Chopping Wood

Chopping Wood

“I don’t get it.” I said, before swinging the axe down on another chunk of wood.

“Of course, you don’t,” Nate replied.

“Well, maybe I would if you explained it to me.”

Nate sat up from his previous position of lying on the old picnic table in the backyard. He cocked his head.

“Okay, sure…” He furrowed his brow. “I mean, it’s kind of like the death of God or something. And the rise of greed in leu of his death. But, I don’t know, that’s not quite it…”

“See, you don’t get it either.” I cut in.

“The fuck I don’t! It’s just tough to put into words. That’s why they made the movie three hours long, asshole.”

“So they could tell me God’s dead, and we replaced him with money? I dunno. Not exactly an original thought.”

I placed another piece of wood on the old stump and readied the axe as Nate crossed his legs, considering how best to retort.

“Yeah, but it’s more than that. I think what it’s really saying is that there never was a God. God was just the biggest and best con for centuries, and with the arrival of Oil, things like the Free Market and the Self-Made Man would usurp God as the new most profitable lie. It’s all just one big game.”

I swung the axe down. The wood splintered in two.

“Hell of a nice message for people: Don’t strive for anything or to be anyone, the game’s rigged and always has been, so why bother? Oh, and by the way, you’re fucked, and there’s no God to help you. Glad I watched three hours of overacting for that subliminal message.”

Nate scoffed. I placed another chunk of wood on the stump.

“Geez, sorry I tried to bring some culture into your life. Not every story is gonna fit perfectly into your little narrative, man. Not all hard work pays off. Not all action has meaning. And not everything that happens has purpose. I swear, I love you man, but sometimes people need to wake the fuck up.”

I stared at him. Seeing the look on my face, and the axe in my hand, he just rolled his eyes and laid back on the picnic table.

“When does John get back?” He asked, breaking the silence.

“Twenty minutes,” I said, gathering the wood. “I’ll have the fire ready by then.”

I carried the wood to the fire pit and dropped it in. Nate never bothered to help, didn’t even offer. He just lay gazing at the sky. I looked into the damp firepit as the sun dipped lower. Maybe he was right. Maybe entropy reigned supreme and not all hard work paid off. But mine would…

I lit a match.

-Adam J Marcon