Ed's Woodpile

Ed sure was proud of his woodpile.

There she is, said Ed, pointing. That’s my woodpile.

I gazed upon Ed’s woodpile. I whistled, the kind of whistle that starts off high and goes low. If my whistling impressed Ed, he didn’t show it. I took in the gnarly grandeur of Ed’s woodpile. It was a fine woodpile; I wasn’t afraid to admit as much. A tall and rugged woodpile. A proud woodpile. A noble woodpile. This was a woodpile that wasn’t ashamed to be exactly what it was: a gigantic fucking woodpile.

Wow, I said.

You’re damn right wow, said Ed.

Ed was beaming. I had never seen Ed beam before. To be honest, the overall effect was rather grotesque. Ed’s nostrils proceeded to flare in a florid and celebratory fashion, and I saw parts of the interior of Ed’s mouth that had heretofore been unknown to me. He stood in the alleyway with his arms akimbo and his sweat-stained fedora canted at an impish angle.

You’re damn right wow, said Ed again.

Ed just stood there, looking at me. I didn’t know what to do or say, so I whistled again. High to low. I really drew this one out, too. I nailed that whistle. I positively nailed it.

Got a woodpile myself back at the homestead, I said, thumbing backward, in the general direction of my homestead. But it’s nothing compared to this one. Your woodpile makes my woodpile look like a big pile of horseshit.

Well, you don’t care for it, said Ed. That’s probably why.

Ed looked at me hard. There was something in his voice.

You don’t give it the care it needs, said Ed.

The woodpile? I said.

Yes, the woodpile, said Ed. You don’t nurture it. I know life can get crazy. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate. I know you got that kid brother who can only say pudding. But a woodpile needs nurturing.

Nurturing? I said.

Yes, said Ed. Nurturing.

Ed made a very complicated gesture with his arms that I supposed was meant to represent nurturing.

It’s just a woodpile, I said. It’s just a pile of wood.

Just a pile of wood, said Ed, his voice tinged with disgust.

Ed shook his head, and he kept shaking it. Usually someone shakes their head for just a little while and then stops, but Ed kept going.

Finally, Ed stopped shaking his head.

You see? said Ed, more loudly. You see what I’ve been saying? This is what I’ve been trying to tell you all.

Suddenly, all my friends and family stepped out of the shrubbery that lined the alleyway. There were only three shrubs, but three shrubs was enough.

Ed’s right, said my father. You’d be well advised to listen to Ed in re woodpiles.

Ed knows woodpiles, said my grandmother. I’d say Ed has forgotten more about woodpiles than you’ll ever know, but Ed doesn’t forget anything about woodpiles.

She’s right, said Ed. I got it all locked away up here.

Pudding, said Carl.

What is this? I said. Is this why you invited me over, Ed? I thought you said you were having a problem with your toaster.

More than one thing can be true, said Ed. You’d be well advised to remember that, too.

Sure, Ed, I said. Whatever you say.

You talk to your woodpile with that filthy mouth? said Ed.

Just then, I heard the sound of shattering glass, and four slices of bread shot out of Ed’s kitchen window at high velocity, arced over the municipal building, and came down somewhere on the other side of the pine forest.