Colder than I Expect
I hear you open the door before I see the light. Not much of it spills through the space between the closet door and its frame. Through the narrow opening, I can see you place your purse on the dresser by the door. A creature of habit is the saying. You drop your keys in the glass dish less than a half an inch from where you dropped them last night, an inch from the night before that, and exactly where you dropped them the night before that. Your purse – the tan, canvas one with the short straps and no pockets inside so you take at least three minutes to find any one thing – lands four inches from the dish.
The view from the closet is more dangerous than under the bed, but not as brave as the bathroom. I can see more from here. I can hear more. I can smell more.
You start looking for the remote – that doesn’t have a place – and I see nothing in your eyes. You have no idea. Every night, you give your body over to the comfort of repetition, the security of habit. You don’t notice the closet door closed a full seven inches more than you left it this morning, and you don’t notice the sound my heart makes as it beats louder and faster, determined to betray me.
You find the remote and Pat Sajak asks for a vowel. “U,” the contestant replies. Pat reminds her that she’ll have ten seconds to work it out and the sound of the bonus round timer starts. It’s nearly seven-thirty.
You take your shoes off – the white Reeboks with the pink trim and the silver stripe – and you slide them under the bed, six and a half inches from where my face was last night, two inches from where it was the night before that, and sixteen inches from where it was the night before that.
My hands are in my pockets and they’re cold. The rest of me is soaked with sweat, but my hands are cold.
You walk to the bathroom. You always close the door, even though the door to the bedroom is already closed, and locked, and despite the fact that you think you are alone in your room. Shy or careful they might call you. Maybe self-conscious.
I leave the closet and push the door back to where it was. You flush the toilet and I pass the bed. You turn on the water and I pass the TV. The contestant didn’t work out jogging, and she lost. You turn off the water and I press my back against the wall beside the hinges of the door, my hands back in my pockets. I fight to keep breathing and my heartbeat tries to warn you. The door opens, hiding me again, and I see your back as you walk past me. Your hair is up. It’s the same band you used three nights ago.
You stop in front of the TV and Alex Trebek announces the categories for the first round.
I pull my hand from my pocket and raise it to your smooth neck. My fingers touch your skin and it’s colder than I expect.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
SYMPHOBIA - Chapter Three
Pay Jim Inside
The store was abandoned. The door was unlocked. The little bell tied to the push bar jingled as he walked in. The hum of the florescent lights and the soda machine greeted him. The sign on the lone gas pump said, “Pay Jim inside.”
“Jim?” he called out.
He walked up to the counter and leaned over to look past the lotto stands and the rolls of scratch off quick-fixes. Nothing. The register hummed and the display read zeros, but there was no sign of anyone to operate it.
“Hello?” he tried again.
He spotted the restroom door that had both men’s and women’s indicated on the sign, and a piece of paper with the word “either” written on it, taped to the peeling white paint. It was closed. He reached out and knocked on the door. It shook like cardboard, making more noise against its frame than his actual knocking.
“Anybody in there?”
A toilet flushed on the other side of the door and he stepped back. The water ran and then paper towels were cranked out. The flimsy handle wiggled and slowly turned, the door squeaked open, and out walked a boy.
The boy looked up as he threw away his paper towel.
“Can I help you?”
“Jim?”
“Yeah. And you are?”
“Uh… Rod.”
“Well, Uh Rod, what do you want?”
“Oh, I, uh, need gas on pump…” He looked back toward his car.
“We only got one.”
Jim walked behind the counter. His shoulders barely rose above it.
“Right. Then, uh, I need gas on pump one.”
Jim slid a dirty, red, plastic milk crate up to the counter and climbed to reach the till.
“How much?”
Rod stood there looking at Jim for a second.
“How old are you?”
“Eight and a half. How much gas do you want?”
There was a paper plate with a pile of crinkle-cut fries covered in chili and melted cheese next to the cash register and Jim picked one out with his small fingers. The mass of grease above it sank as he pulled the fry. A cheese covered bean fell from the chili glob that had clung to the crinkles and fell to his shirt before Jim got the rest in his mouth. He picked it off of the faded Hulk t-shirt and tossed it back in the pile on the plate.
“Twenty, I guess.”
“Alright,” Jim said. A bit of meat flew from the corner of his full mouth. “That’ll be twenty dollars.”
Rod handed him a twenty from his shirt pocket and Jim hit the necessary keys. The drawer clicked and rolled out, but it didn’t ding.
“Thanks,” Rod said.
“Yep.” Jim sat on the counter next to the chili cheese fries and lifted another messy bite.
The bell jingled again as he exited, and Rod realized how late it was getting. The sun was already below the horizon, and the remaining haze gave the old gas pump an odd personality. It watched him as he drained it of twenty dollars.
Rod replaced the gas cap, closed the fuel door, and climbed back into the aging four-door. He turned the ignition and as he pulled out, tried to think of something in the freezer that he could eat. He should have looked for something at the gas station. Maybe chili cheese fries.
The headlights of a gaining pickup trick made him squint and he reached up to adjust the rearview mirror. He blinked twice before the spots left his eyes. The truck passed him on the left, throwing a stone against the windshield that made him jump and shove the mirror askew. He settled himself and looked up as he pulled the mirror back into place.
Rod’s fingers went cold and he sank three inches further into his seat as his eyes met the reflection of a stare that was not his own. Jim smiled from the back seat. His eyes were wide. Rod turned back and opened his mouth to curse the kid, but stopped. The dull green light of the dash cast a faint illumination over the gun in Jim’s hand. Rod’s head snapped back to the road. He tried to speak, tried to turn the wheel or press the break, but the intensity of Jim’s slicing focus through the mirror paralyzed him. Panic and hopelessness filled him, and he couldn’t even think of the question.
The ring was instant and it covered every other sound. It filled the car and bludgeoned his ears and his head. His thigh burned and he could feel the blood saturating his jeans as his leg clenched and pressed the gas to the floor. He could smell the smoke and taste the iron scent of his own blood as the tires caught the edge of the soft shoulder and yanked the car off the road.
The store was abandoned. The door was unlocked. The little bell tied to the push bar jingled as he walked in. The hum of the florescent lights and the soda machine greeted him. The sign on the lone gas pump said, “Pay Jim inside.”
“Jim?” he called out.
He walked up to the counter and leaned over to look past the lotto stands and the rolls of scratch off quick-fixes. Nothing. The register hummed and the display read zeros, but there was no sign of anyone to operate it.
“Hello?” he tried again.
He spotted the restroom door that had both men’s and women’s indicated on the sign, and a piece of paper with the word “either” written on it, taped to the peeling white paint. It was closed. He reached out and knocked on the door. It shook like cardboard, making more noise against its frame than his actual knocking.
“Anybody in there?”
A toilet flushed on the other side of the door and he stepped back. The water ran and then paper towels were cranked out. The flimsy handle wiggled and slowly turned, the door squeaked open, and out walked a boy.
The boy looked up as he threw away his paper towel.
“Can I help you?”
“Jim?”
“Yeah. And you are?”
“Uh… Rod.”
“Well, Uh Rod, what do you want?”
“Oh, I, uh, need gas on pump…” He looked back toward his car.
“We only got one.”
Jim walked behind the counter. His shoulders barely rose above it.
“Right. Then, uh, I need gas on pump one.”
Jim slid a dirty, red, plastic milk crate up to the counter and climbed to reach the till.
“How much?”
Rod stood there looking at Jim for a second.
“How old are you?”
“Eight and a half. How much gas do you want?”
There was a paper plate with a pile of crinkle-cut fries covered in chili and melted cheese next to the cash register and Jim picked one out with his small fingers. The mass of grease above it sank as he pulled the fry. A cheese covered bean fell from the chili glob that had clung to the crinkles and fell to his shirt before Jim got the rest in his mouth. He picked it off of the faded Hulk t-shirt and tossed it back in the pile on the plate.
“Twenty, I guess.”
“Alright,” Jim said. A bit of meat flew from the corner of his full mouth. “That’ll be twenty dollars.”
Rod handed him a twenty from his shirt pocket and Jim hit the necessary keys. The drawer clicked and rolled out, but it didn’t ding.
“Thanks,” Rod said.
“Yep.” Jim sat on the counter next to the chili cheese fries and lifted another messy bite.
The bell jingled again as he exited, and Rod realized how late it was getting. The sun was already below the horizon, and the remaining haze gave the old gas pump an odd personality. It watched him as he drained it of twenty dollars.
Rod replaced the gas cap, closed the fuel door, and climbed back into the aging four-door. He turned the ignition and as he pulled out, tried to think of something in the freezer that he could eat. He should have looked for something at the gas station. Maybe chili cheese fries.
The headlights of a gaining pickup trick made him squint and he reached up to adjust the rearview mirror. He blinked twice before the spots left his eyes. The truck passed him on the left, throwing a stone against the windshield that made him jump and shove the mirror askew. He settled himself and looked up as he pulled the mirror back into place.
Rod’s fingers went cold and he sank three inches further into his seat as his eyes met the reflection of a stare that was not his own. Jim smiled from the back seat. His eyes were wide. Rod turned back and opened his mouth to curse the kid, but stopped. The dull green light of the dash cast a faint illumination over the gun in Jim’s hand. Rod’s head snapped back to the road. He tried to speak, tried to turn the wheel or press the break, but the intensity of Jim’s slicing focus through the mirror paralyzed him. Panic and hopelessness filled him, and he couldn’t even think of the question.
The ring was instant and it covered every other sound. It filled the car and bludgeoned his ears and his head. His thigh burned and he could feel the blood saturating his jeans as his leg clenched and pressed the gas to the floor. He could smell the smoke and taste the iron scent of his own blood as the tires caught the edge of the soft shoulder and yanked the car off the road.
SYMPHOBIA - Chapter Two
Local Weather
He opens the door and heaves his duffle bag on the far bed. The door closes behind him and he puts the plastic room key down next to the channel listing on top of the television. No HBO.
He turns it on anyway and sits on the edge of the first bed. A dull face with too much enthusiasm for local weather tells him his shoes are soaked. He reaches for his dripping laces and frees his feet. His socks are wet too. Ten feet from the car to the front desk, maybe another four from the car to his room, and they’re sopping. A stray drop rolls from his eyebrow down his cheek and to the corner of his mouth and he tastes the salt it collected.
He puts the shoes on the floor by the wall unit and turns the air on high. The rain makes the night cool, but the room is still stale. He walks around the bed to the duffle bag and his feet leave moist imprints on the thin carpet. He doesn’t care. He pulls out a fresh pair of socks, a faded t-shirt, and his toothbrush. He walks to the sink by the bathroom.
He drops the clothes to the floor and sets the toothbrush on the counter. The luggage stand in the corner invites him to sit, he does and pulls the socks, stretching their wet grips until they let go. Another drop rolls down his face and he almost wipes it with a balled-up sock.
He sets the socks on the counter and looks for toothpaste in the courtesy dish. He looks at the stubble in the mirror and expects an explanation for a few seconds. He puts the travel cap back on his toothbrush and picks up the wet socks again. He grabs the handle to the bathroom door and twists, pushing toward the toilet and the tub, a place to set his wet socks. The latch comes free of the jam, but the door doesn’t move.
He twists the handle again and throws his shoulder against the door. It moves a good six inches this time, but he backs off a bit. He stares into the opening: six inches of darkness. The light catches the towel rack and it shines like black ice. He puts his shoulder against the door, one hand still on the knob, the other flat against the door. He pushes harder.
There is a moment of sudden awareness – like a plate he didn’t know was hot. His push is halted. A grunt from the other side of the door. A distinct and forceful shove, and the door slams back on him.
He opens the door and heaves his duffle bag on the far bed. The door closes behind him and he puts the plastic room key down next to the channel listing on top of the television. No HBO.
He turns it on anyway and sits on the edge of the first bed. A dull face with too much enthusiasm for local weather tells him his shoes are soaked. He reaches for his dripping laces and frees his feet. His socks are wet too. Ten feet from the car to the front desk, maybe another four from the car to his room, and they’re sopping. A stray drop rolls from his eyebrow down his cheek and to the corner of his mouth and he tastes the salt it collected.
He puts the shoes on the floor by the wall unit and turns the air on high. The rain makes the night cool, but the room is still stale. He walks around the bed to the duffle bag and his feet leave moist imprints on the thin carpet. He doesn’t care. He pulls out a fresh pair of socks, a faded t-shirt, and his toothbrush. He walks to the sink by the bathroom.
He drops the clothes to the floor and sets the toothbrush on the counter. The luggage stand in the corner invites him to sit, he does and pulls the socks, stretching their wet grips until they let go. Another drop rolls down his face and he almost wipes it with a balled-up sock.
He sets the socks on the counter and looks for toothpaste in the courtesy dish. He looks at the stubble in the mirror and expects an explanation for a few seconds. He puts the travel cap back on his toothbrush and picks up the wet socks again. He grabs the handle to the bathroom door and twists, pushing toward the toilet and the tub, a place to set his wet socks. The latch comes free of the jam, but the door doesn’t move.
He twists the handle again and throws his shoulder against the door. It moves a good six inches this time, but he backs off a bit. He stares into the opening: six inches of darkness. The light catches the towel rack and it shines like black ice. He puts his shoulder against the door, one hand still on the knob, the other flat against the door. He pushes harder.
There is a moment of sudden awareness – like a plate he didn’t know was hot. His push is halted. A grunt from the other side of the door. A distinct and forceful shove, and the door slams back on him.
SYMPHOBIA - Chapter One
She Likes it Now
Red is never quite red in a photograph. Why is that? It always seems faded or ridiculously oversaturated. There is a sliver of red cuff at the edge of the hairy wrist. No watch, no ring, no obvious personalization or identification, but the hand grips her arm just below the pit with angry control. The sweat on her arm transfers to the folds of his fingers.
Sunlight makes the red brighter than it should be and her shirt stops halfway across her shoulder, so the heat is expected. The grip, however, is not. Her grin hasn't yet registered the interruption. Her shirt is the sky. The clouds of white in the pale blue tie-dye move over her. It makes her think about flying. Her short brown hair looks darker. Almost black. But it’s still brown where the sun hits it. It’s shorter than she told the lady to cut it, but she likes it now.
Behind her, the green trees are blurred in the distance. The colors are warmer than the day. Even the brown of their bark seems softened by the lushness of the full summer air. The comfort and tranquility they suggest is denied by the drained whiteness of her skin around his clenched fingers.
Perspiration is gathering on her forehead like it does when she runs. She can’t run with the hand on her arm.
Her eyes are focused on the grip, but her smile is to the camera.
Her other arm is clenched, in complete contradiction to her submissive limb. The elbow is drawn away from her body. Her hand is at waist height, partially concealed by her shirt. Her fingers are clenched and her knuckles are white. At the base of her first, the glint of something sharp betrays her calculated and convincing smile. The shape of the blade is just visible through the clouds that cover it. She knows it will be messy. Messier than she first imagined it, but she likes it now.
Red is never quite red in a photograph. Why is that? It always seems faded or ridiculously oversaturated. There is a sliver of red cuff at the edge of the hairy wrist. No watch, no ring, no obvious personalization or identification, but the hand grips her arm just below the pit with angry control. The sweat on her arm transfers to the folds of his fingers.
Sunlight makes the red brighter than it should be and her shirt stops halfway across her shoulder, so the heat is expected. The grip, however, is not. Her grin hasn't yet registered the interruption. Her shirt is the sky. The clouds of white in the pale blue tie-dye move over her. It makes her think about flying. Her short brown hair looks darker. Almost black. But it’s still brown where the sun hits it. It’s shorter than she told the lady to cut it, but she likes it now.
Behind her, the green trees are blurred in the distance. The colors are warmer than the day. Even the brown of their bark seems softened by the lushness of the full summer air. The comfort and tranquility they suggest is denied by the drained whiteness of her skin around his clenched fingers.
Perspiration is gathering on her forehead like it does when she runs. She can’t run with the hand on her arm.
Her eyes are focused on the grip, but her smile is to the camera.
Her other arm is clenched, in complete contradiction to her submissive limb. The elbow is drawn away from her body. Her hand is at waist height, partially concealed by her shirt. Her fingers are clenched and her knuckles are white. At the base of her first, the glint of something sharp betrays her calculated and convincing smile. The shape of the blade is just visible through the clouds that cover it. She knows it will be messy. Messier than she first imagined it, but she likes it now.
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.
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.
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