The Woodsmen - chapter 4 (with images) (Patreon)

The walk down the spur road is slow and mechanical. The light is flat and gray. The mud is freezing back into hard ruts under my boots. I keep my shoulders rolled forward and my elbows tucked tight against my ribs.

The tight white undershirt is failing. The fabric is stretched past its limit. It just traps heat and binds the growing tissue against my chest, sharp every step. The mass behind my nipples is dense. It's got a heavy liquid weight. When my left boot hits the gravel the tissue on my left side pulls downward in a distinct movement. It rebounds a fraction of a second later.

Walt is walking ten yards ahead of me. He has his saw resting on his thick shoulder. He doesn't look back.

We reach the landing. The air is dropping fast. The metal roofs of the trailers look black against the tree line. I drop my gear in the back of Hank's Ford and walk straight to the bunkhouse.

Shutting the door to my room, I turn the electric heater on. The tool belt unbuckles and hits the linoleum. I take off the stiff canvas pants. The black compression shorts go on tight against my hips. They hold everything flat. The swelling between my legs is gone now. The tissue is soft and settled. The outer lips don't rub when I walk anymore. The shorts do the work. Below the belt, the geometry's been figured out. The chest hasn't. 

I pull the heavy green flannel over my head, then grab the bottom hem of the white undershirt and drag it up. The fabric is stuck to my skin with dried sweat. It peels away from the nipples with a sharp tearing sensation.

I drop the shirt, then stand in the weak yellow light of the overhead bulb and look at my chest.

The muscle definition is gone. Thick fat layered over where the pectorals used to read. The tits push out from my ribcage and they're heavy. Pale skin, blue veins running down toward the dark skin around the nipples. The nipples are swollen and stiff in the cold air.

Resting my right hand on my stomach, I look at the shape of my own torso. The center of gravity is wrong.

I raise my left hand and touch the underside of the left breast. Soft. It gives way under my fingers when I press up. The whole volume fills my hand, a heavy handful. When I let it go it drops back against my lower ribs with a soft slap.

What the breast feels back, that deep aching pressure inside it, I'm not used to yet.

I put a clean thermal top on, leaving it loose, then put on a pair of gray sweatpants.

I walk across the dark gravel to the mess trailer. The smell of fried pork chops and boiled potatoes hits me at the door.

Hank's at the counter pulling meat out of cast iron. Terrence already seated, Walt at the end.

I grab a plastic plate. Two pork chops, a massive pile of potatoes. I’m not ravenous anymore. The furnace inside me that burned for three days has settled into a steady low hum. 

I pull out the aluminum chair closest to the door and sit down carefully, spine rigid, no leaning forward.

Dana comes in. She shuts the door hard. Her nose is red from the cold.

I look at her, expecting her to look at me, the flat practical look she gave me in the equipment shed, but she doesn’t.

She pours a mug of instant coffee at the stove. Then she turns and walks to the table, steps over a chair, and sits down right next to Terrence.

Terrence looks up from his plate. He has a piece of potato on his fork. "You brave the north ridge today?" he asks.

Dana takes a sip of her coffee. "Hiked up to check the flagged unit. The elk ate half the pink ribbon again. I had to re-mark the draw."

"I told Hank we should shoot one," Terrence says. "Fresh backstrap. Save us from this boot leather." He points his fork at the pork chop on his plate.

Hank doesn't turn around from the sink. "You shoot an elk out of season on a state contract and the game warden will take my truck and your saw."

Dana laughs. Loud, real. She tips her head back. Her throat is pale in the harsh fluorescent light.

I sit at the end of the table and cut my meat, watching her. I suddenly feel conspicuous in a way I never did before. Like everyone in the trailer can see something I can't keep hidden much longer.

She's talking to Terrence about the transmission in his Ford, her elbows on the plastic table, leaning forward. She makes eye contact with Walt. Taking up space in the conversation in a way she usually doesn't. Loud.

I look at the distance between my boot and the metal leg of the table, chewing the dry pork and swallowing it with a drink of cold water.

I finish my plate, stand up, take my dishes to the sink. The water is freezing as I wash the plastic.

"See you at six," Hank says.

I don't say anything, just walk out the door. The night air bites through my loose thermal shirt. The breasts ache. The nipples contract with a sharp pulling pain that radiates deep into the chest wall. I cross my arms over my ribs and walk fast to the bunkhouse.

I sit on my bed, pull out my knife and finish the bird. The knife still fits my hand correctly, the wings coming off the body cleaner than I expected. The head is too small for the body but the body is right. I set the bird on the dresser next to the unloaded carbine.

The next piece I pick up I have no plan for. A wedge of vine maple from the unit, about the size of a deck of cards. I put the knife to it and start taking corners off, without knowing yet what it’s going to be. The wood will tell me. That isn’t how I usually work but tonight it’s how I’m working. After a few minutes I set it down.

I don’t sleep well, lying on my back in the dark. The weight on my chest presses down on my lungs. If I roll onto my side the breasts pool together in the center. The heavy soft flesh pressing against itself generates a terrifying amount of heat. The friction of the nipples rubbing against the inside of my arm is painful. I end up sleeping on my back with a rolled up flannel shirt wedged between the breasts to keep them separated.

The alarm goes off at four thirty. Day five.

I open my eyes. The electric heater ticks. The room is freezing.

I sit up on the edge of the mattress and pull the thermal shirt off. The swelling is worse today. The tissue has expanded again overnight. Bigger than any handful. Bigger than any woman I ever slept with. The slope of the top is full and rounded. The undersides sit heavily against my ribs.

I can’t wear the tight white undershirt. It’s too small. It won’t stretch over the mass. If I try to force it down it will just crush the tissue and roll up my stomach.

I open the bottom drawer of the dresser and dig through the heavy wool socks. I’ll need something to flatten them. A mechanical solution.

I find a thick gray cotton t-shirt. It’s heavy material. Taking my pocket knife off the nightstand, I open the blade, grip the bottom hem of the shirt and drag the sharp steel through the thick cotton. The fabric tears with a loud ripping sound. I cut the bottom half of the shirt off. What’s left is a wide tube of heavy gray fabric.

I pull on my compression shorts, the canvas pants, the heavy leather belt. Then I stand up and wrap the fabric tube around my back, bringing the two ends around to the front of my chest, and pull them tight.

The heavy cotton bites into my skin. I cross the ends over my sternum and pull harder. The breast tissue compresses. It's a sickening sensation. The hard lumps behind the nipples grind against my rib bones. The soft outer fat is pushed up toward my collarbones and shoved deep into my armpits.

I pull the ends tight under my left armpit and tie a hard double knot against the ribs.

The knot sits like a rock against my ribs. I can't fill my lungs. The compressed tissue throbs with a deep bruised agony. But when I look down the chest is relatively flat. It looks like a thick layer of muscle under a bandage.

A long-sleeve thermal goes on over the binding. The waffle-knit smooths out the shape of the knot. I pull the heavy green flannel over that and button it to the throat. Boots on. 

I head across the dark landing to the mess trailer. I sit at the end chair, spine straight. Four fried eggs and a stack of toast. I'm breathing in short shallow gasps through my nose, the binding cinched tight.

Dana comes in at five fifteen. She gets her coffee. She leans against the counter next to Hank. She talks about the log tally. She looks at my chest for one fraction of a second. She sees the thick layered flannel. She sees the rigid way I'm holding my shoulders. She looks back at Hank and doesn't say a word.

We hike up the spur road at six thirty. The climb is brutal.

The incline forces my heart rate up. My lungs demand oxygen. I try to take a deep breath and the heavy gray cotton binding stops my ribs from expanding. Panic flares in my throat. A suffocating claustrophobia. I have to force myself to take rapid shallow pants through my open mouth.

I'm carrying the saw on my right shoulder. The weight presses down on my collarbone. The pressure transfers directly into the compressed breast tissue pushed up into my armpit. The pain is a white-hot line of fire.

By the time we reach the top of the block I'm soaked in sweat.

The sweat runs down my neck and pools in the valley between the compressed breasts. The gray cotton absorbs it. The fabric gets wet and heavy.

We start cutting.

The block is a steep section of dead standing timber mixed with tight second growth fir. The ground is a mess of slick moss and hidden holes. I set my gear down and check the bar oil, the gas. The smell of the raw fuel is sharp in the cold air.

The saw starts with a scream.

I step up to a marked fir and plant my boots, then bring the saw up to make the face notch. The vibration travels through the plastic handles. It hits my rigid arms and travels straight into the tight gray knot on my ribs.

Every time I rev the throttle the vibration buzzes in the inflamed tissue. It makes my teeth ache. I make the top cut, pull the saw out, then make the bottom cut. The wedge drops.

I move to the back of the tree and bend my knees. I keep my back straight to avoid shifting the binding, and sink the bar into the trunk. The sawdust flies back against my chaps.

The morning is a grind. The sun comes up over the ridge around ten o'clock. The temperature rises. The dead air in the dense timber block traps the heat.

I’m wearing a tied cotton rag, a thick thermal, and a heavy flannel, running a massive chainsaw on a steep incline. The heat under my clothes is a physical trap. My body is pouring sweat trying to cool down.

The sweat breaks down the friction of the gray cotton.

Around two in the afternoon I’m bucking a large fallen cedar. The trunk is three feet thick. I’m standing on the downhill side. I have the saw buried deep in the wood.

Terrence is working about forty yards to my left. I can hear his saw idling. Walt is further up the hill.

I finish a cut. The heavy round of cedar drops into the dirt. Hitting the brake on the saw, I step back.

I need to turn the saw to make a vertical cut on a broken limb. Gripping the top handle with my left hand and the rear handle with my right, I twist my torso hard to the right to get the angle.

The wet gray cotton gives way.

The sweat has loosened the fibers. The sudden violent twist of my lats against the tight knot pulls the fabric past its breaking point. No sound over the idle of the saw, but I feel the seam under the harness strap let go.

The fabric tears.

The heavy tube of gray cotton splits down the side.

The two dense masses of breast tissue fall. They drop three inches, catching at the bottom curve and jarring to a stop painfully against my lower ribs. The momentum pulls my shoulders forward.

My breath leaves me in a rush. I drop the nose of the saw into the dirt.

The heavy mounds of flesh settle against my stomach. They’re unsupported inside the loose thermal shirt. The nipples rub aggressively against the wet waffle-knit cotton. The pain is a sharp electric shock.

I freeze, standing still in the moss. My chest is heaving. Every time I breathe the heavy breasts sway slightly.

"Briggs."

The voice comes from right behind me.

My stomach drops.

I don’t turn around, I just grip the handle of the saw. My knuckles are bone white.

"Briggs, you got the raker file in your pouch?" Terrence asks. His boots crunch on the dry bark. He's walking toward me. "I hit a rock hidden in the roots. Fucked up three cutters on my chain."

He's close. Ten feet away.

I can't turn around. The gray cotton binding is hanging loose around my waist inside my shirt. The thermal and the flannel are damp with sweat. They're clinging directly to my skin. Without the binding the silhouette of the tits pushing against the wet fabric is absolute and undeniable.

"It's in the truck," I say. The voice doesn't sound like mine. Like it's coming through a crushed windpipe. I keep my back to him, staring at the bark of the cedar log.

"I thought you kept a spare in your belt," Terrence says. He stops walking. He's standing right behind my left shoulder. I can smell his cheap deodorant.

"I left it in the truck," I say again.

I reach down to unclip my heavy sledgehammer to give myself a reason to bend over and hide the shape. It's a panicked thought and I move too fast.

I twist my torso to the left to reach the pouch.

The sudden movement swings the heavy tissue. The right side pulls hard against the wet thermal. The momentum carries it forward.

I overbalance and stumble a half step, turning my body toward him to catch my footing.

I turn right into Terrence's line of sight.

I stop and stand up straight.

Terrence is holding his saw by the handle. He has his visor pushed up. He's looking right at me.

The wet flannel is plastered to my chest. The shape is right there. Two distinct mounds pushing out, the curve under each one obvious through the wet plaid. The nipples are hard from the cold, pressing visibly against the fabric. 

Terrence stops moving. His mouth is slightly open.

He looks at my face, then down at my chest. His eyes track the shape and find what's there.

The woods go quiet around us. The idling chainsaws sound like they're miles off.

I don’t cross my arms or try to hide it. It’s too late. The mechanical failure is complete. I just stand there holding my saw and look at his face.

I watch him try to process it. The confusion starts. He looks at my thick neck, the heavy stubble on my jaw, then back down at the wet shirt.

The confusion doesn't last. The skin around his mouth pulls tight. His jaw locks. Pure flat disgust. He looks at me and his face goes hard around the mouth.

He doesn't say a word.

He doesn't ask a question. He doesn't make a joke.

He just turns his back, grips his saw, and walks away. Back to his unit. His boots kick up wet moss and dirt.

I stand alone by the cedar log. The cold sweat runs down the side of my face. The heavy unsupported breasts throb. The wet flannel clings to them. Walt's saw is idling forty yards off. The sound hasn't changed. Somewhere downhill a piece of bark drops off something and lands. 

I hit the kill switch on my saw and set it on the log.

I reach into my shirt, find the torn ends of the heavy gray cotton and pull them tight.  I tie a loose clumsy knot just to keep the tissue from swinging. It doesn't hide the shape. It just stops the agonizing bounce.

For the rest of the afternoon I don’t cut another tree. I spend three hours dragging cleared brush into piles, keeping my back to the rest of the crew.

Hank blows the air horn at four thirty.

The walk down the spur road is a funeral procession.

Terrence walks in the front. Walt walks next to him. Terrence is talking in a low fast voice. He's gesturing with his free hand. Walt is looking straight ahead. Walt looks back over his shoulder once. He looks at me. His face is unreadable. A tight blank mask.

I walk thirty yards behind them, keeping my arms crossed over my chest.

We reach the landing. The sun is gone. The cold air bites.

I drop my saw in the truck bed. Terrence drops his. He slams the tailgate hard. The metal bangs like a gunshot. He walks straight to the mess trailer. Walt follows him.

I stand by the truck and look over at Dana's Tacoma. She’s sitting in the driver's seat. The engine is running. The heater’s on. She’s looking at her clipboard over the steering wheel.

I walk to the mess trailer and open the door.

The heat hits me. Frying meat and the sharp smell of black pepper.

The silence in the room is suffocating. It's a toxic pressure.

Nobody looks up when I walk in. Terrence is staring out the fogged window. Walt is staring at his plate. Hank is whisking flour and milk into a cast iron pan of brown drippings. The scrape of the metal whisk on the cast iron is the only sound.

They know.

The information has moved through the camp. Terrence told them. They all have the same image in their heads now. They all think the same thing.

I take a plastic plate from the counter. A breaded steak from the foil-lined sheet, two halved biscuits, a heavy ladle of white gravy over the top. My hand is shaking. The ladle clanks against the rim of the pan.

Hank doesn't look at me. He just keeps stirring.

I take my plate to the end chair and sit down, then put the plate on the table.

I stare at the plate without eating. The hollow furnace in my stomach is dead. Nausea twists in my gut. I look at Terrence. He refuses to turn his head. His jaw is locked so tight the muscle is jumping under his ear.

I look at Walt. Walt slowly lifts his fork. He takes a bite of steak and chews mechanically.

My chair scrapes loudly against the linoleum as I stand up.

I leave the full plate on the table and walk to the door, open it and step out into the freezing dark, shutting the door behind me.

I walk across the gravel to the bunkhouse. The cold wind cuts through my sweat damp clothes as I go into my small room, shut the door and lock it.

I strip off the heavy green flannel in the dark. Off comes the wet waffle-knit thermal. The torn gray rags last, dropped on the floor.

I stand in the freezing room in just my pants, letting the breasts hang free. They rest heavily against my upper stomach. The dark skin around the nipples contracts in the cold. The skin is hot and inflamed from the friction of the day. The volume of the flesh is a weight pulling my shoulders forward.

I sit on the edge of the narrow foam mattress, putting my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands.

I sit there for a long time. The camp generator hums in the distance.

An hour passes. The gravel crunches outside my window.

Footsteps on the wooden stairs of the bunkhouse. The outer door opens. Heavy boots walk down the narrow plywood hallway.

The footsteps stop outside my door.

A light knock. Two sharp raps of a knuckle against the cheap wood.

I lift my head from my hands without saying anything.

"Joel."

It’s Dana. Her voice is low. It carries through the thin door.

I stand up and walk to the door, then turn the lock and the brass knob and pull it open.

The hallway behind her is lit by a single dim bulb but my room is pitch black. I stand in the doorway, bare chested, breasts hanging in the shadows.

She stands in the hallway, wearing her green jacket, her hands shoved deep in her pockets.

She looks at my face. She doesn’t look down.

"You didn't eat," she says.

"No."

"Terrence is talking loud in the mess trailer."

"I know."

She leans her shoulder against the doorframe. She looks past me into the dark room. She’s calm.

"They think you're crazy," she says. "They think you ordered hormones off the internet and you're transitioning in a camp trailer because you're a pervert."

She doesn't say it like she just made it up. 

"I didn't do anything."

"I know that," Dana says. "But they don't. And you can't explain it to them because there's no explanation."

"I can't work the line with them tomorrow."

"Yes you can." Her voice hardens. It's a sharp command. She pulls one hand out of her pocket. She points a finger at my chest.

"You listen to me," she says. "You don't hide. If you stay in this room tomorrow you’re proving them right. You’re giving them the power to make you a freak."

I cross my thick arms over the heavy tits. The flesh presses against my biceps. "Dana, they won't even look at me."

"They don't have to look at you. They just have to look at your tally." She steps closer. Her eyes are locked on mine. "You go to breakfast tomorrow. You sit in your chair. You eat your food. You hike the spur road and you drop your quota. Let the numbers speak. The work is the only language they respect. You outwork them."

Staring at her in the dim light, I just hear the absolute certainty of the tactic.

"I can't bind them anymore," I say quietly. "The tissue is too big. It tore the shirt today."

"Then you wear a loose sweater," she says. "You let them see what they're going to see and you dare them to say a word about it while you outcut them on the ridge."

She steps back into the hallway.

"Six thirty at the trucks, Briggs. Don't make Hank blow the horn for you."

She turns around. She walks down the hallway. The outer door opens and shuts.

I stand in the doorway. The cold air from the hall washes over my exposed chest. The breasts ache with a slow rhythmic pulse. My right hand goes up to the soft slope of the right breast, feeling the dense weight inside, the hard point of the nipple.

I step back into the room and shut the door. In the dark I walk to my duffel and dig through the clothes until I find a heavy black hooded sweatshirt. I drop the sweatshirt on the bed and pull the heavy wool blanket up.