Last Day at Walden Pond
- Apr 27
- 4 min read
Updated: 4 days ago
By Miles Efron
Before dawn, in the quiet of his bachelor’s apartment, Gary transforms into Henry David Thoreau, one last time. He combs the knots out of his beard and shaves his upper lip. He dons his tunic and woolen coat. Just before leaving, he fills his Anarchy travel mug with coffee.
As he does every day, Gary parks in the visitors’ center lot, pausing in his Celica for a moment of silent meditation. He counts his breaths. Thoughts passing. Tries not to think. Busy mind. But today he must accept his shortcomings as a Buddhist.
At eleven o’clock a busload of fourth graders arrives. The kids shriek and play until their teacher settles them enough to let Gary begin his spiel.
“My name is Henry David Thoreau. I lived here two years and two months. Now I am a sojourner in civilized life again.” Today the familiar numbers land with a shock.
Twenty-seven years ago Gary answered a want-ad from an early-internet “strange jobs” listserv. How tired he’d grown of Cleveland. Juggling the graveyard shift at Kinko’s and surviving in punk rock squats. And then Marla dumped him to be with that poseur Kenny West. So when Walden Parks called to interview him, Gary found he desperately wanted the job.
“You’re not really Thoreau,” a boy in the back sneers.
“Shush,” the teacher says. She gives Gary an apologetic shrug. Some women find HDT sexually devastating, and Gary wonders if he’s picking up a vibe.
“What do you eat, anyways?” asks a freckled girl with a rat’s tail braid.
Gary intones, “Ah, as you may see, just twenty rods over yon hillock lies my beanfield.”
“Where do you go to the bathroom?” a boy in a Nirvana tee-shirt says. One kid always asks. I would’ve been that kid, Gary thinks. He replies with his old chestnut about self-reliance.
The teacher asks, “But aren’t you lonely here?”
Oh God yes! It would give you nightmares if you knew how lonely.
But what Gary says is, “To me solitude is its own greatest gift. Our moment of truest proximity to the Lord Almighty.”
After the children leave, Gary walks to the picnic tables to eat his lunch. Chewing his tuna sandwich, he watches the pines bend to an early-autumn breath of Canadian air. The iron-colored surface of Walden Pond ripples. Yesterday, at the Conoco station, Gary bought a pack of Marlboro Lights special for today. Now he rips off his nicotine patch and lights a cigarette.
Quitting time comes and all the staff gather in the gift shop. They crowd around a card table that holds a chocolate sheet cake. It says, So Long Gary Congrats. Nina brought the cake from Safeway, and she slices gooey squares onto red-white-and-blue paper plates. Gary and Nina haven’t spoken for four years, not since she told him in the car that rainy afternoon that she would move back in with her husband Charles, after all. As Nina hands Gary his cake, she touches his hand and Gary flinches.
At the farewell, people say kind things to Gary. They murmur in pairwise smalltalk. But soon it’s time to go. His co-workers hug Gary or shake his hand. Wish him luck. One by one, they leave, returning to their lives at home with their families.
Finally it’s just Gary and Nina. They’re seated on folding chairs normally brought out for book readings. Through the picture window Gary sees elongated treetop shadows creeping across the parking lot.
“So no big plans?” Nina says.
“Oh, plenty of big plans. Too many.”
Nina picks at her plate. Frowns at the mess of icing. She says, “Sorry. This cake is disgusting. Tastes like plastic.”
“Joke’s on you. I love plastic.”
Gary and Nina pick up after the party, loading the paper plates and plastic cups into a black Hefty bag, which Gary hauls to the dumpster. Then he walks Nina to her silver Camry. She chirps the alarm with her key fob, and the amber running lights flash.
Nina hugs Gary. She feels warm and fragile in his arms, like a wild animal he’s managed to trap for a moment.
As she lets go, Nina kisses Gary on the cheek and says, “Be good.”
Gary waves as Nina reverses. He watches her taillights vanish.
The sun is setting behind a stand of white pine. Gary lights a cigarette and steps onto the path that circles the pond. As he walks he hears water slapping the bank among the cat tails. Somewhere a frog jumps, splashes.
The moon is peeking through the maples when Gary reaches the replica Thoreau cabin. Nobody forced him to give up his key today, and he unlocks the door, letting it swing open. Contravening all manner of rules, Gary collects an armful of dried sticks and brings them inside the cold, austere room. He kneels on the plank floor and arranges his kindling in the fireplace. He holds a match to the teepee of sticks.
Shy tongues of flame. Little smoke ghosts capering up the chimney. Outside, the stars are up. An owl calls out. Gary rubs his hands over the fire, feeling the warmth grow.
Miles Efron is a writer from Charlottesville, Virginia. His work has appeared in Pigeon Pages and Oyster Boy Review. Miles was a college professor from 2004-2018.
