I was brought in to do one thing and it became another thing. On a chilly evening lit by a sliver of moon, silver dusting the tops of the pines, I drove to the head of the road, walked across the field and stood at the rear door of the house, rehearsing what would come next, the knock, the voice from inside, the creaking of the hinges on the wooden door and the sproing of the spring on the screen door, the man appearing, the man expressing confusion and then consternation, the man grabbed and stuffed into a sack, sack into trunk, car piloted back down neck of road, trunk opened, sack extracted, sack cut open, the man surrounded by faces holding poses of malice that then melted into joy. Happy Birthday, Brad! Happy Surprise Birthday, Dear Brad! The cake was chocolate. He sent me a letter the next day speculating that I took a sadistic pleasure in the deceit. His readable little account, with its capsule summary of the action, its graphs and maps, its brief but accurate description of how I laughed at his distress, landed on me fully, but something in his prose, its essential incompetence perhaps, ensured that I never felt its weight.
©2021 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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