Bit by bit, my only place of solace is being taken away from me. The first evidence arrived three months ago, when a port-a-john was placed on the north side of the lagoon, presumably for those weak-bladdered folk who couldn’t wait another ten minutes to get to the picnic-area bathroom. And then a month later, when they trimmed the bushes and trees far too much, killing a great deal of shade and atmosphere. And again today, with 8x11 yellow fliers stapled everywhere stating the area had been chemically treated with a wide assortment of nates and phates and phyls, warning pedestrians to avoid wandering from the paths or wading into the water. I wonder if the three fawns I saw last week were consulted or made aware. Did someone notify the rabbits and chipmunks?
And to be fair, this new sense of loss began even before I walked out my door. The hillbillies next door were about to begin a bike ride on the trails, and as I was in no mood to wave aimlessly at another chorus of “Hi, John,” I hid inside and waited for them to depart. It was a good ten minutes of listening to the fat mother tell her children to get their “fucking shoes” on, and to “hurry the fuck up” so they could leave. Who are these people, and what sort of damage are they doing to the karma out there? I feel a great deal of sympathy for the kids. Just yesterday, the littlest boy, standing outside in his diaper, saying a muffled hello to me, waving by splaying his fingers wide and then clenching into a fist a half-dozen times. He must have no clue what kind of life he is in for with these people.
When I finally get to the lagoon and see the warnings posted, I feel sick to my stomach. Almost every walk out there these days fills me with apprehension. I fear all sorts of things. I am afraid to see litter in spots from which I cannot retrieve it. I fear crossing paths with those I’ve wronged and who have wronged me. And now with these chemicals sprayed everywhere, I fear coming across the carcass of a deer or some other creature.
Chipmunks are on the path in great numbers today, skipping off into their personal gas chambers as I approach, and pop back out after I’ve passed. There are no deer to be seen. No herons. The swans are in a mood, flapping their wings and skiing across the top of the water to the laughter of the children fishing off the dock. A grandmother and grandchild, sex unknown, sit on a bench with rods. Cast, reel. Cast, reel. Who would let their grandchild touch a fish that came out of this water with these warnings tacked up everywhere? Has everyone lost their minds?
I notice my breathing has become irregular. I am holding it longer than I should, unconsciously trying to avoid breathing in the cancer they’ve spread in the brush. Near one bend, a small patch of wildflowers are an unnatural shade of green, the kind of color that, if I were to have mixed it, I’d scrape off with a palette knife and throw away because if doesn’t belong in nature. And later, a two-inch circle of bright blue petals, never before seen out here. Everything changes every minute, and seldom to the good. Maybe nighttime is the best time for me to go out there, so I can’t see anything disturbing.
As I near home, I hear loud voices coming up behind me. I turn to see the hillbillies also returning from their trip, and I quicken my step to get inside before the hassle of their madness. I drop the needle on Mudfoot, Blythe and Bowie, Freeman and Moye, Lightsey and McBee playing together as The Leaders, and wonder how I’ll make it through another week with no job and little hope for finding one. The bills are piling up, the creditors are calling. I am drowning, and the only place I have ever been able to catch my breath is now covered in chemicals. As if it weren’t enough for my relationships to try to kill me (in both the literal and figurative sense) over the last few years, now nature’s having a go at me too. I wish I knew how to fight back, but I’ve never been much for confrontation.
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