TWO CHAINSAWS

Jill’s dad had to return two chainsaws, one to his friend Bob and one to his friend Bill. “Why two, you may ask?” he said, though Jill hadn’t asked, and her dad didn’t answer. They went first to Bob’s, where they had been several times, and the TV was on as always, showing one of the Civil War documentaries that Bob loved, pictures of battlefields and illustrations of troops massing among them, and a somber orotund voice explaining that this general came out of the north with a batallion of whatever only to be met by that general. “Got your chainsaw, Robert,” said Jill’s dad and when the show went to commercial, Bob, tall and gaunt, pushed himself up out his chair and said “Thanks much” and asked about the big game and recommended a new restaurant. Then it was to Bill’s, where Jill had never been, and the TV was off, and Bill was sitting on his porch with a book in his hand. “This,” Bill said when he had taken the chainsaw with a gracious nod, “is the story of a man in a car sitting outside a cemetery with a woman who desires to be in it, but cannot articulate that desire. He is torn one way by what he senses in her, her sadness, her lust for it, and torn another way by his awareness that he has to get home and clean his car.” Jill’s dad nodded. “Bob was watching a show about the Civil War,” he said, with an edge she didn’t recognize. “Oh?” Bill said. He wanted to get back to his book. On the drive back her dad sharpened his edge. “What was Bill's book about?" She started to say. “No,” he said sharpening his edge. “It was about the Civil War, too, maybe even more so.” Jill felt that she had been upbraided and fell silent. He softened and patted her hand. “Another story,” he said, “Once upon a time, there was a planet where people couldn’t learn from pictures in a box located between other pictures of people trying to sell things. They could think they were learning, but instead they were just joining a club of people who had seen those same pictures. That planet exploded and everyone in it burned to ash. Then there was another planet with only small trees and small books hanging there like fruit. They taste like what you don't expect, and leave you with the full effect. I'm sorry if that rhymes, honey, but it’s important to remember all the same.” A month later, on her seventh birthday, she blew out the candles remembering it and opened her presents with a diminished hope for the future that somehow seemed to burn brighter.

©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas