Why I’m still trucking through this mess I don’t know. It’s not my family. Don’t have one, don’t need one. Never wanted to be saddled with a lady, and since that’s what it takes to have kids, I don’t have any of those either.
Women are trouble. No pleasing ’em. Like the Lord made them imperfect just to drive us crazy. And now they want everything men have, too: the same work, the same pay, the same rights, like they can’t see they’re different. Anyone can tell they’re not made the same. They’re weak and whiny and they don’t know what real brotherhood looks like. Clifford heard some tourists going on and on about how they wouldn’t take being called “Miss” anymore, only “Ms.” So they wouldn’t be treated any different from married ladies. Now, that’s a real laugh. They’re loony, no matter where they are. Married or not, all women are trouble.
When they’re hitched, though, at least there’s a man to remind them that God made men first. And I’m talking about real men, not those hippie folks who have to let out all their feelings or even claim women are the same as men.
I don’t need to be hearing about that. I’ve known Benedict since he was a baby, but now I’m not too sure where he fits. His father took a chance on me by letting me work for him when I wasn’t from around here and the jobs were drying up after the sawmill was shuttered. He didn’t mince words, he just gave me the facts: hard work, thankless work, not much money in it, no prospects to speak of.
But I stayed all the same, even when the last machines stopped, when they were broken down so they could be shipped off to another forest, when the last guy left and the weeds started poking up across the barracks. No place for me to go and too much time on my hands meant I just had to stick with Magnus. Even his shadow taught me something.
With a father like that, Benedict grew up like a real man. At least, that was what I’d thought. With that stupid girl in a miniskirt, I don’t recognize him no more. He acts a fool. Doesn’t look her in the eyes, doesn’t bang his fist on the table, just lets her do whatever she gets it in her head to do, dancing in the living room with her stupid music, like she’s possessed. And now he’s gone looking for her when what that little miss really needs is a bullet in each leg so she stops dancing like the devil.
If we find her alive, I don’t know if I can keep that gun from going off. Benedict will just have to find himself another woman to look after the kid, and if she’s lucky, she’ll know where her place is.