A Month Apart

Humph.

The little sliver of morning had finally crept up around the bookcase, over the dusty pages, and now shone directly across his sore eyes. Is it time? … Almost. He could feel it, he didn’t need a fucking clock to know that toll bell was chiming its big heavy chimes. The time to g-o GO was trickling away and he was wide awake. Warm and ready, but jesus was he still loaded from the night before. Locked and loaded even, but with nothing to expel except for the bitter morning breath of a million cigarettes. “I guess I’m what they call obtuse”, he thought aloud. Suddenly, he remembered his girl. Oh, baby girl I’m going to miss you. Sweet little thing …

He turned from his one side to the other for a glimpse of her pleasant sleeping frame, but was left nothing but her scrunched up half of the sheets and an empty pillow. Ain’t that a bitch, he thought scratching his head.
He was due to leave for the train in less than forty minutes.

***
Don’t get too comfortable, fucker! Beat it sleepyhead!
He was mad with prolonged consciousness, imagining police wielding scorching hot coffee pots, hassling the sleepy passengers and expecting pastry bribes. Man, what a tired nutjob you are, he muttered. His things were tucked under the seat, all except for a lone t shirt. Make shift pillow, see? His head is throbbing now, and itchy. So very itchy. What the hell. It felt like no fingernail of any length could scratch this itch. It was almost like his skull had a rash. Poison oak, he muttered once more before he drifted off to sleep. Poison I tell you.

***
There was something growing out of his head. It was obvious now.
He had been on the trail for over 5 days now, continually scratching the hell out of his nogan and feeling all the while that something was fucking growing out of his fucking head. At first it felt like a small bump, like a mosquito bite or spider bite or some sort of bite, but holy shit, the bump became a nub, then the nub became a bigger nub with smaller nubs growing out of the original nub. Now even the little nubs were stretching out further from underneath his short hair.
And what the hell? Are those leaves?

***
This was getting a little ridiculous. But just a little.
Too far from a town and, therefore, a doctor, he dealt with the foliage sprouting from his head and did not try to cut it down when it at last became apparent that it was, indeed, a tree. At least its not a tumor, he rationalized. He had grown to quite like it, really and I don’t believe there are doctors specializing in tree growths from the cranial region. About 7 inches tall now, it sprouted fresh green leaves that made the most pleasant, miniaturized rustling when there was a breeze. Oak. Good ole’ oak. It wasn’t much of a companion, but it was his. It grew sweet smelling flowers that reminded him of her perfume when the breeze brought it’s scent down to his nostrils. His girl back home … or wherever she was. He recalled climbing out of bed that last morning and noticing her shoes from the night before laying beside her untouched purse. Silly little girl, he had thought. Maybe she is sad, but I can’t understand why it makes her leave her things behind. And then not saying goodbye …

It felt kind of nice to feel it grow, and it made nice shade in the afternoon.

***
It had been a good three weeks. The air felt so clean, like the forest exhaled chilled breath through their bright, crisp leaves. His own tree, now a foot tall, seemed to have a vast supply, and he stopped many times on his hikes to breathe in that sweet, cool air when a swift breeze bustled by.

It was night and he had gone into his tent to sleep. Early mornings. Early nights. Beautiful days. Absolutely beautiful. He turned out the flashlight, thought about the mysterious howls and coos of the sleeping woods. And sometimes home. Sometimes things you can’t really say what.
Oh baby, you smell so sweet. But why don’t you answer when I call?
He was beginning to worry.

Scritch, scritch, scritch. He could feel it and hear the noise. He could FEEL that noise! Eyes wide open to pitch black, dark nothing noises. Was it a dream?
SCRITCH SCRITCH SCRITCH. It came again and persisted some minutes longer before it stopped again. The sound was close, loud as all hell … in his tent?
Again the noises came and along with it came sudden jolts of pain in his head. Jesus! He sat up and the noises stopped instantly.
It is in the tent.

Silence ensued. He slowly turned his head from side to side, half expecting some beast to crash through the fabric with snapping jaws but it didn’t come and neither did the noises anymore. Only the sound of throbbing…


The next morning, his head was feeling back to normal. He packs up his things and sets off for an abnormally hot day. The air is still, so his little tree only rustles when he walks and it doesn’t smell so nice anymore.

It is early evening and he has decided to set up camp for the night. He sits by a small stream after his tent is pitched, some lentils cooking and waits for the sun to beat him to bed for the evening. The day’s hike proved to be very challenging, more-so than usual. He guessed he was tired. Maybe it was the lack of sleep from those noises haunting him in the blackness all night. They had stumped him, made him feel like maybe he didn’t know what the hell he was doing out in the wilderness alone. Who does that anyway? Maybe it made him feel a little afraid that those noises would come back again tonight, and the next time. Drive him insane … Maybe he didn’t know anything.
No. he’s just lonely. Just missing her. Wondering where she is, what she’s doing, if she’s being a good girl, if she’s happy, if she misses him …

He has the tree though, and that makes him feel better. The flowers stopped blossoming and began producing the most delicious little fruits. They were nothing to fill the belly, but a real treat for the tongue. Tiny and sweet, like the flowers. Mmm. Like her mouth after she puts on that glossy lipstick…
He runs his fingers across the roots dug softly into his scalp, then up the miniature trunk, and through the leafy branches. What a wonderful friend you are, he says aloud, listening to his tree rustle with glee. Something tiny hits his head beneath its branches. Fruit, he thinks, and pinches it between two fingers.
But no …
It’s not fruit … it’s sharp and …

He cannot breathe. He cannot remember the way he is supposed to draw air into his lungs. Frozen with disbelief, he gasps. His fingers have caught hold of something peculiar, something unbelievable. Impossible. She didn’t take her shoes …

He brings it down to his face not ready to experience this truth, almost ready to toss it aside for fear of knowing it. You’re losin it man.
Revealed to him in the crevice of his trembling palm; A pocket knife the size of his pinky nail ……..
a pocket knife the size of his pinky nail ………
a POCKET knife the size of …

He reaches up to the trunk, feeling for it. Why would you think something like that would be on a tree growing out of your head… but she didn’t take her purse …

It was there.
Holy shit, it was there.
What’s there?
What else do you do with a pocket knife on a tree? He asks himself.
You carve, but what? he answers.
It depends who does the carving …

The stream. He hustles to the edge and peers into his own reflection and that of his tree. He leans in close, examining the carving. And there it was. Those words looked amazing, beautiful together, even if they were all backwards and wavy in the moving water. That’s beautiful, our names carved like that on our tree.

The pinks and purples of the sky were beginning to mix into the dark blue black of the oncoming night. Goddamn that’s so beautiful!

He leans back against his elbows and smiles. Goddamn.

I love you baby.