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TWO WEEKS after Josephine's last letter, Joe Pancake moved. "Provo's a college town," he'd said to a friend, and he, Joe, was no longer a student--he no longer fit. He belonged somewhere else. And so one day, toward the end of August, he threw everything he owned into the trunk and back seat of his little red Volkswagen bug and drove the six miles out to north Orem, where, just the week before, he had arranged to rent a small, old brick farmhouse that he knew would be destroyed within a year's time--along with the orchards that surrounded it--to make room for the new subdivision.
Driving out there, Joe felt like he was setting out on a journey, an adventure--to a new life--or, anyway, to a beginning of sorts. He could smell it in the air. And the apple and pear trees, with their bulging fruit, were there to remind him.
Joe pulled into the dirt driveway and slowly began unloading the car: the boxes of clothes and books and music, the boombox, the coats, backpack and sleeping bag, the guitar. The house was only partly furnished, and so he set things down in the front room, on the floor. Finished, he began to explore the premise. He hadn't noticed much when he had first come out to inspect the place, five days earlier, after reading the ad in the paper, meeting the landlord-developer, and putting down his deposit and first month's rent. But now, upon closer examination, he saw that the house was much smaller than he had remembered. Which pleased him. He wanted smallness, needed smallness. Badly. Lately he'd been having the feeling that his life was getting bigger than he could handle.
Just before leaving his other place, Joe had found a peculiar delight in throwing things away: the worn-out shoes, the filthy underwear, the socks with unrepairable holes, the ripped and torn t-shirts, the nonsense books, the stupid papers, the idiot plastic, and everything else that he had no more use for. He'd borrowed a pick-up truck from a friend and filled it full--twice--and took each load out to the dump and threw it all away. The size of his new home, he knew, would help him accomplish what he suspected he might not be able to do otherwise.
There were two bedrooms: one for him, and the other for the guests he knew--but hoped would not--eventually come; there was also a small front room, a kitchen, and a bath. That was it: just one level; no basement, no attic. No excess. Basics.
The bedroom that Joe decided to occupy contained a dresser with no drawers, a steel U.S. Army cot with broken springs, and a torn, stained mattress. Joe liked none of these, but he kept the cot, and tossed the dresser and mattress out into the front yard for the time being. He'd add it to the garbage when he had the time.
Joe continued his sweep of the new home, saving and discarding almost at random: he decided to keep the coatrack and lampshade and coffee table and the crumbling but nevertheless comfortable sofa in the front room; the toaster from the kitchen, a flower vase in the bathroom, the waste basket in the other bedroom. Almost everything else went: the ridiculous kitchen table (metal legs, formica top with the silly pattern), the pitiful excuse of a bookcase, the cleaning rags, the broken chairs, the tiny yellow wall mirrors and the framed pictures of Jesus. Joe took all of these outside and added them to the growing pile in the front yard.
Returning inside from one trip, Joe looked around the kitchen one more time. He opened the drawers. Found silverware. In another he found tools. Joe took the pliers, screw driver, and wrench and went back to the bedroom with the cot. He unhinged the bedroom door--he didn't want his privacy too private. Still not completely content with his work, he removed the doorknob and, to his surprise, found that the door fit perfectly over the broken springs of the cot. Satisfied, he walked to the front room and to his backpack. He unstrapped the foam pad; he unstuffed the sleeping bag from its sack; and he brought them all back to the bedroom and threw them onto the door. Joe was now set: he had a bed, a place to dream. A place on the planet.
Outside the trees furnished the intimacy that he knew he would need. He looked at the swelling fruit. And thought: Adam was cast out for eating the apple; what would become of a people who not only ate the apple, but then destroyed the tree that provided it?
The thought reminded Joe of his own hunger. He went back to the house for the car keys to run down to the store when he noticed something he had somehow overlooked: the telephone hanging on the kitchen wall, above the counter and beside the cupboard. Curious, Joe picked it up. A dial tone. He placed the receiver back on the hook. And thought. With only a little hesitation--and with no difficulty at all--he found the telephone directory and then made the one call that he would ever make from his new home: to the telephone company to have them disconnect the thing as soon as they possibly could. Then he unplugged the phone and added it to the pile of shit in the yard.