A tree had fallen over the road, its branches covered in transparent ice, like plastic. As we stood, cars came up and a few others came and looked at the tree. We asked the same question: “Wouldn’t happen to have a chainsaw in the back, would ya?”
Depending on the person’s reaction, straight-faced or a chuckle, we changed our reaction.
Some people said, “No,” and ended it right away.
After I went inside, every couple of hours I went to the window. The tree was still there, people were still driving up to it and turning around.
In the morning I went to the window, and a car drove by, all the way through. A crop-circle of sawdust covered the road.
“Is it still there?” you asked, poking a ring through your ear.
“The tree is gone,” I said.
The sawdust looked like tree blood. They’d pulled it away on chains, probably. To Tree Jail. Obstruction of thoroughfare, naturally.
I was just hoping I could use it for an excuse to not go to work. It wouldn’t have worked anyway. I could have gone around. Though that’s enough for some people. But I would have known I could have gone around.