Noah Cicero - The Collected Works of Noah Cicero Vol. II

“I’m going to roll over on my side. There’s lube over there. Lube yourself up and put it in and you can pump for like ten minutes, okay?”

“That sounds cool.”

I take my boxers off and get the bottle of lube.

Jessica pushes her pajama bottoms off but leaves her shirt on.

She rolls over on her side.

I get behind her and insert my penis.

I pump.

Jessica makes no noise.

She stares at the wall.

I ejaculate.

I pull out and go to sleep.

Leaning against a giant redwood.

Alone.

Almost to the Oregon border.

I look up at these giant old trees.

They stand what seems like miles above me.

There are almost no people walking around.

Jessica can have her pills, I want these trees.

People pain me.

Instead of saving up and taking trips to the redwoods.

They purchase expensive cars, clothes, televisions, and houses with rooms they don’t need.

They sniff coke and take pills and gamble in hot-ass Las Vegas.

I made it here across America with little more than a thousand dollars and a car I bought for three-hundred dollars.

Hardly anyone is here.

No one cares about these trees.

I’ve never had any interest in seeing the Parthenon or the Coliseums of Rome, or the Vatican.

To me they are no different than the abandoned steel mills of Youngstown.

Old discarded objects built by man during times when a small group of people had money, and the majority made it for them.

And most of all, what ruins symbolize to me is that you will die one day.

These giant trees, taking hundreds or thousands of years to grow to their enormous height, had to kill no one, had to oppress no one, had to ruin nothing, to attain their height.

These giant redwoods don’t signify death.

They tell me about the earth.

That I’m part of it.

In the Oregon Cascades, I’m driving down back roads looking for Misail Poloznev’s house.

I worked with Misail at a factory in Youngstown.

Misail had left it all.

He had grown up with money, had gotten a good education at a private college, and had good jobs working on computers.

He left it all.

He never spoke to his father and his mother was dead.

He cut his family ties.

He sent me a letter several months ago.

Dear Vasily,

I moved to the Cascades. Life is good here. I grow my own crops and fish in the stream. If you ever feel like visiting me you can. There are not many I want to visit me, so don’t be handing out my address. I’m free now.

I do not have a phone, running water, or electricity. I do not even have gas. So be prepared, and bring some toilet paper.

My life is good now.

Use the address I wrote on the envelope to find me.

Your Friend,

Misail Poloznev

On a back road about forty-five miles east of Eugene, I get to the point where Mapquest says Misail’s house is.

There’s a mailbox.

I read the numbers.

It is at the end of a driveway that seems to go off into the forest.

I drive down the driveway.

The driveway is overgrown, like no one has driven on it for a long time.

It is beautiful.

There are small redwoods and pine trees everywhere.

It smells good and the breeze is nice.

I pass an inexplicable cellphone tower in the forest.

Eventually, after five minutes, I arrive at what looks like a field with crops and a small octagon-shaped hut.

I pull up and park on the grass because there is no real place to park.

I get out and look around.

There doesn’t seem to be anyone here.

I walk up to the hut and knock and no one comes to the door.

I yell, “Misail! Misail! Misail!”

Someone screams, “Who’s here? I’ll kill you!”

“It’s me, Vasily!”

A man comes over the hill.

It’s Misail.

He’s naked.

Misail looks strong.

Veins stick out of his forearms.

Every time he moves a finger, a muscle is flexed in his arms.

As he gets closer I see his face.

It looks weathered.

His eyes don’t seem to be looking at anything.

They seem dead.

Hard and cold.

He looks like he could reach out and rip the life out of me and not be concerned with it.

He looks like a devil.

What causes such a look on a man’s face?

Is that what a man looks like when he throws his complete past away and decides to build his own future without regard for one law or tradition made in the last 3,000 years?

He comes over the hill and says, “Let me put some shorts on.”

He walks by and waves for me to come into the hut.

The hut is a nice small place.

It has a fireplace, a twin bed, and the outer walls are bookshelves filled with books.

I look at the bookshelves and see books by Nietzsche, Sartre, Richard Wright, and also many books about gardening, survival in tough environments, and how ancient civilizations and tribes from Latin America to Africa lived.

Misail waves for me to follow him outside.

We walk into the forest.

It is quiet except for the sound of bugs and an owl.

Misail doesn’t speak.

I follow behind him a few feet.

We used to talk a lot but now he says nothing.

He doesn’t even ask me how my trip was.

We get to a small creek.

He grabs two fishing poles leaning against a tree.

He hands one to me without speaking, goes over to a box, opens it and puts a worm on a hook. He motions for me to do the same.

We sit together on the ground.

We cast our lines into the water.

Misail’s silence continues.

I do not know what to say. He was always the one who spoke when we knew each other in Youngstown.

Misail sighs and says, “I don’t have anything to say. I haven’t had to deal with the shit of the world for a long time. There isn’t anybody else here to bitch about. No one is here to make fun of, analyze, criticize, or make drama with. When I talk all I hear is silence. Sometimes rabbits eat my crops and I bitch about that in my head. Sometimes spiders get in my hut and I bitch about them in my head. But besides that, there is nothing to say. In our society, we grow up hearing and eventually talking about only a few things. We talk about ourselves and our problems which involve other people, but there are no other people here to give me shit. We talk about our ambitions and accomplishments, but there is nothing to accomplish here. The forest offers no degrees, raises, or awards. We talk shit about other people, but there are no other people here. We talk shit about ourselves, but we hate ourselves because we relate ourselves to others, and still there are no other people here. We talk about religion and government, but the redwoods have no religion and the rabbits don’t hold elections. I’m sorry if I am not good company. But I must tell you this: I don’t have any interest in hearing about why you’re here. What people and their behavior, what political, sociological, philosophical madness has brought you here to me. I’m sure it is all true, that it is very important to you. But I’m sure telling me won’t make a difference. Please sit here and catch a fish with me. If you would like to talk about the redwoods or about what types of fish swim in this creek, you may. I have heard and thought enough on the world of people.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Good.”

We sit for a while and talk about the redwoods. Misail tells me the ages and what berries can be found in the Cascades and while we are walking back to his hut a deer walks by. We look at the deer.

I spend a week with Misail.

I help build a new bathroom.