[2,900 words]
The golden light of daybreak slants over a lone man, a rough meadow, and the desiccated carcass of a mule. The meadow runs away in all directions, adorned with lupine, prairie-fire, and glacier lilies. The elongated shadow of the tall, thin man stretches beyond the bleached ribs of the dead mule and out over the bobbing wildflowers.
A few tufts of dried hide cling to the mule’s skull, lending it a jaunty, mottled air. The skull terminates in a rictus grin, big mule teeth laughing at the obvious. As if to say, Yeah, I’m dead, but you’ll be following soon enough. Then let’s see who’s laughing.
Giles Thomson is a habitual early riser. Witnessing the sunrise is a daily ritual. How many? Thirty-three years multiplied by three-sixty-five. Ten thousand, give or take. A comforting certainty. Every morning, the sun rises in the East. Therefore, the sun will rise tomorrow.
But inductive reasoning comes with no guarantees, Gilly. You know that. The broader generalization does not always follow. Recall David Hume and his dire reality check. The sun may rise today, but that is not a promise that the sun will rise again tomorrow.
Shut up.
Then perhaps deductive reasoning instead. The starting inference being modern society has become insane. The following inference is that I, Gilly Thomson, am a member of society. Therefore, the conclusion that I am insane is deductively valid.
Giles stares at the dead mule. He is not thinking hypothetically. It is this exact reasoning, and its endpoint, that caused Giles to flee the city for this lonely meadow. Escape other people while there is still time. Before the conclusion proves itself and he’s lost his mind altogether, another victim of the world’s madness. One more of the unknown, unremembered dead, brains washed to static by constant close encounters with other human beings.
Old Mister Death, ever the skeptic, scoffs at reasoning of any kind. The bell tolls and Death speaks.
You will die. Thus it has been, and thus shall it ever be. Cleverness, inductive or deductive, will not save you. You will end up every bit as dead as our good Scots philosopher.
Giles imagines Hume pacing circles in his tower tomb, flipping a gold sovereign to fix the odds. Sunrise over Edinburgh or an eerie darkness? Pace, flip, catch.
The image brings on a fit of giggling. Giles turns away from the dead mule and faces the dawning day. A song forms in his brain, a jaunty little number with a calypso beat. He mumbles it over a few times, then sings it out into the still morning.
Lady Sun light up a fine new day,
But tomorrow she might stay away.
Big ol’ universe in a state of decay.
Shout for Joy!
It’s a brand-new day!
He kicks a clod of dirt.
Sure, one more day for a fool standing beside a dead mule. Gilly the phobic and his sidekick.
Giles Thomson is not what anyone would call well-adjusted. He suffers from Anthropophobia. Human beings terrify him. He is afraid of people. His aberration, what he calls his condition, doesn’t rank a clinical diagnosis in the DSM-5. It is but a simple, specific, and all-powerful phobia. Anthropophobia is not the fear of public speaking, crowded elevators, or busy city sidewalks, although Giles hates and fears each of these. His phobic nightmare is the fear of people themselves, not of social situations.
That’s why Giles stands beside a skeletal mule in an otherwise empty meadow many miles from the nearest human being. He’s decided to become a hermit. No, more than decided; he’s done it. Giles quit his job, sold everything he owned, and used the money to buy this derelict forty-acre farm.
Forty acres and a dead mule. What the hell have you done? Shut up! I did exactly what we planned.
Giles walks away from the grinning carcass. He tours the perimeter of his new domain, a quarter mile to each side ending at a rickety gray farmhouse. The weathered porch planks groan under his feet. He leans against an upright post, not sure it will support his weight.
Open grassland spreads out as far and wide. The surrounding parcels are empty, dry-land farms abandoned years ago. A rutted two-track lane leads to a gravel section road. His last connection to the outside world. He has severed the rest. No phone, internet, newspaper; nothing.
He stares out over the lonely landscape. Not another human being as far as the eye can see. Doctor Nobles would not approve.
Giles remembers his last session, the day he fired Nobles. The good doctor expressed professional concerns; dire warnings couched in dry psycho-babble punctuated by heavy sighs.
You realize, Giles, this is a serious step you’re taking, one that could be very harmful to your well-being. Left untreated, anthropophobia often worsens over time. Sigh. I’m worried about your decision. Your phobia could escalate to include any group of people, your close friends, even your family. Have you considered this?
Gilly giggles at the memory.
Too late, Doc. Too late by a country mile.
He laughs aloud and the wind carries his laugh away.
You never got it, did you? My overwhelming need to get away from everyone, fight or flight. But you can’t fight everyone all at once. There are just too many of the bastards. They’re everywhere, crowding in on me, giving me those looks, judging the way I dress, my choice of words. Can’t make eye contact, not even with the last of my few friends.
But look at me now, Doc. Here I am, teetering on a single roller skate, cavorting along the crumbling edge. Go ahead, shake your solemn hundred-and-fifty-dollar-an-hour head. Sigh all you want. I’m free now, all alone, a fool in his motley at the edge of the yawning abyss. You’re just one more dirty bastard I’ll never have to see again.
A week later, Giles is cursing his solitude with the same vehemence he normally reserves for other people.
* * *
Giles gives the carcass a vicious kick which does more damage to his toe than to the dead mule. The skeletal grin taunts him as he hobbles back toward the farmhouse.
Stupid mule, stupid barn, stupid falling-down fence.
He is his kingdom’s ruler and sole occupant, but his realm is shrinking by the day. The sagging fence line is closing in on him. He’s walked every square foot of the parcel, kicked dirt into the gopher holes, even naming the dead mule.
Aside from the pan-flat acreage, there’s nothing but the farmhouse, the sagging barn, and a small hut that guards the well. The walls of the farmhouse shrink whenever he’s inside. The barn is set to collapse at the next good wind. Bad news for the many generations of mice that inhabit the wreck. The well house is the soundest structure of the three and the most important.
Giles stops in his tracks, wracks his brain for new curses to heap onto his tiny world.
Hey, we should make a sign for the front gate. You know, something catchy, like Hell’s Waiting Room, or Gruesome Acres. I’ve told you a hundred times, shut the hell up! I’m not making any stupid sign. Suit yourself, Gilly. A nice sign isn’t any stupider than naming a dead mule. Marvin! Now that’s stupid.
A strange sight interrupts Giles’ inner argument. Something is moving out on the gravel section road. A white van raising a rooster tail of dust. The gritty plume hangs over the roadway, marking the vehicle’s passage, closer and closer.
Giles is moving now, hurrying to the farmhouse. He needs to get undercover, out of sight. Too late. The van slows, turns into the rough lane that leads to the gate. His gate. Close enough to see the driver’s face.
Smiling. So typical. Why are the bastards always smiling? Like sharks just before they close in for the kill. Now he’s going to tootle the horn. Probably wave.
The stubby vehicle halts just outside the gate, leaving the dust snake to travel on without it. The driver does not honk the horn. He steps out of the van and waves. A regular-looking guy, whatever that is, wearing a postal shirt tucked into jeans. Clean-shaven, smiling. Why are they always smiling?
Giles is frozen between the house and the gate. He hates it when people wave at him. Hates the way his arm takes on a will of its own as if some evil scientist grafted a robot limb onto his body. And sure as the devil, the arm betrays him once again. His deceitful hand returns the driver’s wave, and then his feet are trudging toward the gate.
Anticipation is a crushing weight. Giles feels the dread clawing up his spine. He’s walking that last, long mile to the cemetery wall while the firing squad stands around smoking cigarettes.
Giles clutches at the gate for support, a barrier between himself and this smiling intruder. He nods his head like a puppet.
“I got a delivery for you, Mister Thomson.”
The words start a trickle of panic in Giles’ throat, the metallic taste of adrenaline on the back of his tongue. He swallows, tries to find his voice.
“Um… I didn’t, didn’t order anything.”
The smiling bastard steps right up to the gate. Too close. Probably the same age as Giles, red hair sticking out from under a billed cap. There’s a fat envelope in his hand and an electronic gizmo hanging from a strap around his thick, hairy wrist.
“Not that kind of delivery. Documents from the title company, I expect. You just bought the place, right?”
Giles looks over his shoulder as if to make sure the farmhouse is still there. He turns back to the driver and nods his head.
“Thought so. Well, welcome to nowhere. I was surprised when I saw the address. Rural Route Seven. Hasn’t been anyone living out here in some years. Anyway, here you go.”
Holds out the oversized envelope. Giles has no choice. He reaches for the mailer, takes half a step back.
“That’s certified. I’m going to need a signature.”
His tormentor raises the gadget attached to his wrist and holds the screen forward like an offering. Like bait.
“Just sign with your finger and I’ll type it in.”
Giles holds a finger over the screen, hesitates, forces his flesh to touch the hated thing. A wavering scrawl appears on the screen, tracking his trembling fingertip. He snatches his hand back before the fiend can make a grab for him.
The smiling mailman turns the device around, taps a few keys, then lets it dangle.
“You’re all set, Mister Thomson. Probably be seeing me again. I do the regular mail and most of the other stuff. Too far out in the sticks for FedEx and UPS. They sub out to us rural carriers. That’s me. Jim Pierce.”
The inevitable hand held forward. Giles hears Doctor Nobles’ self-satisfied chuckle.
Fuck you, Doc.
He reaches out, grasps the man’s hand, remembers a firm but not too-firm grip.
“Giles. Gilly, actually.”
Jim Pierce the mailman does stick his tongue out, or yank Giles over the gate. He releases Giles’ hand and smiles.
“Pleased to meet you, Gilly. You out here by your lonesome?”
Yes, just me and my lonesome. Unless you count Marvin the dead mule. Don’t say that out loud, Gilly. Don’t do it.
“Uh… yes, it’s just me.”
Jim nods his head as if he somehow understands.
“Well, there’s something to be said for that. Place like this, a man can take a piss off his porch and not worry about the neighbors spying on him. I better be off, Gilly. Places to go, deliveries to make. Enjoy your day.”
With one last smile, Jim Pierce turns away from the gate. He climbs back into the van, starts it up, and executes a quick three-point turn. The van bumps down the lane, a dust snake rising in its wake. Just before the vehicle turns onto the section road, Jim’s arm appears from the driver’s window, a parting wave. Without thinking, Giles raises his hand and waves in return.
The dust is slow to settle, but Giles is still standing at the gate when the last trace vanishes. He does not feel the usual surge of relief that washes over him when other people leave. Something is different.
His brain ponders the problem. Understand the equation before attempting a solution. Once he accepts the strange premise of the dilemma he is swept up in, the solution comes quickly. As a next step, Giles constructs a mental flow chart, arranging tasks in their proper order.
The first task is vexing. He needs to know what day it is. Not Sunday, because the mailman just surprised him with a letter. Narrowing the day of the week down from there is a puzzle. Giles is a newly minted hermit. He is lacking certain things.
Tossing the cellular, not such a good idea Gilly? No newspaper, no calendar. Maybe you should ask Marvin the mule.
A valid point, but Giles doesn’t feel like arguing. He stares at the huge sky, hoping for some celestial clue. The wide blue horizons have nothing to offer.
Giles feels something dangling from his fingers, the weight a surprise, as if the heavy mailer had suddenly materialized from the ether. He drops his eyes from the sky and raises the envelope. He’s holding the answer in his hand, right there on the green delivery sticker. The date, time, and day: Thursday.
* * *
The next day begins the same as the last. Giles walks the property, wishes Marvin a good morning, kicks powdery dirt into a few gopher holes. Done patrolling his domain, Giles heads back to the house. He prepares his breakfast of oatmeal with canned milk and black coffee, same as yesterday.
But today is not yesterday and everything will not be the same. After collecting the things, he will need and checking them twice, Giles walks from the farmhouse to the sagging barn. The old Saab is a bit slow to start, but that’s normal.
Giles backs the car out of the barn, wheels it about, and idles up to the gate. Then the gate dance, unlocking, opening, swinging it wide, driving through. Shift to park, close the gate, lock it.
The Saab lurches up the rough two-track. Bits of gravel ping against the oil pan. Giles eases the old sedan up onto the section road, hits the gas, and drives away raising a gray-white trail.
The librarian is a chatty woman and Giles is her only victim. She is thrilled to help him. Her earnestness crashes through Giles’ brain, opening the floodgates of fight or flight. He doesn’t know whether to stab her in the eye with the pen or turn and run screaming. Gritting his teeth, he does neither. He takes a deep breath, calms his hand, and fills out the simple form while she natters at him.
Welcome to our wonderful little town. So nice to have a new customer. Rare these days, of course. More folks leaving than staying. Sad when you think about it. But I’m sure you’ll love it here. The library is wonderful. Yes, just sign there, please. Here’s your temporary card. The regular card will be in your mailbox in a week or so. My, you are far out there, aren’t you? Yes, of course, the computers are right over there. Normally a thirty-minute limit but seeing as no one’s here. Remember, I’m right here if you need anything at all.
Giles backs away from the counter, his eyes fixed on the chattering librarian. He does not turn his back on her until he has established a safe distance. The stream of her words lingers in his brain like shreds of cobwebs.
The computers are old, and the internet connection stodgy. Giles brings up an online shopping site. After three tries and a consultation with his notebook, he keys in the proper password.
Four pounds of coffee, special filters, no he does not want to purchase the suggested products. Yes, priority delivery. He enters his credit card number, updates his address, punches the purchase now button. The first order is complete.
Now Giles goes back to browsing. He scans through a list of mystery novels, chooses three he has not read. Into the virtual basket they go. Clicks checkout, opts for the free shipping. A second delivery date, later than the first. Thank you for your purchase.
He checks his shopping list. The items are grouped into categories. Warm gloves, hats, and a scarf. Tools. Towels for the bathroom and a rug for the drafty floor beside his bed. Each category is a separate purchase, and each purchase has a staggered delivery date.
Giles finishes his last purchase, signs out of the site, and logs off the library computer system. The librarian is sorry to see him go so soon. Hurry back. He acknowledges her patter with a wave and makes his escape.
It’s fifteen miles back to his hermitage, first the county blacktop, then the section road, and finally the rutted lane. He parks the Saab in the barn, walks to the porch, and takes a seat on one of the rusty metal spring chairs. The chair squeaks under his weight, the floorboards groan, and Giles settles in to wait.
Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred reviews and journals across Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. His story “Power Tools” has been nominated for Best of the Web for 2023. “Power Tools” is Marco’s latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a new ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine. Website: https://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/
