Seth Parham
Fun Lies to Tell Children - Part One
There are people that live out there, you know? On those tiny little islands and sand-bars that gird and divide the ever flowing two-way rivers of cars and trucks and the occasional 1991 Ford Fiesta. They live in the little patches of forest that, from above, look like leaves of some unlucky clover with Interstate 40 as a stem. They live in the widened woods of the medians around state funded rest-stops. They live around the retention ponds roped off by freeway ramps.
They eat turtles and twigs and occasionally creme brulee. They live in clans with no names. They have festivals in the spring, when the new leaves around some of the more deciduous interchanges provide privacy. They are all, every single one of them, former data analysts. This is important.
Privacy. Privacy is important. Privacy is bartered amongst them as currency. A particular patch, well secluded by drainage embankments, will be occupied for some time by one of their number to whom much is owed, and vacated the very moment the debt is expired. This moment is well calculated and agreed upon by all, with a standard deviation of the average concession.
Like the true natives of any land, which adorn themselves with feathers, earthen pigments, flowers, and so on, they dress themselves with the materials available. You have seen them. We all have. Sun-bathing on the side of an overpass, “Look at that pile of blown-out tires!”, you might have said if you are the sort of person who notices and is excited by busted bits of rubber. Or “Why do they put all the trash into those big orange bags and then just leave them by the side of the road anyway?”, you may have asked if you are somewhat more sane and environmentally conscious. The accumulations of 32oz Wendy’s cups that seem to be randomly gathered by the wind at the base of a tree, may very well be just that. However, there is a 17.6% chance that any reasonably sized heap of refuse within eye-shot of an on-ramp is actually a full grown adult human being, cleverly disguised and seeking a deeper understanding of the frequency of red cars on the Triangle Expressway versus that on I-440 near Rock Quarry Road.
They have prodigious memories and can predict the outcome of any political race by mentally tallying the bumper stickers they have seen in the preceding months. They are birdwatchers who haven’t the slightest interest in ornithology. Those near the airport can tell you where the most conflicted areas of the world are at any particular time simply by tabulating the nationalities of airlines arriving and departing. But they will never actually tell you. You will never see them. They are just that good.