CROWBAR

There had to be something in that old shack. It was boarded-up but too boarded-up, if you know what I mean. Nobody boards-up an empty, dilapidated shack with perfectly-contoured MDF unless they’re hiding something. Keeping the place clear of critters, you’d just slap some old wood on it. No—there was something in there, and I didn’t mind being the one to find it.

I’m no expert, but it doesn’t take one to attack a shack with a crowbar. Mine’s a beauty, too, the same crowbar that took my daddy’s treehouse down, and his daddy’s before that; an heirloom passed along generation to generation to help put childish concerns behind . . . with force. And as I began to work the MDF off the rotted wood it was nailed to I realized I never had a treehouse to call my own, much less one to tear down in the name of maturity. Looking at that shack, though, I was thinking maybe, depending on how it all shook out, maybe I could treehouse what was left. After the ransacking, of course.

The squeak of nails pulling free of solid wood was unexpected but enjoyable all the same. I love a good nail-squeak; makes me feel like I’m accomplishing something. But it also implied that the rotten-looking frame was a front, that the wood holding those nails in place was newer than it was letting on. And, to my mind, that could only mean that there were treasures a-plenty within. I eked all four corners of the panel out, resisting the urge to peek, waiting patiently for a full gander, but even patience couldn’t blind me to the black-light glow and persistent hum apparent behind that panel. I hung my crowbar off a couple of bent and blackened nails sticking out from the corroded wall like a pair of overcooked campfire marshmallows and yanked the panel off with the enthusiasm of a portly kid fighting through the cellophane that kept coffee-table chocolates out of the hands of little chunkers. I wedged myself shoulder-deep into the enclosure before I thought twice, and, in retrospect, that still left me one thought short.

It was dark and humid in there, smaller by far than what I figured, and against the twisting strobe-light background I could see the bobbing of bird-heads lined-up alongside a diminutive flat-topped wooden surface. My eyes weren’t adjusting to the dimness as quickly as I hoped, leaving me nose-to-beak with an annoyed bird before I even noticed they had started the music back up.

“Caw,” said the midnight-black bird as it dented the tip of my nose with a spritely peck that was surprisingly heavy in meaning. Its head wavered back and forth across my eye-line, as though checking me on all sides to see if I had gotten the message, before looking me dead in the eye to say caw once again, this time with feeling. The atmosphere was grim, despite the jaunty music, and bordering on dangerous before I tried to ingratiate myself with a terrified smile and attempted shrug that managed to both wedge me more solidly into place and infuriate the birds.

Itty bitty barstools skidded backwards in squeals of umbrage, leaving mini-mugs of sudsy liquid to spill and slop along the bar-top, and the whole crew sidled up next to pecker #1, cocking their heads and unfurling their wings aggressively. I tried to make conversation, but all they said was caw, which didn’t leave me a whole lot to work with. They happily mocked my manhood, however, or supposed lack thereof—one bird held its wings a centimeter apart and side-nodded my way, while another lifted a wing vertically, looked at me, and let it droop down sadly, impotently—and their tittering very quickly got my goat. I had been trying to excuse myself from the very first peck, but it was only after seeing the smack-talking cluster of birds backing away from my face that I realized that the bartender, who had been cawing like a madbird for quite some time, was by then also waving a tiny shotgun in my direction, his eyes, like the bar, full of murder.

I was a few splinters to the bad in my escape, but boarded the hole up in a frantic slapdash, hoping to keep others from my mistake. I had managed not to forget my crowbar, which was good because it was necessary for what came next: I built myself a treehouse.

Then I tore it down, set it on fire, and spit on the ashes because I am a man.