said.
The trivet was etched with strange symbols. There were men and warriors and saws and a shield and something that resembled the buttock of a woman. I became keenly aware and deeply uncomfortable with the knowledge that the others were crowding around to observe the etchings, which were in my hands now, a fact that implied my consent. “I don’t know about all this,” I said, to clarify.
“It’s the Phaistos Disk,” Dale said. “I paid a pretty penny, so mind where you set it.”
It did seem to be imbued with some significance.
“How’d you get that?” one of the women asked.
He waved her off. “Let’s say I got lucky during a period of government oversight on the part of the Greeks. It puts a finishing touch on my project. Now you go on, Jim. This is my life’s effort distilled. Find out what it’s all about.”
It was a few degrees cooler inside the labyrinth, which imparted a sense of magic though in truth it was only that the low sun was shaded by the corn. The soil smelled wet and new and the path was wide and curved slightly to the right. Following its progress proved the bend continued on thirty feet before coming to a switchback. The stalks didn’t do much to block conversation on the other side of the wall, and it was possible to hear the others discussing the merits and folly of my decision.
“You remember what he did on the hayride last year,” someone said. “Some asshole was screwing around and let his cigarette drop, started a fire in the hay right in front of a bunch of kids. Jim there took it upon himself to jump out of the truck and run for the fence. He wouldn’t come back and so we put it out and went out looking for him and when we found him, when we found—” As always the tale involved some heavy laughter at this point.
“That’s enough,” said Dale.
“When we found him—”
“Oh my God,” a woman said, preemptively, though at that point the story may have easily been finished in gesture. And so the shame of the fire found purchase once again. You could live your whole life in the smallest town and still find strangers to tell a story like that.
The trivet was a good weight, conducting my hands’ heat. It was further comforting to trace the etched shapes, settling a fingernail in the arc of a scythe or buttock, which on closer inspection could just as easily have been a winding river, so simply it was carved.
Turning another switch, it became apparent I had lost some sense of place. The corn walls rustled. The voices faded and the only sound was the grouse pond on the far edge of Dale’s property. On I walked, holding the trivet to my chest. I wasn’t accustomed to carrying much of anything and so the disk’s weight was fatiguing indeed. I made a sincere promise to start up again with my dumbbells in the garage.
The sun had begun to set and a cool breeze filtered through the leaves. After another switch and twenty paces, the voices returned.
“You’ve got to hand it to him for going in there alone,” the man said, the same one who had told the terrible story. “Maybe he has that adventuring spirit after all.”
The surprise I felt at this praise stopped me and I held my breath to listen, but there was no sound until I started up walking again.
“He’s got balls,” said Dale, a true friend.
“I never knew he was so brave,” a woman said. I stopped again and waited longer this time, counting out the seconds and reaching a minute, then three minutes, five, hearing only silence as if they had all of them lost interest and left. I took a step in the direction I had come but it felt like pushing against a strong wind. The trivet was exhibiting a lateral weight as if it was magnetized to the far horizon. Still I labored against it. The pressure nearly tipped me on my rear, causing me to experience a devastating picture of myself emerging from the maze soaked down the back of my jeans, clocking in for another year of ridicule. And so I turned and
The trivet was etched with strange symbols. There were men and warriors and saws and a shield and something that resembled the buttock of a woman. I became keenly aware and deeply uncomfortable with the knowledge that the others were crowding around to observe the etchings, which were in my hands now, a fact that implied my consent. “I don’t know about all this,” I said, to clarify.
“It’s the Phaistos Disk,” Dale said. “I paid a pretty penny, so mind where you set it.”
It did seem to be imbued with some significance.
“How’d you get that?” one of the women asked.
He waved her off. “Let’s say I got lucky during a period of government oversight on the part of the Greeks. It puts a finishing touch on my project. Now you go on, Jim. This is my life’s effort distilled. Find out what it’s all about.”
It was a few degrees cooler inside the labyrinth, which imparted a sense of magic though in truth it was only that the low sun was shaded by the corn. The soil smelled wet and new and the path was wide and curved slightly to the right. Following its progress proved the bend continued on thirty feet before coming to a switchback. The stalks didn’t do much to block conversation on the other side of the wall, and it was possible to hear the others discussing the merits and folly of my decision.
“You remember what he did on the hayride last year,” someone said. “Some asshole was screwing around and let his cigarette drop, started a fire in the hay right in front of a bunch of kids. Jim there took it upon himself to jump out of the truck and run for the fence. He wouldn’t come back and so we put it out and went out looking for him and when we found him, when we found—” As always the tale involved some heavy laughter at this point.
“That’s enough,” said Dale.
“When we found him—”
“Oh my God,” a woman said, preemptively, though at that point the story may have easily been finished in gesture. And so the shame of the fire found purchase once again. You could live your whole life in the smallest town and still find strangers to tell a story like that.
The trivet was a good weight, conducting my hands’ heat. It was further comforting to trace the etched shapes, settling a fingernail in the arc of a scythe or buttock, which on closer inspection could just as easily have been a winding river, so simply it was carved.
Turning another switch, it became apparent I had lost some sense of place. The corn walls rustled. The voices faded and the only sound was the grouse pond on the far edge of Dale’s property. On I walked, holding the trivet to my chest. I wasn’t accustomed to carrying much of anything and so the disk’s weight was fatiguing indeed. I made a sincere promise to start up again with my dumbbells in the garage.
The sun had begun to set and a cool breeze filtered through the leaves. After another switch and twenty paces, the voices returned.
“You’ve got to hand it to him for going in there alone,” the man said, the same one who had told the terrible story. “Maybe he has that adventuring spirit after all.”
The surprise I felt at this praise stopped me and I held my breath to listen, but there was no sound until I started up walking again.
“He’s got balls,” said Dale, a true friend.
“I never knew he was so brave,” a woman said. I stopped again and waited longer this time, counting out the seconds and reaching a minute, then three minutes, five, hearing only silence as if they had all of them lost interest and left. I took a step in the direction I had come but it felt like pushing against a strong wind. The trivet was exhibiting a lateral weight as if it was magnetized to the far horizon. Still I labored against it. The pressure nearly tipped me on my rear, causing me to experience a devastating picture of myself emerging from the maze soaked down the back of my jeans, clocking in for another year of ridicule. And so I turned and
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