You tell me it was the strangest thing. You tell me it began as simply as standing in line at the bank. With groceries on a list and a paycheck in your pocket, a deposit necessitated itself. Being late on a Friday afternoon, the line vined through a maze of velvet rope dividers that ended at the individual windows of three harried-looking female tellers. Ten or so people stood before you, shuffling their feet, staring at nothing, as if slouching toward doomsday (“which,” you say, “I suppose we all are, in a way”). You were very near to being the last. “It began that simply,” you say.
When the man behind you tapped your shoulder, you courteously turned toward his “do you have a spare pen I could borrow?” Though you had several cluttering the bottom of your purse, you shook your head with an apologetic expression (“eyes sincere, lips pulled into a half smile, half frown, brow furrowed,” you explain) as you twisted away, placing a hand strategically under your offended nose. For with his innocent question, a noxious combination of garlic and goat’s milk, wet dog, musty winter coats, and (now that you think about it), some sort of decaying cabbage soup emitted in (you swear to God) smoky green tendrils from his mouth that blasted into your face. So staggered, you imagined the force of his atrocious breath had actually driven the hair back from your temples. You tell me it reminded you of cornstalks being blown flat in the strong winds. “Like back in ’94, when we had those straight-liners,” you say.
It was then that you forgot about man-in-need-of-a-toothbrush behind you and noticed, so centralized in your cross-eyed vision, the grime packed into the crevasses of your fingers. “Grime,” you say. “Like when you’re a kid and the cops come to your school to show you how they collect the bad guy’s fingerprints.” Waiting to make your deposit, you could distinguish your own unique prints etched into your fingers and hands with the darkest India-black ink. Not only that, but you saw an accumulation of abrasions blossomed on your knuckles. Upon inspection, you realized your hands were filthy.
“I rode my bike to the bank,” you tell me, “and the chain fell off on the way. I fixed it, but that’s when it happened.”
“When the chain fell off?” I ask.
You look disgusted. “No. When I saw my filthy hands.”
You say your grease packed hands reminded you of that funeral. “You know how you can tell when someone just got out of the shower and then stopped to take a shit because you see their wet footprint trail on the bathroom rug?” you ask. “I could follow my thought processes just as clearly.”
I don’t think it’s very clear at all. But I don’t want to interrupt.

You remembered the day, sunny, cloudless, a mockery of what the afternoon would entail. Permeating the air was the distinct scent of earth and flora. There was a mound of black dirt intermingled with clumps of russet clay. The hole, looking as though it had been dug with the care and precision of an archeologist, had perfect ninety-degree walls, and perfectly square corners. “Do you know how faultless that hole was?” you ask without expecting an answer. “Cold, rigid…permanent.” You shudder. “That thing was solid.” You recalled the green tarp surrounding it - pretending to be grass, the circle of mourners parting (“as if the coffin was Moses or something”) to allow the pallbearers to break through. There were flowers everywhere. A nearby grave was adorned with plastic foliage, including a bouquet that had a fake robin stuck into it. Fastened to a wire, the robin swayed with the occasional gust of wind, as if bobbing for the worms that lay below.
“That’s what did me in,” you suspend your description. “The robin.”
I begin to wonder about all the “thats” - part of me is still trying to follow the trail of wet footprints.
Above the site, on a hill some hundred yards away, rested a bulldozer. You could see it in the distance directly over the preacher’s shoulder. If you squinted, you could just make out the curls of gray smoke rising from the diggers, two men who had to wait for the ceremony to end before they could hang up their shovels.
“They had the right idea,” you say. Your hands shook as you searched your pockets for a cigarette. You remember wondering if it would be inappropriate to light up in the midst of the ceremony. “It wasn’t like it was a death from emphysema or lung cancer or something,” you say. “It’s not like it mattered anymore anyway.” But you failed to find a smoke and, just as well, you didn’t have a lighter. All the while, the robin continued to bob and bob and bob.
Without really knowing how or why, you found yourself taking steps backward, you felt yourself enveloped within the black garb of your fellow mourners, as if you were being sucked into the darkness of the hole that seconds ago was at your feet. You continued to back away, away, until you stood outside the circle. “The sun seemed brighter,” you say, “and there was a lot of noise.” You could still hear the preacher’s sorrowful tones, but could make nothing of his words. Instead you heard the sermon of the nature that surrounded you – the great oaks weeping a dirge as the breeze whispered through their leaves, the grass sang in harmony, the same song. You imagined you could see the ants that clung to the earth, beneath and among the grasses, their insignificant pattering legs keeping the beat as they followed a slow, somber line.
“I couldn’t take it,” you tell me. “It was all too loud.”
The sounds crashed into your ears with violent intensity, as if the earth itself bemoaned the interment of another being. You began to run. You ran from the angry earth, the sad trees, the stomping ants, to the hill where the bulldozer waited.
Climbing the slope in high heels proved a challenge and you were perspiring. But by the time you made it to the top, everything stopped – was silent. The diggers seemed surprised when you breathlessly reached out your hand and motioned for a smoke. Without looking and without a word, the older of the two, probably around fifty-five (“he had fluffs of hair in his ears,” you say), reached down into the breast pocket of his overalls and held out the cigarette. Your hand touched his briefly as the exchange was made. He also delivered a light.
“One puff was all it took to put the world back in order,” you say. “It was that simple.”
You finished smoking in silence. The men, uneasy, just watched. You didn’t care. After snubbing the butt with the pointed toe of your shoe, you nodded thanks to the fluffy-ear-hair digger and carefully picked your way down the hill, past the mourners, to your car.
It’s quiet for a moment. I think you finished your story. “How does that work?” I ask. “How did standing in line at the bank remind you of all that?”
You cock your head slightly, a little confused. It seems you’ve forgotten about the bank. “Oh,” you say, “The digger who gave me the cigarette.” You pause again, and you’re no longer looking at me, but looking through me. Your eyes have vacancy glazed over them.
“The digger?” I ask.
“His hands were filthy.”