IGMS Issue 49 Page 7
Wolf and raven turn, side-by-side, and disappear into the Woods.
I stay on my knees, shivering in the cold.
As I look into the Woods, where the ghosts faded, the shadows curl thickly. For a moment, I catch a glimmer of that face, the one I turned my back on the Sun to find. The darkness is here. It has a name for me all its own.
Will it take me back, even with what I have done?
(I was as bright as the Sun, once. The dark has every right to destroy me as I did the wolves.)
I ignore the map. I will find my own way now; the dawn will always be waiting.
I walk into the Woods in search of darkness.
Going Green
by Jennifer Noelle Welch
Artwork by Anna Repp
* * *
Nature's Mill blog, June 15, 2015, 9:20 am:
Dear Ed,
Because you won't let up on these environmental one-upmanships (yeah, I saw the passive-aggressive note you left on my bag of cheese doodles), I'm issuing you a challenge. Something bigger than the two-sheet rule you made about the office toilet paper last week. Anyone who's looked up Nature's Mill knows we're not just a green company. We're the only two-person, twenty-something distributors of Earth-friendly products on the East coast.
You said, when I hired you, "Graham, we've got to start a blog to publicize our products and emphasize accountability." Fine. You want accountability? Let's keep a running blog as we see which of us can make the smallest environmental impact. One month of competitive green living, to show the interweb peeps how global stewardship is done.
(To all you lurkers reading this on the website, I already took the liberty of filling in my half of the "About Us" page, so read my bio and become a fan).
Ed? You are doomed, brutha. I lived out of a backpack for three years after college. There's a lot I can do without.
Graham hit 'return' and pushed back from his office desk in satisfaction. Boss though he was, no one could accuse him of running a boring workplace. Out of all the other business and environmental science double majors he knew, none of them were doing anything as awesome as operating a company out of a reclaimed industrial building in the middle of State forest. He spun a few times in his Aeron chair and came to rest facing the windows overlooking the river. Recent rain had swollen the rapids, and the air outside pulsed with the sound of tumbling water.
His parents would have been thrilled that he spent their bequest on the mill. They went the way they would have wanted, in a bus accident on the way to an environmental protest. Still, he wished they could have stood alongside him when he'd seen it for the first time. The three-story building, tucked snugly between the slopes of the Delaware Water Gap, offered all the space his business would need: a ground level housing the mill's old machinery, a second-floor office space, and a sprawling third-floor warehouse. When he'd stood on the building's flat roof, the view of the gorge and surrounding forest had sold him on the spot.
The mill's freight elevator clunked open downstairs. Graham straightened up in anticipation as it groaned upwards. When the doors rolled back, Ed sauntered in, shaking the remnants of a bag of granola into his mouth. His bike helmet dangled from one arm.
"Morning," Graham said.
"Mrnn," Ed replied.
"Surprised you didn't use the stairs."
Ed switched on his computer and plopped into his chair. "The only thing holding the steps together is rust. You don't use them either."
"I'm usually carrying boxes for the office."
Holding in his glee, Graham watched Ed click open his email, read, and slowly put the granola bag aside. He kept his eyes averted when Ed briefly leaned out from behind his computer. The sound of typing followed.
COMMENTS:
Posted by Ed (@e-star):
Beat your chest all you want, Graham. I'm not daunted. You said the goal was "smallest environmental impact"? You realize that means measuring EVERYTHING, don't you? Consumption. Emissions. Any ecosystem disruptions. Are you ready for that kind of scrutiny?
Don't forget, I grew up on a COMMUNE. A closed system. People purified and drank their urine when they had to. So (a) I accept your challenge, and (b) if you think you'll win this one easy, you're wrong.
Graham snorted.
Posted by Graham (@grahamarama):
Communes fail. They expand until the sanitation issues get out of hand. That is, if all the interpersonal crap doesn't contaminate them first.
Ed shot him a wry look and stabbed at his keyboard.
Posted by Ed (@e-star):
A commune needs diverse personalities and skill sets. People can stay true to the vision, if they escape the distractions of consumerism.
(On that note, do you really think you're starting out strong today? My shirt, pants, and socks came from Goodwill. You know that overpriced "outdoor apparel" you're wearing comes from corporations, right?).
P.S.: Before you ask about my shoes - they're ninety percent post-consumer recycling.
Ah, Ed. That competitive streak was one of the reasons Graham had hired him in the first place. Two days after the Assistant Manager opening went up on the Nature's Mill site, Ed had physically stopped by to drop off his resume. Ballsy, but the impromptu interview had gone so well that they'd been kicking back on the roof with two bottles of Graham's homebrew by the afternoon. Graham's first impression of Ed's work ethic proved true. Three days into the job, he'd fixed the glitch in the website's ordering form and realigned the counterweight system of the elevator.
Reflecting on Ed's background in Mechanical Engineering now, in light of the present challenge, Graham felt the first inkling that he was, possibly, screwed. His gaze fell on the space where the copy machine had been. Ed had converted the company's financial records to an online system, eliminating paper waste and toner cartridges. He'd also made noise about getting the mill's old turbines running and becoming 100% hydroelectric. "Think of all the power we're sitting on!" Ed was fond of exclaiming. If he made good on it, how could Graham compete?
"I'll make a chart of our carbon points," he blurted out, drawing Ed's attention away from the computer screen. "You're right. We track everything. Energy use. Food. Transportation. Recycling and waste."
"Total commitment," Ed said.
Graham carried on, unable to stop himself. "The loser blogs to the world a public apology. And an analysis of his failure."
"I don't need an incentive chart. This isn't about ego. It's about the planet," Ed said.
"Keeping score will teach the public."
Ed stared in the direction of the mist rising off the river, stroking the side of his jaw.
"Okay?" Graham asked.
Ed's gaze was clear and steady. "Yes. It's on."
"Well." Graham said. He rose from his desk, suddenly feeling the need to assert control. "I sold fourteen of those new compost buckets with the charcoal filters yesterday. Got to get that shipment packed up."
"Right on, champ," said Ed. He put his palm up in the air.
Graham high-fived it as he passed.
Just as the elevator doors closed, he heard a derisive snort.
Graham's hand darted for the 'stop' button, then pulled back. The idiot just took a shot at me, he thought. That high-five and that "champ" comment were totally sarcastic. Undermining my leadership. And I played right into it. As he rode the freight elevator up one level, indignation lashed at him.
He exited into the welcome solitude of the warehouse. Even in summers as warm as the current one had been, the place remained damp. White mineral trails seeped from the seams in the concrete block walls, and when it rained, dark patches appeared on the oil-stained floors. Graham rummaged through cardboard boxes and crates, gathering his items on a cart. Compost buckets. Solar dehydrators. Kits for growing your own wheatgrass. Birds tweet-tweeted between the I-beams overhead. He didn't mind sharing the space with those that flew in; the windows were barred, like those in the rest of the building, but otherwise open to the elements.
In Ed's first months of employment, the long afternoons in the warehouse had actually helped Graham get Ed to loosen up. Ed was single-minded, focused. Nothing like Graham's previous hire, who never stopped texting long enough to appreciate his kickass surroundings. Graham found that together, he and Ed were hyper-productive all-stars, often getting the day's ordering, shipping, and bookkeeping done with two or three hours to spare. Afterwards, they'd run around the warehouse like college hooligans, hooting and yelling to hear their voices resound in the cavernous space.
Next was the gamut of office-sports. Broomball on rollerblades, bumping into crates. Office chair crack-the-whip, ending in scraped elbows and bleeding ankles. "Life is compost! Food for worms!" Graham would holler. It was a favorite, fatalistic battle cry from his party days. "But damn it, for now, I'm alive!" Google headquarters had professional masseuses, gourmet chefs, and office ping-pong. He and Ed had their concrete playground. Let those cubicle sell-outs run Wall Street. This was life in the raw.
Halfway to the shelves with the boxes of packing tape, Graham slid, his foot rolling on an object. His ankle wrenched sideways.
"Gah!" He glared. Some feet away, a Whiffle ball spun lazily and came to a stop. The previous week, he and Ed had batted dozens of them as hard as they could at a makeshift target on the warehouse wall. When Ed realized he'd beaten Graham for once, his eyes went rolling and wide in victory. "Ha!" he screamed, pumping his arms in something between a mad jig and a seizure. Graham wondered then, for the first time, if he had let things go too far.
He retrieved the ball and squeezed it, hard. Honestly, the "employee management" moments of his job had always given him a twinge of discomfort, making him feel like some confrontational blowhard in a suit and cufflinks. He might have asked his parents for advice, if they were still alive. But what could they have taught him about authority? He'd operated on a first-name basis with them since diaperdom. Proposing the contest might have been a mistake, but he couldn't lose face by calling it off in front of the blogosphere.
On the other hand, if he won it, he'd show Ed who was boss, once and for all.
When Graham rolled the cart out of the elevator onto the second floor, he stopped at Ed's workstation. Ed was revamping the company website again, and didn't even look up until Graham set the Whiffle ball on the corner of his desk. The furrows of concentration on Ed's face abruptly gave way to surprise.
"No more games," Graham said. "Not until someone wins."
Over the next week, the contest mushroomed. Graham devised a plan to chill his hand-bottled beer in a minnow trap in the river, accessible from a pulley system on the ground floor. He savored the look of envy on Ed's face when he explained that he'd donated the office's Freon nightmare of a fridge to a soup kitchen. By now the chart Graham had pinned to the office corkboard was covered with green stick-on stars in both columns. The blog updates multiplied accordingly.
Posted by Ed (@e-star):
I redirected rainwater from the roof into growing containers for the office. I can live off the herbs and veggies, if I get enough going. No packaging. No chemicals. Pulled a sixteen-inch trout out of the river today with my rod and reel.
Posted by Graham (@grahamarama):
Still, I saw you hugging your almond-milk latte pretty hard this morning. Too bad about that plastic-lined cardboard cup. Those do a number on the landfills.
Posted by Ed (@e-star):
Well, I couldn't help noticing the wrapper from your Veggie Delight sub in the trash. Good luck when you trank out this afternoon from the GMO toxins coursing through your veins.
Graham found the aforementioned sandwich wrapper tacked carefully to a new section of the corkboard labeled "Wall of Shame."
On another day:
Posted by Graham (@grahamarama):
Day five of the beard competition. Shaving is a pointless consumption of resources. Plus, you never know someone else or yourself until you commit to growing facial hair. I'll let all my fans in on the revelation: Ed's a redhead from the nose down.
Posted by Ed (@e-star):
Yes, you can never tell what kind of patchy excuse for a goatee someone will generate until they try. Emphasis on 'try.' Graham's effort emerged like a groundhog dragging itself ass-first out of hibernation.
The number of comments Ed's posts received baffled him. "Right on, bro!" "Fight the good fight, man. You can do it!" Graham clenched his jaw, reading them. Ed never mentioned friends. Where was he getting all these connections? In all of the responses, one odd comment stuck out.
COMMENTS:
Posted by Chuck (@Truhealth):
The decision to leave Reardon was up to you, Ed, but honestly, this contest sounds like a trigger. Your room's still available. I want to reiterate that you can come back any time and continue the good work you started. Like we talked about. Okay?
Nobody coordinated the recycling at the Home like you. The whole gang here, staff and residents, miss you.
Posted by Chuck (@Truhealth):
Maybe I should apologize for reaching out this way, but this is what I'm left with when you don't respond to my calls or emails. Touch base, please.
Graham's finger hovered over the 'reply' tab. Who was this guy? He shook his head and deleted the comment instead. The business didn't need to attract bad press by encouraging posts from weirdos.
Just then, a resounding plunge distracted him from his computer. He tiptoed down the decrepit steps to the ground level, where a floor grate opened to the river forty feet below. The rope and pulley for the beer remained undisturbed. The noise had come from Ed, swimming in the calm, foam-flecked water of the natural basin, not far from the dormant turbines.
He could have asked permission, Graham thought.
Ed scrubbed his darkened curls with his fingers and made strokes back and forth, his freckled body stark and white against the cola-colored water. As Graham stared, the uncanny idea struck him that he didn't know his office-mate at all. Ed lacked Graham's height, but he moved with a pared-down self-possession. The sinewy kind of strength that competed and won.
He shook off the thought.
Graham couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when the irritation of the contest began to eclipse its entertainment value. Was it when Ed uprooted the office's potted palm to make a composting toilet? Or when every bite of packaged food Graham took resulted in a long-suffering sigh from the next desk?
He coped with his resentment by working odd hours for a week, coming in at 6 a.m., while Ed lazed in around noon. The mutual avoidance might have eased Graham's mind, if it hadn't been for the odd increase in the mill's electric bills. "You're leaving the lights on at night, Ed. It's got to be you," he said. Ed responded only with evasive shrugs. I won't let him force me into becoming some micromanaging bully on this, Graham thought. But after his third night lying awake, obsessing, he could no longer stomach his own passivity. He bought coffee from the all-night diner a few exits down the highway and headed for the mill.
From the last quarter-mile of dirt road, he could make out the cold LED light shining through the trees from the warehouse windows. The play of jagged shadows on the ceiling suggested movement on the floor. What the hell was Ed doing at two in the morning? "I should have checked in sooner," he muttered. His reluctance toward the impending altercation pressed him to his seat. He pounded a fist on the steering wheel and forced himself out of the car. The mill was his, dammit. He yanked open the unlocked door and entered the ground-floor vestibule. The door at the very top of the stairwell gaped open, and pulses of light and clicking noises ricocheted against the brick walls as he climbed.
In the center of the warehouse, Ed leaned over a tangle of partially constructed steel frames. Graham recognized the lines of his shoulder blades beneath his t-shirt, but then Ed turned. Graham cried out at the featureless black mask that confronted him.
Hurriedly, Ed snapped off the torch in his hand and flipped up the visor of his welding helmet. In the glare of the work lights he had
the frightened look of a discovered child.
"Graham!"
Graham took in the six-by-four-foot cardboard boxes stacked nearby. Each was marked "Solar Solutions."
"Ed? Explain this."
Panting, Ed squeegeed sweat from his forehead with one finger. "The mill needs... adjustments. That's what I've been working on."
"Solar panels?"
"I figured I'd save money by building the frames myself."
"You bought how many?"
"As many as the roof could hold."
"How many?"
"Two dozen."
"Two - " Graham sucked in air.
"They'll more than pay for themselves. Green thinking is long-term thinking, right?"
Graham turned away from Ed's beseeching expression. You shouldn't be planning anything long-term, Ed, the kind of crap you're pulling. He suppressed the urge to kick the boxes across the room.
"You can have all the contest points," Ed said. "I know it's the business's money paying for this."
"You can't return them, I'm guessing," Graham said.
"Not now that they've been modified to fit the mounts. It was going to be a surprise for you!"
Graham pressed his lips together. Too angry to look at Ed, he aimed his words at the floor.
"Go ahead. But only because getting rid of them would waste a stupid amount of materials and money."
"Graham, you won't regret - "
Graham flashed his palm. "Don't waste my time as well. Understand me. You act without my permission again and you're finished here."
I've given the warning, he thought as he drove home. Next time, I can fire his ass with no conversation. No emotion. Clean. Done.
The next day, it might as well not have happened. In fact, Ed was downright chirpy around the office water cooler. Much too chirpy.
"You should try commuting on two wheels, Graham. I ride ten miles each way. No carbon footprint at all. And a fit body processes nutrients more efficiently." As Ed's rapturous voice pierced his pre-caffeinated brain, Graham seethed with resentment. He couldn't ditch the contest, not with the public eye on the blog. But just then, in an instant of terrible genius, his misery offered a glimpse of what might shut Ed up for good.