One Man's Tree Clippings
Short Fiction
Mason received the following list, already written on his mom’s personalized monogrammed stationery, when he got home in early December:
Mason’s Tasks:
Black car inspection and registration (ask mom for credit card)
Power wash deck
Black car’s headlight
Returns and exchanges (ask mom for list)
Carpet guy
Retaining wall
Casita trim (?)
Irrigation in back (?)
Branches
Branches was the clear starting point, considering it was the only task that fell in the center of the Venn Diagram between “Tasks he wouldn’t hate doing” and “Wordings he could decipher on the chore sheet.”
So, a week or so into his stay at his parents’ house, he brought out their chainsaw and, after a brief guessing game in which he tried to discern which canister out of the half-dozen in the garage contained the fuel he needed, started hacking away at the thin oak and cypress trees on the periphery of the front yard.
It was a somewhat dangerous game. The branches had too much thickness and structural integrity for any conventional pruning shear or lopper. But only just so; the chainsaw he was using sliced through most of them like butter. A couple times, they were so flimsy that the chainsaw couldn’t even sink its teeth into them unless he held it completely steady. When not properly stabilized, it would bounce off the branch and towards the trunk or, god forbid, into unobstructed airspace, to be waved around and wielded wildly. Even with branches Mason was able to cut cleanly, the trick was not allowing the blade to complete its follow through. Met, all the sudden, with much less resistance than when sawing through wood but receiving just as much input from its determined human operator, the machine was prone to jerk violently in the direction it had been moving once it finished its cut. If moving downwards on a branch, it was liable to proceed its path of motion directly towards Mason’s unshielded, juicy, white thighs. Up was hardly better, though, because then his face was in harm’s way. Mason was no expert when it came to arterial sites, life threatening injuries, or the severity of chainsaw wounds, but something told him his face was more valuable than his legs. Plus he felt more equipped to dodge a runaway chainsaw by jump-roping it than by limboing. His hips had greater range of motion than his neck.
So, slashing down, he trimmed unwanted branches off all but two of the trees his mom had designated with pink flagging tape. He would have finished the job, in general considered himself a man who finishes what he starts, but the chainsaw broke. Not irreparably. In fact, he was able to diagnose the issue himself and even considered the repair relatively within his wheelhouse.
Fixing a chainsaw, however, was not what he’d signed up for. He was happy to do it. Just not today. Going to the store, purchasing the proper part, coming home, tinkering with the saw, and trimming the final trees: that would be a project for tomorrow. Although he didn’t like to leave things unfinished, he was not one to chew more than he bit off.
Next day, Mason wasn’t flinging off the bed sheets and snapping into action. His mom approached his closed door before she left for work.
“Mason.”
“Yeah, mom.”
“I saw the yard.”
“Oh yeah, you’re welcome.”
“Okay, but I can’t have my yard looking like a war zone.”
“The chainsaw broke.”
“You broke the chainsaw?”
“No! It just broke. Like, in a normal way.”
“I don’t think it’s normal for it to break? Why would they design it in such a way that it’d be normal to break?”
“Don’t worry, mom. I’m planning to fix it today.”
“Okay, and you’re planning to move all the rest of those branches to the curb, right?”
“Yes.”
“I just can’t have my yard looking like a war zone.”
“You already said that.”
“The branches that are already down are top priority, okay?”
“Okay. I got it.”
“Preferably this morning.”
“Mom, I’m still in bed.”
“Preferably as soon as you’re out of bed, then.”
“Alright. Will do.”
“I’m going to work.”
“Have fun.”
After she left, he drank two cups of coffee while watching SportsCenter. He hadn’t watched SportsCenter since high school, but felt strangely accomplished spending his morning doing nothing. He wasn’t learning anything, helping anyone, producing anything, or using his time wisely. And he stood to gain tremendously from not doing so. Tapping back into something that had brought him joy as a kid must be good for something primal in him. And flaunting the capitalistic ethic of “productivity” felt productive in its own way.
Around noon, he put on his shoes and headed for the chainsaw. On his way out the door, his dad stopped him.
“Mason.”
“What’s up?”
“You gotta get around to finishing those branches today.”
“I’m literally on my way to do that exact thing right now.”
“Alright, okay. It’s just you’ve been sitting around all morning.”
“But now I’m going to do it.”
“I didn’t know. I was just passing along the message. How should I know you aren’t planning on sitting around all afternoon, too?”
“Look. Shoes.”
“Shoes. Okay, so your shoes are on. That automatically means you’re going to deal with the branches?”
“In this case it does.”
“Oh, also, make sure you bring the branches that are already down to the curb before you do anything else.”
“I have to fix the chainsaw first.”
“Why?”
“To chop the branches into manageable pieces to stack neatly at the curb.”
“No, just bring them to the curb first.”
“Those are some long branches.”
“It’s fine. As long as they’re out of the yard.”
“You would rather have large, unkempt branches in a messy heap on the curb than wait a little and get a nice, tidy pile once I fix the chainsaw?”
“It’s just, your mom can’t have the yard looking like a war zone.”
As Mason was dragging the branches to the curb, a black Tacoma, relatively new and shiny, pulled over in front of his house. A guy rolled down the passenger window and leaned his head across the center console.
“Hey man, are you getting rid of all this wood?”
“Trying to.”
“Why don’t you cut it up into smaller pieces so it’s easier to haul away?”
“My chainsaw is broken.”
“Why don’t you get it fixed?”
“I’m planning to, later.”
The guy in the Tacoma rolled up his window and drove away.
Five minutes later, he was back. Parked his car across the street from Mason’s house (contentious territory; the owner of the house across the street did not appreciate other people’s guests parking on his property) and got out, grabbing a chainsaw from his truck bed.
“Use this.”
Mason chopped while the Tacoma driver spread a tarp out in the back of his truck. Then, once Mason had chopped a few branches, the guy began loading the newly created sticks and logs. When it became clear that he could load faster than Mason could saw, he said, “Switch.”
The two of them cut, cleared, and loaded every last branch, working at what seemed to Mason an excessively hurried pace. Once they’d Tetrised the final feasible pieces into the bed of the Tacoma, the man extended a hand and said, “Gabriel.”
“Mason.”
“You sure you don’t want any of this wood, man?”
“I have no use for it.”
“You never know though, right?”
“Is that why you want it? Because you never know?”
“It’s always good to have extra wood around.”
Gabriel wore wranglers and a baseball cap. He was cleanly shaved and shorter than average, though the fact that he wasn’t tall somehow made him more intimidating. He didn’t look Mason in the eye when speaking to him, but angled himself 45 degrees away and kept a soft focus on the horizon, as if the two of them were on stage, keeping their postures open in order to welcome the audience into their dialogue.
“Have you ever smoked a fish with cypress?”
“I don’t have a smoker.”
“You hardly need one.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve got everything you need right here,” Gabriel said, gesturing towards the back of his truck. Mason was pretty sure he meant the wood, but part of him wondered if Gabriel was capable of smoking a fish in the back of a Toyota Tacoma.
“Listen man. If you want fish, I have a fuck ton of fish in my uncle’s freezer.”
“Nah,” Mason said, hoping to give the impression that he already had enough as it is, not that he wouldn’t know what to do with a fuck ton of fish. “I’m good.”
“Black Cod, Pacific Halibut, Yelloweye Rockfish, Cutthroat trout, Squid.”
“Wow.”
“All fresh caught up in Alaska.”
“By you?”
“By the fishery I work for, yeah.”
“Doesn’t fish go bad?”
“It’s vacuum sealed and frozen. Keeps for up to 6 months once packaged and frozen correctly.”
“Well… yeah, man. That’s cool. I don’t know much about fish.”
“I feel like I owe you for all this wood.”
“Nah, you’re all good.”
“I can pay you in fish.”
“I wouldn’t even know how much fish this amount of wood would be worth.”
“I can give you a good deal, man.”
“It’s really ok.”
“This is a lot of fish, man. Like, you wouldn’t want to pass up this amount of fish.”
“Like, how much?”
“5 pounds halibut, 10 pounds cod.”
“I’m tempted.”
“I’ll bet you are.”
“What’s the best type of fish to smoke?”
“Trout, hands down.”
“Throw in some of that.”
“Done.”
“Plus I’ll need some wood back.”
“Halibut, cod, trout, and some of your own wood.”
“And a lesson on how to smoke trout with suburban-grade Texas tree branch clippings.”
“When are you free?”
That night was when. Mason texted a good number of friends, inviting them to an impromptu fish smoke. These were not people who usually did things like sit around on Mason’s parents’ back deck waiting for wild-caught Alaskan fish to finish smoking, but chances are at least a few would be intrigued enough to check it out. Gabriel being new to town without much more to keep him company than his uncle (who was nearly 70) and his uncle’s dog Scubby (who was nearly twice 70, in dog years), he encouraged Mason to round up as many as he could, “especially girls.” This last request came across as, not exactly predatory, more as a co-conspiring half-joke meant, in part, as a sort of self-deprecating knock on men and their desperate desires. At least, that was how Mason chose to interpret it.
Around 4, Gabriel returned with the fish (which had been marinating in his homemade brine since before he met Mason), a 36 inch hickory-handle splitting ax, some of the wood from Mason’s yard, and 14 long strips of birch bark he’d peeled off trees on the way over. He honked when he was out front and when Mason came out, Gabriel told him to hop in. He explained they were headed to HEB to get “twine and beer.” Mason, in his head, added “side dish ingredients” to their diminutive shopping list because, while he was sure Gabriel could subsist off only smoked fish and beer, he doubted anyone else he’d invited would care to.
At HEB, they split up; Gabriel to sniff out the rope aisle and Mason in search of food. In the frozen aisle, he couldn’t find veggie burgers or veggie dogs. This was the HEB he grew up going to, but sometime in the past couple years they’d rearranged the entire store, ostensibly just to confuse him. Not only did they rearrange what aisles were in what order, they developed an entirely new aisle classification system and, from what Mason could tell, eradicated and/or hid a number of helpful items that any other grocery store would stock near the front.
He browsed both frozen aisles and all meat coolers he could find in search of the veggie alternatives. If it was up to him, fish, some potato chips, and a few cobs of grilled corn would be enough. But, in this day and age, Mason knew he had to keep in mind the dietary restrictions of every guest. Unable to locate a simple 8-pack of veggie dogs, though, he reluctantly approached a teenager with a name tag.
“Excuse me.”
The kid kept stocking the freezer without looking up.
“Sorry to bother you.”
“What is it?”
“Can you tell me where I can find veggie dogs?”
“Veggie dogs?”
“Yeah. They’re not for me.”
“Mhmm.”
“They’re for my vegetarian friends.”
“Okay.”
“Not, like, I have a whole group of friends that are all vegetarian. Not even sure if I have any, come to think of it. It’s just in case. Hard to keep track these days, you know?”
“They’re in the vegetable area.”
He said this as if it was the most obvious place for them to be. Mason was irritated and felt like complaining to someone. Just because the word “veggie” is in the name doesn’t make it a vegetable.
Even within the produce section, they were not the easiest things to find. They were in a corner cooler right past pre-made salads and those expensive Odwalla juices in plastic bottles. He grabbed two six-packs of impossible dogs.
Gabriel met him at check out with a spool of hemp twine and two 30-racks, one of Bud Light and one of PBR. Not Mason’s style, but fair enough. Mason showed up with a cart full of snacks, vegetables, seasonings, paper plates, and veggie alternatives. Gabriel raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
Gabriel parked in the neighbors yard again, this time, it seemed, with the intention of leaving his truck there.
“We gotta get this fish on if we want to eat before nine. What’s your mom’s name?”
“Lucinda.”
“Got it. Grab six logs and the twine.”
He grabbed what he needed (beer and fish), locked the car, and headed towards Mason’s house.
Obediently, Mason started by unloading the wood from the bed. When Gabriel locked the car, his grocery bags were still in the cabin. He sort of called out for Gabriel to unlock it, but Gabriel was already almost at the front door and didn’t seem to hear. Mason chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, wondering if Gabriel would make fun of him for not speaking up and if veggie dogs stayed good for very long in a hot car.
He tried to carry six logs at once, but it proved difficult. First of all there was the question of what constituted a log. The thinner twigs and sticks definitely weren’t logs, but would they still be useful for the fire? He decided to stick to the loggiest ones, per instructions. He could always come back for more if Gabriel asked for any. So, he pulled out 6 of the thickest, stumpiest pieces he could find.
They weren’t heavy, they were simply logistically tricky to load up all at once. He tried gripping two logs per hand just by placing them side by side between his thumb and the rest of his fingers, but his hands were just barely not wide enough to palm two at once without them both falling out. If he had another person there to help, he could enlist that person to pile the wood into his arms, pyramid style. Without another person, he couldn’t get that arrangement to work. Then again, if he had another person, they could each carry 3 and none of this would be a problem.
He settled for one under each armpit, one rested across the crooks of his elbows, one tucked under his chin, and one in each hand. In this way, he crossed the street with arms bent 90 degrees, elbows pressed against his ribs, no neck, hands in little semicircular crab pinchers holding their cargo. He looked like a lego man.
At the door, a piece of wood slipping slowly from under his right armpit, he raised up his left foot above waist level to press down on the door handle and kick the door open. This set the dogs to barking and jumping on him, which caused him to drop 4 of the logs in a cascading dance in which he tried to catch each, in turn, but ended up letting loose another part of his fragile balance and thus releasing all but the two he held in his hands. The dogs, being rained down on by chunks of wood, scattered: one into the house and one out the door.
From the other room: “Mason!”
“Sorry mom, I’ve got a lot of stuff in my hands!”
“Did you let Sadie out?”
“She’ll come back.”
His mom came around the corner, distressed. When she saw Mason trying to gather his sticks in the doorway, though, she paused where she was and raised her eyebrows in amused confusion.
“We’re making a fire in the backyard, if that’s ok.”
“I heard. From your new friend.”
“Oh yeah, did he talk to you?”
“Ohhhh yeah he did.”
“You seem not too excited about that.”
“He called me Lucinda.”
“That’s your name isn’t it?”
“Total Eddie Haskall type.”
“You know I don’t know who that is.”
“Eddie Haskall? You don’t know Leave It To Beaver?”
“Obviously not.”
“Well, watch out for him.”
“Mom, what?”
“Just saying. Would have been nice to know he was coming.”
“Sorry. Some other people might be coming too, I think.”
“That’s fine. It’s fine.”
“It doesn’t sound fine.”
Finally, with his mom’s help, Mason got the logs into the coveted pyramid formation in his arms. Sadie came back in, but not before giving Mason the stink eye. He made for the back door, but his mom stopped him before he made it there.
“Oh, Mason?”
“What’s up.”
“You know he’s gay, right?”
“Jesus christ, mom.”
“Just saying! If you like him, that’s fine, just be-”
“Mom, I don’t like him. He’s not gay. Holy cow.”
“Mhmm.”
“You met him for like 3 seconds. I’ve been hanging out with him all day. Did you see his truck?”
“Hanging out with you all day. Big fancy truck. Cutting trees. Manual labor. Asking if he can have your wood. Building a fire together. It’s cute.”
“Oh my god.” But Mason had to laugh. There was a certain point in which the annoying things his mom said went way past any reasonable level and he was forced to find it kind of funny. He suspected she knew this and pushed her shtick as far as it took to wear him down.
“His cowboy boots.”
“Dad has cowboy boots.”
“It’s different.”
“Just listing stuff doesn’t make someone gay.”
“I’m just saying!”
For the first 3 hours of the fish smoke, Gabriel did most of the work and most of the drinking. He used Mason as a human shelf and clamp. His crab pinchers from earlier came in handy to hold things together while Gabriel fastened them with twine. His new knack for carrying things was useful on the gathering missions around the yard and trips back to the car. Other times, Mason was expected to understand what Gabriel was working on and contribute as needed, but this proved challenging because he couldn’t fully grasp the overarching mission. Each step along the way seemed fairly straightforward, but the reasons were obscured from view.
Finally, when the fish went in, the boys got a moment to step back and look at what they’d built. There was an underground element, which was basically just a pit dug into the ground with a fire in it, and an aboveground element, which was a tiny hut. Branches, bark, and bricks from around the yard made up the three walls and roof of the smoking hut. In the front, some more biomaterial served as a curtain. Above the fire, they had built a removable grill grate of woven hardwood sticks, interlaced and tied tightly with the twine. On top of the grate sat the fish. They also had two backup grates in case the flames came too high and incinerated the original one. Mason was concerned about the hypothetical fate of the fish, in the event that the one thing between it and the fire disappeared, but he figured Gabriel knew what he was doing.
“We don’t want these pieces in there for more than 2 hours. I think around an hour and a half we can take the filets out, the steaks will need to go for a little longer. It doesn’t matter what type of fish. If this was some fancy culinary setting, they’d tell you take the trout out before the halibut, but we aren’t picky. It really isn’t an exact science. As long as we get some of that oak-smoke infused in there, it’s all good.”
Mason didn’t know much about smoking fish, certainly not nearly as much as Gabriel, but he thought this might be an overly simplistic way of explaining it.
“Now, if this was brisket or something, sausage, pork, anything, you name it, we’d be in for at least a 12 hour smoke.”
“Gotcha.”
“At least 12 hours. That’s why you’re lucky I’m here. With fish, it’s much quicker. It makes sense, you know?”
“I guess.”
“No, it’s true. Thinner cuts, lighter meat, not even meat really at all. Some people just eat raw fish, you know? Like sushi?”
“Isn’t sushi like some special grade fish? Like it’s kept under certain conditions or whatever?”
“I mean, dog, this fish is better quality than whatever crap you’re getting at a sushi restaurant in Fort Worth, Texas. You can trust me on that.”
“Fair enough.”
“Plus it doesn’t matter. It’s getting smoked right now. What’d you think we did all that work for? Just to eat it raw?”
“Ha. I guess not.”
“You got to trust me on this one, man.”
Judging by the cans scattered around the yard, Gabriel had drunk at least 6 light beers. Mason was still working on his first. He was starting to think no one else was coming or, at least, no one else would be eating with them. It was almost 8, he was already starving, and the fish was just getting started.
Mason’s dad came outside. He looked over the yard and grimaced.
“What are you boys up to back here?”
“Hello, sir! Can I interest you in a beer?”
“Actually, I’m fine, thank you.” He was clearly a little flattered to be called “sir,” but overall, he wasn’t there to hang out or admire their creation. He seemed like he was there to shut the whole operation down.
Mason looked up to the house. His mom was standing in the window. She’d definitely sent his dad down to suss out how long Gabriel would be back there. When Mason looked at her, she quickly hid behind a pillar of wall.
“Mason, your mom made dinner.”
“Actually, sir, I’m making dinner for Mason. And his friends. If they ever show up.”
Mason was ashamed. For a moment he had an urge to become a lego man again and march around the yard collecting twigs until these two settled their differences and agreed to sit around the pit fire, drinking all the rest of the beer, and telling tales of rivers they’ve fished and women they’ve slept with.
He was out of his depth here. Part of him wanted to tell his dad to fuck off. He was an adult and was hanging out with an adult friend. They could do what they wanted.
Then again, obviously, his parents had a say over what went on in their backyard. Not only a say, but the only say.
Throughout the build process, he knew it wouldn’t fly. He was afraid of his parents’ reaction, but he was also afraid of Gabriel’s reaction if he told him he didn’t want to go through with it. One thing sort of led to another, and at no point along the way did he have the guts to put his foot down. What could he have said? “Oh wait, actually, man, digging a hole in the middle of my parents’ backyard was ok, but building this tiny hut is a step too far”? Or “Yeah, I know I said I wanted to learn how to smoke a fish, but this is not what I was expecting”? Or, worst of all, “I’m worried my dad will get mad at me”?
Why couldn’t he be like Gabriel? Not, drive a truck, carry around a chainsaw, catch fish in Alaska. That stuff was goofy. Just, fully grown and acting like it. Not worried about what people thought of him. Confident enough to haul two 30-racks onto the conveyor belt at the grocery store, look the cashier in the eye, and say, “Yeah, they’re all for me.”
“Mason,” his dad said, “Are you coming in for dinner or not?”
It was a clear opening for him to branch out, to be more like Gabriel. Gabriel wouldn’t abandon a smoking fish just to go eat dinner with his parents. Mason didn’t even know if Gabriel had parents.
“No, dad. I have plans.”
Mason’s dad didn’t say anything. He scanned the yard one more time with pursed lips. Then, he shook his head subtly and went back inside.
None of Mason’s friends showed up. Mason left the veggie dogs and side-dishes in the fridge inside. The boys sat on deck chairs and waited for the fish to reach an internal temperature of 150. They didn’t have a thermometer, so they kind of just waited until the moment felt right. Without any instructions to give Mason, Gabriel became quiet. The two of them sat there, drinking light beer and staying silent. They went on this way for a while. Mason didn’t know if Gabriel preferred silence or just couldn’t think of anything to say. He realized he didn’t know anything about this guy besides the car he drove and the types of fish he caught in Alaska. He was too uncomfortable to be bored, exactly, but he certainly wasn’t having the time of his life. He decided to break the ice.
“You like Fort Worth?”
“Nah, not really.”
“Why not?”
“Just isn’t for me.”
Mason took a sip of his beer. He searched his mind for something else to ask.
“Do you like Alaska more?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“Why?”
“Fewer people.” He let a moment of silence pass, then went on. “Not so many people getting in your way, expecting something from you, acting like bitches.”
“Gotcha.”
“Don’t get me wrong, there are still bitches in Alaska.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, man, not as many, but still.”
Mason said nothing.
“It doesn’t matter where you are. It’s like that everywhere now. Watch out.” Gabriel shook his head while he said this. Mason wondered what he was getting at.
“What do you mean?”
“Just bitches, man. You know what I mean. Women.”
“You’re saying there are women everywhere?”
“Nah. Well yeah, I mean sure, there are women everywhere. I’m not saying anything about that.”
“You’re saying all women are bitches?”
“Ha! Damn near. But no. That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Well, what are you saying?”
“What I’m saying is, there are bitches everywhere. Everywhere there are women, there are bitches.”
“Bitches?”
“Yeah man. Women. Taking things out of context.”
“Ohhhh…”
“Accusing you of shit, making shit up, pointing fingers. You know what I mean.”
“I guess.”
“That’s why I left, actually.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, man. I lived in Alaska for 2 years. Loved it up there. Thought nothing could ruin it for me. Honestly, I was about to buy a house up there. Yeah I know, big step. Had everything lined up. But then, I had to leave. Had to leave because of this girl. A co-worker, if you can believe it.”
Mason realized it was not a two way conversation they were having. It was not the type of conversation he was expected to participate in. Nor did he wish to. He kept his mouth closed.
“Such a shame. Everything went to shit just because of that one girl.”
Something inside the tiny smokeshack crackled loudly. Mason thought it might be a good idea to lift the curtain and make sure the fish hadn’t fallen into the fire, but Gabriel kept talking.
“She drove me right out of there. It doesn’t take much these days. Just come up with some far-fetched story, tell one person, it spreads like wildfire, next thing you know, someone’s life is ruined.”
It seemed to Mason that Gabriel’s eyes were glazed over. He was reciting a script, it seemed. He didn’t care if the fish was burnt or if Mason’s yard was trashed.
“She should’ve been the one to have to leave, not me. She didn’t know shit about fishing anyway.”
Fishing. Mason decided he was sick of hearing about fishing. He decided he was pretty much sick of hearing anything from this guy. He said, “Your life was ruined?”
“I mean damn near.”
“Did you get fired?”
“No. Not fired. No. But I’ll tell you what, man. It was real fucking awkward at work after that.”
“Why’d you leave, then?”
“I had to.”
“Why?”
“It’s a really long story, actually. I’d rather not get into it, if you don’t mind.”
“What’d she accuse you of?”
“It’s a whole thing. I can’t get into it all right now.”
“Did you do it?”
“It’s complicated, man.”
Later, Gabriel left. He picked up two or three of the many empty cans scattered around the yard and took the remainder of the beer with him. He said, “Well, thanks for the wood, man. Sorry the fish didn’t turn out.” He left around the side of the house, so he didn’t have to say goodbye to Mason’s parents.
Mason stood alone in the yard for a few minutes and examined the damage. It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t horrible either. He could probably clean it up in a single afternoon. He would put all the bricks back where they belonged and scatter the remaining plant material around the yard where it’d decompose soon enough. He felt a pang of regret for the branches they’d broken off and the wood they’d burned for such a stupid mission. He doubted the trees would mind, but, still, it felt disrespectful and it felt like a waste. He remembered all the veggie dogs in the fridge and knew he’d probably never get around to cooking them. He realized he’d only completed one task on his chore list in almost two weeks, and even that task had created more of a mess.
He thought about the woman in Alaska who Gabriel accused of ruining his life. He thought about her life. He took a moment of silence for the trees and for everything else. Then, he worked up the courage to go inside and ask his parents if they had any leftovers for him.
I read this while eating smoked trout. Today I fired a guy because bitches etc
Lmaooooo Gabriel what a guy. He knows how to have a good time