Life Off the Grid

Kyle, what he has been calling himself lately, stared at the well worn brown paper bag sitting on the crude wooden coffee table. The bag, like a well trained puppy, sat at attention awaiting orders. 

Once a month or so the bag was liberated from it’s dark little room under a floor board. Kyle would stare at it for an hour looking for some image or words to come to him. As usual, his memory was blank. Then he continued his ritual, opening the bag slowly and withdrawing a pistol, resting it on the table next to the bag. After a few minutes of staring and searching, he removed a few twenty dollar bills. The 50 k that was there from the beginning- was slowly diminishing. However, money goes a long way living off the grid with no bills, no taxes, no smartphone, no eating out. Traps provided the meat. He grew much of his own vegetables. It was easy. 

Kyle put the money in his pocket. The used mountain bike he had picked up for $10 at a garage sale in town worked fine.  He swiftly navigated the narrow deer trail to the road about a mile away. The town shopping trip was brief as usual. He got his basic supplies, a newspaper, and a few used paperbacks from a tiny bookstore in town. As usual he yearned for the family life he observed around him, but then turned away. That was all impossible. With any attempt at a relationship he would have to answer the questions. Where did you grow up? Do you have children? Did you go to college? What did you do before you retired to the woods? He might even have to explain the bag. He could not. His brain was empty.

At home again, Kyle continued his monthly ritual. He opened the draw of the beat up bureau. The draw was crooked and needed a hefty pull. Then he removed the yellowed newspaper article. “One Dead in Bold Bank Robbery”. The robber got away with as yet an undetermined amount of money. He wore a black ski mask. Nobody saw the getaway car. Kyle closed his eyes and tried to imagine the bank scene. No luck. He returned the article to the draw and placed it under the black ski mask. 

Life without an identity seemed strange at first. But Kyle became one with the forest. There was no need for a name or a history here. There were no clocks, no TV, no smart phones, no bills, no extended car warranty calls the townspeople complain of. Here, everything was in the present. Senses were honed to see, smell, feel everything about him. He moved with the sun, the wind, the rain. He heard the woods speak to him with creaking branches, rustling leaves, chirping bugs and a cracking of a twig announcing an animal’s approach. Here, he responded to what was real and around him. He responded to his body’s needs, not the clock. 

As Kyle wandered up the trail one late morning, he wondered if he would find that bear in his trap. He had seen the bear show itself behind bushes and trees off and on for several weeks. He had some slight guilt feelings regarding the trap but he realized the bear might be hunting him. It’s just nature. One of us is going to be dinner for the other one sooner or later. 

Kyle’s right hand grasped the handle of his long hunting knife resting in its sheath hanging from his belt. Kyle sensed something as he approached the trap site. He stepped off the trail and slowly approached the trap from a dense clump of bushes. Moving silently, slowly pushing branches aside, he came to the spot. Pushing away an evergreen branch he was stunned by the sight that would change his life. 

A human was in the trap. A quick check. He was dead. He had bled out.  The body had jeans and boots, but he really didn’t come from here. His hands had no scars or calluses. His hair was short and neatly combed. HIs flannel shirt was clean and pressed. Kyle had committed his second murder. He rationalized, this was an intruder. He may have been out to rob or kill me. Kyle looked through the wallet. Credit cards, Costco card, driver’s license, insurance card, and a punch card for a free sub. There was a few bucks in cash, but nothing else- except an old newspaper article folded up and placed in a zipped compartment in the wallet. 

Kyle sat on a log. His hands trembled as he opened the article up and saw a picture of himself, with his wife to the right and son to the left. The article headline read “Search On for Hit Run Victim”. He read the article slowly several times. His finger pointed to each word reminding him this was real, not a hallucination. Harold Van Horn was biking on a country road when he was apparently struck by a car or truck. The only evidence found was skid marks and a bicycle reflector. There was also some blood on the scene which matched Harold’s blood type. DNA analysis will take a few weeks. Curious, he looked at the article on the other side. Although partially cut off, the article’s headline caught his attention- “Bank Haul Estimated at $300,000”. Kyle, or Harold Van Horn, then set about burying his son. His son had searched for years only to come to this. 

For the last time, Kyle stared at the bag. The experiences of that morning awakened a few old memories. Kyle now saw himself lying in the woods with a face peering down at him. He could see the fellow, with a scar on his right cheek and a chipped front tooth. The face lowered itself to a foot away from Kyle’s face as he placed the paper bag next to his body. The robber had struck him on the road, left him to die and set him up to take the fall. Authorities would be searching for the rest of the money for weeks in the woods. It was supposed to be the perfect crime.

The next morning, Kyle was off. He would remain Kyle. He would keep the beard. He sped along the deer trail for the last time heading for the town of his early life. His backpack was stuffed with provisions, the paper bag and the articles. Kyle was no longer the hunted, he was the hunter.