found drama

We follow the tree line that hugs the sand, ducking up into the trees briefly and at intervals, checking to see what is on the other side.  We are looking for things that we have lost.  Our belongings are scattered.  The landscape seems so familiar.  But every time we look past the forest veil to see even thicker stands of trees, our next glimpse catches some isolated cluster of cottages.  Night and day pass too quickly, as if they have promised more intensity in exchange for shorter shifts.  Eventually I become separated from the other two in our party.  I turn around and they are gone.

I force myself through a particularly thick gnarl of trees and bushes to find a small house straddling a stream.  I knock on the door but no one answers.  Turning the unlocked door knob, I let myself in and start to look around.  I find a bag that I recognize.  It is filled with my stuff — t-shirts, gloves, pants.  Next to the bag is a bed and a dresser; the dresser is also filled with things that belong to me.  There are far too many gloves for some place that is supposedly in the jungle.

Exploring the house some more, I find some food in the kitchen and a bathroom.  I start to run the water and get undressed when I hear someone come through the front door.  I call out to them, let them know that I am here, and not to be afraid.  I stuff as much of my stuff as I can, as quickly as I can, from the drawers into the bag.  Every grab has more gloves; there are so many, it cannot be avoided.  I put my hands up, not bothering to dress, my bag dangling from one of my free hands.  A startled Korean family stands in the doorway, surprise on their faces, the father in the family adopting a defensive stance, ready to throw me into the stream should I make any sudden moves.

About Rob Friesel