Diego was not wrong, as much as I assumed he would be. I left ‘The Oasis’ and walked along the road until I was sure I would be out of sight. I circled back into the storm, despite my careful timing, and re-traced my steps, ashamed to be seen.
I looked for the comb case but could not find it.
What I found, instead, was a me-shaped puddle in the earth, hardly the perfect cartoon-silhouette, but close. I must have lain there for some time.
Standing at the foot of that puddle was the closest I’ve come to casting a shadow since, and I have stepped out of the storm and into brighter places to no avail. I am a Peter Pan, past my prime and I don’t know whether I should be concerned.
I feel myself aging.
I cannot fly.
But I have been… okay, in the absence of my vice. And that feels, in many ways, like flying.
‘What came first, the zany name or the concept of a wood-based tasting venue? ‘Arbor-Eat’em’ would have you believe the latter, billing itself as a high-class sort of establishment but having to try a little too hard to pull it off. The core concept is an inversion of the traditional hors de ’oeuvre, a selection of bland fruits and cheese paired with toothpicks of exotic wood. Found yourself wondering about the mouth-feel of a California Redwood? Curious about the earthy notes of the Baobab? Wood tasting might be for you.
‘Arbor-Eat’em’ is not without controversy. In the Fall of 2015 it premiered and then quickly retracted a ‘historical flight,’ consisting of toothpicks carved from reclaimed sources- the bows of ships, the inner layers of casks, and from coffins. The owner played it off as a stunt and swept the incident under the rug, but rumors of old inventory remain.
Nothing says ‘underground’ like a secret menu.’
Wait, no.
I am falling.
This is not the flight of the bird, but the flight of a coward. I’ve been here many times before, briefly suspended in the eye of the storm.
“Sir? We’re starting a round of the cedar, cut just last week.”
“I… thanks.”
I chew nervously through toothpicks and tongue sawdust paste from the holes where my teeth used to be, spitting it into ornamental bowls and rinsing with mineral water between flights. I ignore much of what is said about the processes involved in harvesting this wood, in caring for saplings and leaving a responsible carbon footprint. I am preoccupied with my near future, with the realization that things will still get worse before they get better.
Eventually, though, I settle myself down.
The walking tour filters lazily into a mingling area, situated next to a store for those convinced by the tasting- a place to shop for distant in-laws and work acquaintances. I pick the gouda off of several thin pieces of maple and wait until the host has finished speaking with an enthusiastic Minnesotan family before I put into action the careful approach necessary for under-the-table affairs.
“So,” I begin, “You have any of those coffin toothpicks left?”
The host does not turn to meet me, but I see his eyes slowly narrow, as though the man is falling asleep where he stands. Just as I’m sure they are closed, when I start to wonder if he has chosen to simply blot me out of his reality rather than to acknowledge the question, he speaks.
“Coffins,” he says, “Crew-see-fixes. pretty-lady’s wash basins. We’ve got all sorts of things in the pick cellar.”
“I…”
“What does a man like yourself want with a taste of the dead?”
“Just curious.”
“You know what they say about curiosity?”
He waits for me to answer.
“It killed the cat?”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” he repeats, “Company cat got into the nautical picks and they tore up its insides. Had to put it down.”
The host pulls another employee aside and whispers something in her ear before motioning me to follow. We step through a door marked ‘Employees Only’ and continue down a flight of steep, stone stairs. I break the silence after several quiet seconds.
“How did you get in to the toothpick business?”
“Grew up in the boonies,” he says, “Home-schooled. Parents struggled to put food on the table. You know what helps keep your mind off a hungry stomach?”
“Chewing toothpicks?”
“Exactly. We’d make our own- widdle’em down from branches. I got a taste for elm that way.”
“And what’s the deal with the historical picks? Who thought that was a good idea?”
“I did,” he says, and, ahead in the darkness, I cannot see his face.
The host unlocks a heavy door as we reach a landing and we move into a cavernous passage.
“Way I see it,” the host says, “If we soak whiskey in wine casks for a hint of old grapes, why not try something more direct? Why not see what we can glean from a thing that spent a hundred years on the ocean, or sixty below the earth?”
We come to another door, this one simply latched. It’s cold and still in the cellar a place made foreign by its comparative nearness to the heart of the Earth. There are shelves inside the room and, on the shelves, row after row of small, glass vials. In each vial, a bundle of toothpicks, tied with a string. Nothing is labeled, but the host leads me to a place in the center, where the pickings have slimmed.
“Plenty of folk like you,” he says, “Looking for the picks of dead folk. These three here are over a hundred years old. The row below that is at least two hundred. We do our best to source from the States, but the older these get the more likely they’ve been imported.”
I had not seriously planned on buying pieces of a coffin but now, in the grim basement of the ‘Arbor-Eat’em,’ I feel as if I have little choice.
“How much for one vial?”
It’s more than I have.
My palms begin to sweat.
“Do you have anything… cheaper?”
I feel the host’s judgement in the half-darkness. He sighs and slips his hand between the racks, pulling a vial of bright, white picks from the back.
“Last of the budget options,” he says, “Alice Cantrel- dead at 20, aged 5 years in pine.”
He hands me the vial without asking whether I can afford it. The sticks rattle lightly in the glass, the little taps sounding against my palm like static.
“You’re a man with bad habits,” the host comments as he turns back to the door.
“What makes you say that?”
“Strange tastes and no money.”
-traveler
