NOTICE

(Short Fiction)

For the sixth time, he threw down the drill and cursed. The screw had split the two by four again. Walter grabbed the compromised wood and yanked it from its place. He picked his Black and Decker back up and pulled at the cord for more slack. He liked the heft of the power drill in his hand. It made him feel like he knew what he was doing.

He flipped the setting to reverse with his thumb and positioned the Phillips head into the tan pine screw. He pulled the trigger and the drill gripped the head and twisted it into withdrawal. The last of its three and one quarter inches emerged from the wood and the screw dropped to the grass. Walter set the drill down again and looked at the hole that was left. He picked up the piece that had split and threw it halfway across the yard.

He pulled his sweat rag from his back left pocket and wiped his face. It was hotter than yesterday. Definitely hotter than it was at his desk. Hotter and more humid. Much, much more humid. Sometimes the air was so thick, he felt like he needed to chew it first before he could breathe it.

Walter picked up another two by four and held it up in place of the split one. He held another pine screw over the spot where he guessed the old hole was and picked up the drill. Ringing came from his pocket and he let out a sigh. He set the drill down again and dug his phone out. He hit ignore. He knew he couldn’t keep doing that forever.

He put the phone back in his pocket and picked up the drill again. As he positioned it into the head of the screw, he heard tires hit the speed bump three houses up. He looked over his shoulder and saw a white Ford truck coming up his street.

It started to slow as it approached and he turned his attention back to his mission, ignoring the street and the approaching truck. He could hear it stop right behind him as he pushed the drill back into the screw head again. The trucks engine stopped and the door opened. He looked over his shoulder again and saw a man with a moustache climbing out of the driver’s side. His moustache was thick – the kind that stuck out like a paintbrush shoved under there. He always wondered how guys grew facial hair like that. If he let his grow out for more than a few weeks, it started to curl over his lip, and the sides would slip into his mouth. It drove him nuts, and he always wound up trimming it. The man closed the door and took a couple of steps on to the grass.

“Can I help you?”

“Nice project.”

They were both squinting. It had to be at least ninety already. Walter could see sweat beading up on the man’s forehead. His shirt was still dry though. The air-conditioning in the trucked worked apparently.

“It’s not a project. It’s a mission.”

The man just stood there. He didn’t nod. He didn’t grin, but he didn’t frown either. He stood there and let the sweat bead up on his forehead. Walter could feel it building up on his too. He could feel it collecting at his hairline, waiting to roll down his face and sting his eyes with the salt. He didn’t want to reach for his rag yet though. A drop rolled down the man’s right temple, down his smooth-shaven cheek and into the hairs of his paintbrush. How could that not drive him nuts?

“Nice mission.”

“Thanks.” Walter still sat there, awkwardly twisted back to look at this invader with a paintbrush.

“A mission like for church?”

“No. I wasn’t referring to its function.”

“Huh?” It sounded like a grunt.

“No, not a mission for a church.”

“What for then?”

“For me.”

“You’re building yourself a house?”

“I have a house.”

Walter tilted his head back, indicating his three bedroom, one bathroom, one story, one man, one life residence.

“I see.” The man pushed the sweat from his forehead up into his hair and slicked it back. Walter still held.

“It’s a tree house.”

The man just stood there again. He looked over at the water oak in the corner of the front lawn.

“Tree’s over there.” Walter looked over at the tree, as if deciding whether the man was right, and he finally wiped his face with his rag.

“Yep, it’s been there for a while.”

“How do you plan on getting the house up into the tree?” Walter’s pocket rang again. He dug out his phone and hit ignore.

“You need to answer that?” The man wiped his sweat into his hair again. His shirt was beginning to darken around his neck.

“I don’t plan on putting it up in the tree.” Walter picked up the drill and focused on the pine screw once again. He pulled the cord again for slack. He had wanted to get a cordless for a while. Maybe the mission was a good excuse.

“So you’re building a tree house on the ground?”

“Yep.”

“In your front yard?”

“That’s where I am.” Walter was getting annoyed with this moustache. He wasn’t a lawyer and he didn’t look like a private investigator. Was he some kind of social worker? Maybe his dad had sent a shrink.

“If you were in your back yard, is that where you’d be building it?”

“What?” What kind of question was that? Was this guy trying to be cute?

“Is there a particular reason you’re building it in the front yard?” Walter’s legs were beginning to cramp. If he stayed on his knees much longer, they were going to fall asleep.

“There were too many trees in the backyard.” The man laughed a little. Walter didn’t. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“You are the owner of this property, I assume.”

“You assume correctly about that.”

“Do you have a permit for the additional structure you’re building?”

“A permit?” He had to be kidding. “For a tree house?”

“It’s not a tree house.”

“I just told you it was a tree house.” Walter finally put the two by four down and stood up.

“It’s not in a tree, so it’s not a tree house.”

“It’s made out of trees.” The man didn’t laugh.

“It’s made out of wood. Lots of things are made out of wood.” The man with the moustache took a step closer and wiped his sweat again.

“Then it’s a club house.” Sweat rolled down Walter’s forehead and on to his brow. He squinted so the salty perspiration wouldn’t sting his eye. “Why do I need a permit for a club house?”

“You notice you called it a tree house, and then a club house, Mister…”

“Parkes.”

“…Mister Parkes. This is, by classification, an addition to your existing dwelling.”

“You gotta be kidding me. It’s not even connected.”

“Additions do not have to be connected. What makes it an addition is the fact that it makes an additional footprint on the land.”

“It’s only six by six.”

“If it’s over four by four, it’s considered an addition.”

“That yellow two-story at the end has a tree house,” Walter pointed down the street. “Did they need a permit?”

“No. That particular structure doesn’t create an additional footprint.”

“Are you telling me that if I were building this exact same thing in that tree right there, I wouldn’t need a permit?”

“That’s right.”

“But since I’m building it in my front yard, which I own, I need a permit.”

“That’s right, Mister Parkes.”

“A permit from where?”

“Pulaski County.”

“You’re from the county?”

“I’m an inspector with the county, yes.” Walter looked at the inspector with the moustache and at the tree house. This was supposed to be simple. A simple mission. A simple distraction.

“So, what if I don’t have a permit?” The inspector opened the flap on his shirt pocket and pulled out a pen and a bright orange sticker, that read NOTICE across the top as he unfolded it.

“Then I put this on your structure, and you have three days to acquire a permit from the county office, during which time no construction may proceed, and you will be assessed a fine in addition to the standard permit fee.” He began filling out the sticker, writing Walter’s name, then glancing over at the mailbox to get the street number right.

“A fine for what?”

“For building without a permit, Mister Parkes.”

“Quit calling me Mister Parkes. Nobody calls me Mister Parkes.” Walter wiped the sweat from his face again and clenched his fist. “Look,” he breathed and tried not to sound angry, “it’s for my kid.”

“You have a son?”

“No.”

“Oh, a daughter?”

“No.” Walter sighed audibly and his shoulders slumped. Why did he even bother trying to bring anything up? He didn’t feel like talking to his parents; he didn’t feel like talking to his sister, why was he trying to have a discussion with a county inspector?

“You’re building it for your kid, but you don’t have a kid?”

Walter just stood there, looking at the half-built tree house that wasn’t a tree house.

“If you were gonna try and make up a story, at least you could have run with it.” The inspector continued to fill out the sticker. “Are you even married?” He looked down at Walter’s hand.

“I’m not making things up.” Walter wanted to curse. “Man, just mind your own business.”

The inspector actually smirked.

“She got you building your own dog house?” He was so amused that he chuckled.

Walter thought about taking a swing.

“You wanna make another crack?” his voice was low and even. His shoulders rose.

“You wanna tell me six months is long enough and I should move on?” Spit flew from his lip, and he was louder now.

“You wanna tell me that life goes on and God has a plan for me? Or are you one of those stiff upper lip guys?”

“Woah,” the inspector took a couple of steps back. “I didn’t mean to… I was just… did your wife pass away?”

Walter twisted his wedding ring on his sweaty hand and his shoulders dropped. He wiped the sweat from his face again and swallowed hard.

“Forget it. Just put the sticker up and leave me alone.” He’d kept his thoughts away for nearly two days, he wasn’t going to let a county inspector with a paintbrush under his nose bring it all back now.

“You don’t have to take it down yet,” the inspector said.

“Just put the sticker up and I’ll get rid of it.”

“You might not have to. Just pay the fine and apply for the permit. You’ll probably get it, seeing as how this is nearly rural out here.” He pealed the backing off of the sticker and smacked it on the side of the structure.

“Forget it.” Walter picked up his drill and started to wind up the cord. How many defeats were supposed to come before one measly victory?

“Look.” The inspector put his pen back in his shirt pocket and looked at Walter. “You okay man?”

Walter unplugged the drill.

“I’m not gonna apologize for doin’ my job Mister Parkes.”

“And I’m not gonna apologize for building on my own property!” He hurled the words at the smug moustache and the bright orange declaration of failure.

“Pay the fine.” The inspector narrowed his eyes. “Get the permit and do it right or don’t do it.”
He turned and marched back to his truck, not giving Walter a chance to yell back again. The inspector drove away.

Walter stared at the sticker and tried to match its color. He grabbed the frame of his tree house and lifted. It was heavier than he expected. He grunted and heaved the end of it up to chest height. He started to growl and strained, trying to flip the thing. The ends of the piece of frame he was holding cracked loud, and the screws split the wood. His hands flew up and the two by four bashed him in the nose. Walter staggered and fell onto his back, dropping the wood as he hit the grass with a thud. For a moment he almost got back up and started to kick the house. He felt the warm wetness trickle down his lip and his cheek and he knew he was bleeding. Forget it. Walter rolled on to his stomach and lay face down in the grass. He lay there for a minute just letting himself breathe hard into the ground, feeling the moisture accumulate all around him. The orange notice sticker mocked him.

Note: This story was awarded First Prize for Short Fiction in the 2008 Flamingo Writer Contest.