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WHISTLING SHADE |
“How long have you been here?” asked the real estate agent. She shifted her weight slightly and leaned forward to adjust her polished, black stilettos. She was lean and spare, her blond ponytail pulled tightly back from her sallow face and deep-set, black eyes.
“I don’t know,” said the man. “A long time?” The man was wearing a business casual, patterned shirt tucked neatly into pressed khakis. He looked to be thirty or sixty or maybe in his late teens. His features bore the mark of some immeasurable suffering or confusion, his furrowed brow wrinkling into canyon-like grooves every time he tried to think or speak.
The agent paused and continued. “Tell me why you came here, Mr. Burke.”
“It’s Burke, ma’am. Just ‘Burke’.”
“Of course. Sorry.”
“I don’t know,” said the man. “The harder I think about it, the less I can process it.”
The agent gently patted Mr. Burke’s thigh. “It’s quite alright. Most people are in the same position. The reasons, the causes mean so little anyway. What’s important is that you’re here now.”
Mr. Burke smiled sadly. “Here I am.”
“Indeed.” The agent gazed into Burke’s eyes, her own ebony saucers widening and seeming to simultaneously absorb and reflect all the troubles, all the pathos contained in the entirety of the human condition. A million years of empathy were in those eyes. She breathed a slight sigh, patted him again, regarding him with a mixture of pity and compassion.
“So,” she said, “what brought you here, Burke?”
“I need a home,” he said without hesitation. “I’ve just been drifting around. I’m tired. I need somewhere to…to…rest.”
The agent smile broadly. “Absolutely. I can help you. Have you given any thought to what your needs are?”
Burke’s brow wrinkled again and then he smiled. Finally, here was something he knew. Something solid. “My needs are simple. I need quiet—er, not quiet—stillness. I’d like to be in a place without much interference from others. I am a very clean, orderly person. Everything has a proper place, and filth has no place. My dad used to say that. My dad…” Here he paused, taken aback by his own reflection. “Funny, I haven’t thought of my family in a long time.”
“Anything else?” said the agent.
“Yes. I need clean lines and corners, with 90 degree angles, a space with corners.”
“Why corners?”
“I have a tendency to get confused easily. And frustrated. In a place with circles I’ll just go around and round.”
“Have you given any thought to what type of home might be a good fit?”
Burke brightened. “Yes. I’ve given quite a bit of thought to this. I think a medieval castle with ponies would be excellent. Perhaps one of those ‘fixer upper’ types. I love animals. Do you think a castle might have a tamed or sleeping dragon in it? I would love to have my own dragon. I’m not so choosey about these matters. Perhaps an old church or a Victorian mansion, some place like that… Or maybe a Roman ruin? One with functioning aqueducts? Anywhere that’s habitable is fine by me. Really, I’m not picky at all.”
The agent pursed her lips and gazed at the floor. “I very much appreciate your superior taste Mr.—I mean—Burke. However, there is a question of availability with some of the examples you mentioned, very limited availability.”
Burke shrugged off the agent’s trepidations. “Okay, I can compromise. Forget the dragon. I have assets,” he stated matter-of-factly. “I am a man of considerable means. I have bank vaults filled with gold and treasure beyond your wildest imagination. Just tell me what form of currency you wish and name the price.” He sat back, satisfied.
The agent sighed. “Unfortunately, the currency you possess is not transferable here. I wish I could help you, but I am only allowed to consider the assets you have with you.”
Burke chuffed. “This is unexpected. I assure you that my word is my bond. Just name the form of payment you desire and I assure you, you will have it in a timely manner. My representatives will execute my commands without hesitation.”
“If only it was so simple, Burke. You see, there is no time anymore. We are forced to act now, and use only what we have taken with us.”
“This is ridiculous. I will not be thwarted by your impertinence. I’ll have my representative wire you the sum immediately.” Burke pulled out a cell phone and dialed. He held the phone to his ear, then hung up and dialed again. “The line is busy at the moment. You will have the sum you desire. All of it.”
“I’m sorry,” said the agent.
“What?” said Burke. “What is this? My satisfaction is your priority! No one refuses me. No one. I want my castle! I want armor, a stone fire place. I want lands, an estate. I want a pony!”
“Mr. Burke, please calm down. You’re upset.”
“It’s Burke goddamn you! Just Burke. You will give me my castle. I’ve earned it. I’ve spent a lifetime working my fingers to the bone. I told you I’m not picky. You can have all of my assets, all of them. I don’t care. I just want a castle, a landed estate.” Then, with a sinister undertone, Burke added: “No petty realtor will keep me from my due.”
After he finished his tirade, his lower lip formed into a pout and he began to sob. He covered his face in his arm and wept for some minutes while the agent sat as poised and impassive as a statue. Finally, she placed a bony hand on his knee, stroking it gently. “Burke,” she whispered in a motherly voice. “Burke, I’m sorry you can’t have exactly what you want, but I can offer you choices. Some choice is better than none at all, don’t you think dear?”
Burke sniffled, wiped his eyes and sat upright. “I want what I’ve earned. If I can’t have my rest, if I can’t have my due, then all will suffer.”
“I understand,” said the agent. “You’ll have your castle.”
*
Poona’s parents bought Turtle Town and its 80 acres when he was seven years old. After they died, they passed it to him. Of course, it didn’t become Turtle Town until Poona took it over. Now it was a commune, organic farm and back-to-the-land adventure camp for wayward youth. Poona, his partner Tuuni and their other partner Kula and their camp staff all lived together in a yurt that Poona had recently built using the labor of the wayward youth and his superior grant-writing skills. A series of teepees, tents and ramshackle structures built out of sticks and covered by dirty, plastic tarps blanketed the sprawling clearing at the center of the compound. Additionally, a herd of free-ranging goats, mangy dogs and cats, chickens and an anemic, three-legged pony toddled around the margins of the smoky camp, laconically defecating and munching on thistles and weeds. At any given time, small gaggles of youth could be seen huddled around one of several makeshift fire pits, their soot-besmirched faces glowing by the light of the embers as they sharpened sticks with knives, fashioned bongs from old plastic Gatorade bottles or impregnated one another inside of moldy sleeping bags.
The youth were sent to Turtle Town to be reformed, and Poona received $1000 a day for the upkeep of every bored teen. Pregnant teens were worth more due to their higher educational and nutritional needs, but each pregnancy had to be confirmed, so in the free bags of condoms found in every teepee there were also bags of free pregnancy tests. Every positive test earned a free ice cream cone at the commissary.
Poona was a fifty-something gray-bearded and long-haired throwback with hollowed-out eyes, acne-scarred cheeks and the demeanor of a used car salesman. He considered himself a shaman, a therapist and an inspiration to the petulant youth. His indefatigable motor-mouth quacked on and on with a kinetic energy that seemed to come from a powerful battery fueled by a nuclear reactor. He strolled the grounds of Turtle Town commenting on projects, examining garden crops, twisting and untwisting lids on the mason jars in the kombucha factory with the air of a benevolent tyrant bestowing his grace on his serfs. Thwarted by a lifetime of parental opposition and lack of funds, Turtle Town was finally a thriving reality after the land and the dilapidated old farm house had been abandoned and falling apart for years. The death of Poona’s parents and their ultra-conservative beliefs, their disapproving glares and their anti-gay and anti-polyamory prudishness had been a boon to old Poona in more ways than one. No longer constrained by their defunct morality and empowered with their property and cash—his property and cash, by rights—Poona was finally free.
It was about six months after Turtle Town was up and running that strange events began happening. A mud-covered teenaged ragamuffin emerged from the swamp on the west end of the property and approached Poona’s yurt. “Come in, man” Poona said.
“I’m kind of dirty. I think I stepped in something smelly.”
“That’s okay, man. Dirt is natural, right? What’s up?”
“Uhhhhh, this is weird. Uh, someone’s been feeding the chickens. Also the goats, Mr. Acorn and Patchfoot too.”
“Man that’s great man,” said Poona, running a hand through his greasy blond dreadlocks. “I’ve been trying to get you guys to take care of the critters for weeks, man. Meaningful occupation is where it’s at, little brother. Far out. I’m proud of you, Skyapple.”
The youth shifted his gaze nervously. “Uhhhhhh, that’s just it though. None of us have been feeding the animals, but the troughs are full every day. We can’t even see Patchfoot’s ribs anymore. I don’t know who’s doing it, but it’s not us.”
Poona laughed heartily at this. “Dude, you’re hilarious. The next thing you’re going to tell me is that the animals have been cleaning up after themselves too. I’m really impressed with you guys. Patchfoot looks groomed enough to be in a goat show.”
Skyapple paused. “Look I’m really sorry. I feel really bad. I don’t want to be on a behavior contract again but…nobody’s been doing anything. I don’t know why they look so clean. I had to tell you.”
“It’s all good, bro,” said Poona.
Over the next several weeks, there were more changes. The brush and garbage piles around camp disappeared. The pile of broken furniture and couches that was being used for firewood was reassembled and placed in a neat row. The crumbly, charred rocks around each fire ring seemed to be re-touched by the hand of a stone mason. Odd-shaped topiaries began appearing at the perimeters of camp. All of the animal dens were clean and the islands of dung piles found within and without every structure in Turtle Town were gone. The farm was now fenced and weeded, and crops replanted in neat rows. The youth said nothing about these changes and Poona marveled at what he assumed was their work, never missing an opportunity to praise and reward the kids, who looked understandably lethargic after such difficult and sustained labors.
On the last day of camp, Poona sent off his first batch of no-longer-wayward youth with a rousing speech and a spiritual ceremony. “I am so amazed at everything you’ve done here. You all have shown what having a turtle-tude really means: some work, lots of rest, lots of being mellow, laying eggs for the future. Inside every turtle egg there is a new idea, growth and change and light, waiting to be born. Turtles live in a community and this community is a town and this town is a great circle that connects us all, man. You guys showed up every day, mentally and spiritually, and showing up is half the battle. You dammed a stream, built a beautiful moat around camp and a stone bridge with your bare hands. I mean—whoa, I am totally, totally blown away. You guys are true turtles. Wow. That’s all I can say. Wow. Good times. After lunch everyone can go over to the kiddy pool with Tuuni and pick out their turtle to take home. Just remember to keep them wet okay and no racing, because that’s disrespectful. Okay, now everybody shake hands and say what kind of job they would like to have if they worked in a circus…”
During Poona’s speech some of the teens snickered and elbowed each other. They all knew something that Poona did not: none of them had lifted a finger to build the moat, the stone bridge, the new trails, the animal barns, nothing. They had continued to smoke pot, download porn with their smartphones and impregnate each other the entire time.
Two days after the youth had gone, Tuuni and Kula were busy orgying with three other volunteers when Poona burst into the yurt, irritated. “Hey, didn’t I tell you guys to not wash the sleeping bags? All of my pants got washed too. I thought we had an agreement.”
“What’s the big deal?” asked Tuuni.
“I didn’t wash anything,” said Kula. The rest of the group retracted fingers and vegetables from each other’s orifices and mumbled their agreement.
“I don’t want to harsh the mellow, but let’s be mature about this,” said Poona. “I want to know who did it. Turtle-tude means telling the truth. That’s what we teach these kids. That’s what we live by.” When no one responded, Poona stormed off.
Later on, Poona was spooning Tuuni and he sniffed at the air. “Dude? You just take a shower?”
“Yeah.”
“Why? You know I like your natural musk.”
“Sorry, Papa Bear. I don’t know. I just felt like I should…bathe…for some reason, like I really, really needed it.”
“Alright,” sighed Poona. “Follow your bliss, man. Embody the journey.”
Over the course of the next week, Tuuni, Kula and the other staffers became cleaner and cleaner. Poona honored their decision, but found himself feeling strangely alienated and pissed off. I mean, what the fuck, he thought to himself. I used to be able to recognize everybody by their scent. It was such a turn on. What is going on around here, man?
Every day, Poona went to town to give inspiring speeches and beg for money from wealthy donors. Each day he came back, Turtle Town seemed different, strange, less his own any more. Every day, camp seemed less chaotic and whimsical, and more controlled by some kind of new order. His vision was being usurped by something sinister, and it was possessing the hearts and minds of his closest friends and bedmates.
“Damn it!” Poona cried when he entered the yurt and found the sheets cleaned and pressed, and all of his food-stained ponchos starched, dry-cleaned and folded. Kula and Tuuni and the gang had gone to a healing ceremony at Clear Water Collective for the weekend, leaving Poona to his own devices. Maybe this is just a joke, Poona thought, exhaling heavily. I’m not going to play the blame game, man, he told himself.
Sometime in the night, Poona was awakened by the sound of water running. He went to the back of the yurt and saw the solar shower running, steam billowing out from behind the plastic tarp. Beside the shower was a stick of somebody else’s deodorant and a bar of soap. Poona never used soap of any kind. “Okay guys,” he said aloud. “Very funny. You can come out now.” He took the hygiene supplies and threw them in the wastebasket. Poona reached in to turn the shower off when he felt a rough shove from behind, landing him face-first into the dilapidated stall and nearly sending him to the ground. “That’s enough, asshole! Get out here, man,” Poona yelled, as he emerged fully clothed and sopping wet. As he glanced around he saw the soap and deodorant sitting on the table right where they were before. He searched the entire camp. There were no sounds in the pitch-black, back-woods night, no vehicles, no tracks and no sign of any human beings.
The next morning Poona got up sleepless and angry and looked upon an impossible sight. A wooden stockade had been erected around the entire camp, complete with sharp sticks facing inward and a crude gate separating the yurt from the dirt parking area. Poona put on the dirtiest pants he could find and jumped into his old truck, stepping on the gas for the fifteen minute trip into town. He tried to call Kula and Tuuni but realized that their phones were off during ceremony time. When he returned to Turtle Town three-hours later with a trailer hauling a large bulldozer, there were two twenty-foot-high wooden parapets looming over him in addition to the stockade. He exited the truck and stood in slack-jawed awe. He knew that none of his staff nor any pot-smoking youth could create such a feat of engineering in so short a time. Some kind of malevolent force was at work. Without further hesitation, he turned to climb into the bulldozer and do what he should have done weeks earlier.
Just as he turned, Poona heard a whoosh come from behind him, then another. He turned just in time to feel the burning, stinging sensation of an arrow sticking into his calf. The arrows were coming from one of the parapets, but he could see no one there. This was not a game to whoever was doing this. They wanted him dead. Now more terrified and desperate than angry, he staggered into the bulldozer and closed the door just as a hail of three more arrows bounced off of the windows and sides of the diesel-powered behemoth. Along with the arrows, he watched as two other missiles came flying through the air, violently crashing into the windshield of the smoke-belching, tank-tracked machine. It was the bar of soap and shampoo from the night before.
With pain shooting through his calf, Poona fired up the dozer and roared out of the trailer. He pulled a lever, raising the iron-plated battering ram, and plowed forward across the stone bridge, crashing the wooden gate into hundreds of sticks. Arrows continued to clatter off of the thick, steeled beast as it circled the camp, demolishing the stockades as it went. Finally, Poona reached the towers. Here, the hail of arrows reached a fever pitch, assailing the dozer like machine gun fire. The bulky, tank-like machine smashed into the towers several times before they fell. At the same time, every yurt and teepee caught fire and burned to the ground.
Poona backed out of the inferno and waited for the fire trucks to arrive. After it was over, Kula and Tuuni told Poona that during their water ceremony they felt a presence that told them they were dirty. Their raw, sensitive flesh still bore the marks of their involuntary encounter with soap. Even their dreadlocks seemed clean. Later on, they all combed through the wreckage of Turtle Town. In the middle of camp, they saw several words burned into the ground: I WANT MY CASTLE.
“Fuck it,” sighed Poona. “I like it better like this anyway.”