What happened was, well, a tree, Douglas fir to be exact, grew up through the middle of Buck’s living room. Lives down on the corner, or used to. When he and Marge went to bed, nothing. Next morning, he staggers in to make coffee, and there’s this enormous evergreen. Pushed right up through the foundation. Marge comes in, Buck’s standing there, jaw-dropped, speechless. What’s this? she says, going about her business with kettle and tea bag.
Buck said he didn’t know what to say. Just rubbed his eyes, wondering if he was still asleep.
Did you over-water again? says Marge.
Buck points. Would you look at the size of that thing?
Why do you have to give the plants so much water? Marge says, dunking her tea bag. How many times have I told you?
Poor Buck. Has one of those fancy rigs with the disposable pods, easy-peasy, but never gets a single cup.
Well, the way it happened was Marge called Mary, and Mary called Jan, and Jan called Helen. No telling who all she called. Before we know it, we’re standing in the kitchen with the rest of our neighbours, goggling at Buck’s fir tree. He’s still in his pyjamas.
Helluva tree, Buck.
By now, it’s already busted a hole in the living room ceiling, then pushed on up through the roof. Sunlight beams down through sheetrock dust. Robins and blue jays flit in through the opening and take up residence in the evergreen’s branches.
Thing looks healthy and hale, somebody says.
Height and girth and whatnot.
Couldn’t be any greener.
Marge sweeps up one pile of needles after another, along with bits of bark and lots of dust. A bird splats right on the sofa cushion, but we all pretend not to notice.
When she gives up on the parquet floor, Marge brews up a pot of coffee and sets out sugar cookies she pulls from a tin. We oblige, sipping, nibbling, chewing the fat. We wonder aloud about who Buck should call, police or firemen, arborists or loggers. Never much of a gum-flapper, Buck’s even quieter than usual. Takes the whole thing pretty hard. Marge thinks it’s all his fault and won’t let it go. As for the rest of us, it’s a nice diversion. Keeps us entertained for a while. When it’s time, we thank Marge for her hospitality and slap Buck on the shoulder.
Good luck, we tell him. Let us know if you need any help.
Nobody realises this is only the beginning.
Next morning, we all wake up with trees growing in our living rooms. Not from overwatering. Not from anything we know of. They’re just there. If not for the buckled wood floors and shredded carpet, shards of sheetrock and hunks of roof tiles, you might think they’d always been there. Some are Doug firs, but not all. Cedars, spruces, pines of one sort or another. Maybe a hemlock in there for good measure. We argue about that for a good long while. Some know about golf, some about baseball, others about bridge or dominoes, but what do we know about trees?
What we learn is they all bring birds and squirrels and weather from the outdoors right on inside. Lucky for us, it’s early summer, blue skies, sunshine, and temperate as you please. If this were February, we’d all be in a world of hurt. The rain in this part of the country’s no joke.
Now, a single tree is one thing. Some of us don’t mind so much, what with the fresh scent and change of pace. Without the means to take Alaskan cruises or European tours, the retirement routine gets monotonous in a hurry. But before the week is out, we all have little forests growing in our houses. Still smell fresh and woodsy, but that’s where the good times end. The trunks block off the TV, so we have to stand right up next to the set just to change the channel. The forest crowds into the dining room, too. Not only is there no place to eat pot roast or spaghetti and meatballs, but we have to postpone bridge night indefinitely until we can carve out some space to play. The needles and bark dust shower carpets and divans. And the sap gets all over, well, everything, leaving a dark, sticky residue, ruining upholstery, carpet, and clothing.
The animals become a nuisance, too. Birds dive-bomb our breakfast cereal, and it takes no time for the squirrels to locate our pistachio stash. Gobble up our pecans and walnuts, too, so our missus can’t even bake a cake. Not that the oven works, what with the tangle of underbrush growing out of it. Ferns sprout from kitchen cabinets and counters. Wildflower meadows spring up underfoot.
A few of us meet down at Dave’s Diner, next door to the Rub-a-Dub Laundromat. They know us by name and keep our coffee hot, or used to.
Bedroom wall caved in this a.m., someone says.
We can’t even use the doors, vegetation’s so thick. Have to climb out the kitchen window to fetch the morning paper.
We can’t get into the bathroom. Not the master or guest or half-bath down the hall. Have to go in the backyard like animals.
Everybody looks haggard. Bloodshot eyes, dark circles. We’re jittery, too, and that piping hot coffee only makes matters worse.
It’s not long before we’re tossing out ideas willy-nilly: lawnmowers and weedwhackers, axes and pesticides.
What about goats? somebody suggests.
There’s an idea.
A friend has a small herd he rents out to clear land.
They’d make quick work of the wildflowers and underbrush.
But what about the tall timber?
Do goats eat trees?
A whole colony of beavers couldn’t keep up.
Back at home, we can’t get into the garage to see if our chainsaws are still functional. If we could find the telephone amid all the foliage, we’d call Tools ‘R’ Us to check prices on a new model. But we’d be disappointed since they closed up shop due to so-called unforeseen circumstances. Our TVs quit working, too, or we might learn that this isn’t an isolated incident, as they say. Later, we find out it isn’t just our sets. All the local stations are down, off the air and closed up tight. Same for the radio. At least we aren’t alone in this thing, whatever it is.
Talk about cold comfort.
We have to get out. It isn’t what anybody wants, but, well, there are no two ways about it. Not once the raccoons come in and ransack our kitchens. Skunks, too. Plus mice, weasels, rabbits. A veritable menagerie. By now, the roof is more holes than shingles. We wake up in the morning with a damp chill, tangled in weeds and vines and thorny rosebushes that flourish in what once were our bedrooms. The writing’s on the wall—if we’re lucky enough to still have one standing.
Given the choice, we’d go west to the coast, but that’s impossible. It’s not as if that explosion of growth is restricted to our properties. Enormous evergreens grow up through the sidewalks and streets, buckling concrete and pitting asphalt. There’s no way we’d find our way through the suburbs and over the Coastal Range to the Pacific. We can’t even get our sedans out of the driveway. So instead, we head east. None of us wants to go to the city, dirty and dangerous as we know it to be, but at this point, it’s our only hope. Maybe this thing, whatever it is, hasn’t made it that far inland, if that’s the direction it’s headed.
Who says it’s going one place to the next? somebody says.
Could be happening everywhere.
All at once.
It’s a fair point. Some of us refuse to buy it, though. We’re eternal optimists, glass-half-full types, and the very real possibility that whatever is going on with the insta-grow forests could be widespread and impossible to escape might throw us into a pit of despair we’d never climb out of. So we forge ahead. First, on foot. The further toward the city we make it, the less dense the foliage becomes. To say it’s a welcome relief wouldn’t be doing that feeling justice. We grin at each other like, well, lobotomy patients, if you want the truth.
Nobody would describe us as spring chickens, and we’ve already walked farther today than at any time in the past decade. Knees pop and hips creak, ankles swell and backs throb. We trudge over to a bench and take a breather. It’s in a city park, pleasant and predictable, with playing fields, picnic tables, and a gazebo, beds of daisies and tulips smiling in the sunshine. Everything is mown, clipped, and tended as nature intended. Children play on the slides and swings, while college kids whack a tennis ball back and forth on the courts. Douglas firs grow along the edge of the park where they’ve been planted. If anyone notices us, our wan faces and dishevelled appearance, they don’t let on.
We all take a deep breath, then another—though not so many we’ll start hyperventilating. We wonder aloud about calling our insurance companies.
Traffic seems to be circulating as per usual, and we discuss getting a cab. To where, no one’s certain. One of us has a cousin who lives somewhere on the east side, while another has a friend in the West Hills. We can’t figure out how we’d get to either place. Walking is not an option. Somebody mentions rent-a-scooters. There’s a stand not fifty feet away with enough for everyone if a few of us double up. But what if one of us smashes into a parked car or gets sideswiped by a panel van? We’ve got to stick together.
As a co-ed in a tennis skirt strides past, we say, Excuse me, young lady. Do you know if there’s a public transit station nearby?
It takes a minute for the girl to focus. Sure, there’s a light rail station two blocks that way. We follow the direction of her pointing finger.
Thanks, we say, prizing ourselves from the bench.
We grin and make funny eyes at each other. Looks like somebody’s going to the city, we say. The flowers thicken, and the grass grows more lush and green. We pretend not to notice. The train car stinks of unwashed armpits and rotten-egg funk, but at least we get off our feet.
We watch the cityscape blur past the windows. While it’s difficult to tell, and we couldn’t say for certain, nothing looks strange or out of the ordinary. Nobody seems to have a clue what’s going on where we live, or used to live. Everything is business-as-usual. We find the whole thing disconcerting.
When we get downtown, we pile out onto the platform. It’s been ages since any of us has been to the city, though the place is everything we remember and then some. We gaze up at the tall buildings. We marvel at the beautiful fountains. We ogle the lovely, well-dressed people scowling their lovely scowls. You’d think we were tourists in a foreign land.
We wander around for a while, taking in the kebab vans and taco trucks, bike messengers and dog walkers. None of us knows where we’re going, but it’s pleasant to see the sights in a purposeless way. We buy ice cream cones and eat them on a bench in a shady park. A guy plays guitar by a fountain, while two twenty-somethings kick a ball back and forth. A team of young teachers leads schoolkids in a long line toward the entrance of the art museum. A woman wrapped in a dirty blanket rocks and mutters to herself. Our homes aren’t ten miles west of here, but they might as well be on another planet.
As we traipse down toward the university campus, none of us brings up what we’ve witnessed, what we’ve been through, what has driven us east to the city in the first place. We don’t want to think about it. We’re enjoying the distraction. Maybe after we’ve had our little urban escapade, everything will be back to normal in the safe suburbs, houses intact, streets unfettered by a thick forest, animals outside where they belong.
Our urban ramble lasts until our knees and hips start aching again, our ankles popping, our feet screaming bloody murder. We know we can’t keep this up forever. That’s when our pace slows to a crawl. We find a shady spot on the steps of a stately academic building. What are we doing? somebody says.
Seeing the sights.
We can’t play tourist forever.
We need a place to stay.
It’s true. Without saying it, we all know we can’t go home. Not yet. Maybe never. While we put our heads together, we don’t come up with much. We’re sure we must have passed guesthouses and B&Bs, lodges and inns, but nobody can say just where.
What we need is a visitor centre, somebody says.
Then we’d need to be able to locate it.
Without a map.
Or any sense of direction whatsoever.
The sugar from the ice cream has dropped us. Our backs are aching. Headaches begin blooming behind our eyes.
We muster the fortitude to ask a convenience store clerk, a shoe salesman, and a coffee shop waitress for recommendations. They all live here, so we don’t have high expectations. We’re grasping at straws.
We get directions and manage to follow them. It isn’t far. Just two blocks up, one block over. In big, curvy letters, the sign says The Wylld by Raintree.
Sounds fancy, we agree.
Upscale.
High-dollar.
When we step through the automatic doors, our suspicions are confirmed. From the din of city traffic, we suddenly find ourselves in a cool, quiet haven. What we first take for a fountain is actually a pool at the base of a three-story waterfall. Bonsais grow on sleek pedestals. The atrium is filled with clear light.
We mill in a bunch, gaping and goggling.
From behind the reception desk we haven’t noticed, a woman says: Welcome to The Wylld by Raintree. Checking in?
We bumble her direction. We don’t have a reservation, much less any idea about the rates, but we’re dead tired and desperate. What choice do we have?
She gives us adjoining suites on the top floor. Spacious and comfortable, despite all the fancy lighting and sleek furniture. We test the bed and flop onto the sofa. We rifle through the bathroom drawers and flip through the TV channels. A couple of us survey the minibar offerings, then mix drinks. We lounge on the leather living room set, swilling cocktails and munching nuts. A few of us take in the view, careful to cast our gaze every direction but west. We don’t want to be reminded of what we can’t forget.
A little later, we call down to reception to inquire about dining options, suave as can be, like it’s all old hat. Without even asking about dietary restrictions, the woman says, Sauvage. Three minutes of ambient hold music later, she’s back on the line. You have a seven-thirty reservation, she says.
That gives us time to mix some more drinks, then get freshened up a little. We hope it isn’t some fancy-schmancy place since we didn’t have time to pack our Sunday best. We didn’t bring anything. All our clothes were ruined anyway.
Dinner is delicious. Onion soup, steak frites, bottles of Burgundy. A little pricey, but good-sized portions. Different experience than our weekly constitutional to Dave’s Diner, to be sure, but we don’t feel too out of place.
We all know change is hard, but maybe it can be a good thing too?
Back at the hotel, we cosy up in our beds. While we’d hoped to catch the evening news, the cable is out. The Wylld staff would likely be horrified to learn their esteemed guests, paying top dollar for penthouse suites, have been inconvenienced. We make a mental note to have them credit our bill. Every little bit helps.
We wake late. That’s, well, a little embarrassing to admit, we who have always preached the holiness of the morning hours. We can’t say what time it is because our watches are dead. The power is out. The sun already burns a hole in a crystal blue sky.
A quick gander out the window tells us all we need to know. Enormous trees punch holes through the asphalt and concrete below. Cars have nowhere to go. We spot the same wildlife that ran us out of house and home, squirrels and raccoons and skunks. A huge bird of prey, maybe a hawk or falcon, plucks a baby from a mother’s arms and flies away.
Here we go again, someone says.
Could be worse.
How exactly?
Well, look on the bright side. At least we’re not dead.
Eternal optimism does little to boost our morale.
We empty the mini-bar and snack trays, then make our way down to the lobby. Easier said than done. Elevators are out. After all our gallivanting yesterday, we aren’t in any shape for nine flights of stairs. Takes us forever. Once we make it down, it’s no cakewalk to find reception. Vegetation grows everywhere.
Was it like this before?
There was a waterfall.
And those crooked little Japanese trees.
Our memories are better than we give them credit for. But the Douglas firs, cedars, and spruces make navigation difficult, not to mention the thick ferns that grow from every available surface. Birds squawk and screech, and unseen critters snicker. The Wylld by Raintree now feels more like a rainforest. All we can do is follow the splash of the interior waterfall toward the atrium.
It takes some effort, but we make it. We bitch and moan about scrapes and scratches and allergic reactions. A few fellow hotel guests cower on moss-covered sofas or stand in front of the enormous windows, gaping at the scene on the street. Not, well, a usual cityscape, the very one we all witnessed the night before, but a forest upending delivery vans and taxis, parking meters and park benches. One man, unshaven, wearing crumpled khakis and polo shirt, keeps smacking his phone and shouting, This is completely absurd! Nobody staffs the reception desk. We aren’t sure we’re ready to skip out on our astronomical bill, but what are the chances the credit-card reader is still working?
We idle in the once serene lobby. Don’t say much. Some of us are stunned to silence, while others are trying to wrap our heads around what has happened, what’s still happening. What if this—what should we call it?—thing gets to the other side of the river? What if it’s already overtaken the whole east side of the city? We don’t really know what’s happening beyond our sightline. Maybe it’s already spread across the rest of the state, the whole region, maybe the entire country. We imagine mountain lions prowling Rocky Mountain towns riddled with rogue pines and wolves stalking citizens of the Great Plains through renegade fields of rye. We shudder in the mist from the indoor waterfall.
This feels like the end of something, though we don’t know what to call it. Civil society? Our whole way of life? The world as we know it? We don’t mean to be, well, melodramatic, but how else are we to understand what’s happening? It, this thing, has gobbled up our businesses and thoroughfares, automobiles and parking lots. It’s taken our homes, our peace and sense of security. Threatened our very existence. How are we supposed to live like this? Where are we supposed to go?
