Thoreau's Rooster

It is too damn hot out—crazy fucking heat; well not even heat. I guess it is the humidity that torments me today. Yet there is no sun. None. Just a blanket of grey, an old rotted canvas tarp draped overhead. The sky hammers me down like an anvil on the top of my skull. Sweat bleeds through my grey shirt leaving sinister, shadowy patches of darkness behind. Damn humidity. I kick through the high grass surrounding the pool deck. The sprawling strands wrap around my ankles, enshrouding my sneakers. It hasn’t been cut in weeks—not since my dad died. I stand before the lattice gate, swathed in a faded grey paint that now flakes and chips, littering the lawn with its sad refuse. Rope snakes its way through the checkered pattern, coiling around the frame and diving in and out of the labyrinth. A pair of metal lobsters hangs amongst the entanglement. These strange creatures look rather morose, hanging there, crucified on the post by nails driven through the edge of their claws and tail. Yet there is something powerful about them, even if they do look ugly covered in the sunset-orange rust. Then again, they looked even worse nailed to the wall I originally took them from.

          The night sky was summer dark—dark like if someone had shattered the moon with a swift punch, sending shimmering shards to the ground. The air smelled of campfire, a smell I have always associated with summer, the many nights spent camping drawing that connection and solidifying it within my brain. Flames ripped over the wood as sparks rose up through the trees, dancing across the tips of the pine needles dangling from the branches. We watched them rush upwards, as if escaping the intensity of the flames raging below. Shouts emitted from beyond the trees, followed by raucous laughter.
          I was crouched next to the road, my best friend Rick beside me. My bare left knee rested on the ground and the scattered sticks dug into my skin. I was still wearing my bathing suit. We lay in wait for the coast to be clear. My eyes darted back and forth, watching the dirt path for any sign of movement. We were shielded by a small grove of trees, very similar to the one nearby where our campsite was nestled. I hold my finger to my lips to silence Rick, and I motion to him using my fingers as signaling devices like they do in all those old war movies that your dad watches on Sunday afternoons; the ones where the enemy is just across a thin strip of land, or hiding behind the wall of a half-blasted away café in a small country town occupied by the German army. Rick and I were locked in a similar struggle, lying in wait for the time to strike. Maybe it wasn’t a mission as glorious as overcoming the enemy army in a brilliant ambush after trudging through the streets of a ruined city, but it was still pretty fun. Our Prize: the red, metal lobsters hanging from the walls of all of the building in the campground. It was Maine, and Maine does have some amazing lobsters, and based on this well-known fact, the owners of the campground must have decided to immortalize these delectable creatures by nailing up pre-fabricated metal images of them on the walls. I know it wasn’t because of their aesthetical quality because they looked tacky as hell. In fact, tacky enough to fall into the hands of two immature 15-year-olds who would do god-knows-what with these two and a half foot long metal treasures, the same ones sold at the Christmas Tree Shop for $1.99 a piece.
          My adrenaline was pumping, my palms sweaty as I lifted myself up out of my crouching position and began towards the dirt pathway connecting the campsites.
          “Sshhh!” I said to Rick sharply, giving him a look that could have struck him dead. I had known Rick as long as I can remember, and he was always a bit of a coward. He whispered that he was afraid of breaking the rules, but I hushed him because I was more afraid of getting caught. The campground had its own sort of police force, which consisted of people riding around in golf carts on a power trip. They would tell you to quiet down if it was even one minute past the designated quiet hours, or to put out your fire if it was burning too late into the night. If we were to succeed in our mission, we had to be stealth. We listened for the wsshhh of the electric carts in the distance, searched for the spotlight mounted at the front of the vehicle. Nothing.
          “It’s go time,” I said, contorting my face to do my best impression of an action hero on the verge of taking out a terrorist cell hidden in the basement of a cantina somewhere in the foothills of Peru. We crept from our hiding place, darted across the road and leapt into the shrubbery across the path. From here we crept further towards our destination, the office building, where that lobster was as good as ours. Sweat dripped from my face. It was still warm out, even though night was well upon us. Maybe it was me being nervous, but I would have sworn that I was completing this mission on the face of the sun.
          We huddled in the bushes, debating our next move.
          “Dude, you grab it and I will...um…well, I will keep watch!” said Rick, the last part supposed to sound reassuring, as if his eyes gleefully watching me pilfer this lobster would rescue me from the clutches of the militant camp police if we got caught.
          “We both go,” I said as I dragged him from the bushes. There was no turning back. We crept forward, but when we hit the sidewalk that surrounded the building like a moat, an automatic sensor light turned on. This sent us diving into the shadows of a bush flanking the building. Once we had realized that we set off the light, not an alarm, we crawled from the bush and ran over to the prize. When I felt the warm metal in my hands, it was as if the whole world stopped for that one second. I stood there for a moment and stared at it, not realizing the affect this odd trinket would have on my life. Rick looked at me, and nodded towards the lobster. I held my breath, slid my fingers under one side, and gently lifted. The lobster came loose with a gentle squeal and dropped into my eager hands. I paused, waiting for alarms, sirens, bells to sound, signaling our presence. Of course, nothing.
          The grass continues to rub up against my ankles, small swords dragging their razor edges across my flesh; it leaves white streaks across my legs like an intricate pattern of pallid airplane exhaust across a blank, blue canvas of a sky. The humidity continues to torment my sweat glands. It seems that hours have passed, yet when I look at my watch, only minutes have melted away. Though they are visible remnants on the dial of my Fossil watch, memories of moments ago, they remain invisible to reality, much like the vivid scenes playing like a movie in my mind. My synapses fire images of us together, scenes of me and my father. These drift across the expanses of the waves of time, small snapshots that key into a thousand memories that I feel as though I should remember, even though I want so much to forget. We sat on this porch so many times. I look up and I hope to see him sitting there, whistling one of those annoying songs my ears were so fond of blocking out. He used to do it in public and I swore to God I would die if anybody heard him, or for that matter, saw him. Dressed in orange shorts, black tank top, and converse high tops, whistling a concocted tune, he was a teenage son’s worst nightmare in any public place. Nonetheless I was hoping to see him at his summer perch, hoping that he would jump up and say “HAHAHA I was just fuckin’ with you! The coffin, the suit, arms folded across my chest and my eyes noticeably sewn shut? Nope! All an elaborate joke!” I must admit, after I punched him in the temple for messing with me, it might have been funny in retrospect.
          As my mind played this scenario over and over in the theater of my skull, memories flooded like shadows across the screen. He is there before me. His Keystone Light sits upon the plastic table, waiting for the chance to quench his seemingly relentless thirst; his rough hand, callused from long days of work, balances a smoldering cigarette between two fingers. He always smoked Old Gold brand, the cheapest, most cancerous sticks imaginable. Smoke dances up as the caustic rays of the sun beat down on our faces. Faces with high cheekbones, slate blue eyes, and thick blonde hair; a classic Scandinavian complexion, which he inherited from his mother, and I proudly inherited from him. Except I must confess that I am slightly disappointed that I did not get the same hair—flowing and rising up at the ends, it protruded like golden wings from under his hat. Mine hung limp and looked like wet angel hair pasta rolled in dirt. “Don’t even think about taking my beer,” he said jokingly as I playfully slid the can towards me. “Dad, when you get some real beer, then maybe I will think about taking some.” We laugh as I mock his taste in beer. “How would a 16 year old know what beer tastes like?” he retorts with a quick tongue. Touché.

          We moved on to our final target. This was the one on the wall of the registration building, a particularly dangerous undertaking considering that the lights burned all night. That meant that somebody was inside and further, it meant that we ran a greater risk of getting caught. Carts returned from their roam of the grounds on a regular basis, like bees returning to their nest. Though it seemed like an impossible task, we simply couldn’t leave the last one there. We lay in wait on the miniature golf course across the path from the registration building. Its greens were dark and cheerless, a grave contrast to the carnival of lights and sounds usually spewing forth from the seasonal wonderland. Hiding behind an oversized windmill, I could see shadows within the building. Our suspicions were confirmed. Rick was perched behind a fabricated rock face with a small waterfall dribbling down the front. Being already 6 foot 1 at age 15, his gangly frame extended well beyond the perimeter of the rock, making it an obviously inadequate shelter.
          “Nice hiding spot Rick! Could you be any less stealth?” I asked. He looked down and grinned, realizing how ridiculous it was. Our eyes darted towards the road as we watched a cart pull up. Yet, after going inside, the man came right back out and then zoomed off again.
Seeing my opening, I ran across the path towards the building. Rick followed. We eyed the final piece of our treasure, knowing we had to act quickly. “I got this one,” Rick said confidently, wanting to have a final hand in the scheme. I nodded my approval and as soon as he touched the lobster, we heard the faint whoooossh of a cart. I saw the light and it was gaining ground fast. Rick grabbed for the lobster, but it was caught on something. He grunted as he tugged on it, unable to free it from the wall. The light burned the wood panels like a prison spotlight searching for escaping convicts.
          “Shit dude, we are so screwed!” I said in a panic. I bit my lip as I watched Rick struggle with the lobster. The light moved closer, nearly igniting my t shirt. It was coming at what seemed an incredible speed. Finally, Rick twisted the lobster, releasing it from its fastenings. Looking for shelter, we dove behind a caged enclosure containing propane tanks. We watched the light pan across the building and retreat again as the cart disappeared around the corner. We wasted no chance to escape. Darting from behind the fence, we ran down the dirt path, our shoes whipping dust into the air. Whhhooossshhh. I heard it. The cart was behind us again.
“Oh shit, dude, shit!” I yelled. It was like a scene from a black and white film, where burglars in stripped jumpsuits try to elude the police, yet are cornered by the spotlights crisscrossing before them. This damn cart was making it difficult to be discrete. My feet ferociously pounded that dirt path, sending up smoke signals behind me. As I rounded the corner of our campsite, I chanced to look back. Rick was galloping, his hair flying behind him, his eyes wide, and his wide metallic mouth devouring air. Panting as if finishing a marathon, we immediately stashed the metal lobsters in the brush surrounding the campsite and dove headlong into our tents. Seeing the shadow of the cart glide by the campsite, we watched the lights canvass the road, afraid that the beam would somehow disclose our location. The handcuffs seemed to hang like guillotines over our wrists.
          Yet teenage adrenaline intertwined with this fear, concocting an intoxicating mixture that pumped wild thoughts into our brains. We imagined the looks on their faces when they awoke to bare walls around the campground, their cheap treasures pillaged during the night by brilliant bandits. Oh man, would this be good. People would gather, questioning where the lobsters had gone, and what kind of devilish creatures had removed them. Who would do such a thing? Had arrests been made? “Actually, I think somebody was already tried and executed for the heinous crime,” one guy might say. These scenarios ran through my head, growing wilder and more amusing as the seconds ticked past.
          Suddenly, we heard something—a rustling sound coming from outside the tent. A silhouette approached the tent, reaching for the zipper. Damn, damn, damn, I thought. They got us! As the zipper went up, I contemplated excuses that I would give—“Yes officer, I know that it’s a crime, but you see, where I come from, lobsters are sacred and we don’t tack them up onto walls as displays, no sir!” No! That wouldn’t work. “Well,” I would then say, “I have an addiction! I am a poor, lost soul th-”— my thoughts were interrupted immediately by my father poking his head into the tent.
          “What in the hell are you guys doing?” he said with a face that revealed a sense of honest inquiry. “We all heard you come in, banging stuff around. I thought an asteroid hit us or something! Can you at least try to be a little less noisy next time?”
          “Sure Dad. No problem. Sorry,” I said, trying hard to cover up the guilt that was written across Rick’s face. I was so preoccupied with worrying about getting caught by the campground police that I had not given any thought to what my dad was going to say about the new additions to our campsite.
          “Well, what were you guys doing anyways,” he asked. Outside, zippers squealed and my sister and her friend Katie wiggled their way out of the tent.
          “Well… you see… we thought it would be a good idea… you know what? It would be best to show you,” I admitted, motioning Rick to follow me outside.
          “Show me what?” he asked, suddenly afflicted with parental concern. I poked my head out of the tent, scanning the area for any sign of the carts and their menacing spotlights. Once I was convinced that nobody was yet on to us, and that we were not surrounded by a campground task force sent in to retrieve the pillaged goods, we made our way over to the brush where we had hastily stashed the lobsters.
          “Well, we thought it would be nice if we got you a present!” I said.
          “Yeah, a present,” Rick chirped in, following my lead. My Dad had seated himself on the picnic table at this point, a cigarette burning between his fingers. He furrowed his brow with confusion. My sister and Katie, her friend, watched in curiosity. We turned around quickly, each of us grabbing a lobster.
          “Ta-Da!” we exclaimed as we raised our loot triumphantly into the air. The looks on their faces were priceless. They searched for an explanation, which was still unclear to them; hell, it was still unclear to us.
          “Where the heck did you get those dumb things?” my sister asked. Katie nodded in agreement.
          “Well, here is the best part” I said nervously. “We may have found them…or maybe we took them off of the walls,” I managed with a nervous laugh. My pulse galloped and I bit my lip as I wondered what came next. But then the most surprising thing of all happened: my dad laughed. He damn near fell over with laughter. He chuckled so hard, that he panted to catch his breath. I couldn’t believe it. Honestly, I expected my dad to be pissed. I mean, he always had a great sense of humor, but lets face it—parents don’t exactly find theft a knee-slapper. My sister, Katie, and even Rick looked puzzled, not really getting it; but I guess that’s what was special about the incident—only my dad and I really got the joke.
          When we returned home from that vacation, my dad ornamented the deck with our treasures. Not only were there going to be lobsters, but he had found some ropes tangled in the jetty rocks at the beach. This rope adorned our deck as well, keeping the whole ocean premise alive back in the suburbs of Lunenburg, Massachusetts. We had created our own beach scene, and more importantly, a way to keep these memories alive. It was our “deck of stolen goods” as we called it.
          The last time I talked to my dad on the phone we laughed about the lobsters. He was sitting on his pool deck, and he told me of how seeing those things tacked to the fence still made him laugh. Sadly, he passed away a few days later. Though the tragedy struck me hard, I guess I understand somehow. I still laugh at the times we shared, and find it rather symbolic that our last conversation centered on this very memorable moment that drew us closer together. It is kind of strange that those idiotic pieces of metal, pillaged from a slightly sub-par campground in a touristy town in Maine, hold the capacity to bring a father and son closer than ever. How can these stupid cutouts representing a delectable shellfish help to forge a meaningful bond between anyone?

          I begin to think that maybe someday I will sit back with my back against your stone and I will tell you how I have felt so damn alone. Your name will be carved into that rock and it claims this small spot as yours. I can imagine dragging my fingers in and out of the curves that make up each character of your name. Smooth like flesh, but still stone. It will always still seem so damn foreign to me, no matter how many times I visit you. I will brush the hair back from my bloodshot eyes and feel the warmth of the smooth, sun-bathed stone against my shoulders. The suns rays will poke my eyes and I will squint and shield myself against this attack—not today. No, this is my time with you. Wind will blow through the trees and birds will flutter to their destinations somewhere overhead; but other than that, we will have the place to ourselves. It will be a quiet day almost like that Father’s Day when we played 9 holes over at Maplewood. We played terribly, but just being there with you and seeing you smile as I hooked another ball into the woods makes me never want to see another smile again. I just want to keep that one forever, burned into the back of my mind. Destroy my synapses because I am content living in that moment for a long while.
          At the funeral I stared at you with stones sunk in my sockets. I had no words, but then again neither did you. You relaxed, eyes closed, hands across the chest, while people filed by you and dropped their salty offerings across your final suit. You swam belly up to the clouds in these offerings while we tried not to drown as castaways. When they got to me, they told me that they were sorry for my loss. My loss? What loss? I know exactly where you are, so who lost you? You are in the middle of the room in a fucking box that will take you down into the ground. I know where you are, and where you will be, so why should they be sorry for this “loss?” Worst of all, they all told me how much I look just like you, trying to make me feel some sort of connection with you. Instead, it makes me want to shatter the mirror every time I look at myself because all I see is you. You look at me and I don’t know what to say. Your eyes follow mine as our mouths are silent. I imagine my fist darting forward and making your face a chaotic web, a jagged puzzle whose shimmering pieces lie scattered over the counter, at my feet, and embedded in my flesh. No longer are you complete. But I guess its poetic justice—like father like son. After what you did, don’t you dare look at me!
          When I knelt at your side that last time, I said that I would never forgive you. What a selfish thing to do. “Dying is for assholes!” I screamed. I strung obscenities together in my mind and I frothed at the mouth as these rabid thoughts fell through my mouth in a whisper. I felt as though my throat was cut and bleeding trying to hold back such barbed and caustic words. But they oozed through clenched teeth and echoed through your empty ears. My eyes pleaded with you—get up, please. Please! The coldness of your hands, their unnatural positioning; I wanted to uncross them and put a cigarette in them, or better yet a baseball glove on one and a street hockey goalie stick in the other. Shit, the memories came flooding back. “Nice shot, buddy!” I looked at those hands, probably still callused just beneath the base of your fingers, but lacking the pulse to stop my slap-shots or catch the curveball I have been working on lately. “Fuck you, asshole!” I said. “You promised, you lying bastard!” I hated you with all I could muster, but I loved you with all that I still am.
          Besides, you have missed so much in these past few years, and I think that I have too. I know that seeing you will make me want to claw at the soil with shaking hands, hoping to overturn the six feet, rip off the wooden lid and take your cold hand in mine. Small rocks will wedge themselves under my nails, drawing blood from under the tips of determined fingers, but it’s a small price to pay. You don’t belong here, I will tell myself. I am simply writing this wrong. You don’t deserve to be here, and I don’t deserve to be falling apart at 20.

I came to my dad’s house today to collect some of his things. I pack up his old records, some tools, golf clubs, pictures. It reminds me of packing our things so that we could leave for Maine. I use the same musty boxes that read “Singer Sewing Machines” across the side. But now, I am putting you in them, rather than you putting our things in them. I pack a royal blue t-shirt from the 1980’s. It reads “Cape Cod” in white letters and has a sailboat silhouetted against the burning horizon. I wish I could have gone with you on this journey. I try to imagine myself jumping on that boat with him and sailing to the ends of the Earth, watching that scene unfold before us as he talks about the proper way to drain a car’s oil pan. I bet if the printing company could have afforded it, there would have been an explosively beautiful sunset that day and we could have watched it together from the deck, lying on our backs as we follow the melon sky to the farthest expanses of the horizon. But then again, they could never have captured the beauty that we would see from that boat. And besides, there is no use daydreaming. Daydreams are barbs jammed in the heart. We can’t go there because I know where you are, and there is nothing that I can do to drag you up from the depths and make your flesh warm again, to make you step back into your name and make it worth something.
The thought is too painful. I stuff the boxes into the back seat of my car. I hope that they will someday help me deal with the pain. Someday. Now they are just objects that serve as reminders of what I am missing. But, there is one thing I do want—one thing that will never be a painful memory—the two metal lobsters. I didn’t have any significant connection with golf clubs or a ratty t-shirt. Looking at these lobsters still makes me laugh, and even more importantly, they are the epitome of a happy relationship between father and son. The remnants of a bond forged through years of family camping trips, these lobsters remain long after the physical aspect of that relationship has been rendered impossible through death.

I stand before the lobsters, my heart thundering inside my chest. I feel as though I am stealing them all over again. This time I am alone. I stand there for a moment before them, letting my mind drift back days, then months, then years. But the lobsters do not burn crimson red any more, they have rusted, and the rope lining the deck droops, frayed and worn. My fingers tremble slightly as I move them towards the tarnished metal. I slide my fingers under the edge of the one closest to me, lifting it gently. It comes off with a cry, metal on metal, as the screws graze the retreating edge. Setting it gently on the grass, I carefully step towards the next lobster. Again it lets go with a weep from its position between the wooden post and the head of the screw. I hold this one in my hand for what seemed like forever; yet this time the feeling is slightly different than the last time I had held it. No longer was it teenage joy surging through my body, but something indicative of maturity. I have not just taken some trivial decoration from a wall in Maine after a childish prank, but instead I have removed from my pool deck the tangible emblem of a much greater spiritual connection between two people. I hold this relic before me, gazing at it as though it holds mystical powers. Well, then again, maybe it does.