a very popular sport in those parts. A champion cow-wrestler can expect to earn large sums of gold and muskrat pelts from the locals, as well as several lucrative advertising endorsements.
"The most famous cow-wrestler around here is Portomissimo Aft, a spindly, but very strong, little bovine molester, who, it has been said, once pinned a 800 lb. Jersey Red in two minutes and thirty-seven seconds, which, I presume, is a very good time particle. They say he owes much of his success to the way he intimidates the cow by wearing a butcher's coat into the ring while nibbling on a veal patty.
"Anyway, so Pustule, who was slightly drunk and rather horny, snuck into a holding pen late that night, while Ms. McSwill looked on in oblivious admiration. The pen was built to hold the most famous wrestling cow in all of the land, her name was 'Mrs. Vanderbilt', and she was being readied for a major championship match that weekend.
"So, my brother decides to perform a move on the cow that he had learned from a traveling leech-peddler. It was called the Bristol Udder Tuck, and my brother spent many hours practicing it on any elderly person that he could run down.
"Bad luck, though, is a harsh dealer of fate. For, unknown to Pustule, 'Mrs. Vanderbilt' had been moved to a nearby field for grazing, and the creature presently in the pen was not even a cow, but was in fact, a bull. Its name was 'Bushwaxer' and it had been quarantined due to an altercation with a tubercular cheerleader by the name of Britney Halifax. Now, as I said, Pustule only knew one move, the infamous Bristol Udder Tuck, a very effective move on cows, but when it came to bulls...well...let's just say that the maneuver is only useful if you want to really, really, piss them off.
"According to Ms. McSwill's testimony at the coroner's inquest, it was not a pretty sight. The only good thing about the incident was that my brother broke the world record for 'Launched the Farthest by a Member of the Bovine Species'. The bad thing was that he landed on his head, which not only killed him instantly, but also disqualified him from being in the record books.
"I miss him, especially when we used run around in the nearby swamps and forests. He was so tall that he'd hit his head on a tree limb about every thirty pints of time or so." Johann finished his tea and placed the cup near the fire. "I still can't believe that landing on his head didn't save him."
"My, Johann, so much tragedy for one person, how have you dealt with it all?" Olds asked, finishing his cup of tea as well.
"Oh, if you live in Timbrook more than thirty-six time packages, you become well-acquainted with tragedy. You soon come to think of it as a constant companion, along with the mud, the hard liquor, and the hairy little fungus that grows between your toes."
Johann laid back on his bedroll and closed his eyes. "Anyway, that's most of my story. The truth is I spend most of my time out here sneaking up on things and throwing my shoes at 'em."
Olds smiled and leaned back on his pile of leaves. The sounds of the forest slowly rose to fill the silence as each man stared into the fire for a few minutes. Johann turned his head and stared up at the night sky.
"Sleep well, Olds."
"You too," he replied, before closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep.
ns 172.71.194.182da2
