I Carry A Heavy Axe, And A Heavy Heart
by Nick Latus ()
There is nothing more exhausting than swinging an axe on a hot and humid day in South America.
Sweating profusely and breathing heavily I struggled on, striking the trees with all I was worth smiling as I admired my bulging biceps and sculpted chest. I had been in Brazil for a few weeks now participating in the deforestation of the biggest country in South America. I recently was drafted by the professional baseball team the Milwaukee Brewers, but turned down my six-year $12.2 million contract with a $1.1 million signing bonus to venture to Brazil and chop down trees. Regardless of how it destroyed my out of work father or crippled my legless mother and her stack of medical bills, one’s calling is one’s calling, and this is my calling. I had discovered this job via the Internet when I caught the guy who was painting my house using my computer without my permission. “Just what are you doing touching my brand new Logitech mouse with your filthy paint-covered Hispanic hands?”
“Hey man, chill out. I have no computer, so I sneak on whenever I get a chance. All I’m doing is looking for better employment man. Look, this job in Brazil needs painters, machine operators, and lumberjacks! They pay $30,000 U.S. currency!”
“What kind of project are these workers needed for?”
“My brother says they are putting in a Chipotle!” After hearing that I packed my bags and headed south not about to deny Brazilians the newest American craze in big burritos and tacos. The Mexican painter put in a good word for me in Spanish and I landed the job with no problem. My natural home-run swing made me the best axe man on the job site. However, despite the friends that I had made and the crowds that gathered to witness the ex-baseball star chop down trees and even the Brazilian women that threw themselves at me on a nightly basis in the tequila bars there was still a void in my life. I longed for American companionship. I had no interest in learning Spanish and had less interest in teaching my co-workers or even their children for that matter English or math. Where would I find this companion?
One day at lunch while I watched the Brazilian children lure exotic birds close to them with pieces of bread from my lunch laughing as they shot them with an air rifle I’d managed to smuggle into the country a vision emerged from the forest driving a small plow like he was born to do it dust swirling around him as he pulled to a stop just yards away from where I was dining. I stood up hoping he would notice me, even picking up my axe thinking, “Surely he knows that I’m the famous axe wielder.” This hairy-chested man looking like an unpolished, very early version of the David walked towards me.
“Hello there friend. I like your axe.”
“You speak English! How I’ve dreamt of sharing a conversation with someone who speaks the language of the homeland fluently! Tell me, what is your name?”
“My name is Neal.” His breath smelled of peppermint and Denny’s sausage links. His breath smelled like home. I wanted to tell him my name even though he did not ask, but the words just failed to come to me. Smirking he walked away leaving me alone. I could not even finish my lunch.
Back at my apartment that night Neal would not leave my mind. The way he complemented my axe in perfect English titillated my every waking moment, so I tried to sleep, but sleep I could not. Stuck in this situation I did what any red-blooded American burdened by the thought of someone else does: I shaved my chest and stomach. Then, I dined on beer battered brats, which I had learned to make during my brief tenure in Milwaukee during contract negotiations. At night, prior to falling into a deep slumber I listened to a tape of my cousin playing the late Tupac Shakur’s “I Get Around” on the piano. My last thought before going to sleep was Neal.
That morning I slept in late and had to run to catch the bus that would take me to work. I had no time to brush my teeth or put on a shirt and I noticed during the bus ride that overnight I had developed several in-grown hairs on my chest. The bus let me off at the job site and I sprinted across the dirt parking lot already glistening with sweat the taste of brat still lingering in my mouth. I saw the plow that Neal navigated but I saw no Neal. I ran all over the job site asking the workers “Donde Neal! Donde Neal!” They just looked at me and to this day I do not know if I made any sense to them. I found my foreman and screamed, “Where is Neal? Where is the man who operated the small plow?” I was shaking with anger.
“Neal? Neal, no Neal? Go, get to work, what I pay you for? Wait… I know Neal. He go home. He leave. Did you shave body?”
“Yes, yes I did.”
Just like that he left without saying goodbye. Not many days after that I packed my bags and headed home begging the Brewers to take me back, which they did, my college numbers too good to deny my potential. Although, I have yet to regain my swing and have been downgraded to the traveling nightmare that is the minor leagues. Worse even, Beloit, Wisconsin. Oftentimes when sitting on the bench on road trips to dark and desolate places like Toledo I’ll notice a yellow sign on the outfield wall advertising Denny’s. Then it all comes back to me. That one fleeting moment. That one moment with my Neal.
