A short story whose time to be shared has come. To be part of something, as it were. Maybe. It's called "Misfit Lumber."
Sound of sawing.
Man’s shoes on floor.
Light goes out.
Workshop door closes.
Pile of lumber comes to life.
Odds and ends of boards.
Scraps unused.
Misfit lumber in the dark.
The wood comes to life.
What happened to Pat? they ask.
What happened to that piece of pine?
Sawdust settling.
He was here, now he’s gone.
He’s part of something now.
They hammered it in.
I saw it. I heard it.
To be part of something, that’s what I want.
Misfit lumber murmurs their longing.
To be part of something.
To be hugged close.
To be a table.
I can take a nail, I can take it.
Out jumps the plank.
Hank’s knotty and splintered.
He’s a misfit extraordinaire.
His voice like a saw.
Look, he snarls, Pat’s gone.
That’s what it means, to be part of something.
Ya disappear.
That’s all ya are.
A part.
No one calls ya you.
They say “table,” or “stairs.”
Never met a table I wanted to be a leg of.
Me, I want to be free to be lots of things.
Plus, he said, it hurts.
The cutting and banging.
Let me tell you something:
Ya feel it in ya fibers.
Ouch, said the stud.
Ya never fit the way ya is.
They gotta cut you.
You always leave something behind.
A smaller bit, they feed it to the fire.
It’s gone forever.
Up in smoke.
I don’t care, said Rick.
I want to be useful.
I don’t know why I’m here.
Except for a few knots, you mean.
Shut up, Ward.
Nothing some primer wouldn’t fix.
Quiet, he’s back!
Workshop door opens.
Light goes on.
Pat the Slat tumbles into the pile.
Misfit lumber again.
Light goes off, man leaves.
Pat, Pat, what happened, Pat?
The slat lies there.
Quiet for a moment.
He cut me here to fit me there.
A brace for a frame.
He nailed the frame in.
Then he didn’t need me.
So I’m back.
What’s it like, being part of something?
Sawdust trembling.
Pat lit up. The best feeling in the world.
Best moment in my life.
Better than becoming kindling.
Glad to be here. Glad to be back.
I hope it happens again!
Fire makes me shudder, said Ward.
You’re telling me.
Hank was saying it’s better to stay here.
Not to become part of anything.
Not that again, Hank.
Pat knows Hank’s story.
Two old denizens of the wood pile.
Why you hiding your story, Hank?
You were once part of something.
An old farmhouse.
You’re Hank the very old plank, you are.
Generations of people lived in that house.
Were you stairs or window sill?
It doesn’t matter, snarled Hank.
You been here a long time, said Pat.
Thinking about how you got taken out of the house.
You don’t want to join up.
You already got kicked out once.
So it’s safer in the woodpile.
But you’re closer to the fire than you know.
Only misfit lumber to talk to.
Hank, Hank.
You know it’s true.
Somewhere is a stair that needs a tread.
The chickens are getting out.
Squirrels getting in.
You’re the right size.
Don’t be so goddamn splintery all the time.
And maybe like me you’ll come back to the pile.
That’s the best way, said Pat.
Don’t be so splintery, Hank.
Nothing from the plank.
Some time passes.
Quite a bit of time.
Then a child needs to step onto a garden bed.
A walkway is needed.
Hank fits the bill.
Out he goes from the pile.
Perfect, for once.
Misfit, no more.
