45cc

The security guy with a beard checks my ID and looks at my car. I can hear the voice of Don Cherry shouting from somewhere inside the shed. A previous occupant that was before my time brought in one of those 12 inch all-in-one VHS/DVD TV things he bought from Goodwill, along with a half dozen Rock Em Sock Em tapes and DVDs. From what I remembered, they mostly focused on particularly brutal checks and notable fights from the previous season. As far as I knew, it was mandatory viewing for anyone in the security shed since then.

A few weeks ago we'd had some protesters from Greenpeace or whatever, which the bosses all told us was normal. I assume the Rock Em Sock Em tapes help keep them on edge in case they had to do combat with a crudely painted banner again.

Rolling up to the muster area, I saw the frown on Jeff's face as I drove up to the end of the logging road. Ray, Hassan, and Christian-spelled-with-an-h were assessing my car as well, taking stock of my newly dented hood, cracked windshield, and mountain of shit in the trunk.

Unbuckling and stepping out of the car, the guys look over at Jeff who has a white helmet on. I tell him about the deer I hit last night as I get my bag out of the passenger side and we go over the rules with the other guys, and where everyone was going to continue marking trees for the crews later in the week.

Once I'm set up with my backpack, and orange helmet, walkie, and get all kitted out with my spray cans and 14" 45cc husky saw, I head north to go find the end of the orange markings I'd made yesterday. In a few days a huge cutting machine would come through here and use those to know where to cut. In a few days I wouldn't care, because I'd be drunk. Right now the only thing that matters is a handsome paycheck and avoiding the roots I tripped over yesterday as I retrace my steps.

Further into the brush my radio crackles a few times as I take a few final steps and wind up in a clearing. There's a trailer and a few guys around some equipment. I wave. They wave back. I keep walking.

It's wet from the rain late yesterday, and the day before, and Jeff said it was gonna rain this morning, and probably tomorrow as well.

After about 20 minutes I'm where I need to be, and I pull out a fresh spray can and toss the cap down. The bugs were miserable, but the pay was worth it. I shake the can and hear the marble bounce around, as well as the saws of the harvesters starting up a few clicks away.

After a dozen or so trees, and when I'm well out of sight, I light up a cigarette so I have something to do while I'm spraying trees. Ray says they keep the flies away but I'm not convinced. I still think of the time I watched one of them land on me when I was a kid. I was fishing with my dad, and I watched it as it took a huge chunk out of my toe. I never wore sandals after that.

Putting the spray can back in my holder, I stick the cigarette between my lips and un-clip my saw to cut some growth that made it harder to get through. As I reach up to pull my face mask down with my free hand, I feel the cherry hit my lips. I give a hacking cough as I say "shit shit shit" and the cigarette rolls down the front of me.

"Goddammit" I say, stamping it out. I pull start little 45cc saw and whip down the growth I wanted to cut through, and, pissed off, turn the saw off, reclip it, and light another cigarette to calm down. I really should have had my mask down, but if anyone noticed, they'd be more pissed about the cigarette anyway.

A couple hours go by and I'm down to my last couple cigarettes, and I have to change cans again. I chuck the old can aside, pop the cap of the new one, give it a few shakes, and then get back to work. If regulators show up and see the cans, it's the company that gets billed. The company pays me, and makes it pretty clear they only care about how fast I work, not about fines or the guys with the "no logging" signs who were out front a few weeks ago.

A dozen trees into the second can, I stop thinking about Greenpeace or whoever they were and realize it's raining. I drop my can at my feet and swing my backpack around, careful not to hit the saw against anything. Unzipping my smaller pocket, I pull out my musty smelling poncho. Right after I put my bag on, I get a big whiff of yesterday's rain. With the face mask on for good measure I keep painting as I make my way up a hillside.

I think about the protesters again, and other things. I think about the city. I think about Centerfolds on Memorial, and it's dumb sign that said "Try our wings" last time I went in. I think about the tits and the mouth on the girl I got the private show from.

After another hour, I've sprayed enough trees and gotten hungry enough that I need to stop. The rain is relentless, and I'm in this area that's nothing but like pine trees or fir trees or whatever and providing no shelter. I find a place to sit down and shrug off my backpack and pull off my poncho hood making it easier to dig through my bag for my thermos of coffee, thank God, and my lunchbox that had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich I slapped together on my way out the door. I grabbed another cigarette and opened up my thermos to pour myself a cup of coffee in the lid. I watch the steam rise out of the mug, and gather myself for a minute before digging in. I set the thermos down and drink the coffee while aggressively smoking. In the distance I can hear the bigger saws and crunching sounds of trees being gripped by giant mechanized claws.

Chucking the cigarette butt at my feet, I open my lunchbox and I'm careful to open the Ziploc bag around my sandwich without getting it wet. I take a big bite of the Texas toast sandwich and chew through the dry bread. I reminded myself to buy margarine next time I was in town.

I think again about Centerfolds and think another cup of coffee is in order.

Looking over in my thermos, I see about two dozen pine needles in my coffee. I stare and think how desperate I was for coffee, before looking down to take another bite of my sandwich.

As I do so, the rain that accumulated on my helmet slides off and I see about a quarter cup of water land directly on my sandwich, soaking it through into a mushy mess, and nearly dissolving the bread as the water came to rest in the bottom of the bag.

I think about Jeff and Hassan and Ray. I think about the constant sawing noises. I think about the crunches I hear. I think about ear protection, and heading out into this forest and I think about the bugs. I think about my ruined coffee, and my soggy sandwich, and how I could be having a hot meal indoors but instead I was here.

I continue thinking as I head back to the trailhead after repacking my ruined lunch. I think about the deer I hit last night, I think about the rain, and I think a lot of things. I think about if I want to keep doing this anymore. Reaching the trailhead, no one else is around except the security guys at the gate, who don't think about whether or not I put my helmet and saw down in the work shed. They don't think about my car as I head south into town to never come back. They don't think about anything other than the hockey players, forever doing the same hits, over and over on the TV screen.