Jake lived by himself in a makeshift tin house. It was set way back in the woods, surrounded by pines, magnolias, and sweet bays. Wild fox grapes grew prolifically, climbing up whatever could hold them and twining around whatever they could reach. The thick black fruit hung down in heavy clusters. Birds and raccoons grew fat on the grapes’ sweet summer nectar. They also grew fat on the tomatoes Jake grew in a big wooden box he had set up on some concrete blocks. He fixed up a little scarecrow and set it in the middle of this small garden to frighten off the birds and other critters. The birds found this to be a comfortable perch and would sit there until Jake ran them off. Strangely enough, Jake had painted a big grin on that scarecrow’s face.
Summer was sliding in on a cloud of dust. It rose in big bursts from the dirt road that wound in front of Jake’s homestead. A long drought had turned Spring’s seed - heads into crusty brown pods that swiveled and shook when cars drove by. Jake would watch this traffic from the well hidden safety of his porch. Solitary souls were often curious of the world outside their sanctuary. Jake had lulled himself into a sort of green bubble, insulated from ordinary stresses and annoyances. Trees were his constant companions, silent and comforting.
But once in a while, a big powerful moon would rise up above the forest canopy, turning shadows into ghostly figures, twisting and turning with the wind. And Jake would get restless, staring off down the road, wishing for some excitement. On one particular evening, he located his old scuffed up boots and polished them until they shone. Then, he dug his best shirt (usually reserved for weddings and funerals) out of the back of the closet and shook it vigorously to remove any spiders that might be living there. For the finishing touch, he trimmed his mustach and combed his thick, black hair into a ponytail. Satisfied with his appearance in the stand-up mirror in the hallway, he cranked up his old flat-bed truck and took off towards town.
When he got to main street, he tried to remember where the pool hall was. It wasn’t where he thought it was, so he drove around for awhile. After a fruitless search, he decided to stop and have a beer at a diner he had spotted on his way into town. He sauntered in, temporarily blinded by the bright fluorescent lights. When his vision cleared, he thought he might be dreaming when he saw Sheila, the waitress. There she was, soft curls around her angelic face, smiling and carrying a tray full of dirty dishes from her last table. He thought he would faint when she approached him. “Set wherever you want. I’ll be there in a minute,” she said.
Uncertain as to what to do, he selected a booth way back in a corner. He wished at this point he could become invisible. That way he could watch the world around him, but not interact. Sheila brought him a menu and a glass of water while he tried to appear nonchalant. Instead, he managed to knock over the ice water, sending it cascading across the table and into her shoes. She jumped back, stumbled, and fell into the lap of a matronly woman who happened to be steering a forkful of chocolate pie into her open mouth.
When Sheila landed, the chocolate pie got knocked off the fork and was sent sailing across the room. It landed squarely on the side of an elderly man’s head. The man let out a shriek and fell backwards into a cake display. Several patrons jumped up to help extract him from the gooey mess as he hollered unintelligible threats to those around him. Finally, he got to his feet and stomped out the door, chocolate pie congealing in his ear and stuck in his fuzzy white hair.
Sheila mopped up the floor and wiped down the tables and chairs, swearing under her breath as she went. Jake didn’t know what to do next. He was bewildered by the chaos and noise, so he shrunk back in his seat, trying to be inconspicuous. Eventually, Sheila made her way back out into the dining room, streaks of cake and icing all down her apron. Plus, her shoes remained squishy and wet from being soaked in ice water. She gingerly approached Jake’s table, being careful not to get too close.
“What you want to drink?” she asked impatiently. “
A beer?” he squeaked.
“What kind?” Sheila persisted. Jake tried to think of something, but couldn’t. “You’re gonna have to speak up!” she insisted. Jake pointed to a sign that said ’Budweiser’, but still couldn’t get the words out. Sheila stalked off, clearly annoyed, leaving wet footprints across the floor. When she finally returned with his beer, he summoned up enough gumption to ask for the bill. She slapped it down on the table and took off into the kitchen.
Jake tried to chug the beer down as fast as he could, but ended up inhaling some. He spewed beer halfway across the room, coughing and wheezing and turning red in the face. A large man with tattoos across his arms and face ran over and whumped him on the back. Jake thought he was being attacked and beaned him on the head with his beer bottle. Pretty soon, several others joined in the fray. Sheila decided she’d had enough and hollered “I quit!” as she ran out the door.
Finally, Jake managed to extract himself from the angry mob and slunk out to his truck. The moon was at it’s brightest peak - a white satin ball of light in the night sky.
He gratefully climbed into the driver’s seat and breathed a sigh of relief. When he drove up to his little tin house, the trees seemed to curtsy as a west wind blew through the forest. A lone owl flew overhead, swooping low and hoo hooing a greeting to poor, disheveled Jake. The soothing sounds surrounded him, as comforting as a mother’s embrace. He swore to himself that he would never venture out of the woods again.
A few months later, he was puttering around the wild-grown yard, thinking about planting some plum trees in the sunny spots and clearing out around the pump house. A soft breeze cooled him and he looked up for the evening star. Instead, a blazing moon beamed intensely from a dusky sky. Jake felt invigorated. The night beckoned. Jake got out his boots and began to polish them.
