Self-Employment
Cantrell Jefferson awoke as he did every morning, with his work clothes on. The bluejeans and socks and t-shirt he wore as pajamas could only be imagined as a fashion statement if one were to consider it a conclusive fact that the unwitnessed tree falling in the woods does indeed make a sound. Cantrell was of the opinion that if no one saw him in bed fully clothed, on those sheets and tangled blankets covered with the previous days’ sawdust and leaves, then they could not assert that he was during the day some eccentric type who walked around in his pajamas. He was comforted somewhat by this lack of judgment from the outside world even though, working and living alone as he did on a construction site at the end of a dead end and sparsely populated road, he felt pretty certain there was very little of the outside world thinking about, one way or the other, his habits.
The previous day he had looked out the kitchen window and seen in the driveway a local sheriff talking to Johhny Woodman’s wife from across the road. It could be seen as a barometer of his maturity that his first thought was not to retreat through the hole in the floor of his bedroom closet and escape via the basement into the woods surrounding the house. Cantrell had done nothing wrong, unless somehow his very appearance was a crime. He had not brushed his long hair in a few days and it lay dirty, matted, and unruly on his head. His face was a picture of unevenness, for while recently shaved, it had been done so with a dull razor and a disregard to detail. While there was a mirror in the unfinished bathroom, he chose not gaze with any length at who he appeared to be. The downside of this solitary, non-reflecting lifestyle was that he sometimes forgot who he was and what it was he should be doing. And some days he felt a lack of urgency to accomplish anything, and instead just gazed out the window of the one heated room in the house, marveling at the leaves of a maple tree and the changing shades of green as the sun moved across the sky. Other days he would berate himself for not being a more productive member of society. He could be hard on himself but his internal dialogue of discontent was usually ended with a self-deprecating shrug and the reminder that since he worked for himself, it was a given that his boss would be a lazy asshole. Don’t let him get to you Cantrell, look how pretty the leaves.
He went outside and Johnny Woodman’s wife called out, he’s not here to arrest you. This was funny but since Cantrell had not spoken out loud for a few days, he was distrustful of his voice and chose instead to just smile inwardly. I hope my hair looks all right he said to himself while approaching the sheriff. The sheriff looked smart in his neatly pressed uniform and his close cropped hair further suggested to Cantrell that there was something to be said for neatness and attention to detail. He’s here to see about cutting down your tree, Mrs. Woodman said.
Johhny had weeks ago told Cantrell that he had a friend that would drop the giant maple tree, the roots of which were clogging up his septic field. Johhny would then cut the tree up into logs to feed to his woodburning furnace and water heating system. The sheriff and Cantrell talked about the tree and the longer they talked the more realistic its removal became. It was fifteen years overdue. After a slightly awkward pause in the conversation Cantrell began wondering what it would cost him to lose the tree and the next thing out of the sheriff’s mouth was him saying he had an idea of what he would charge. Cantrell knew that tree removal could be very expensive and that a tree this large, over three feet wide at its base and probably 45 feet tall, could put a serious dent in his meager budget. When the sheriff said 175 dollars Cantrell just nodded and said that would be great. Cantrell said he would leave the cash with Johnny and the sheriff could have at it even if Cantrell were not around.
After the sheriff left, Cantrell went back inside and stared at the gaping hole in the kitchen floor. Certain aspects of its repair confounded him. While it seemed intuitive that tearing something apart would reveal clues about that thing’s repair, Cantrell found that in equal measure he just wanted to stare at the leaves.
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