A Weird Chainsaw Story

Sometimes a writer sees something strange unfold in front of him. He then tries to assay what is happening. He then might turn the experience into an essay that provides some shreds of explanation to the strangeness.

But sometimes, the strangeness will be so vast and overwhelming that the writer’s attempt at assaying will not amount to anything.

Such is the case to a writer who walked along a beach on a crisp and bright morning, 7:15 a.m. to be precise, in month two of the virus, and the writer came upon two young women, one a red head, the other sporting rainbow-colored hair, both in their late teens or early 20s, smoking cigarettes and wearing blankets. They stumbled down a path to the beach and saw a cave carved into a sandy cliff some 20 feet high above ground. The red-haired woman pointed to the cave and exclaimed to her companion, “What the FUCK!?” and started running toward the cave with giddy abandon. Her companion followed. They skipped across a rivulet, scrambled over some driftwood and began climbing up the cliff to presumably reach the cave and then do something inside it. A chainsaw roared somewhere near the cave, perhaps on the road, at the entrance to the path. The writer took the path up from the beach and the roar of the chainsaw grew louder. This confused the writer because there was no earthly reason for the sound of a chainsaw to emanate from this place. On the road, the writer observed a sagging white Japanese sedan from the early 90s, battered, duct taped, parked in such a place and at a particular moment in the morning that suggested its occupants had spent the night in the vehicle, and were now just rousting.

But the chainsaw?

The writer watched the vehicle and then saw a young bearded man in pajama-like clothing, emerge from behind it wielding a chainsaw. He had apparently been using it to cut branches from various stunted shore pines that lined one side of the road.

But why? It made no sense. Was he cutting firewood for a morning beach fire? What was he even doing with a chainsaw? What about the women? Had the reached the cave yet? Would they smoke cigarettes there, dangle their feet over the edge, giggle and stare at ocean?

The writer pondered the scene and the odd behavior. It had all the trappings of a meth binge and this was a beach that occasionally attracted meth miscreants. As he walked away, he looked back at the sedan and heard the revved up and sustained grind of the chainsaw. It sounded like the man was felling a tree.

Had the women reached the cave yet? What was going on with them? The writer tried to imagine their conversation. It was impossible. His final thought was: what were the going to cook up for breakfast in the fire?