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| (visual by squacco via this license) |
dispatch eleven
Oikos by Adam Moorad
debuted 1 September 2009 | kept 1057 times | click to keep
behind-the-scenes footage 
“Okay,” Donny says. “Let’s go if we’re going.”
“Where?” Lamb says.
“Around the block,” Donny says. He stands up. Walks to his closet. Climbs into a pair of pants on which he wipes his glasses.
“That place is awful,” Amy says. She slips on shoes, kicks them off, and tries on another pair.
“It’s okay,” Lamb says. “I’ve been there.”
Amy looks worried. Donny walks to the door. Opens it. Amy looks at Donny, then at Lamb.
“The sooner we leave, the sooner we get back,” Lamb says. She looks at him. She wears a bored expression. He doesn’t know what else to say.
Amy decides on a pair of shoes. Puts them on. Follows Donny out the door.
“I saw your plants today,” Donny says to Amy. “They look dead.”
“I will water them extra tomorrow,” Amy says. “They’ll come back to life.”
Lamb wonders how much water it takes to bring something back to life. Envisions the ocean’s size and depth. There are waves crashing into a shore. A breeze. Salt. He thinks about drowning. Is he drowning? Capsizing. Sinking. Lamb breathes. He is bringing himself back to life.
Donny looks at Lamb and says, “Don’t drink too much,” and laughs. Lamb laughs with Donny, not knowing why.
“Don’t worry,” Lamb says. He looks at Amy. “I have work tomorrow.”
Amy doesn’t say anything. She digs through her purse. Finds a tube of lipstick. Uncaps the tube. Puckers. Applies.
It is cool outside. The trees along the sidewalk are imposing. Large green branches reaching around in every direction. They are oak trees. Lamb’s father cut down the oak in their front yard with a chainsaw. It was dying, he said. There were small, green twigs growing from the stump but the larger branches were barren. Lamb’s father told him to go inside. Lamb obeyed. His father cut. Lamb watched from a dining-room window. Sawdust fell on the lawn. It looked like confetti.
Lamb closes his eyes. Pictures his father in the yard working. He thinks about doing work. About his career. He feels a strange sense of guilt. He has never done any real work in his life. He has never had a callous or a sore back from manual labor. He’s spoiled and useless.
He once fantasized about a redeeming life of moral and praiseworthy value. He would like to meet the perfect woman—an Indian princess—and marry her. Move out to the country and buy a piece of property. A farm, log cabin. On the frontier. He would have goats, horses, cows, chickens. He would plant crops and work in the fields. He would grow his own food. The harvest would be the most exciting time of year. He would have many children who would work in the fields with him. He would teach them the value of a hard day’s work. Teach them how to live redeeming lives. His children would teach these values to their children, his grandchildren, who would climb on his lap and ask him to tell stories about his life as a young man. They would want to hear about the adventures and experiences of their grandfather. Lamb would tell these children stories. This makes him happy. Proud of the life he has lived.