Sooner than he would have liked they were climbing the steps of Limbs apartment building. The wooden stairs creaked under his weight and Limbs made a joke about it that he didn't catch. On the outside, her building was nothing spectacular. It looked the way nearly all apartment complexes do: pleasant, functional and forgettable. The inside was the exact opposite. It was a jungle. Limbs had not been exaggerating when she said she liked plants. They were everywhere; a virtual greenhouse with a couch, kitchen, and entertainment system lost within it. Limbs gave him a quick tour of the place, listing the various types of plants and asking him to smell or feel certain ones. They smelled wonderful. So wonderful that, when Limbs went into her bedroom to check her messages and freshen up, Earl tasted a few of them. They did not taste as fantastic as they smelled, but they weren't bad. If he weren't afraid of her noticing the missing leaves and fronds, he'd probably have eaten more.

A thought struck him.

Everything in this room looked so healthy. So alive. It felt luscious and beautiful and right, and it made his heart beat a little faster. He wondered how much of it had to do with the soil. It must be pristine quality to nurture such lovely beings. He lifted a potted plant from off the waist high speaker near the window, closed his eyes and dipped his tongue into the dirt. The tip of it tingled as his saliva absorbed the soil. The taste wasn't particularly pleasant, but there was something –

"What're you doing?" Limbs said laughingly from the mouth of her doorway.

Earl set the plant down abruptly.

"I was just smelling it. The plant. It smells like ... It smells nice."

"It looked like you were licking it."

Earl blushed, something he sternly wished he could stop doing, and she laughed. Then she flopped on the couch and patted the cushion next to her. She was wearing a gigantic t-shirt now, nothing else, and she'd removed a number of her piercings. Her breasts were much larger than Darlene's. They hung against the fabric of the t-shirt, straining it slightly. Earl imagined what they'd feel like beneath his hands, whether she'd mind his calluses the way Darlene did, whether her nipples were more pink or brown, but he found himself physically responding and wrenched his mind back. She patted the couch again. He crossed the living room with careful, heavy steps, slowly lowered himself next to her. He clenched his hands together, working them back and forth as if there were invisible dough between his fingers.

"So ..." he tried to say, but his voice was husky and he had to clear it. He suddenly felt big and clunky. Like the room weren't large enough for him and he'd destroy everything inside it with some reckless motion – a broad sweep of the arm that would leave the the apartment in shambles. Limbs would be cast out, homeless and wretched and ruined, and she would hate him. She'd have to wander the streets and –

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Limbs undid the top button of his uniform.

"Whoa," she said. "Relax, buddy."

Then she continued to unbutton his shirt. Earl sat perfectly still as her fingers climbed slowly downward. He could still taste the dirt and ground up leaves on his tongue and he was slightly dazed. His chest was rising and falling exaggeratedly, and he couldn't control it. His throat felt thick, like he'd swallowed cold molasses. When she cleared the fifth button, the one just above his waste, she spread his shirt open and sucked at his nipple. She twirled her tongue around it, matted the hair against his chest. He continued looking straight ahead as her fingers slid beneath the belt of his pants and she began kissing his neck. He stared so intensely at the fern across the room that he would not have been shocked had it caught on fire. Then Limbs stopped suddenly. She sat back and curled her knees beneath her, looked up at him. Even on her knees, Earl was taller than her.

"Earl?" she said. Her voice, normally a little brash, was soft, just above a whisper. "Are you sure you're alright with this? If you don't want to go through with it, I understand. You seem like a really good guy, and I like you. More than I expected to, if I'm totally honest. So I don't want to force you into anything for my sake. Just because I'm itching to screw someone shouldn't be putting you in an awkward spot."

Earl was shaking his head.

"What is it? Be honest. I'm a big girl. I can take it."

Earl's cheeks flushed, but he blurted the words out before he could talk himself out of saying them.

"I'm not very good at this. I ... I haven't been with a lot of women, and it's been almost a year since me and Darlene have ... have been together."

Limbs looked at him pityingly. Earl lowered his eyes against that look, his face flashing redder.

"And I haven't showered today. I'm sure I don't smell very good. And I –"

"I like the smell of you," Limbs said, cutting him off. Her voice was normal volume again. "Look, if you don't mind taking directions, I don't mind giving them. Most guys are so busy trying to impress you that they forget you're there. So if not being some kind of sex lord is your only problem here, then there's nothing to worry about."

Earl shrugged, but still couldn't look at her.

"I don't mind taking directions."

. . .

Hours later, Earl found himself on Limbs' bed, hands locked behind his head, watching the ceiling fan in a warm haze. The couch hadn't been a good spot for them – it was too small, mildly sticky and hampered some of Limbs' more creative suggestions – so in a rush of inspiration he'd scooped her up, carried her across the room and kicked her bedroom door open. Limbs had laughed at that, a belly laugh that would have been ugly at any other time. She started to say something about him now knowing his own strength (the door was broken, if the splinters strewn across the carpet were any indication), but Earl tossed her on the bed before she could finish her sentence. And there, on sheets so old and worn they felt like hair, surrounded by a smörgåsbord of plant life, Earl had one of the better nights of his life. He ranked it almost as highly as his eleventh birthday, the epitome of happiness.

It was not to say he'd never enjoyed sex before meeting Limbs, because he was happy to have it in any form, but she altered his concept of what sex was. Darlene was always silent, rigid, stiff. She didn't go so far as to check her watch, but her body language made it plain that she'd rather him hurry up so she could go about her business. After ejaculating, he always felt embarrassed. He'd stumble to the bathroom and take a scalding shower – an attempt to scrub away the bad feelings that never worked. His only other partner had been Holly Hall, his misguided high school girlfriend of two months. They'd had sex in the woods near Holly's house after school one Thursday. It was the first time for both of them, and they'd been so uncomfortable and fumbling and terrified of getting caught that there'd been little enjoyment in it. She'd broken up with him the following day.

(He'd had one other experience beyond those, but he rarely admitted it, even to himself.)

Limbs, in contrast, was something else entirely. She was creative and enthusiastic and loud and sloppy and unabashed and sweaty and wonderful. She even laughed at times, and in a moment of utter rarity, Earl laughed with her. Their coupling was so absorbing and surprising (she'd done things to him that made him blush, even thinking back over them) that he lost himself in it, felt almost drunk on the headiness of it all.

And for the first time in his life, he didn't feel ashamed of being naked. Even now, lying in post coital half-sleep, breathing softly enough to appear comatose, he had no desire to cover up. Darlene always treated his body as something broken, something to hide away. Occasionally during sex when she thought he wasn't looking, he even saw her frown. No. Worse. She grimaced. Her hands would press against his stomach, as though trying to push him off of her. Whenever he caught that look on her face, or felt those cold hands press against his belly, it robbed what little pleasure he might have received from the event. But Limbs had explored him thoroughly and enthusiastically, searched him with her hands, lips, tongue and eyes, left nothing uncovered. He could tell she'd found him desirable, which was both baffling and liberating. And they hadn't stopped at a single orgasm. Another surprise. He'd never made an entire night of sex before.

Earl put his hand on top of Limbs' shoulder and looked over at the spindly tree near her closet. Its leaves, colorful and pointed, were spread like an assembly of captured wings. He suddenly felt a connection with it. As far as he knew, the plant wasn't uncomfortable without pants either. They understood each other.

Limbs curled tighter against him, her breasts pressing against his side. One leg was folded over his, the one with the quarter-machine anklet on it, and her tattooed arm hung limply across his stomach. She was snoring, and her dreadlocks were itchy and smelled funny, but Earl didn't mind. He liked laying there, feeling her flex into him with each breath. He admired her with his eyes for a while, silently wondering how anyone could have broken up with her, much less complained about her physique. She was not a skinny woman, sure, but she was full in all the right places. He caught himself wishing Darlene was built similarly but snatched those thoughts away.

"Whoa," Limbs said, tasting her mouth. She yawned. "How long was I out?"

Earl didn't answer. Instead, he ran his big hand down the length of her, tracing her edges with fondness. His callused fingers left a trail of goosebumps in their wake. She smiled up at him. Her front tooth was slightly crooked. Earl had been so nervous throughout the day that he hadn't noticed. But he liked it and told her so.

"You're not so hard on the eyes yourself," she responded kindly, patting him on the chest.

Earl didn't know if she meant it, but it was a nice thing to hear. Encouraged, he ran his hand up her thigh and pressed a pair of fingers into her. She didn't push his hand away, as he feared she might.

"Ready again, are we?"

"Yes," Earl said.

. . .

At sunrise, Limbs saw Earl out. She didn't bother to get dressed, obviously unperturbed by the possibility of neighbors or passing joggers seeing her naked. When he turned back to say thank you and to apologize again for breaking her door, she stood on her tip-toes and kissed him.

“I had fun.”

“I did, too,” Earl said. He wanted to say much more than that, but he didn't.

“Well, take care of yourself, Earl. And don't let people get you down. You're too nice for that.”

Earl nodded. He could tell that she was talking about Darlene, but was thankful she didn't say her name.

“Goodbye, Limbs.”

On the drive back to the house he realized how tired he was. He'd hardly slept, and the sun, just now creeping over the top of the buildings, needled at his eyes. As he pulled into his driveway minutes later he yawned wide enough to swallow his fist, scratched at his jaw. His nails dragged across his stubble audibly. He entertained the idea of growing a beard. He'd tried to a few years before, mostly because he hated shaving, but Darlene had nagged him so relentlessly that he'd caved after three days. But maybe now he could convince her. At the moment he felt like he could. He felt like he could do anything.

As he stepped through the front door, Darlene sat up and scared Earl half to death. She was on the couch, and judging from the blankets and pillows littered across it she'd slept there. She looked haggard.

"Where have you been?" she demanded. Her voice sounded like she were whispering and shouting simultaneously.

Earl froze for a moment, in part to swallow his heart back down, but quickly gathered his wits.

"Sorry, Honey. I forgot to call. I had too much to drink, so Phil let me sleep at his place. On his couch."

"I was up until midnight before I gave up waiting on you. How could you be so inconsiderate, Earl? What's wrong with you?"

"I'm sorry, Dear. I don't normally drink shots, but Phil insisted." He slumped his shoulders convincingly. "I guess I had too many."

"Yeah? Did you find some floozy to fuck while you were at it?"

Chunks of ice rolled down Earl's spine. She knows. His heart started beating madly, but he shook his head and spoke before the panic took over.

"No, Dear. Nothing like that. Just some drinks. The bar was mostly men, anyway."

Darlene mumbled something about him turning into some kind of fagot, then shook her head, stumbled from the couch into the kitchen. She could be particularly venomous in the morning, Earl knew, so he ignored her. And in truth, he was relieved that her mention of adultery had been a random jab and not a true suspicion. Perhaps she wasn't a mind reader after all.

"I'm going to get a shower and change," he said as she fumbled through the cabinet for a bowl.

She waved a hand at him, dismissed him without turning or speaking. She was furious with him, but she'd get over it. It would just take some time.

Earl hopped in the shower, set the knobs to boiling, then scrubbed himself until his skin was pink and glistening. He caught himself smiling – genuinely smiling, not the empty one he wore out of habit – as he washed the nights activities away, watched them swirl into the drain between his feet. He was proud of himself for not panicking. He'd totally forgotten to rehearse an excuse on the drive home, as he'd planned. He'd spent much of the ride marveling over the previous night, committing particular moments to memory. But he'd thought on his toes, kept a level head, even controlled the volume of his voice. It had been a long time since he'd felt so in command of himself. It felt good.

He opened the shower curtain and reached through the wall of steam for a towel. His fingers brushed tiles. There were no towels on the rack. Add to that, he hadn't picked out a clean pair of clothes. He shook himself dry as best he could, poked his head out the bedroom door. Darlene was at the dining room table, her back to him, munching the garden-mulch-cereal. Earl snatched a towel from the hall closet, closed the door behind him and quickly dried off. He picked out a plain white t-shirt, plaid boxers and a pair of jeans from his dresser drawer, laid them across the bed. When he turned back for a pair of socks his eye slid across the large, ornate mirror on Darlene's vanity. The window he'd crawled out of two nights before was centered in it. Earl could see both himself and the oak, side by side in the reflection. He frowned, then dropped his towel for a more accurate comparison. Everything about him was round. His pecks and biceps were decently muscled from his one-hundred nightly push ups, and his shoulders were as hilly and heavy as always. If he'd had a part of his body he could say he was proud of, it would have been that. But not now. He looked absurd.

His stomach, too, was round. It was not exactly flabby, but it bulged out. He pressed his hand against it, tried to flatten it down, but it didn't budge. He placed his hand at its base and wiggled it. It didn't move too much. A small consolation, he thought. He turned to the side. His buttocks weren't nearly flat enough. Limbs had said he had a 'great ass' just hours ago, but now that he could see himself clearly he didn't agree. It made his profile too curvy, too lumpy. Worse, his gut was even more apparent from this angle. He pulled his penis between his thighs and stood as stiffly as possible. His legs at least resembled some of the solid, cylindrical beauty of the tree, but the rest of him did not. He sighed. Perhaps Darlene had been right about his eating habits. Maybe he was overweight. He'd never cared before now, but seeing himself next to that wonderful oak, it's solid loveliness in direct contrast to his rounded bulkiness – he wished he'd taken better care of himself. He turned straight again and stretched his arms out to the sides, pretended they were branches. He smiled, and relief slithered through him. That was much better. If he arched his back and reached toward the walls as fiercely as he could, much of him was flattened and he looked more akin to the –

"What in God's name are you doing?" Darlene said from the open doorway.

Earl dropped his arms. Heat boiled within him, so hot he feared melting on the spot, and he blushed from head to toe. He tried to think of an explanation, some way to save face, but his mind was frustratingly blank. He didn't know what had come over him. He'd been swept into some kind of trance. He hadn't heard Darlene coming, hadn't even noticed that she'd opened the door until she'd spoken.

And like that, his newly won confidence was destroyed. Shattered. Instantly out of reach. He felt ashamed, foolish, like a little boy caught with his dad's pornos.

Darlene looked at him, disgust warping her face. She started to say something awful. Then with an audible click her mouth snapped shut. Her eyes narrowed to slits, like paper cuts in her flesh. She stormed across the room and stood directly in front of him.

"What," she said, eyes now wide, "the fuck is that?"

Earl looked down. When he caught site of what she was speaking of, a brick of lead dropped into his stomach.

"Honey ... I ... It's not what you think. I ..."

"Is that a fucking hickey?"

It was. He had a hickey on his chest, near where his breast met his bicep. His breathing came fast then. Darlene looked up and caught his eyes, saw the terror in them. That was all the confirmation she needed. She stared up at him, eyes the size of golf balls, nostrils flaring, almost throbbing. Earl steeled himself and met her gaze. What he saw confused him. There was anger in that look, sure, but there was something else there as well. If he didn't know better he'd say it was respect, or perhaps grudging admiration. That unsettled him more than the anger. He couldn't make sense of it.

Out of habit, purely a reflex at this point in his life, Earl said:

"Sorry, Dear."

That broke the spell. The look flashed and was gone. His apology had snatched it away. And all that was left now was anger; cold, unforgiving outrage, hard and seething. An odd whistling noise emanated from Darlene's throat, not unlike a tea kettle about to boil over, and then she screamed. No words. She just howled through clenched teeth, lips peeled back shockingly far. It was a primal, horrible sound, one that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

Earl remembered he was naked. Empty of words, at a complete loss for how to mend the situation, heart smashing against his ribs as though trying to escape, he reached for his clothes. When he turned, Darlene's nails bit into his back and she raked them downward. His flesh curled beneath hear claws, five red stripes rolling from shoulder to flank, a macabre rainbow.

Her screams became words.

"You cheated on me?! You really did fuck someone, Earl? You piece of shit? You goddamn, good-for-nothing, fat piece of shit?"

She beat at his back as he hastily pulled his boxers and jeans on. Her blows landed with dull slapping sounds, and the tracks on his back stung, but he said nothing. Just flinched and dressed as best he could manage.

"How fucking dare you walk back into this house after fucking some stranger behind my back? Some whore. Some stupid whore dumb enough to sleep with you."

"She wasn't a whore," Earl said.

Darlene screamed wordlessly again, worse than that first scream even – it was deeper, almost a growl – and swung her arms against him wildly. She was not big or strong enough to make the blows hurt, but Earl got the point.

Once she'd exhausted herself, she became coherent again. Her voice wasn't loud now. It was low and heavy, separated by gasps of air, as if each word had to be drug from her chest with industrial hooks, one by one. The effect was as absurd as it was terrifying.

"Get. Out. Now. Get. The. Hell. Out. Of. My. House. Earl. And. Take. Your. Stuff. You. Aren't. Coming. Back."

Earl gathered up his shirt and shoes from his bed, grabbed his wallet, phone, keys and book off the top of his dresser. He started out the bedroom door, then paused. A fragment of that short-lived confidence was still lodged within him somewhere. Maybe his liver.

"I don't see what you're so upset about, Darlene." He didn't look back when he said it. "You don't even like me."

Then he left the house before she could respond. He heard something shatter just before he closed the front door behind him. He assumed it was the mirror.

. . .

Earl drove aimlessly for an unknown amount of time, the events of the past twenty-four hours looping endlessly in his mind, the good and the bad climbing over top each other, clambering for the spotlight. It took time for him to make sense of everything. His life was in shambles, scattered about his feet like puzzle pieces, and fitting everything back together was a slow process. He'd never been a quick thinker – wit and quips were a marvel, something completely beyond him, like brain surgery or triathlons – and as such he tried his best to keep things constant. By avoiding anything that 'rocked the boat' it was unnecessary to react fast. But now he'd gone and flipped the whole damn boat over. The 'sink or swim' analogy sprang to mind, and if he had to put money on which category he fell into, it was not 'swim.'

But despite his current situation, driving in circles, dread gnawing at his guts like a starved rat, he didn't regret his time with Limbs. His infidelity bothered him much less than he'd have thought it would, morally speaking. He realized then just how much he'd stayed with Darlene for fear of change, not out of love or loyalty. But he also knew, deep down, that he'd go back to her if she'd have him again. The knowledge shamed him. But not enough to change. Not quite.

You're a coward, Earl, he told himself. The declaration didn't stir up any hidden courage.

Eventually, he realized just how tired he was and decided to rent a motel room. He noticed a place a few blocks ahead called "The Spotted Indian." The roadside sign was of a hand-drawn dalmatian wearing a feathery headdress. It was smiling and it's dangling tongue looked like melted sherbet, as though the animal were vomiting its desert. Earl couldn't make sense of the name or the sign. They made him feel worse, like he was on the outside of some great joke, or that he was too stupid to connect the relevance between annoying, hyperactive dogs and Native Americans, but he pulled into the parking lot anyway. The complex was red (the roof) and white (the walls), the paint fading and peeling off at the corners. It looked run-down and sad. The interior was equally depressing, with limp plants nestling against rusted chairs, leaning on them as though they might keel over soon and needed the support. The room stank of stale smoke and staler sweat. A ceiling fan twirled lazily above Earl's head, pretending to be useful. Behind the counter sat an old man, calm as a gargoyle and almost as ugly. Everything about him drooped and sagged. His skin hung from his bones like a wet blanket; flesh draped from his neck like a turkey gullet. If he'd slept in a coffin at night, it would have been seen as practical.

"Can I help you?" the man said through sixty years of cigarette smoke.

"I'd like to check out a room," Earl said.

"Thirty dollars."

Earl handed him a fifty. The man gave him back a twenty with a room key on top. The number "4" was engraved into the base. Earl pocketed both objects, said his thanks and found his room. It was not far from the lobby and was about what Earl expected – drab, muted colors, clean without appearing so. He set his few belongings inside the top drawer of the dresser next to the ragged complimentary bible, locked the door, pulled the curtains closed, removed his shirt, kicked his shoes and socks into the nearest corner, curled up on the concrete-soft bed and fell asleep.

He dreamed of nothing.

When his eyes popped open, he had no idea where he was. Someone was knocking at the door rapidly. He looked around the room, mildly terrified, before he remembered what had happened and his bearings returned to him, single file, like a funeral procession. The knocking did not cease so he groaned, found his feet and paced to the door. He opened it, then wished he hadn't.

Rebbecca, Darlene's big sister, was standing there, a sour, pinched expression on her face. She was dressed as always in a black sweater, a canvas-colored skirt that scraped her ankles and pediatric shoes. Occasionally she wore her hair down, but today it was in a bun. She was sweating. Probably because it was summertime and she had a sweater on. She was a botanist and she smelled like her work.

"Rebbecca?" Earl said.

She rolled her eyes and elbowed past him into the room. She peered about for a moment, shaking her head as though Earl had personally decorated the place, then turned and looked him up and down. She wrinkled her nose, made it plain he disgusted her. He suddenly wished he had his shirt on. His half-nakedness made him feel vulnerable, and Rebbecca gave him goosebumps. He folded his arms across his chest, but it didn't help much. The marks on his back suddenly burned as though diseased.

"What are you doing here?" Earl said.

"Darlene told me she threw you out, that you'd be here."

How did she know where I'd be when I didn't even know? He shook his head. She always knew. It wasn't anything he could explain, but here, yet again, was the proof of it. He wondered for the hundredth time if he'd married a witch.

"What do you want?" Earl said, rubbing his eyes with his palms. He didn't have the patience for niceties. He just wanted Rebbecca to leave. He wanted to sleep, to kill as much time as he could until this mess was over. He wanted to disappear. If there'd been a closet big enough to contain him, he would gladly have hidden in it, probably beneath an enormous suit jacket, and never come back out.

Rebbecca looked him straight in the eye.

"I told Darlene from the beginning that you were no good. I knew from the moment she brought you home, all those years ago, that you were just like the rest. But she wouldn't believe it. She'd say 'Earl's different, Becca.' She defended you."

She paused, left a space for Earl to say something. He had nothing to say.

"I want you to know I did it," she continued. "I didn't know you'd cheat on her like this, but I suspected it. And I was right. You just took longer to turn than most, but that doesn't mean a thing. Not a damn thing. You're all the same in the end. Rotten to the bone, just waiting to shove your cock in anything that'll let you."

"What are you talking about?"

Rebbecca grabbed Earl's wrist and held his hand up between them. His green thumb hung in the air like a beacon. Earl had forgotten about it with all the commotion.

"You left the spitting plant on the porch?"

Rebbecca loosed her grip and nodded. Her satisfaction was obvious.

"I left it for you, watched from across the street to make sure it got you. And I don't regret it. Not one bit. You deserve what you've got coming to you. Deserve it and then some."

"What's going to happen to me?"

Rebbecca smiled then. It was the first time Earl had ever seen her do that. It was an twisted, malicious thing, that smile.

"Rot in hell, Earl," she said, then she walked steadily back to her car, skirt flapping behind her, and drove away.

Earl closed the door once her car was out of site. Unsure of what else to do, he returned to bed and fell asleep. This time he did dream, but it was nothing good.

. . .

When Earl woke again, it was dark out and his mouth felt like he'd been chewing cotton. He threw his shirt on, snatched up his room key and his wallet and stumbled barefoot to the lobby. He waved at the old man, who was still sitting in the same spot, doing nothing, and got a coke from the vending machine. He guzzled half of it on the walk back. Upon reentering his room he heard the muffled bleating of his cell-phone. He pulled it out of the drawer, flipped it open and said, "Hello?"

"Earl," Darlene said. Her voice was watery. "Earl, I want a divorce."

Earl's skin rippled with dread. He closed his eyes and swallowed past the bowling ball in his throat.

"Honey, I –"

"Don't call me that!" Darlene said, angry now. "You can't call me that anymore. Never again. You threw away that right when you screwed that bitch."

"Darlene, I'm sorry. But don't say these things. Please. I'm an idiot, and I screwed up. Bad. I admit it. I wasn't thinking. I ... But I can change. I'll do whatever it takes, whatever you want." The desperation in his voice sounded pathetic even to himself. He took a deep breath, steadied his nerves. "Just tell me what to do, and I'll do it. Anything. I'll do whatever you say."

"There's nothing you can do anymore. I can't overlook you stepping out on me. I've always done for you. I've always been there for you. But this? It's too far, Earl."

Earl shook his head, ground his teeth. Anger sparked in his chest and he ran with it.

"That's not true, Darlene. You haven't treated me well in a long time. I'm just a failure in your eyes, something to criticize. You haven't thought well of me since the day we married."

Silence.

"Well, now you've gone and proved me right," Darlene said finally, her voice cold. "I'll be sending you the paperwork for the divorce this week. Goodbye, Earl."

The line went dead. Earl left the phone against his ear and stared at the shit-colored wallpaper for a long time, then closed the phone and put it back in his pocket. The ceiling of his room sank down on him. He suddenly couldn't get enough air. His vision was darkening, closing in from the sides. He suspected someone, or something, had sealed off his room, plugged all the crevices with some futuristic compound and he'd suffocate if he'd stayed inside it any longer. So he frantically grabbed his his shoes and socks, threw them in the passenger seat of his too-small car and drove away.

He drove without a particular aim, just plowed ahead until an urge to turn hit him. Some of the roads he ventured were familiar; some were not. They felt the same. The clock on his dashboard read 8:30. He tried listening to the radio, but when he flipped it on some man was singing about how his love had left him and he had nothing to live for. Earl flicked it back off, rolled down his window. The fresh air helped. Then it was annoying. He rolled his window back up. It was too stuffy. He rolled the window down halfway, but the passing air made a whistling noise, so he rolled it down the rest of the way. The fresh air felt good.

Soon enough, he found himself on vaguely familiar streets. Unless he was mistaken, the shop wasn't far. Maybe five blocks south. He turned left, then right, right again, passed a couple fast food places that smelled equally disgusting and delicious, and finally wheeled into the parking lot of Limbs' apartment complex and parked in the same spot he had the night before.

He wasn't sure why he'd driven here. Or that's what he told himself. But he knew. Deep down, he'd known exactly where he was going the moment he climbed into the car. He'd felt good last night, felt more solid than he had in a very long time. He wanted to be among all those wonderful, exotic, lovingly nurtured plants again; to feel Limbs' sweaty flesh smashed against his, her breasts and belly and buttocks beneath his palms; to alternate between startling tenderness and thrusting himself inside her, almost violently, as if trying to impale her; to taste her and let her taste him; and perhaps most of all, to have her look at him with desire again and say nice things, make him feel warm in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.

Earl heard footsteps and voices approaching. He peered over his shoulder out the driver's side window. His heart jumped at the site of Limbs. Then it sank again. She was not alone. A man about her age or younger, rail thin and covered in tattoos, was a couple steps behind her, jogging lightly to catch up. Both of them were smiling. Earl wondered if this was Eric the Asshole, or, in a flash of anger, whether this were just another stranger. Did she bring home a new sucker to fuck each and every night? Had Earl been just another cog in the assembly line?

Limbs paused for a moment as she walked past Earl's car window, then froze. She was maybe ten feet away and the parking lot was poorly lit, but she recognized him anyway. The look on her face cut him. She wasn't angry, like he thought she might be. No. Goddammit, she was scared. Earl remembered their conversation as they'd left the coffee shop and with abrupt clarity realized how this must look to her. To come home and have the man she'd fucked the night before waiting outside her apartment, unkempt and ragged, even after he'd explicitly agreed to stay away from her, to never deliberately contact her again. Her expression made him feel like a predator, corrupt and unforgivable. A wave of revulsion ripped through him.

He turned the ignition and backed out of the parking lot rapidly. Just before he turned onto the highway, he glanced in his rear view mirror and saw Limbs hurrying up the stairs, dragging her new date behind her as though running for their safety.

"I'm sorry," Earl said to the empty car.

And this time he truly had no aim. In fact, he only turned down streets he didn't know. If a familiar landmark crept into view, he went the opposite way. He drove through neighborhoods that made him feel low class, others that felt menacing and had him double checking that his locks were working properly.

Half an hour later, stopped at a red light in a run-down neighborhood on the outskirts of town, he heard a tap on his passenger-side window. He turned his head and saw a woman leaning toward him. She was lit by the only working streetlight on the block, and she was Asian. Chinese, maybe Vietnamese. Earl couldn't tell which. He never could. She was dressed in a bright strips of cloth: one covering her intensely fake breasts, just barely, and another around her small hips. Her lipstick was tricycle pink, her eyeshadow crayon blue. It made her skin appear almost yellow, like she were jaundiced. She looked tired and defeated and accustomed to those feelings. Her jewelry was gaudy and overblown and fake. Earl reached across the empty seat and rolled down his window.

"You looking for a party, big boy?"

She had no accent. Earl didn't know why he expected her to have one, but he did. He unlocked the door for her and she climbed in. Her legs, long and smooth, were the nicest part of her. Her boots had lots of straps and looked complicated.

Between smacks of chewing gum she said, "Ten for a hand job. Twenty for a suck. Fifty for a fuck."

Just two days ago, such bluntness would have scared Earl off – he'd have forced her out of his car and peeled away – but at the moment he didn't even flinch. He pulled out his wallet, slipped a twenty from it. She snatched it from him, actually pinched it between her long glued-on fingernails and stuffed it between her breasts, where it disappeared from sight.

"Pull around to the right," she said. Smack, smack. "There's a good spot two blocks up." Smack.

She directed them to an empty parking lot, one with no strong lighting. As Earl swerved around the concrete islands supporting broken bike racks, she rolled her window down, threw her gum into the darkness, rolled it back up. He stopped the car as far from the road as possible.

"Kill the lights," she said.

Earl did. After that, she wasted no time. She undid his belt buckle, unbuttoned his jeans and tugged them halfway down his thighs. With her long, ring-laden fingers she pulled his penis from the slit in his boxers and took it in her mouth. He closed his eyes tight and put his hand on the back of her head. She was good at her job. She didn't choke or gag, never nicked him with her teeth, and in less than two minutes he was spent. She spit his seed into a napkin – Earl absently wondered where she'd gotten it from – and then slapped him on the thigh as if she were proud of her time. Perhaps she'd broken a record.

"Have a nice night, big boy," she said as her boots kissed the concrete. Then she shut the door behind her, gently, threw the balled up napkin into a nearby trashcan and returned to her corner to scout for more customers. The night was young.

Earl didn't watch her leave. He stared straight ahead at nothing in particular. His pants were still around his thighs, his penis still exposed, but he didn't care. It didn't even register with him. At the moment nothing did except for the bile rising into his throat, and an old memory. One he'd suppressed. One he thought he'd buried for good.

He was twenty five. He hadn't been with a woman since Holly Hall, seven years before. His co-workers had set him up with friends of theirs no less than nine times, but it never worked out. Not one of his dates ever called him back. He didn't blame them. Even he could see how awkward and weird he was with his insistent sweating, blushing and mumbling. That they didn't run out on him after the first hour was miracle enough. But this string of rejections left him defeated, more reclusive and socially withdrawn than he'd already been.

While underneath a car one morning replacing a pair of break pads, a thought struck him. Maybe if he were with a woman again it would shed some of his awkwardness, change something vital in him, make him less broken. It sounded entirely feasible at the time. And once the idea entered his brain, it rooted itself there, crept through his head until it was all he thought about.

So on a Friday night, weeks later, after careful planning and a couple shots of whiskey for courage, he picked up a prostitute. The girl was young, no older than twenty, but she was pretty enough and she smiled when he rolled up next to her. She called herself Dove. After she climbed into his car and modestly situated her band-aid of a miniskirt, she even shook his hand. Earl took her to a nearby motel that charged by the hour.

At first things were fine. Dove undressed him on the bed, then let him undress her. She even giggled when he knuckled her ribs, struggling with her bra. But as he laid her across the bed, placed a pillow beneath her head and slowly entered her, she looked uncomfortable. As he put his fists on opposite sides of her and worked his pelvis, as gently as he could, she began to cry. That cut him short. He pulled out and backed away until his buttocks bumped up against the cold glass of the television that'd been bolted to the wall.

Dove wiped at her eyes, smearing her candy-colored makeup all over the place. It was not just a couple tears, but a flood of them. Through the waterfall she said, "No, no. Please don't stop. I'm fine. Really." Her sobs came stronger. "I'm fine. I'm just new at this. Please. Don't leave. This is all I've got. My parents won't put up with me no more. I ain't got nothing else. I don't know what else to do."

Earl grabbed his pants from off the floor. Dove jumped from the bed, a frantic look in her eyes.

"No! Don't go! Please. Please don't. Look."

She fell to her knees, grabbed his penis and put it in her mouth. She choked on him. Earl loosed himself from her hands, jumped out of her reach, fumbled for his wallet and pulled out a hundred dollar bill. "Here!" he said, too loud. He shoved the money in her shaking hands. His hands were shaking, too. And despite his horror, he was still erect. He hated himself for that. "Just take the money. No one will know different. Just say I was really happy and paid you extra."

While Earl dressed himself, Dove thanked him. Repeatedly. She went on about how big and kind he was. How she owed him. How she was sorry she'd cried, and if he ever wanted to try again she promised she'd do better. That she'd do him for free. Do anything he wanted. No matter how weird or kinky. She even offered to give him her phone number, just in case.

Earl rejected her offers and fled the room as soon as his pants were up, didn't even bother to button them or put his shirt and shoes back on. He ran back to his car, literally ran, and drove home feeling sick and hollow. He swore he'd never do anything like that again. Never ever.

But here he was, twelve years later, sitting alone in a dark parking lot having just received a blow job from a prostitute. He blinked a few more times, then tucked himself back into his boxers, pulled his pants back up, and started the car. Before he could set it in reverse, he shouldered his door open and vomited onto the concrete.

. . .

When he returned to his motel room half an hour later it was after 11:00. He took a shower. He made it unbearably hot, then forced himself to bear it. The cuts on his back stung furiously, but he deserved it. Ten minutes later, red as a lobster, his skin almost numb, he smeared the steam from the bathroom mirror with the side of his hand. He wanted to brush his teeth to rid his mouth of the vomit aftertaste, but he hadn't thought to buy a toothbrush. He searched for some complimentary mouthwash. There was none to be found, but on the wall next to the mirror, above the lid of the toilet, there hung a small painting. It was a watercolor of a forest. It was far from anything expert or interesting, but it struck a chord with Earl. The pillars of tree trunks, tall and lean and magnificent, were perfect. They were ideal in every conceivable way, and they, he knew, had nothing to be ashamed of.

He looked at his reflection and his mood, already as bleak as he'd ever remembered it being, sunk even further. He was just a bag of flesh, stuffed with regrets and organs and ugliness. And somehow, the realization that he could never be as beautiful and peaceful as a tree, even the artificial ones in the painting, felt worse than everything else that'd happened throughout the day. He tried to puff up, to stretch his arms out the way he had just before Darlene burst in on him, but the bathroom was too small. Frustrated, he stepped out into the main room. There was a mirror over the dresser and plenty of space. He stood at the foot of his bed and stretched his limbs wide, but when he caught site of his reflection again, all the fervor drained out of him as though from a leak. It was hopeless. He was hopeless.

He sat on the bed, shoulders slumped, arms resting on his thighs. On the dresser lay his cell-phone. He wanted to crush it, to smash it with his fists, snap it between his fingers. It reminded him that he was alone now; that Darlene wasn't going to take him back; that he'd frightened Limbs tonight and she'd likely never speak to him again; that he'd been with a prostitute even though he'd sworn never to do something like that again; that there was no one left in the world who didn't think he was strange, stupid, creepy, or worse.

He rolled over onto his side, still naked and not giving a damn. He curled up, hugged his knees like a gestating giant. And for the first time since his parent's death, he cried.

. . .

Sometime after midnight, he got dressed and walked zombie-like over to the lobby, eyes still puffy. He hadn't eaten all day and could no longer ignore his hunger. It chewed at his insides mercilessly. He considered starving himself – it would shed some of his fat if he could stop eating for a week or two – but gave up on the idea. He wasn't strong willed enough and it didn't matter anyway. He'd always been built this way. Starvation wouldn't change it. Nothing would.

The old man wasn't at the desk when he stepped through the lobby doorway, but a woman with a strong resemblance to him was. She was less wrinkled, but just as bored. Earl assumed she was the man's daughter.

"Can I help you?" she said when he approached the counter.

"I'm renting a room here. Room four. But I don't know where I am. Well, I mean ... I'm not familiar with this part of town."

The woman cocked her head to the side. "You alright, Sugar?"

"Yes," Earl lied. "I'm just hungry. Is there anywhere nearby that serves food this late?"

The concern didn't leave her eyes as she said, "Sure. Just follow the highway a couple minutes, take a left on Connelly. Stay on Connelly until you see a fat old tree on the corner, hanging over the road a little bit. There's a diner just past it. There used to be a sign, but some shitty little kids tore it down last month."

Earl's heart skipped a beat.

"A fat tree?"

"Yeah. Big fat one. You can't miss it."

A fat tree, Earl whispered to himself. He hadn't considered that a tree might be bulky or stocky, but now that she'd said it, it was obvious. Of course there were trees like that! Not all trees were lean and straight. They came in all shapes and sizes. Like people. Like him!

"Thanks!" Earl said, far too loud. "Thanks a lot!"

"Sure thing. And go get yourself something to eat. You must be starving."

Earl hopped in the car, followed her directions. Minutes later he was on Connelly Avenue. And there ahead of him was the tree, just as the woman had described it.

Earl pulled off the road and left his headlights on. As he stepped through the overgrown crabgrass – slowly, as if he the tree might run off if he made any sudden movements – he was grinning from ear-to-ear. The tree was thick and dark and crooked, like something from a haunted house. It would take three men, hands all connected, to reach around it. And it was curvy, almost lumpy. One of the curves near the base even reminded Earl of a belly. He laughed at that. The tree had a stomach too!

He circled the tree a few times, marveling at it, timid to touch it at first, then running his fingertips along its rough skin. He followed its curves sensually, like a lover, then, overtaken with gratitude, he hugged it. Well, he tried. He couldn't find a good position, so it was an awkward coupling – he more or less laid across it and rubbed his face up and down against the bark. He realized how odd he must look to an observer, but didn't care. The tree had returned something he thought he'd lost. Hope. Or maybe it was dignity. He wasn't sure, but he no longer hated himself quite so much, and a lot of the self-consciousness he'd been dragging around fell off of him. It didn't matter that he wasn't lean like the pines in the painting or the oak in his old backyard. It was okay that he was round and heavy, that he was substantial. He was okay.

After planting a goodbye kiss on the fat old tree and patting it gently, he rolled up to the diner with an appetite. He ordered the biggest breakfast platter on the menu with orange juice and a water and he ingested every last bit. He even had a piece of apple pie at the end, and when he returned to his room almost an hour later he felt full in more places than his belly. His fear of what might come was still strong, but it was no longer suffocating. The next couple of months would be difficult, sure, but they wouldn't break him.

"Bring it on," Earl said aloud, then felt ridiculous and decided against doing that anymore.

Before going to bed, he stripped naked and stood in front of the mirror again. He accepted what he saw, even started to admire himself. He found plenty of similarities between himself and the fat old tree on Connelly, and that was enough for him.

He slept better than he'd expected to that night.

. . .

Earl blinked himself awake. The sun was beating at his body with invisible fists and his thumb was tingling painfully. He slid the thumb in his mouth and it soothed some of the pins and needles. He'd forgotten to close the curtains the night before and he was still unclothed. He wondered why he was naked so often now. When he couldn't come up with a reason, he dressed himself hastily. The clock on the television read 10:35. He'd slept in. He didn't know what to think of that.

His mouth tasted terrible, so he drove to the nearest convenient store and bought a toothbrush, a miniature tube of toothpaste and an equally adorable bottle of mouthwash. He started to buy a razor and shaving cream, but stopped himself. He was alone now and therefore was free to do as he wished. I will grow a beard. Making a firm decision made him feel in control of things. It felt nice.

Driving back to the motel with his thumb flat on the dashboard soaking up the sun, his stomach grumbled loudly. He turned onto Connelly Avenue and parked in front of the fat old tree again. He didn't get out of the car, just stared at it for the duration of an 80s song he knew the words to but couldn't remember the name of, then continued on to the diner. Now that the sun was out and he could see the establishment clearly, it looked decrepit, worse than his motel. He didn't mind. He ordered the same meal as the night before, sans the apple pie, and it was almost as good the second time.

But he did not return to his motel room afterwards. Instead, he continued down Connelly, his hygiene purchases sitting unused in the passenger seat. The woods hugging the highway slowly thickened until, at a bend in the road, the trees were too dense for the light to permeate. The shadows they cast covered the entire street. Earl parked in the tall grass on outside the bend, locked the car up and pushed through the thick underbrush of the woods. He tore through any resistance blindly, ignoring the tears in his arms and pants until he could no longer see or hear the road.

In time he stopped before a tree with large winding roots that was surrounded by smaller, less impressive pines. It leaned back, as though forever dodging an incoming ax. High above it there was a break in the leaves. Sunlight spilled through the gap like phantom honey. Earl kicked off his shoes and wriggled his body in among the roots. Once he found a comfortable position, the roots encircling him like an enormous protective hand, he leaned his back against the tree's mighty trunk. The sounds and smells of the forest soothed him. He felt completely at ease, and while resting there his troubles seemed far away. He felt as though he'd left them back in the car, locked in the trunk. He imagined them as monsters with wicked teeth and hairy ears, beating dents into the metal but unable to escape, screaming about how important they were and unless he faced them he'd never be happy again. But he knew that wasn't true. They couldn't touch him out here.

Eventually he placed his hand back in the sun and his green thumb tingled. But it wasn't painful anymore. The feeling was a curious one, almost pleasant, like certain spicy foods or that dandruff shampoo Darlene had bought him last year, only internal, somewhere down in his bones. He left his thumb there for a long time before climbing out from his spot, removing his shirt, draping it over one of the upturned roots and laying face up in the pocket of sunlight with his palm flat on his chest. The sun felt good on his body, like a wool blanket minus the scratchiness. He rested there for an extended period, but he did not sleep. His mind emptied itself, left him only with sensations: the earthy scents of the forest, the leaves and sticks gently prodding his bare back, the clean air rolling across his stomach and swerving between his toes, the sounds of birds and other wildlife struggling and breeding and raising their many children and devouring their enemies.

Hours later, his awareness returned.

He sat up. He was in the middle of strange woodland, somewhere off a highway he'd never driven down before. There was a small dollop of feces on his stomach. An animal must have shit on him at some point, but he had no recollection of it. He flicked the dung away, stood and stretched. He felt fine, if a little confused. His mouth tasted like dirt and he had pieces of something unknown in his teeth. He peered down and spotted leaves with bite marks in them to the left of where he'd been laying. Had he eaten some of the forest debris? It appeared so. And there was dirt beneath the fingernails of his unaffected hand. He shook his head, put his shirt and shoes back on and hiked back to his car, swatting at mosquitoes all the way. He experienced a flash of panic, imagining himself lost in these woods and unable to find his car ever again, but found he knew exactly where to go. The realization was only mildly surprising.

Ten minutes later he was standing at his car, scratching at his beard. The passenger side door was wide open and its window was gone. He unlocked the driver's side door and searched the seats to see what was missing, mindful of the broken glass. The thief, or thieves, had stolen his plastic bag of tiny hygiene products and the loose change from his ashtray. Nothing else. He couldn't decide if he should be glad that he hadn't lost something valuable, or sad that he owned so little of value.

He carefully brushed the shards of glass from the driver's seat and drove back to The Spotted Indian. The old man had returned to his perch and was lazily smoking a cigarette despite the 'No Smoking' sign within spitting distance. Earl said hello, which was returned with a feeble wave and a blank stare. He paid the old man for two more nights. When he entered his room again, it smelled stale and offensive. He opened all the windows, even the little one above the shower, then checked his cell-phone. He'd missed a call from work. Was it Monday? According to his phone it was, and it was nearly 6 PM. Had he really been in the woods all day? It didn't feel like it. He considered calling his boss to apologize for his absence, but the shop was surely closed by now. It would have to wait until tomorrow. Which was fine by him. He wasn't in the mood for being barked at.

Unsure of what to do with himself, he attempted to watch TV. Nothing was on. Literally. The TV had terrible reception and most channels were just cyber-snow. He remembered his book, grabbed “The Grapes of Wrath” out of the drawer, folded a pillow beneath his head and read. He read until it was dark outside and his eyes weren't focusing well. He sat up and checked the clock. It was after 11:00. What time had he returned to the room? He yawned and scratched his stomach, made his way to the bathroom where he pissed and washed his face with hand soap. He pulled his t-shirt up to his shoulders and spun around to see how Darlene's claw marks were scabbing. They looked better than they had the day before, but that wasn't saying much. He fixed his shirt back, ran his thumb down the length of the tree painting affectionately, locked the room up and hopped in his car. Shards of glass still peppered the dashboard and the passenger floor, but he didn't particularly care.

He drove until he hit Connelly, turned down it, parked in front of the fat tree again for another helping of confidence, then returned to the diner. The waitress was the same one from the night before – a tired, overweight, balding woman named Charles. Or at least that's what her name tag read. She asked Earl his name as she set his drink before him. He told her. He was the only customer so she chatted amiably as she served him. By his fifth cup of coffee, his food already long gone, she was sitting in the booth across from him, her veined hand on top of his. He'd told her that he was staying at the motel down the road because his wife had thrown him out. He admitted that he'd stepped out on her, but they hadn't loved each for years, if they ever had at all, and that she'd been calling him stupid and fat and ugly for so long that he didn't understand why she even cared. Charles sided with him, saying the woman she'd been with last had done many of those same things to her. Earl didn't know if it were just a ploy to get a big tip, but if that was her plan, it worked. He left her a twenty.

Back in his room, Earl read late into the night. When it was finally explained why Ma Joad had been acting so strange as they crossed the desert, that she'd been hiding the grandmother's corpse until they arrived safely on the other side, he was too sad to continue. He switched off the light and sank into the mattress.

. . .

The next morning Earl's eyes shot open. He sat up quickly, breathing heavily. The room smelled repulsive. He kicked the covers off of him and put on his shoes. He didn't like the feel of them so he tore them back off. He grabbed his belongings from the dresser (keys, wallet, cell-phone, book) and got in his car. Did he need to eat again? Was he hungry? He looked down at his stomach. Yes. He was hungry. He'd eat.

But he drove right past the diner. When he got near enough to smell the food, to see the dull gray siding and the sodden front door that didn't fully close, he decided that diner fodder was not what he wanted. He continued down Connelly, returned to the bend in the road he'd visited the day before. But after he parked and climbed from the driver's seat, he stood at the edge of the brush without entering. The forest smelled terrific, inviting, certainly nicer than the diner, but it still wasn't quite right. He returned to the car and continued on down the road.

The clock in the dash was not working. He noticed for the first time that the thieves had tried to remove his stereo. It was crooked, the right side jutting outwards, the left pressed in, and the LCD was shattered. Maybe when they couldn't get it loose they'd just bashed it with something, a crowbar or a machine gun. He shrugged. It didn't matter. If he had to check the time, he could use his phone. But what did he need to know the time for anyway? Was there anything he was supposed to do? He couldn't think of anything.

He could not say how long he drove. Highways had a way of twisting time and distance and he could not say if it'd been an hour or twenty. And he did not know where exactly he was going. He just knew that he was headed the right way. He knew it. It was an unshakable feeling; a conviction as strong as any he'd ever experienced. The surety of it was wonderful. The distinct throb of purpose was more than welcome.

When the sun was off to his left, no longer directly overhead and furiously bright, Earl felt like he was getting close to ... something. He hadn't seen anything beyond a couple of gas stations since leaving the city proper and couldn't say whether he was still in the state, but the needle of his unexplainable internal compass was no longer wiggling, just pointing straight ahead to where the road forked oddly. If he followed the curve, the street remained paved, likely plagued with exits leading to tiny fast food towns where nobody smiled. But if he continued straight the road became a dirt path, muddy and rarely traveled, trees leaning over it as though eavesdropping. He chose the dirt road and it felt right.

The trail became increasingly narrower as he wheeled his car carefully down it, weeds and grass creeping over the tracks like mold. Ten minutes later the path opened to a circular clearing. The clearing was non-distinct, more defined by a lack of trees than anything of interest. But there was another car there, a brown and yellow Volkswagen, and Earl parked his battered Nissan next to it. Leaves and pollen covered the Volkswagen. The prickly grass was growing up around its tires. Earl climbed from his seat and stretched. Sitting hunched forward for so long had irritated his lower back. It popped like fireworks as he leaned backwards. He attempted to touch his toes but didn't come very close. He spotted a footpath to his right that led into the murky woods. It had a storybook quality to it, appeared almost man made, too deliberate for nature. The only thing missing was a vine archway, and perhaps a flock of twittering blue jays draping ribbons from the branches. He rolled the cuffs of his jeans up to his knees, wriggled his toes and shook himself like a wet dog, then stepped onto the path. As his feet met the footpath, his heart fluttered pleasantly. Another correct decision.

The path was a windy and mostly uphill and it was a hot afternoon. Within the hour Earl's shirt clung to him and his calves ached. Sticks and rocks and nameless things prodded his big bare feet as he trekked. His back still ached from the drive and he suspected that his right sole was bleeding, but he ignored his discomfort. The surrounding trees felt ancient and wise and he didn't want to embarrass himself in their presence.

Earl smiled a lot as he walked. He could say, without hesitation, that this was the most beautiful place he'd ever seen. The variety of luscious, thriving plant life was glorious. The smells and sounds and colors nearly made him cry out in awe. He wondered why he'd never come here before, even chastised himself for all the years he'd wasted away from such beauty.

In time the path leveled out and trees melted away into scattered clumps. The path died off soon after, as it was unnecessary to use a specific trail with all the space between trunks. Earl weaved among the trees playfully, walking in zigzags, doing figure-eights around the trunks paired close together, not quite skipping but not far from it, his feet crunching leaves and sticks and bugs with abandon. He was hungry, but had little trouble pushing the dull ache aside. He considered kissing the bark of the tree not ten feet away –

“Show me your hands.”

Earl froze. He looked around and saw nothing that could speak.

"Hands. Right now."

Earl couldn't pinpoint where the voice had come from. It seemed directionless, disembodied. And worse, hearing another human had snapped his perspective around. He looked down at his dirty bare feet, pants rolled up like some kind of schoolboy, various prickly things caught in his leg hair. He flushed with embarrassment. What the hell am I doing?

Then he heard the cock of a gun.

“Hands up, or I shoot.”

Earl put his hands in the air, swallowed past the pine cone in his throat. A small man stepped from behind a wide tree off to his left. He wore a vest with no shirt beneath it, short pants with a rope belt and leather moccasins with chaotic stitching. His clothes were worn and soiled and they hung from him shapelessly. His face was shadowed by a broad brimmed hat. Beneath it Earl could make out a nose, ruddy cheeks and a thick white beard. The nest of facial hair hid his expression. He walked toward Earl smoothly, a rustic looking rifle in front of him, his footsteps completely silent. His skin was tanned and leathery. His age was difficult to determine, in no small part because he was filthy. And he was strong – his wiry arms were tightly muscled, his calves almost angular. He was taught as a piano string and no more than five feet tall.

Three yards away the man stopped his advance, cocked his head and peered up at Earl through milky eyes. He squinted for a moment, focused his vision on Earl's hand, the one with the green thumb, then he nodded, satisfied.

“Follow me,” he said.

“Where am I?”

“No questions until we reach the cabin. You got the mark, but that don't always mean much. And I'll shoot you if I have to. That's your only warning.”

Earl did as he was told. He was nearly twice the man's size, but guns made him nervous. So he was led through the scattered trees, a lost cow moping aimlessly behind a child. The sun was beginning to set and the amber wash it left behind made the land even more wonderful. Despite his fear and confusion, Earl's eyes teared up if he stared at any one sight for too long. It was so lovely.

Within minutes they arrived at a small cabin.

"Wait out here," the man said, then ducked into the dwelling.

The cabin was small, but cared for. Repairs had been done intermittently throughout the years. You could tell which were most recent by how faded the planks of wood were. The building was not much taller than Earl, and if the outside was any indication it was a single room. There was a window next to the door covered with a plaid curtain. A stone chimney jutted from the flat tarred roof, crooked but sturdy: judging from the small trails of smoke leaking from its mouth and the surrounding smells, something was cooking inside. The food smelled odd, but not unappetizing.

Earl looked around him. The grass around his bare feet was long and curling. He imagined himself standing on a giant's head, wading through its hair like a flea in one of those old cartoons. Then the door snapped open and the odd little man waved Earl in. Earl had to duck to keep from hitting his head.

"Close the door," the man said.

Earl did. The inside was cramped and dim, almost dark, lit only by candles and a small fire with a cast iron pot dangling above it. It was stuffy, but the little man didn't seem to mind. The room was larger than it looked from the outside, and messy. There was a small table near the fireplace and a bed in the far corner. Everywhere else was random junk. Lots of clothes – men's and women's, all shapes and sizes, from business suits to t-shirts to trousers, even a fur coat, draped over anything with an edge or tossed into piles. A long train of shoes, three rows deep, maybe forty pair total, was lined up at the foot of the bed. The walls were covered in shelving and the shelves were covered in jewelry and wallets and purses and backpacks and hats and make-up kits and cell-phones and ashtrays and silverware and lighters, even a handgun. It looked like a renegade pawnshop, only it seemed a hundred years old. Earl wondered if the building had been transported in a time machine.

Earl's host/captor watched him for a moment, then pointed to a chair. Earl sat in it. It was made from some kind of knotted wood and it barely contained him.

The man turned stirred his food for a moment, gun still slung across his shoulder, then said, "The name's Colt."

Pause.

"Like the beer?" Earl asked.

Colt shrugged. "Don't know about that. Ma named me after a horse. Not sure why. She died before I could ask her about it."

"Oh," Earl said.

"You got a name?"

"Earl."

“Last name?”

Earl shrugged. For some reason it seemed unimportant.

“Guess it don't matter,” Colt said. He turned back toward Earl again, ran his hand across the length of his rifle delicately, narrowed his eyes. “You gonna do anything funny?”

“What?”

“You seem calm enough, but I can never tell with the newcomers. Some handle themselves better than others. But I'd rather not have to lug this rifle around all night, looking over my shoulder every other second, so I'm asking, are you gonna be civil?”

“I'm not going to attack you,” Earl said. “I'm not even sure why I'm here.”

“It'll all make sense soon enough,” Colt said. He unloaded his gun, slipped the ammunition into his vest pocket and set the rifle in the corner near the fireplace. “But I'll warn ya', just 'cause I'm not carrying a gun don't mean I'm not armed. Try anything funny, and I'll drag a knife through your gut all the same.”

Earl put his hands up.

“Nothing funny,” he said.

“Good. You hungry?”

Earl thought about it. Then he nodded. Colt grabbed a pair of hand-carved wooden bowls from a shelf above the fireplace and ladled stew into them. He set the bowls on the table and retrieved a pair of spoons from a cherry colored box with red velvet interior and gold hardware. One spoon was very large and plain. The other was small, ornate and ridiculous. He pushed the bowl with the small spoon toward Earl, who stood, retrieved his food, sat back in the knotty chair and took a bite. It burned his mouth and he choked, eyes watering.

“Careful,” Colt said, as though to a child. “Just came off the fire. Give it a minute.”

Earl set the bowl in his lap, feeling absurd.

“So what do you do?” Colt asked, blowing over his food to cool it.

“I'm a mechanic.”

“Yeah? Fix cars?”

Earl nodded, blew on his food as well.

“You married?”

Earl thought about it.

“I guess not,” he said.

“Got any kids?” Colt said.

“No,” Earl said a little sadly.

Colt nodded sagely. Then he removed his hat and set it on the table next to his bowl. He was mostly bald, his pate tan and smooth and spotted. Patches of hair curled around his ears, on across the back of his head like those sporty sunglasses Earl saw the volleyball players on TV wear. Now that Earl could see Colt's eyes clearly, he noticed they were almost purple. He almost asked if they were contacts, but doubted they were and so said nothing. He just stared until Colt noticed him looking, then blushed. Colt wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of a filthy hand, leaving a smudge trail. Earl realized he was sweating as well, felt a droplet slide down his cheek. Then Colt took a bite of his stew, watching Earl carefully over the rim of his bowl, and Earl followed suit. The food was good, if bland. It tasted very natural, and the further Earl got into it the more he enjoyed that element. But his tiny spoon made progress frustratingly slow. He resisted the urge to simply pour the stew down his throat.

After more small talk, Colt relaxed some. Earl answered whatever questions Colt had for him, but couldn't think of any to ask in return. That seemed odd to him. He felt like he should be overflowing with inquiries, but he wasn't.

Later, Colt offered Earl seconds and Earl took him up on it. Halfway through that next bowl Earl lost his self control. He set the little spoon on his lap and tipped the remainders of the stew into his mouth. Broth and scraps of meat, rabbit or perhaps eagle, spilled over the edges of his mouth, down into his beard. He set the bowl at his feet and wiped his face with the tail of his shirt. Colt watched him the entire time.

“Guess you liked it,” he said once Earl had fixed his shirt back.

Earl nodded, blushing.

“Yes. It was good. Really good. Thank you.”

Colt made a motion with his hand and Earl handed him the bowl and spoon. Colt stacked those on top of his, dropped the stack into a bucket of water beneath the table.

“We've got a couple hours to kill before bed," Colt said, "so how about you help me with some chores?”

“Am I sleeping here tonight?”

Colt nodded.

“I'll take you up to the hill in the morning.”

“Huh?”

“It'll all make sense tomorrow. Come on. I gotta get some firewood chopped, if nothing else. You look like you'd make short work of it.”

“Okay.”

And so he chopped firewood. Colt had already brought some logs up to the house. How, Earl had no idea. They were bigger than he was and surely weighed three times as much. But Colt showed him the proper way to cut down a trunk. It took time for Earl to get the rhythm of it – he'd never handled an ax before -- but he made up for his inexperience with strength. And after the first hour his work flow doubled. The mindlessness of the task appealed to him, even though he felt a little sad for the tree. It had once been a tall, beautiful, solid thing, and now it was being cut into chunks the length of his arm, smashed into mere scraps of its former glory. But Earl understood that Colt needed the wood, and since he'd fed Earl and was giving him a place to sleep for the night it was only right that he returned the favor.

And so he worked for the better part of three hours, chopping by lantern light once the sun ducked behind the treetops. And when Colt returned from his foraging (he'd gone into the woods to check his snares and returned with a rabbit dangling from his belt), he was full of praise, saying Earl had cut twice what he could do on his best day. Earl glowed under the approval. It was nice to be appreciated for something. Even if it made his shoulders ache.

When Earl turned and set the ax against the wall of the shack, Colt said, “You're bleeding.”

Earl looked at his hand and arms.

"On your back."

Earl tugged at his shirt and awkwardly peered over his shoulder.

“Oh. That's just from a scratch I got the other day,” Earl said. “The scab must've cracked.”

Colt shrugged, led Earl back into the house. He toiled over whether he should skin the rabbit before bed but in the end decided it was late and that he'd do it tomorrow. He boiled some water over the fire and made them both a glass of tea. Earl didn't particularly like tea. Or so he thought. Sipping Colt's brew in that knotted chair, he wondered why he'd never cared for it until now. It was one of the most wonderful drinks he'd ever tasted. He could taste the earth and sun in it, maybe even some rain. He told Colt so. Colt accepted the compliment nonchalantly.

After the tea, Colt lit a small lantern, doused the fire and cleared a spot on the floor for Earl to sleep. To Earl's surprise, there'd been a rug beneath all the junk.

“Just pile up some of them clothes if you need a pillow,” Colt said, then he removed his vest and shoes and climbed into his bed, lithe as a fox even at the end of the day. Earl did as suggested, choosing a leather jacket for the base and a silk dress for comfort. He laid across the rug and stared up at a ceiling he could hardly see. He listened to the crickets and thought about very little. It wasn't long before he dozed off.

Later in the night, sometime after the crickets had retired, Earl heard movement within the house. He opened his eyes. The lantern had burned out and he could see nothing. He listened eagerly, careful to breathe quietly, blinking thickly at the syrupy darkness. His mouth felt sweaty and his clothes clung to him desperately. He swallowed a few times, thought about asking whether Colt had heard the sound as well. And then he felt a hand slither across his chest and settle on his breast. Earl did not move as the hand massaged him gently, kept still as it slowly worked its way across to his stomach. Then the hand was gone. Earl sighed, relieved. But the hand returned, grabbed his crotch and squeezed it firmly.

"Whoa!" Earl shouted, jerking away.

There was a scuffling sound, a retreat. More silence.

"Who is that?" Earl said.

"I'm sorry," Colt said. "I thought ... I mean, the way you were looking at me during dinner, I figured you were ..."

It took some time for Earl to piece together what Colt was implying. He shook his head, then realized Colt couldn't see him.

"I'm not gay," he said.

"I ain't usually wrong," Colt said, sounding suddenly old, "but I've been out here a long time. Guess I was just seeing what I wanted to."

"I'm sorry," Earl said.

There was a long, awkward space before Colt finally said, his voice timid and embarrassed, "Would you mind if I just slept beside you tonight? It gets mighty lonely out here, and I ain't felt the warmth of another person in almost a year now. If you ain't comfortable with that, I .... Just say. But I'd be obliged."

Earl frowned. One the one hand, he knew where Colt was coming from. He did not like sleeping alone either. On the other hand, he didn't particularly want to risk being fondled again. After some deliberation, he finally answered:

"I guess it's okay."

"Thank you," Colt said quietly.

He nudged up against Earl, gingerly at first, then as he grew more comfortable he nuzzled in closer. He fell asleep soon after. Earl was awake far longer. Colt did not snore or even move – he was corpse-still beyond his slow breaths – but Earl was acutely aware that a small, naked woodsman was cuddled against him. He wondered how sex had become such a prominent part of his life. Up until the past few days, it'd been elusive, a rare and special thing. Like finding money on the ground, or opening a yogurt and discovering he'd won something. After rolling the thought around in his head for a time, he wasn't sure he liked seeing sex quite so much. It mostly confused him, or made him feel unclean. In many ways he felt it was nicer to want it than to have it. He wondered if that was stupid.

Within the hour his wariness faded and he grew accustomed to Colt's presence. And just before winking out, he realized that he'd had plenty of chances to run, that he'd hardly been a captive at all once Colt had put the gun away. The thought hadn't crossed his mind until right then, but with sleep so close and his eyelids so heavy, the realization had little weight. Closing his eyes was far more tempting. He followed temptation.

. . .

When Earl sat up, ribs sore and lower back stiff, Colt was not inside the cabin. Earl stretched, scratched his belly, yawned and sucked on his tingling thumb. Pale slivers of morning light spilled through the cracks in the curtains, illuminating dust motes. There was a fire simmering in the fireplace. Earl stood and stretched. His elbows hit the ceiling. He yawned again and walked outside behind the cabin. Colt's rabbit from the night before hung from a peg on the wall, it's skin drying on a separate peg, bloody innards piled in a rusted can down in the grass. A blood-slick knife was on the table near the well, but Colt was nowhere to be seen. Earl walked out into the woods a little ways and pissed in the bushes. When he returned, Colt was cleaning his knife, waiting for him beneath his large-brimmed hat.

"Might as well take you on up to the hill now," he said.

Earl didn't know what Colt was talking about, but he nodded.

Colt's knife disappeared among the folds of his clothes. He slipped inside the cabin to retrieve his gun and a spade.

"In case I spot some game," he explained, and Earl nodded to that as well. "This is for you."

He handed Earl the shovel. Earl received it carefully.

Together they trekked through the woods in the opposite way they'd arrived The forest in this direction was thicker, more vibrant, and the smell of it was dense and delightful. Birds chirped mindlessly as they hiked and in the distance Earl thought he saw a deer. It made him happy. He suppressed the urge to start skipping. All the while Colt said nothing, and Earl had nothing to say. But it was a pleasant morning, cloudy and blue and warm. Earl was hungry but less so when he sucked his thumb, the green one, so mostly kept it in his mouth. He propped shovel across his heavy shoulders with his free hand.

Half an hour later they were at the base of a steep hill. The trees stopped abruptly, as if heeding an invisible no trespassing sign. A stairway had been built into the side of the hill with bricks and found stones. The hill would have been very difficult to climb otherwise. A strange, sweetly rotten smell filled the air. Colt paused at the base of the stairs for a moment, then peered back at Earl for the first time since leaving the cabin. He looked thoughtful, almost somber. Earl took his thumb out of his mouth and hunched his shoulders. Then colt shook his head and started up the stairs and Earl followed him. With each step the stench grew stronger. Earl puzzled over where the stink was coming from. Logic told him that it had something to do with this hill, but he couldn't say exactly what. The smell came from everywhere. Or nowhere.

His questions were answered when he reached the final step.

But it took him a moment to understand what he was seeing. At first he took them for scarecrows, as some still had their arms outstretched. But as he took slow, careful steps toward the thirty-odd figures, he realized they were people. Or they had been. The woman closest to the stairway must have been there awhile. She was buried up to her thighs and she was naked. It was difficult to say how old she was with her flesh so deteriorated, or how long she'd been dead. She'd been heavyset before she'd died, but her skin now draped loosely from her bones, dry and wrinkled like jerky. One breast hung against her tanned, leathery belly, which was swollen like a basketball. The other breast was missing. If the teeth marks along her chest were any indication, it'd been chewed off. Parts of her thighs and buttocks had been eaten as well, probably by foxes or mountain lions or bears. Carrion birds had made a meal of her shoulders, her back, her cheeks – they'd left beak marks behind, and the flesh had been pulled away in strips, not chunks. Her hair was long and dry, and her mouth hung slack. Her eye-sockets were empty. Flies buzzed all around her, landing in the open meat of her wounds, in her mouth, in her pubic hair. Her right arm was extended outward, green thumb out in the open air, as though she were hitchhiking.

Earl fought the bile that was rising up as he walked among the figures. Some of them were not as rotten as that first woman; others were more so. Men, women, three teenagers and one child were standing there. Thirty-three bodies total. Some were fat, bellies and breasts and buttocks rotting into skeletal bags. Some were short, others were stocky or wiry. Eight of them were black, six were oriental, the rest were white. Earl ducked under outstretched limbs and pushed through clouds of flies, refusing to breathe through his nose. The death stench filled his mouth, coated his tongue. He did not look at any one corpse for long. When he noticed maggots writhing in open wounds, or spotted slivers of bone peaking through the flesh, he felt faint.

Colt watched Earl from the last stair silently, idly fingering his gun.

Earl eventually stopped in front of a man with gray hair. He looked about fifty, maybe fifty-five. He had a salt-and-pepper beard and wore a wedding ring. He was naked, both arms outstretched, and he looked more recent than any of the others. His skin was the least devoured – it still had some color in it, actually – and he had an erection. None of the other men were erect, even the ones whose penises hadn't been eaten yet, so it seemed unusual. But he was not alive. Earl had no doubts about that. A crow was currently tugging at his remaining eye, actually yanking the gooey thing out of his head, and he was not moving or fighting it off. He was just smiling at nothing, or everything.

But then the dead man's arm moved, slowly, jerking as though rusty, and his thumb slid into his mouth. Earl jumped backwards, dropped his shovel. Colt was next to him now. Earl hadn't heard him approach.

"Is he alive?" Earl whispered.

Colt shook his head.

"He's been out here nearly a month now. He's gone."

Earl watched the crow fly away with it's prize dangling from its beak.

"The body still works for a while, even after the brain is gone," Colt said. His voice sounded funny. He wasn't breathing through his nose either. "The arms move on their own, more or less."

Earl nodded, then vomited in the grass. Colt waited until he was through, then patted him on the back as he sluggishly wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. Earl stood upright again and looked about him. As his eyes shifted from person to person, all rotting and vile, some of them twitching occasionally, others being eaten by flies and worse, like human Popsicles, he felt like vomiting again. But then he caught site of a man at the other end of the hill and a fierce curiosity overtook him. He walked slowly toward the figure, sucking his thumb without realizing it.

The man at the edge of the hill had been there longest of all. He was tall and skeletal. His torso was arching backwards and his ribs were plainly visible. What was left of his skin was very dry and tough with cracks deep enough to lose quarters in. He had great chunks missing from him. His belly was almost entirely gone, and his right arm had been eaten away to the bone. Both of his hands were gone. But where his empty eye sockets were sat something wonderful. Something beautiful. Something that helped Earl understand what these people were, and how they were not repulsive at all. Flowers were growing from those empty sockets; yellow, slimy, bulbous flowers. Their petals curled outward and their cores were lengths of seeds, bunched together like tiny corncobs. And down at the man's feet, directly beneath those flowers, were small familiar plants with leaves that reminded Earl of old bananas.

Earl turned and looked at the rest of the figures in a new light.

They're trees. These people are trees.

What had first seemed a perverse graveyard was now something else entirely. This was a forest. Or the beginnings of one, at least. And these people-trees budded and created more of themselves, like any pine or oak would. As Earl walked back among them, he spotted similar flowers sprouting from many of their eye sockets, noticed the plants jutting from the soil around their feet. None were quite as developed at the original person-tree, but they would be in time. He was sure of it. He ran his fingers along their bodies lovingly and was ecstatic to find their skin so firm and protective, just like bark.

By the time he was standing before Colt again, tears were running down his face. He hadn't felt so happy since the day he'd turned eleven. His heart felt like it might explode.

“I'm like them, aren't I?”

Colt nodded, pity in his eyes.

Earl smiled, a true smile that nearly split his face, and removed his shirt and handed it to Colt. He undid his belt, pulled his wallet from his back pocket and his cell-phone from his front. On the LCD of his phone an animated envelope was dancing back and forth. He had a voice mail. He flipped the phone open and pressed the big green button, placed the phone against his ear.

New message.

“Earl,” Darlene said. She was crying. “Earl, please call me. Rebbecca told me what she did. She told me what that plant was, the one on the porch. And you had that thing in you, the thorn or whatever it was. So what you did with that whore ... Earl, it wasn't your fault. You weren't yourself. You wouldn't do that to me. I know it. And I threw her out. Oh, Earl! We had a fight and I threw Becca out of the house. I'm all alone now and I don't know what to do. The sink is broke again and ... Earl, don't do anything stupid. Please. Just come home.”

You have no more messages.

Earl closed the phone and stared at it.

“Something important?” Colt said.

Earl thought about it, then shook his head and handed Colt the phone. He removed his pants and boxers, left them on the ground. It was good to be out of them, to feel the breeze on his skin. It felt right. He wondered why he'd ever worn them in the first place.

He picked the shovel up and found a spot with a good view of the surrounding woods and plenty of room to stretch his arms. He smiled as he dug, and the deeper the hole became, the better he felt. And when at last he'd gone down far enough, he climbed into the crater and started piling the dirt around his legs. Colt helped him then, used the shovel to fill in the spaces behind his thighs, and to pack the soil down.

Once Earl was satisfied with his planting, he looked up at Colt. They were nearly the same height now. Colt met his gaze for a moment. Then he leaned forward, planted a kiss on Earl's forehead.

“Goodbye," he said.

Earl just smiled in response. He had no desire to speak. He watched Colt walk away with the last of his worldly belongings from the corner of his eye, but he did not turn his head.

Within minutes everything was quiet, peaceful. The only sounds were of the wind, the rustling of leaves, bird calls. And with every passing second chunks of Earl's past died away, curled into shriveled nothings like tissue paper tossed into a fire. He'd spent so much of his life afraid of people, of change, of what tragedy might befall him at any moment. And when he wasn't scared, he was ashamed, or unsure of himself. But all of that was melting away now. Rapidly. He wondered why those things had felt so important before. He wondered how they could have dominated his life the way they had. Then he realized it no longer mattered. Those thoughts, those feelings – those were the troubles of people. But he was no longer a person. He was something magnificent, something pure, something that was entirely itself and never ashamed to be so.

He was a tree.

 

 

End