Instructions for Rewilding the Wasteland

(607 words)

I.

Line up. Jostle for a seat on the packed bus. Sit in it uncomfortably as the bus drives deep into the night, deep into the forest. Wonder if it’s the size of a city or a state or a continent.

Keep your eyes down. Try not to make eye contact with the neatly planted rows.

Disembark.

Stand around. Wait. Don’t talk to your neighbors. Don’t ask why they’re here.

Half-listen to the recording that comes out of the speaker on the wall. Hang your head like everyone else. Sigh deeply. Pretend there were other choices you could have made. That wouldn’t have led you to this.

II.

Sit in an office. Sign the paperwork. Ten years, fifteen. An extra five for all the air miles. Minus one for all the Veganuaries. As few years as the court allows. More, if you want to look like a martyr. Tick the ‘more’ box. Hope that you will barely notice the passing of time. Believe that everyone will be cut loose at the end.

Stagger into a changing room. Ignore the smell of fear and sweat.

Strip off. Pack everything tidily into a bag. Pack the bag tidily into a box. Put a name on the box. Everything in due process.

Don’t look at your neighbors.

III.

Walk into the room, just large enough for the cot and the equipment. Don’t look at the equipment. Don’t flinch at the dirt underfoot.

Try not to wince as they insert a stent. Try not to dry heave at the color of the liquid in the bag dripping into you. Lie with your arms above your head. Lie still on the table.

Lie rigid on the table.

Shudder as your skin hardens. Cry out as your fingertips split. Glance to the side. Catch a glimpse of your arm. Whimper softly. Wonder if your voice will remain at the end of this. Wonder if your eyes will.

Ride a sudden wave of nostalgia for the bits of your body you always hated. Wonder what was so wrong with your legs, your stomach, your butt, your hair. Wish you could still sob as it all changes. Feel the liquid diffuse into the roots at your feet, the leaves on your hands. Transpire saltless tears.

Silently pray that you’ll get all those parts back.

IV.

Feel yourself compressed as the rigid bodies are stacked around you, on you. Signal stress. Drop leaves. Signal relief as the pressure is released, as one by one they are lifted off, transplanted. Strain your eyes to watch as they are inserted into the ground. Feel the pressure of the robotic arms as they transfer you.

Stand upright in the new grove, eyes wide in the bright sunlight. Glance at your neighbors. See them glance at you. Wonder why your eyes are the only things that still function. Curl your root. Do not transmit.

Transpire.

Stand quiet but for the rustling of leaves in the wind. Feel the vibrations. The rustles and the occasional creak, the occasional groan, as the wind whips through the stand, as buses rumble past.

Soak up the sun. Soak up the carbon. Stand in an inhospitable wasteland, and do a good deed. Atone for your past. Ten years. Twenty. More. Pay off your debts. Pay off your penalty. Pay it forward.

Taste in your roots a shared question. Together in stands, wonder how you will know when your time has been served. Wonder how anyone knows. How anyone is released. How anyone could ask. Exchange a shared unease.

Watch buses come down new paths. Watch people avert their eyes. Watch as the forest continues to grow.