Jun 4

Jun 4 [Pride 2022 Short Story] Against the Grain

dreadful, Gayly, Gayly dreadful, Gayly Helpful, LGBTQ, Books, short fiction, Short Story, Pride 2022

Norman Douglas Woodsworth was an asshole. Not the loud, boisterous kind of asshole who intrusively fills every space in his vicinity and can’t take a hint. No, Norm was just an unpleasant sort of man who regarded everything and everyone around him with disdain. He knew well enough to make sure that he didn’t have any major conflicts with anybody around him, but he also kept everyone at arm’s length. And he liked it that way. Norm was the kind of man who had very few interests, apart from making sure that everyone left him alone. He thought that pleasure was pointless and what most people regarded as “luxury” was a waste of time.

However, he also understood the value of the dollar and the importance of making sure that he was financially comfortable enough to afford being left alone. To achieve this, Norm crafted a mask that allowed him to be a good enough salesman to be relatively successful. Unfortunately, he ended up working his way through several companies pretty fast. The issue wasn’t his performance or repeat firings. Norm gave his two weeks’ notice at every position he left, often with good references from his former supervisors. He grew tired of every industry as he ran into the same problem: he had to keep working with people. He felt most at ease when he was working in the lumber industry as he had worked to a point where he was able to manage sales between entities rather than many individual clients, but it was still too much face-to-face interaction and false smiles for his liking.

So Norm pivoted to a different career. He became a health insurance claims adjuster for some big company. You know, the kinds that have those cheesy jingles on TV commercials that play constantly and way too loud. He always felt that people were milking these systems for bullshit reasons all the time anyway, so at the very least he felt like he was doing something that made sense to him. Norm wouldn’t describe himself as happy, he really didn’t know what the word meant, but he finally found a job that actually let him do his work with minimal interaction with others. He had even managed to land himself in an office environment that somehow let him do the paperwork without having to interact with patients or medical teams himself. In any case, the paperwork itself wasn’t even that hard knowing that most of these cases would have the same outcome: deny, deny, deny.

The only problem was the money just wasn’t there. Adjusters didn’t make as much as Norm thought they might. So when one of his old lumber associates called him up and offered him an under-the-table job to facilitate sales between some big money clients, including a pretty decent commission, Norm agreed. Norm knew that any job offer that came with these terms wouldn’t exactly be legal, but he didn’t care. How bad could it be to sell wood? Who gives a shit about “endangered species” or “proper channels” when it comes to a few planks? Might as well get in on the action and line his pockets a bit.

As it turned out, Norm’s old face-to-face skills never got rusty during his time as an adjuster, and his acquaintance made sure to line up a few more jobs for him. Norm was able to make a lot of money with not a lot of effort, and he knew exactly what he needed to do to keep that money a secret and keep flying right under the radar. Maintaining his day job was part of that plan, but he didn’t mind. He spent his days combing through medical claims, splitting hairs to determine whether procedures were necessary or not and passing on the report to anybody else who would have to deal with the fallout. Everyone and everything were numbers to him, which was fine, because numbers were the only thing that made sense.

One afternoon when Norm got home from work, there was a large package obstructing his path to the doorway. “For fucks sake,” he whispered to himself. He slowly approached the box. He hadn’t ordered anything recently. He certainly hadn’t ordered anything large recently. The box came up to his waist. He tapped it firmly with his foot. No movement, no noise. Whatever was in there was solid, though. He inspected the top of the box for a label, a return address, anything. An index card taped to the top of the box read “Consider This A Tip.” Underneath the card was the emblem of a lumber-oriented organization that Norm recognized. He scratched his head, reflecting on the last sale he arranged for them. Redwood that may or may not have been harvested from an area too close to (or inside of) protected old growth forests. Norm maneuvered around the box to access his door, muttering to himself with frustration as he wondered how the hell he’d get it inside.

After an hour and a half of struggle, Norm gave up trying to get the package in through his front door and opted to slide it into his garage. With the garage door closed for privacy, he was finally able to open the box. There was a large piece of wood standing up in the box, surrounded by an assortment of packaging filler. It was wide enough that he could barely grasp the edges on his own and heavy as hell, but he managed to wriggle it out of its cardboard prison. It appeared to be some form of wall art, based on the hardware on the back. He leaned it up against the wall to get a better look. As he took in what was before him, Norm nearly tripped over the packaging at his feet, distracted by his realization.

This was no run-of-the-mill piece of wood art.

This was made from a burl.

This huge slab of wood was carved from a cancerous growth that infected some tree. Despite the fact that they were basically unsightly tumors growing out of the middle of tree trunks, burls were highly sought after in the lumber trade. A craftsman who could successfully work with a burl had to be highly skilled, and these finished pieces fetched a pretty penny. Because of the irregularity of the growth, there are no consistent grains within a burl, which is what makes them so difficult to work with. A lot of people regard them as beautifully fascinating once a work is completed because those irregularities make the pieces one-of-a-kind rarities. Many people risk prosecution by taking burls from endangered trees or in protected spaces.

Based on the look of this one, it seemed to come from a redwood tree. It was a slice of the burl, showing an inner cross-section of the tumor. An impossible map of veins and swirls covered the surface. The patterns were too irregular and imperfect to be a fractal, but the organic curves still drew the eye in, bringing the viewer into a sort of hypnosis. Obviously the images in the burl were static and abstract, but the brain longs for sense and understanding. The longer Norm looked, the more it seemed that these swirls might move, that finally some lines would slip into place and recognition would be had. Just as his brain began to make sense of its vision, his eyes involuntarily shifted, and all understanding was lost. As he continued to stare, his brain searched for puzzle pieces that did not exist. So it started to invent them. His mind sought to find the beauty in the malignancy and came away only with confusion and overwhelm.

Norm’s breath caught in his throat as he came back to his senses. He didn’t even want to imagine the value of this piece. Even though he was alone, he instinctively looked around him to be sure that he was safe. He knew he did well on that job, but he didn’t realize his clients were this impressed. His mouth dried up and his tongue swelled with anxiety about having something so precious in his home. He tried to quiet the voice in the back of his head reminding him that in addition to being very valuable, it was likely that this particular piece was also very illegal. He grabbed a dropcloth and covered the thing, trying to look at it as little as possible, as though that would protect him. He briskly walked inside, uncharacteristically locking the garage door behind him, and poured himself a drink.

That night, Norm had horrible nightmares. He woke up drenched in sweat with his heart pounding multiple times. When morning finally came, he doubted whether he got more than two hours of sleep. He was somewhat relieved to remember that he left his car in the driveway the day before, so he wouldn’t have to go into the garage to confront the almost-certainly-illegal thing he left there. If it really even happened at all. For all he knew, it was just another whiskey-induced nightmare. He avoided making eye contact with the garage door as he left for work, hoping that he would come home to an empty garage.

Norm was distracted throughout the day. He was not nearly as productive as he normally was. Every time he thought he focused on the screen, the digits would blur and he would find himself staring at the same blinking line that he started with two hours prior, with no understanding of where the time went. He tried to tell himself that everyone has “off” days and that it was probably because of the lack of sleep and slight hangover. But every time his thoughts drifted to the burl in the garage, his stomach turned into knots with unease. He left work early, citing a stomachache.

Norm opened his front door, and everything that was in his hands immediately clattered to the ground as his fingers went slack with shock. Not only was the burl somehow inside his home, it was now mounted on the wall. He checked his doors for signs of tampering, but his locks were all intact and undisturbed. He looked for a note, missing items, anything else suggesting that someone had been inside his home and was doing this to him, but there was nothing. Not a thing out of place, no missing food, no footprints or notes. Just the burl, up on the wall. He flung open the garage door, expecting to see it where he left it, but the dropcloth was on the floor right where the burl used to be. The packaging was left strewn about, exactly as it was when he went inside the night before.

Norm’s heart pounded in his ears. His chest tightened and he could feel his face become hot as blood rushed to his extremities. He slowly closed the door and turned to face the burl. It simply sat there on the wall. Norm halfway expected movement or noise, something that would help make some of this comprehensible. But none of it made sense. He stared at the burl, taking in the swirling, chaotic patterns that spread across the surface. He moved to take it down, but something tugged within his navel, making him pause. He averted his eyes and went upstairs.

He had another sleepless night. And another one. And another after that. Soon, Norm was averaging 2-3 hours of sleep per night. He was exhausted and became outwardly irritable towards his coworkers. For the first time in his life, he began nodding off at work unexpectedly and losing time. He had flown under the radar long enough that he wasn’t immediately reprimanded for these behaviors, but his supervisor began commenting on Norm’s obvious dishevelment and encouraged him to take time off. Norm had never taken leave of any kind, but he didn’t want to be stuck at home with that thing. He agreed to take a sick day and made an appointment with a doctor.

Norm’s vitals were all “normal” with the exception of a slightly elevated blood pressure. He was told his bloodwork came back “clean” and that he should be proud of such a healthy profile. He thought about asking for a sleep study, but he knew that with his insurance package, and his history, he was unlikely to get the referral. And if he did, he was unlikely to have the study paid for. Norm turned to stimulants to help him stay awake during the day instead.

As the days continued, Norm continued to struggle with sleep. During the day, he continued to struggle with focus, and he found himself hot all of the time. He began sweating through his shirts, unable to pinpoint where this temperature change originated. He requested a move to a desk where the air conditioning vent would blow directly on him, but it was no use. He felt like he was sweltering at all times. Hot and exhausted, Norm only grew more irritable and somehow even more isolated than he ever was.

One night he woke with a start to find himself standing in front of the burl, his arms outstretched toward it. He immediately recoiled from it. He hated the thing, but he felt like he was unable to touch it. Norm knew that it made no sense, but that voice in the back of his head told him that if he touched it, things would only get worse. He stared into the impossible curves of the burl’s pattern, feeling a magnetic pull that his conscious mind tried to fight against. He was simultaneously revolted by and attracted to the burl. He sobbed with exhaustion as he finally tore his gaze away from it and crawled back up the stairs to pass out on the landing.

After that night, Norm couldn’t stop thinking about the burl for every waking moment. He felt like there was a parasitic worm embedded in his skull instructing him to drop all else and return to it. He fought with the worm constantly, knowing that his fear of the burl was justified, although he could not explain why.

Norm began seeing the burl’s pattern everywhere. When mixing his coffee, the swirls mimicked the burl. He started drinking his coffee black. When he found himself zoning out at work, the numbers and letters on the screen twisted and turned into the interlocking anomalies within the wood in his home. Driving became dangerous for Norm as the lane markers on the road started to fold upon themselves and he found himself disoriented and unsure of what he was doing or where he was going. He had several near accidents before he began riding the bus instead.

When he closed his eyes, he saw nothing but twisting moving patterns, worming themselves across the backs of his eyelids. It was almost as if he could feel his retinas squirming as the burl’s designs etched themselves into his optic nerves.

Just as Norm used stimulants during the day to stay awake at work, he began drinking heavily at night to drown out the pull he felt from the burl. He figured if he was too drunk to walk, he was too drunk for the burl to bring him downstairs.

He was wrong.

One morning, he woke up thinking that he managed to sleep through the night for once. Instead, he was horrified to discover himself lying prostrate before the burl. He had no idea how he came to be in this reverent position before this thing that disgusted him above all else in the world. He flung himself backwards, hitting his hand on the corner of his coffee table, breaking the glass top and slicing his hand. He looked on in terror as his blood pooled on the floor in swirling patterns. He knew that if the burl was capable of making noise, it would be laughing menacingly.

Norm stood up and grabbed at the burl, smearing blood all over its surface. Using his entire body weight, he managed to bring it crashing to the ground with a triumphant yell. He didn’t mind all the damage to his floors and furniture that this would incur, he just wanted to hurt it the way it hurt him. Feeling extra petty, Norm urinated on the burl before going upstairs to shower. When he came back down, he found the burl back on the wall, completely untouched and clean of any bodily fluids. His blood and urine remained on the ground amid his broken furniture.

He glared at it with tears in his eyes, feeling hopeless.

Norm hadn’t received a call from his lumber associates since this whole debacle began. Or he missed the calls and didn’t notice them. He didn’t know and didn’t care at this point. He was hoping to just get by without losing his mind. So when his supervisor called him into her office with a pink slip, citing his poor performance, Norm crumbled.

Norm went to a hardware store and purchased lighter fluid. He picked up a newspaper for cheap kindling. He was going to destroy the burl before it finished destroying him.

When he entered the house, he could feel a difference in atmosphere. Could it be that the burl sensed its oncoming destruction? Did it have a feeling of impending doom? Norm hoped so. He hoped that the damned burl could experience an ounce of the fear he had felt for months. He approached the burl and wrenched it from the wall. He could feel the resistance, as though the burl was exuding every force possible to stay up on its post.

Simultaneously weeping and laughing hysterically, Norm doused the burl in lighter fluid. He stuffed newspaper under and around the burl, making sure that it was soaked, too. He hoped whatever varnish was on the thing was flammable. Norm’s heart was racing once again, but this time it was from excitement rather than fear. Finally this thing would know death and its malignant form would become nothing more than ash. He removed a match from its box, then removed two more. He lit all three at once and dropped them onto the pile of kindling.

Norm watched the flames catch on the newspaper. They danced in the reflection of the shiny surface of the burl. He saw the edges of the burl begin to smoke, and he knew it was a matter of time before he had a bonfire on his hands. He began to make his exit when he felt his foot catch on something.

Norm went down to the ground, hard.

He looked back to see what he tripped on and found his legs completely clear of debris. But he couldn’t move his legs. He could feel them stuck in or under something, but looking down he could not see anything obstructing his limbs. There was no way for Norm to maneuver around what appeared to be nothing. He looked down past his feet to see the burl continue to shine brightly amid the fire building around it. Strangely, the fire continued to spread beyond the burl and its pool of lighter fluid, blazing its way through Norm’s home. But the burl continued to remain untouched. Within the chaotic swarm of tentacled patterns on the surface, Norm made eye contact with his tearful reflection for a moment. Panic set in as the flames grew higher and smoke filled the room. Norm begged, cried, and pleaded with anyone listening to be let go. His pleas turned to sobs, which turned to coughs, which turned to silence.

The next morning, cops and firemen stumbled around the ashes of the home that once stood there. The Fire Marshal waved a detective over to him. “Now obviously I’ll still have to write up my official report, but this seems like a pretty clear case of arson.” He kicked an empty bottle of lighter fluid. “Don’t know if it was an attempt at insurance fraud or what, but it’s clear that the son of a bitch didn’t plan well enough for his own escape.”

The detective looked up from taking notes. “What’s that?” They pointed at something gleaming from under the rubble.

The Fire Marshal bent down to unearth more of the object. His eyes widened with awe. “Well I’ll be damned. You know what this is, kid? It’s real expensive, I’ll tell you that.”

The detective grimaced at the overly familiar nickname. “I don’t care about how much it is. Why isn’t it burned along with everything else here? Shouldn’t this be charcoal by now?”

The Fire Marshal sucked his teeth. “You’d think so. I’ll have to study it a bit more to see if it was protected somehow. Wouldn’t be a surprise since the wood’s more valuable than anything else that could’ve been in this house combined.”

“If this was so valuable, why didn’t he just sell it instead of burning himself alive for insurance fraud?” The detective leaned in to get a better look at the thing.

“Well that’s where my investigation ends and yours begins, youngin’.” The Fire Marshal wiped his hands on his pants and left the detective to that area of the scene alone. The detective scribbled on their notepad, “weird wood art, untouched, valuable?” Their eyes drifted back to the wood and they noticed the oddly curling patterns on its surface.

A chill traveled up their spine and throughout their scalp. They tore their eyes away from it and looked around for any other information that might help their investigation, pointedly avoiding eye contact with it for the rest of the morning.

As the sun rose above the horizon, the burl caught its rays and gleamed.