SmokeLong Quarterly

John Pusch Jr. had few real regrets, but seeing how his major in philosophy had little practical application in the real world oft proved daunting. Thoughts of easier choices could inspire pointless envy, true tales of those less capable from an intellectual standpoint now handsomely remunerated, firmly ensconced in cherry-wood paneled offices high over the city, transformed by time and money and paper into semi-respected lawyers and businessmen. But Pusch lacked pull.

Once he had tested patience by temping in such places. That test proved troublesome, gargantuan efforts expended to keep comments unspoken for miniscule wages, insubordination bubbling just beneath the surface, followed by violent dreams of vengeance.

Bereft of choices, he spent time in meditation, quizzing his higher self to point the way. The spirit guides kept their learned silence. Bills had to be paid, and there was no way he could tolerate overpaid baboons. “I will dig and dig until I find an answer,” he said, and realized he already had stated his solution.

So here he was, like a child again, shovel in hand. Digging graves was hearty outdoor activity, allowing his mind free realm while the body went about its appointed task, vigor renewed, blood flowing, a feeling of general health in spite of the occasional blister. The ground a worthy opponent, often hiding roots and rocks that held their own against the steel edges, hampering what otherwise was a fairly simple activity.

This brisk time of year, he noted, you often had to give your all. The hard-packed surface of what had once been sod cover, now fodder for the shovel’s restless appetite. As winds provided a whistling soundtrack to his strenuous efforts, he knew the key was to continue on. The earthy smell of the freshly turned soil scented the chill breeze and urged him forward. Aches and pains could wait for later; he was lost in the action itself: one man, one goal, one hole.