The Woodsmen - chapter 6 (with images) (Patreon)

Two days since I washed, going on three, and the thermal I slept in has a smell coming off it like the inside of a boot.

The tank's been cold since Tuesday. The heating element went and Hank keeps saying he'll get the part in Newport, and then the day ends and he hasn't. Nobody pushes him on it. Pushing Hank is how a man ends up limbing the steep ground for a week. So the water stays cold and we all stay a little ripe and that's the deal we've got.

I pull the black hoodie on over bare skin and step into my boots without lacing them. Towel off the nail by the door. Clean compression shorts and a folded thermal under my arm, the hard hat hooked on two fingers. Outside the cold comes straight up through the soles. The sky hasn't decided to be light yet. Frost on the truck windshields, the trucks just shapes down by the tree line.

I take the long way, around behind the water tank, out of the line of the bunkhouse windows. The bathroom trailer's empty. One fiberglass stall, the toilet, the sink. I set the clean clothes on the back of the toilet tank and the hard hat on top of them, get the hoodie off, the boots, the pants, and stand there a second on the cold linoleum before I reach in and pull the lever.

The pipes knock in the wall. Three hard raps, like somebody's in there with a wrench. Then the water comes, and it's cold, not cool, cold the way the creek is in April, and I get under it because waiting on warm that isn't coming just means standing there dry and cold instead of wet and cold.

It runs off me wrong now. Used to come down the chest and off and that was it. Now it catches. Pools on the top of the breasts and runs the underside and drips off the low curve, and the fold where they sit against my ribs stays wet after the rest of me's run clear. Small things like that I keep having to learn. Where the water goes.

The soap's a sliver of Irish Spring worn down to almost nothing, green, sitting in the corner of the molded shelf. Somebody's. Not mine. My white bar's gone and I never saw it go, maybe it just wore down to a chip and went off down the drain the way this one's about to. I work up what lather the cold'll allow, which isn't much. It smells sharp and fake the way that soap does, cold and clean and a little like aftershave.

I do the arms, the chest. The hands go over the breasts and I make it quick, the way you wipe down a tool that isn't yours to be careful with. Cold skin pulled tight. The nipples draw up hard and there's the ache behind them, deep in the tissue, bruised, and when the soap slides over them my breath catches short and I stand there with my jaw set till it passes.

Lower. The hand goes lower and stops at my stomach.

The cold's pulled everything in down there, drawn it up tight and small, the lips tucked close and aching with it, and that's worse somehow than the soreness in the chest. More wrong. The body doing a thing on its own that I get no vote in. I make myself finish. Even drawn up like that the folds are slick under the cold water, slicker than the water accounts for, and I wash fast with two fingers and try not to think about it, and the trying is its own way of thinking about it. Rinse. Push the lever back. The pipes knock again and settle down in the wall.

I towel off on the cold floor. My feet have gone numb against the linoleum.

The blue Gillette sits on the narrow lip of the sink. A dry crust of white foam packed between the twin blades, a spot of brown rust coming up on the edge of the bottom one. Haven't touched it since we got here. I think about shaving. I don't know why. Habit, I guess. Put the hands to use.

I lean over the basin, hands on the cold edge of it, and look in the mirror.

The glass is cheap and warped a little. It throws the yellow glare off the fluorescent tube overhead and lays hard shadows down my neck.

The heavy stubble that used to shadow my jaw by noon is gone. It didn't come out in patches. It just quit. The dark roots under the skin faded off to nothing over a couple of days. My upper lip is thicker now. Heavier, rounder.

I touch my cheek. The callus on my finger catches a little on the skin. The skin gives under it.

It's a woman's face.

The neck's still thick but the Adam's apple is gone. The shoulders slope different, and bare like this, dripping, there's nowhere for it to go, no shirt to lay over it. The muscle's all still there, the lats and the traps off years of pulling saws and swinging the sledge. Just wrapped now in something softer. The hard lines of me sanded down.

I leave the razor where it is. Nothing to shave.

The clean compression shorts go on. They snap tight against the pelvis and hold everything flat to the pubic bone. The cold's still got the folds drawn in, but as the body warms back up I can feel them go slick again, and I don't really notice it until the pants are on over and I take a step, the moisture shifting against the synthetic, a small wet awareness that doesn't quit. The friction's gone with the shorts holding it down. The knowing it's there doesn't go.

The hoodie comes back on over the clean thermal. A size too big, the fleece matted from old sweat. The breasts are massive on me, a dense weight dragging on the chest wall, and the fleece drops over them and hides the curve and the valley between but can't do a thing about the bulk. The nipples are stiff in the cold of the trailer. They point out a little and press the inside of the fleece, and the friction is a throb, deep.

Work pants. Brass button, belt through the loops, buckled. Boots, and the right lace is frayed near the top eyelet so I tie it off in a double knot. I take the hard hat off the toilet tank.

I open the door. The gravel landing is wet from the night's rain. The sky's a flat iron gray, the generator humming its low roar behind the equipment shed.

Boots crunching somewhere off toward the trucks. Two sets, Walt and Terrence. I hold still against the cold metal of the trailer and wait. The aluminum door of the mess hall bangs open and shut, the weather stripping slapping the frame.

I give it a ten count, then cross the landing and take the door on the far side, out of the windows, and step inside.

The propane stove is going. Canned chorizo frying, the smell sharp and red.

I don't look at the table. Plastic plate off the counter, a stack of flour tortillas at the edge of the skillet. I scoop scrambled eggs and the chorizo onto a tortilla and roll it. The metal spoon clicks loud against the cast iron.

I turn around and look at the chairs.

On one side I'm trapped against the wall, boxed in by the table and the chair. The folding chair closest to the door comes out and I sit down, back pressed against the cold metal tube of the chair frame, straight up. I have a clear line of sight to both sliding windows and the door.

Terrence looks up from his plate. He looks at my face.

The hard hat is sitting on the floor next to my boot. I’m not wearing it. The visor used to throw a shadow over the top half of my face. It doesn't matter anymore. The shadow doesn't hide the soft jaw. It doesn't hide the mouth.

The disgust is gone. He looks at me like he doesn't know what he's looking at, and like he doesn't want to look away. Heat floods my neck.

I look down at the plate, pick up the burrito and take a bite. The eggs are barely warm. I chew and swallow without looking up.

Terrence goes back to his plate. Nobody talks. Just the scrape of his fork against the plastic.

We hike the spur road at six thirty. The mud is deep and frozen in jagged ruts. My hips roll differently when I climb. I step up over a washed-out section of the road and my right hip joint clicks loudly. The bone sits loose in the socket. I walk with my weight settled deeper in my lower back, locking my core to keep my balance on the incline.

The fleece moves with every step. I breathe through my mouth. The air is freezing.

I run the saw all morning. Dana marks the next tree for me. She stands close to the trunk with the orange spray can and paints the slash mark on the bark at four feet. When I walk up with the saw she doesn’t move out of the way like she does for Terrence or Walt. She finishes the mark and steps back slowly. Her shoulder turns in toward me as I come up to the trunk to set the felling cut. There's a second where we are standing close enough that the brim of her hard hat clears the brim of mine by maybe an inch.

She doesn’t say anything about the cut, just watches my hands set the bar against the wood. Then she walks off down the line to the next mark.

Something flares behind my sternum, low and mean. Then it goes.

I set my gear down next to a marked fir and check the bar oil reservoir. The cap threads are slightly stripped. You have to push down hard while twisting or it cross-threads and leaks red sticky oil down the side of the orange plastic housing. I push down with the heel of my hand and twist. It clicks shut.

I pull the starter cord and the two-stroke engine screams. A cloud of blue smoke coughs out of the exhaust. I step up to the trunk and plant my boots wide, then bring the saw up to make the face notch.

The vibration travels through the plastic handles. It buzzes in my forearms. It travels up my biceps and straight into my chest. The tissue absorbs the vibration. It buzzes in the fat. It’s a nauseating sensation. I grit my teeth and sink the steel bar into the bark.

I drop the fir, stepping back as it crashes through the canopy and hits the limestone outcropping below. Then I move to the next marked tree.

Late afternoon. Day twelve. The sky is a flat white sheet.

I'm standing by the open tailgate of Dana’s Toyota. The shift is over. I wipe my saw bar down with a blue shop towel. The towel is rough. It catches on the metal teeth of the chain, tearing off small blue fibers. My arms are numb from the vibration. My thighs tremble slightly in the cold.

Hank walks up the spur road onto the landing, holding his metal clipboard. He clicks his ballpoint pen.

"Tally for the north block," he says.

I put the saw in the bed of the truck, push it forward so the dogs don't scratch the liner, and turn around.

Hank looks at me. We are two feet apart. The light is harsh and shadowless. The sun is hidden behind the gray cloud cover.

His eyes go to my cheeks, to my lips, to the hoodie pulled tight across the chest. He looks at my hips. He looks at the way I'm standing.

I’m not wearing the hard hat. There’s no shadow to hide behind.

He looks for a long time. It's at least ten seconds. The wind rattles the bare branches of the maples at the edge of the landing. The diesel engine of the skidder idles somewhere on the far ridge.

He looks down at his clipboard.

"You dropped fourteen," Hank says.

"Fourteen. Two were widowmakers. Had to wedge them uphill against the lean."

Hank nods. He writes the number in the column with his pen. He doesn't ask about my face. He doesn't ask anything. He cares about the board feet of timber on the ground and the state contract. He signs the bottom of the daily sheet.

"We move to the east ridge tomorrow," he says.

He walks to the cab of his truck and gets in. The heavy door shuts with a solid metallic clunk.

I stand by the tailgate. The wind hits the sweat on my neck.

Dinner is at six. The mess trailer is hot. Water runs down the inside of the windows.

Hank made a massive pot of beef and barley stew. The smell of the brown gravy and boiled meat is heavy and thick.

I'm sitting at the end chair across from the door, wearing a gray sweatshirt over a clean thermal top. The breasts push against the fabric. They're distinct and undeniable. I eat slowly, chewing the barley. It tastes like wet cardboard.

Terrence is sitting, halfway through his second plate. Walt at the far end, cutting a piece of bread with a knife.

Dana comes in. She shuts the door hard. She walks to the stove and pours her coffee.

She turns around and walks straight to the table. She sits on the chair right next to Terrence. Her thigh is almost touching his heavy canvas pants.

Terrence is wiping his plastic plate with a piece of white bread. He stops. He looks down the table at me.

"Briggs," he says.

I keep my eyes on my bowl and chew a piece of beef.

"You using lotion out there?" Terrence asks. His voice is loud. It bounces off the thin walls of the trailer.

Walt stops cutting his bread. He doesn't look up. He just freezes.

"Your face is looking real soft," Terrence says. He points his plastic spoon at me. "Like a goddamn porcelain doll. You bring a makeup kit in your duffel bag?"

Dana laughs.

It's a short bright sound. A reflex. She chuckles into her coffee mug, then looks up over the rim and sees my face. I’m looking right at her.

She stops mid-laugh. Her mouth stays open.

I put my spoon down. It clicks against the plastic plate.

Dana doesn't look my way. Terrence is grinning. A tight smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

I push back from the table. The chair legs scrape loudly against the yellow linoleum. The plate of stew stays where it is. I'm at the door before Terrence's grin drops. I open it and step out into the freezing dark, shutting the door behind me.

The night air hits the sweat dampening the back of my neck. The cold is piercing. The nipples contract violently under the gray sweatshirt. I walk fast to get back indoors.

Day thirteen. Evening.

I’m in my room. The coil in the corner clicks as it warms. I hold the orange plastic starter housing of my Husqvarna. The recoil spring snapped right before Hank blew the air horn on the ridge. The pull cord hangs loose and useless, a foot of white nylon rope dangling from the plastic handle. I can’t start the saw tomorrow without a new spring.

The spare parts are in a wooden crate in the equipment shed.

I put my boots on without tying the laces, leaving them loose, and pull a heavy green flannel over my thermal. No hoodie, it's just a quick walk across the gravel. The breasts rest heavy against my stomach under the loose flannel.

I walk across the dark landing. The camp is quiet. The generator hums in the distance, a low vibration you can feel in the soles of your feet.

The equipment shed door is shut. A thin line of yellow light spills out from under the bottom edge and hits the wet gravel.

I reach out, grabbing the heavy iron latch, then push it down with my thumb and pull the heavy wooden door open.

The shed smells of oil and old gasoline. The bare bulb on its wire casts hard shadows.

Walt is sitting near the workbench, on the plastic bucket splattered with dried red marking paint. He’s nude from the waist down, his right hand wrapped around his cock.

He's stroking himself, head leaning back, eyes closed, breath heavy and ragged in the quiet shed.

The door creaks on its hinges.

Walt opens his eyes. He freezes.

His callused hands stop moving, a faded gold band on the ring finger catching the bulb’s light. His chest heaves once and stops.

I stop in the doorway. My hand is still gripped tight on the cold iron latch.

We look at each other.

The smell of gasoline burns my nose. The air feels too thick to breathe.

Walt is a large man. His thighs are thick with muscle and dark hair. They look pale in the harsh yellow light. His knees are spread wide. He's hard in his scarred hand, completely exposed.

He looks at my face, my jaw, my mouth. At the flannel hanging open across my chest. The shape of the breasts is clearly defined under the thermal.

A flush crawls up his thick neck. It spreads to the jaw.

He doesn't look away. He doesn't scramble to pull his pants up. He just sits there, his knuckles white.

I should pull the door shut. I should turn around and walk back across the gravel. My boots are loose on my feet, my hand frozen on the iron. I can't move. My brain just stops.

Walt swallows hard. His Adam's apple bobs up and down.

He looks at my mouth, then at my chest.

"You want to?" he says.

The words are quiet. They aren't aggressive. He's caught and there's nothing left to hide behind. The question hits me in the chest like a physical blow. My breath stops.

I'm a man. A thirty-eight year old faller standing in a cold shed looking at my coworker. I've only ever looked at women.

The breasts throb, the nipples hardening under the thermal shirt.

Heat starts low in my pelvis. It builds for a few seconds before I understand what the body is deciding.

I think about the four years of bucking timber next to him. His wife at home in Sandpoint. The way he hands me the file when I'm working on a chain. None of it stops what's happening.

The inner lips swell, pressing hot against the compression shorts. A dragging weight drops into the pelvic floor. My lower stomach feels like it’s filled with hot lead.

I stare at him, terrified of my own body. Of the heat burning in my stomach.

My knees feel weak. The hinge of my jaw is locked tight.

"No," I say. My voice is a rough whisper. It doesn't sound like me.

Walt nods slowly. He accepts it. He doesn't argue. He looks at the floor between his feet.

I pull the door shut. The iron latch clicks loudly into place.

I stand in the freezing dark outside the shed. My heart is hammering against my ribs, frantic, erratic. I lean my shoulder against the corrugated metal wall of the shed to keep my balance. The wet heat between my legs is agonizing. The breasts rise and fall with my rapid breathing.

I wipe a bead of cold sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. My hand is shaking.

I turn around and walk back to the bunkhouse. My loose boots slip on the wet gravel. I go into my room and lock the door. I don’t fix the saw.