Fight to the End

In a stack of old school work I found this story, written more than 20 years ago. It's not too bad, so I thought I'd share it here, with some editing.

The gunfighter arrived just after the telegram did. Both attracted the attention of the sheriff, who read through the telegram several times before dropping it to the floor and resting his head in his hands.

The gunfighter tied his horse to the hitching post, lingering a moment in its shadow to rest his head against her sturdy neck. Then, breathing deeply and pulling his face into its customary sneer, he sauntered into the saloon. His dusty boots, stitching creased with dirt, creaked with the exhaustion of many miles. His heels thudded on the floorboards. He called for a bottle of whiskey and a room. The barkeep grunted, reaching behind himself and fumbling for a bottle, not wanting to turn his back on the sullen man before him. 

The sheriff knew, even before the boy burst into his office, that it was time. The town had stilled when gunfighter's horse paced down Main street. In his office, the sheriff scrubbed wearily at his face, saddened by the job ahead, then, adjusting his gunbelt, he strode across the street to the saloon.

"Here already?’snarled the gunfighter.’I thought you might take a few minutes to work up your courage.”The barkeep snorted indignantly and then turned to concentrate on wiping the counter when the gunfighter glared at him.

"Yeah, well, not much courage needed. It’s only you. Now finish your whiskey and leave my town.”The sheriff earned several admiring looks from the drunks at the bar as he spoke to the gunfighter.

"I'm just making myself comfortable. I’ll leave later.’With that the gunfighter turned away, grabbing his bottle and heading for the stairs to his room. 

“I say you leave now. You have plenty of time to find a rock to crawl under before sundown.’The sheriff followed the gunfighter to his room and slammed the door behind him. The growing crowd in the saloon heard nothing for nearly an hour. Only their confidence in the sheriff kept them from barging into the room and attacking the gunfighter. Finally they heard vague shouting, and the sheriff stormed out, yelling, “I’ll see you at sundown then, you lousy bastard!“

The town grew increasingly quiet as evening drew on. Wary citizens began finding good vantage points to watch the shoot-out. The sheriff called on the town librarian to say a tentative good- bye.

“I, uh, just wanted to say, ma’am, that if something happens, I, mmm, am glad for the pleasure of the few moments I have had with you. They kinda make the rest of the time go easier.” He turned to leave, awkward at having said so much, but stopped when she confessed that she enjoyed spending time with him as well.

“You’ll be okay, won’t you?” she asked, after exchanging more awkward pleasantries. “I will see you again?” He stammered out a positive reply, not quite sure what to say, and then hastily retreated, stopping at the end of her walk to wave.

The adversaries faced each other across the corral, waiting for the sun to set. Someone from the crowd began to count backwards, and gently the rest of the town chimed in, ticking off the moments until sundown, until the two men would draw and shoot.

“Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen.” 

The gunfighter nodded, a half-smile on his face, and loosened his gun in the holster. The sheriff grabbed hastily at his gun, loosening it in turn, caught off guard. He reached for his handkerchief, wiping his eyes, clearing them of dust and tears.

“Five, four, three.”

Suddenly there was movement and noise and the gunfighter lay dying. He didn’t try to move. The sheriff ran forward, crouching over the fallen man, resting his hand gently on the slowly heaving chest. One final rattling breath, and the sheriff called for the undertaker. Slowly standing, he ordered a funeral prepared at his own expense, then went slowly to his office. He sat, elbows on knees, tears falling onto the telegram forgotten on the floorboards.

The sheriff didn’t hear when the librarian came in. She put her hands on his shoulders and began to make gentle consolation noises. He snatched the telegram from the floor and thrust it into her hands, then stood with his back to her. She read it, and laid a gentle hand on his back.

“He used to be a good man, you know.” He sighed. “He had cancer. He was afraid. He asked for my help.” Tears coursed down his face, faster and hotter, digging channels through the dust of the corral. “He wanted to die quickly, with dignity.” He chuckled wryly. “Thought he might help me, too. Make me look good, he said.” He choked up, unable to say more. She stepped to his side and rested her head on his shoulder, hoping her sympathy would be enough. 

Finally he spoke. “He was my brother.”

The Music of the Spheres

Joseph stepped from the faintly swinging gondola onto the polished scale and hesitated. The operator held up his hand silently, intent on the marker which sank, bobbed, and quickly settled on a figure which made no sense to Joseph.

“Boy, you’ve had a tough Turn.” The operator smiled sympathetically. “You’ll get a good rest just as soon as you’ve Washed.” Joseph didn’t move. “Still disoriented? No surprise. You’ve been through a lot. Over there – the bridge. Sit. Rest. Dangle your feet in the stream. You’ll feel better. Afterward, take the left-hand path to the inn. Folks there’ll give you some pointers.” Joseph started to step off; an ethereal chime caught his attention and he looked upward.

The Ferris wheel towered above, fading into brassy clouds which parted to reveal other machinery. “A clock!” Joseph thought, before his tilted head began to spin. He stumbled, and the operator grabbed his elbow.

“Watch it, kiddo!” he warned, then gently urged Joseph toward the bridge further down the path. “Go sit. I got work to do.” His smile was big and cheerful as he looked upward to the next gondola already swooping downward to the scale.

Joseph stumbled toward the bridge, ears ringing in a sudden cacophony of ratcheting gears and whirring springs. The sound faded as he sat on the edge of the rough wooden planks and dropped his tired feet into the creek. It was cold enough to make him flinch. He withdrew, then gently dipped his toes back in. The current curled around his ankles with a faint tickle. Joseph sighed. It had been a long day. Hadn’t it? He tried to remember, but the clockwork noise returned so loudly he collapsed backward to lie across the bridge.

Silence fell again. Joseph heard the creek grumbling along its bed, gurgling at the banks and dashing over a rock somewhere downstream. He was in a grotto. Ferns clung to niches in limestone walls, watered by tiny cascades that converged at the bottom. It was moist and felt cleaner than even the hospital where he’d spent the past weeks. Hospital. Joseph sat up, ignoring the clock sounds that tried to return. He’d been in the hospital. He had hurt. It was new pain on top of old familiar hurts. It had scraped him raw until his eyes leaked, and the morphine offered no respite. The nurses had occasionally graced him with a hand across the forehead, or a squeeze of the shoulder, but everything else was pain.

Joseph felt a pinch at the tip of his big toe. He looked down, half expecting to see a fish nibbling, and instead saw an ash-gray blob floating down the creek. A line of smaller blobs streamed from both feet. He lifted them in alarm. Darkness flowed from his heels into the water. He shook his legs and it shattered, refracting strangely with gold and emerald.

“You gotta put them back in.” A girl cheerfully plopped down next to him and dunked her feet without hesitation. “It’s the rules. You put your feet in, get washed up, then you go get something to eat. I’m gonna have some chicken piccata today. I love chicken piccata. I like saying it, too. Pih-KA-ta!” she pronounced joyfully, the colorful plastic barrettes at the ends of her many braids dancing with each syllable. She swished her feet around, watching as brilliant oranges, yellows, and greens swirled away. “You got a LOT of washing to do,” she observed as a stripe of navy joined the gray from Joseph’s feet. “Must be ‘cause you’re so old.” She cocked her head. “I’m eight.” Dark brown twined with turquoise flowed from her right foot, and she made a face.

“Are you all right?” Joseph asked.

“Yup. That one kinda stings. But it feels better when it’s gone. I did this before. I was old that time, and it took a while. I think I’m almost done now, though.” She giggled and said softly, “I like capers. Nobody expects a kid to like capers but I had them at this one restaurant and I liked ‘em even better than pickles. That’s the real reason I like chicken piccata. CHICKEN PICCATA!” she shouted and kicked her feet into the air as the final streamers tapered away. Joseph clung to his plank as the girl jumped up, bouncing him precariously close to the edge, and exclaimed “I’ll see you at supper!” before racing up the left-hand path.

The grotto echoed with the girl’s laughter for a long time. Joseph stared at his feet. Loops of gray and forest green and navy blue continued to wash downstream. Occasional flashes of crimson showed up, or cobalt. Time passed. Joseph surprised himself by not becoming impatient, or bored. He was content to watch the ferns bob as water fell on them, and to listen to the chatter of the busy little creek. Color drained from his feet. He remembered pieces of his life. He understood that it was over, and was grateful. The last weeks he had suffered alone, pain amplified and echoing in his solitude. The creek, the bridge, the laughter of the child, were soothing. He wanted nothing else.

Joseph closed his eyes and kicked his feet like the girl had done. The feeling was so delightful he laughed; that was so surprising he laughed again. He hadn’t laughed with joy in years. He kicked his feet again and the water caught rainbows in the sunlight. Joseph stared, realizing that the rainbows were coming from him. Like the girl, he had whorls of yellows and reds and bright blues swirling from his feet, upstream and down, spreading across the width of the stream in sheets of brilliant color. He stilled, mesmerized, and stared until the colors tapered away and all that was left was clear water. 

It was time. He was hungry for spaghetti with meatballs and buttered garlic bread and a huge salad. He wanted to see the girl enjoying her chicken piccata. “PICCATA!” he shouted, and laughed at his own silliness. Joseph turned to rise, bracing himself for the betrayal of age ravaged joints, but he stood easily, more graceful than ever in life. He hopped, twice, then sprinted up the left-hand path. The grotto echoed with his laughter for a long time.

The inn shivered and blurred at the edges of his vision as Joseph approached. The door was open and he could hear laughter and silverware clinking and a wall clock chiming the hour. He counted, but lost track when the little girl flung herself out the door. “Finally! I was waiting and waiting for you! Come on!” she tugged him past the lounge into the dining room, shoving him toward an empty chair as she thumped into the one next to it. “Oh, I almost forgot!” She lowered her head and mumbled some sort of a prayer over her meal, then tucked in even before Joseph could get his napkin spread. Joseph looked for guidance from his fellow diners, but they were all engaged elsewhere. His plate was full of noodles in fragrant red sauce, topped with five or six perfect meatballs. He didn’t hesitate.

Half a plate later, Joseph slowed enough to look up. The girl was bright and shiny next to him, loudly telling a story about riding her scooter to the park and getting a cupcake at the bakery. Across the table an elderly couple were sitting back and holding hands, plates still nearly full. They smiled at him and for a moment they – and the inn behind them -- multiplied into the distance like a reflection of mirrors.  His young friend grabbed his chin and yanked his head around. “Are you even listening to me?!” she exclaimed, and then rushed onward with her story. He smiled and patted her shoulder in time to the ticking of the clock.

“You finished, kiddo?” A woman leaned in from the right, reaching for his empty plate. 

“Me? Yes, ma’am, I am. It was very good. Thank you,” he replied, staring. She looked just like the operator at the Ferris wheel.

“Good. Let’s get this cleared away, and then we can have some tea and catch up. It’s been a long while since I saw you.” She stacked his dishes on her arm, deftly balancing everything as she turned. “I’ll meet you in the lounge. Won’t be long. I’ll make the kids do the washing up for once.”

Joseph rose. The girl was telling another story, this time to the woman on her right. She grabbed his wrist, holding him while she finished saying, “car was spinning – hold on a second, I have to tell my friend something.” She stood on her chair so her dark eyes were level with his. “I’ll see you again. I know it. We’re friends now.” Then her thin arms were around his neck, squeezing uncomfortably tight. He’d forgotten how children hugged with their whole bodies, generous with affection. He lightly patted her back. She leaned away, arms still around his neck, and gave him an impatient look. “Really? What was that? Gimme a real hug. We’re friends.” This time he gave in, holding her with desperation and gratitude until something eased inside. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. See ya!” The girl dropped abruptly back into her chair and continued telling the exciting, catastrophic, story of her death.

Joseph wiped a tear from his cheek as he sought the lounge. Big comfortable leather chairs were pulled close to the fireplace, the occupants resting their feet on the fender. In the corner a man curled in the corner of a couch, a book resting on a pillow in his lap. A pool of light from a table lamp encircled the man, his book, and a cup of tea steaming on the table. Joseph stood quietly, watching the man, watching the feet, waiting.

“Here you are!” the woman rolled a tea cart between them as she collapsed dramatically onto the other end of the couch. “Sit! Sit.” Joseph took the armchair opposite her. “Sorry that took so long. I spoil the kids so much, doing the dishes myself. Then when I need them to help out, I have to show them what to do.” She poured tea into a mug and handed it to him, then grabbed a cookie for herself. “Chocolate chip. So many kinds of cookie and I always choose chocolate chip. They’re just the best.” She took a bite and smiled as she chewed. “So. How are you? It’s been a good long while this Turn.”

Joseph blew on his tea and reached for a cookie. “I’m not sure. I really don’t know what’s going on.” He took a big bite and chewed for a moment. “I’m glad not to hurt anymore.” Joseph stared as he took a sip. “I have to ask, though. Where am I? What’s going on?” He bit again.

“Oh, my. You had a very difficult Turn, didn’t you!?” She sat forward. “I’ll give you the short version. I think that will be enough to remind you.” She sipped her tea. The whirring of a clock was loud in Joseph’s mind. “You hear the ticking?” He nodded. “That’s the music of the spheres. Have you ever seen one of those models that moves the planets around the sun, and the moons around the planets?”

“An orrery. Yes. I had one as a child.” She grimaced without comment. “I was fascinated by it.”

“That’s the one. I can never remember the word. I’m sure you were drawn to it because some part of it resonated in your memory. So.” She took a deep breath. “We are, right now, in the middle of the Universal Orrery. The mechanism that makes the universe spin.”

Joseph raised an eyebrow. “That’s not possible.”

The woman laughed. “Why not?”

“Because it’s impossible. The universe can’t run on clockwork. It would run down eventually.”

“Oh, Joseph. We do this every single time you come back.” She sighed. “Let’s see,” she stared down into her mug. “Ah, yes. Entropy! That helped you understand last time. Of course it will run down eventually – that’s entropy. In the meantime, we wind it back up the best we can.”

He stood, suddenly impatient. “Wind it up? With what? A giant key? And who turns the key? This is nonsense.”

She nibbled her cookie. A glob of chocolate was stuck in the corner of her mouth. Joseph relished how foolish she looked. “Sit down, please.” More tea, more cookie. “Humans are not the only beings, you know. What you see now? You’re constructing your own reality. You can see it. The shivering of things? The blurring around the edges? That’s other people’s reality brushing up against yours. Each of you is applying your perceptions because you’re unable to accept the greater reality around you.” She waved her arm in a wide circle. “At the Ferris wheel? When you got dizzy? What did you see?”

“I saw the Ferris wheel. It was very tall. And there were clouds. Well, mist. And,” his brow furrowed in remembrance, “mechanisms of some sort. I thought I saw the workings of a giant clock.” He stared accusingly at her. “How did you know that? What I saw?” He rocked impatiently on his feet. The tea cart blocked his urge to pace.

“My sibling shared the moment with me.” She put her mug on the tea cart and stood to face him. To look down on him. She was taller. He hadn’t noticed. “We are . . . connected.” She gestured at him to sit again. “We are all parts of the machine in one way or another.”

Joseph shoved the tea cart aside. “That’s your answer? That we’re part of a toy? And how does everything else fit in? Why were my feet leaking rainbows in a stream, and why did that little girl give me a hug and why did I have to spend the last five weeks dying in a hospital bed? Why have I been so damned lonely all these years? What does ANY of that have to do with a fucking children’s TOY?!” He wanted to storm off, but the man on the couch was staring. Joseph collapsed back into his chair in embarrassment. 

“Oh, sweetie. Damn. I hate this part!” The woman shrank back into her seat. “You saw it. Looking up you saw that there are millions of wheels. You’re right. It’s a giant clockwork mechanism. And all the Wheels must Turn for the Orrery to work.” She stood and spun around, arms wide. “We, I mean every soul in the universe, souls from all the systems and all the planets and every void between, are needed for that work. It’s the weight of the souls that makes the wheels Turn. Fresh souls get on, grow heavier with experience, and gravity pulls them down. Their Wheel Turns. That’s why you had to Wash. You were Washing away that weight. Don’t you feel better?”

Joseph stared between his knees and clenched his hands over and over again, marveling at how easy it was. They were cool, but his knuckles moved easily. He remembered trying to grasp a pencil only to have it drop from stiff fingers that wouldn’t close. He remembered the grinding ache of arthritis pulsing down his bones until he was afraid to move, knowing that every step until eternity would flare with pain. That nothing he did would ever not hurt. He clenched his fists and looked at her.

“Yes.” He glanced at his knees, no longer swollen straight. “Yes, I feel better. But I am not a cog in a machine!”

She sighed. “We all are.” She reached for yet another cookie. “Joseph, you are an old soul. You’ve made many Turns on many Wheels.” The chocolate crumb fell from her face to her lap. Joseph was relieved. “Sorrow is the burden of an old soul,” she said. “It sticks to you, somehow. We can Wash you clean a dozen times, but the next trip around the Wheel is just as bad, if not worse. You,” she glanced up, “are a very, very old soul.”

They filled the silence with sips of tea, and more cookies. The man reading a book turned the pages. Joseph closed his eyes and listened to the rasp of paper on paper. The fire crackled and a log fell. 

“Do you know why?” He stared at the fire, afraid to look at the woman.

“No. Everyone asks that. You’d be surprised how universal the theories are. Ancient Earth philosophers had the same answers as the Jovians, and they said the same thing as the beings of the Horsehead Nebula.” She laughed. “Not at the same time, of course. So many beings have come and gone.” Her voice faltered. “I sometimes wonder if you,” she looked straight at him, holding his gaze, “came from an even earlier time and place.” She took a deep, wobbly breath. “You are a very old soul.”

He felt it, then. The weight of billions of years. The sorrow he had collected and Washed away, and collected again. He was crushed under the memory of untold Turns. The papery softness of her hand sliding into his brought him back.

“I’m sorry.” She leaned her head on his shoulder. He felt a tear splat on his shoulder and dampen his shirt.

“Does anyone ever escape?” he rasped.

“No. But, if they’re lucky, they have you.” She nodded toward the dining room. “She has you. Your young friend.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Sorrow is drawn to old souls. The pain, the loneliness. It’s awful for you. But she’ll be on the Wheel next to you, and it will miss her. She will live a long and charmed life. Good things will come to her.”

The reading man watched Joseph for a moment, face full of pity. He closed his book and left the room. 

“I have to go back, don’t I?” his whisper was just louder than the flames in the fire.

“You can rest. I have a room for you, special. I have your favorite meals, and good books and all the movies you missed. You don’t have to go right away. You can rest.” She squeezed his hand.

“But I can’t stay, can I?” He took a deep breath. “That girl, if I don’t go. What happens to her?” he stared at the empty dining room, listening for an echo of her laughter.

“It falls on her. And others. The longer you wait, the more they collect.” She rifled through her pocket and brought out a wrinkled kerchief. She fussed at it, folding it just so before wiping her eyes. “It’s not all bad. You have great joy as a child, and deep love later. You saw that, in the stream. That is part of why you hurt so very, very much.”

Joseph closed his eyes and remembered iridescent rainbows on top of the oily darkness in the stream. He saw again the brilliance of the last few moments as they Washed away. The woman stood. She leaned over, smoothed his hair back from his forehead and gently kissed him there. “I’m sorry.” Her shoulders slumped as she moved to the doorway and, with a glance over her shoulder, left the room.

Joseph sat until the fire died. He watched each ember fade. He remembered losing everyone he loved. He remembered being beaten on the playground and crying into the gravel. He remembered all the awful things that had weighed him down senselessly, and hating others for their effortless joy. And he remembered the girl on the bridge, laughing as her rainbow slipped into the stream. 

“Chicken piccata!” he said, softly, to himself. Then he walked slowly away from the cottage, headed for the right-hand path. The one that led back to the Wheel.

First Date

His pinkie was startlingly warm when it brushed hers. He was gracefully, deliberately, accidental in every touch; the kindness both thrilled and confused her. The men — boys — she normally dated were crafty and obtrusive, grasping her shoulder and rubbing her arm roughly, drawing her whole body in like prey to be devoured. He was unhurried. At the restaurant he sat back, eyes intent but leaving enough space that she, for once, was the one to lean in, to lay her hand on the cloth in an open - and ultimately unanswered - invitation. At the movie theater they shared a popcorn and rather than manufacturing an opportunity he waited for her to withdraw before plunging his own hand in to the buttery mess.

She invited him in as soon as he parked in front of her house. She was curious, and attracted, and a little bit nervous that he didn’t feel the same. His sudden grin was reassuring. Of course he’d love to walk her to the door, but he didn’t dare come in. Too tempting, he said with a slow, hot, smile. Something deep inside fluttered, and she had trouble drawing the next breath. Could they just sit together for a while on her porch swing?

So they sat, and his pinkie brushed hers, and then their hands were resting next to each other. All her attention was on that single line of heat where skin met skin, so she only barely felt the wind pick up, only absently heard the clanking of the wooden wind chimes. Which is why his yelp seemed so very loud, and the sudden leap to his feet was so unnerving. 

He was pale. His eyes were fixed on the corner of the porch where the wind chimes swung erratically into the light shining from the kitchen. He stepped forward, raising a trembling hand, then dropped it again. “They’re, they’re dolls!” he gasped. He turned and stared at her, then took a step backward. “What? Why would you do that?” he didn’t wait for an answer, but stepped to the stairs. “They looked like hollow children, in the darkness.” He said nothing further as he walked to his car. She rubbed her hand where they had touched, then walked over to the chimes — wooden baby dolls, unstuffed and strung up by their necks to blow and knock in the wind. She stilled the bodies, and listened in the silence as he drove away.

Written in response to a prompt by Bliss

#PromptsAndCircumstance

Survival

He was the only reason I survived. At least, that’s the story we built together, him and me. I was so boy-crazy then that I spent my attention on him rather than physics. He absorbed my adoration in trade for morsels of knowledge, just enough to get me through that week’s class, just enough that I’d come back close to tears, begging for help with the next formula. That’s how it worked. I’d sit on his bed eating shards of dry ramen and he’d pace – the room only allowed four steps each way – using his hands to sketch invisible diagrams of falling rocks and flying balls and how mass and distance would predict where they’d land. He was like a wizard, you know? He could wave his arms and conjure up the laws that made our world spin.

Nothing changed in five years, except maybe I wasn’t so boy crazy anymore. But he still gave me only just enough to bring me back on my knees. Just enough time. Just enough attention. Then he’d get up on his soap box and make my world spin all over again. Sure, it was a little slower, and the whole thing seemed less magical, but we were getting older.

That day? No, we didn’t fight. We never fought. That was one of his laws. He gave me everything. I only survived because of him. Who was I to argue? He was my world. So yeah. He told me I had to come right home after work. Huh? Yeah, I asked if I could go to Emmy’s farewell party. She was important to me. I think he knew that. I think he maybe could hear something in my voice. He didn’t like me talking about her. He said she was uppity, and when I talked to her I got uppity. I don’t know about that. All I know is she asked me questions, and didn’t really want to hear about him. She wanted me to have ideas. She’s the one who said I was smart. She said I could have passed that first class by myself. That I didn’t need him.

You ever turn the map upside down? I mean, put Antarctica at the top? I read somewhere that the regular map – the one with us at the top, you know, like they have in schools and on the news – is totally arbitrary. Hm? Oh, it means randomly chosen. Gosh, thanks. I’ve always had a good vocabulary. He takes pride in that. Says I’m well-spoken for a dumb girl. Anyway, you ever look at a map upside down? It’s the same thing, but it looks totally weird. That’s what Emmy did. She turned my map. Got me thinking. 

What? Oh, yeah. That day. No, he told me to come right home. Oh gosh no! He would never go out with my friends. Said he had no time for hen parties. But I really wanted to go. I called and told him I was working late. I did that sometimes. He was okay with it. The overtime, you know. He didn’t believe that day, though. He knew it was Emmy’s last day and that there were plans. He was really mad. I was packing up to go home when Emmy hijacked me. Really. She grabbed my bag and my keys and ran out of the office. I was laughing, but it was scary, thinking about what he’d do. I never expected, well, you know.

No, I got it, thanks. 

This hankie belonged to my grandma. Can you tell? I’ve washed it probably a thousand times. She always told me to use it like it was meant to be used. She wasn’t real fond of tissues. She’d lick a corner to scrub our faces and the paper would dissolve. A handkerchief, though. She could really attack a messy face with one of her hankies. Oh. Sorry. Yeah, that day.

So we were at the bar and Emmy talked me into trying some fancy drink I’d never had before. I don’t remember what it was called, but it had vodka and pineapple juice and something red. It looked like a sunset. So pretty. Oh, man did that thing get to me, though. I’m not much of a drinker. He said I got even dumber when I drank, and told me I shouldn’t have more than one of anything. I only had one of those sunset drinks, but it must have been like five glasses of wine. Emmy told me I laughed a lot. She likes it when I laugh. 

I should have gone home but I wasn’t thinking straight. I believe that’s why Harold offered his couch. If I’d been thinking right I never would have agreed. I had to get home. I was in enough trouble already! But Harold took me back to his place and -- oh God no! He’s a married man! His wife was there and everything! No he just, well, I don’t know why he’s the one who took me home. I think all the arranging was done without me. I was trying to call home. Trying to explain myself. I was crying by then, I think. But he wasn’t answering. Emmy said she thought he was being petulant, not answering my calls. Huh? She told me later. I don’t remember that night so well. I’m kind of embarrassed now, you know. That’s not like me. So, um that’s why I didn’t know until the next day. I called, and someone answered his phone, and told me to come right away to the hospital. 

You know, I never asked why you’re going over this. I understand the life insurance people – they’re protecting their assets and all – but why the police? Do you investigate everyone who drives off a cliff? I mean, you guys said it was an accident. That's what the insurance company said. Death certificate says accidental trauma. They wouldn't have paid otherwise, you know. If they thought it wasn't an accident.

He was an awful driver. My mom won’t even ride in the car with him anymore. And I'm sure he was mad. Really mad. I know sometimes that makes people drive stupid, too. He told me that. Defensive driving, he called it, but I don’t know how you can drive like that and be defensive. But I don’t drive much, so what do I know. Oh. Sorry. I guess I’m still not thinking straight, that’s why I’m talking so much. But why are you asking?

Brakes? I don’t know. I’m sure they were fine. He was in charge of the car. Didn’t trust me to get it serviced “in a timely fashion” he said. Told me I never did what I was supposed to do, or at least, not when it needed done. He has the records at home. I mean, I do, I guess. I can dig them out if you’d like. 

Can you ask that again? I’m not sure I understand. 

No! No I didn’t “plan to draw him out of the house.” What do you think I am? I just wanted to say goodbye to Emmy. We’ve worked together for a long time and she’s my friend. My only friend, really. That’s why I went out. I don’t know anything about the accident. You’re the police. You figure it out.

I need to go home.  Emmy’s waiting for me. She’s a good friend. 

Yes, thank you, I will. Good night, officer.

The Wink of an Eye

Wires hung limply from the headlight socket, ends lightly scratching the concrete driveway as they twitched in the breeze. The otherwise pristine Beetle slouched in a vaguely lopsided way. The effect was distressingly like a medieval torture victim whose freedom cost an eye. The lamp itself was gone, spirited away without scratches or broken glass.

Lyss groaned and gave a satisfyingly loud kick to the metal trash can beside the garage. She felt violated. A glance at her cell phone showed there was no time to deal with this, so she gently tucked the wires in as far as they would go and headed to work.

Much later — after calls to the police and the insurance company and the repair shop — Lyss headed to the pub where her friends were waiting. She flagged the waiter, ordered a bottle of beer, and dropped into a chair.

“Fucking Monday. Some asshole stole Lady’s headlight this morning. Or last night. I don’t know.” She rubbed her face with both hands. 

“Oh no! It's like your happy beetle has a black eye!” Shelley frowned sweetly.

“What?!” Evan set his elbows on the tabletop. “Who the hell steals a headlight?”

“Dunno.” The waiter placed a napkin on the table and started to set down the beer, but Lyss intercepted and took a gulp. After a relieved sigh she continued, “Insurance is gonna pay for it, but covering the deductible means extra hours at work, or cutting something out this summer.”

“Fucker.” That word always sounded funny in Shelley’s gentle Appalachian accent. 

Lyss giggled and lifted her beer. “You can say that again.” She waited. “No, really!”

“FUCKER!” Shelley smiled at her friend’s second chuckle. “Why a headlight? That can’t be easy to remove, and nobody’s going to buy it, are they?”

Lyss frowned. “The cops say it’s not uncommon. ‘High-end accessory’ they called it. Volvo side mirrors get stolen a lot, too. Something about the high cost of O.M.E. parts.”

Shelley rolled her eyes. “O.E.M.! Original equipment. Not knock-offs.”

“Whatever. Anyway, it’s a quick and easy repair, so she won’t be in the shop for long.”

Evan nodded. “That’s good.”

They all relaxed back into their chairs and sipped their drinks quietly for a moment, enjoying a friendship that didn’t always require words.

“Hey Lyss?” Shelley glanced sideways. “Do you want me to track them down and destroy them?” 

Lyss met Shelley’s eyes and replied fiercely, “Yes! Please destroy them. My poor baby.”

“Okay then.” Shelley reached for their hands and nodded at them to complete the circle. Evan grinned and reached for Lyss’s hand. Shelley closed her eyes a moment, then snapped them open. She slowly intoned
     Thief in the night
     Stealer of light
     May your evil be returned
     A hundredfold!
A reflection of light crossed the room and paused momentarily on Shelley. A glass broke in the kitchen and they all — even Shelley — jumped. Laughing, she reclaimed her hands and pronounced “Evil mojo sent. Beware, evildoers!”

Chuckling and shaking his head, Evan ordered another round as the conversation turned to more cheerful topics.

* * *

The vehicle — technically a Volkswagon Beetle, but an embarrassment to that name — was a Frankencar, with parts “acquired” from front yards and junk yards. Fenders from the seventies had been forced into compliance with doorjambs from newer models using appallingly liberal amounts of Bondo and sheet metal screws. Nothing quite matched. Nothing actually fit. It was uncomfortable to look at — there were no lines, no harmony of purpose. The overall effect was made worse by intermittent rust patches and a spastic application of remaindered house paint the color and consistency of vomit. Still, it ran. Frances was enchanted by the reedy cricket chirp of the engine. He had found what remained of the frame and engine in a junk yard and “liberated” it, along with a first round of parts. He added more as the reanimation project progressed. He took great pride in his creation. Everyone agreed that it was unique, even if they didn’t appreciate the artfulness with which he had stitched the thing together.

Frances tugged the driver’s side door open and, leaning in, fumbled the key into the ignition. The starter groaned into action and he laughed with delight as the little engine burred. It had taken most of an hour, some wire nuts, and almost an entire roll of duct tape, but he finally had two working headlights. The new one bulged hugely from the much-smaller socket and was partially obscured by the tape which held it in place. A passerby might get the impression of a defeated boxer whose eye had swollen from abuse. Nonetheless, what was not blocked glowed with a brightness that made the first light almost unnecessary.

He turned off the car and went inside to wash. 

* * *

Pollen rained from clear skies. The nightly news ignored stories of earthbound mayhem in favor of extensive weather reports. Meteorologists, shell-shocked by the sudden interest in their craft, drew giant colorful diagrams of wind patterns and tried repeatedly to explain the drifts of yellow. There was no scientific explanation. Shelley knew, though. While others wiped streaming eyes with handkerchiefs and took allergy pills in double-doses, her eyes were clear. The wind bore the deep green scent of hollows and the dust of grassy balds. It smelled of home. There was magic in the pollen, borne up through ancient granite, charged by seams of coal, and thrust skyward by oak and pine. She had called it with her simple rhyme. Called, but not tamed it. Something had been loosed, and was hunting.

* * *

Frances paced the sweltering kitchen while he ate a random collection of leftovers. The pollen had finally abated enough to leave the house. It wasn’t all gone, but several storms had blown through and washed most of the wretched stuff into meandering outlines in the gutter. His car, however, hadn’t come clean. Yellow motes were embedded in every brush mark. He tried sweeping and wiping and even washing, but the paint peeled off in giant scabs that left it looking diseased. He’d have to paint it again. The car still ran, though, and he was restless. 

Stalking out of the house, Frances didn’t bother to lock the door. He yanked the car open and wedged himself in. Throwing it into gear he swerved into the street and gunned it down the block, barely glancing at the cross street as he barreled past the stop sign. Fast. He needed to go fast. He leaned over and rolled down the passenger window, angling the fly window to catch as much tepid air as possible. The sun would be down soon, and everything would cool off. Four-forty a/c, he told himself. Four windows at forty miles an hour. The joke brought a small smile to his face.

Every stop light was against him: turning red as he approached, taking forever to go green. The bloody sunset reflected from windows all around, blinding him. The city was unbearable. He turned on to Highway 6 and lurched his way toward the interstate. He pulled a death metal cassette from the pile on the passenger seat and shoved it brutally into the tape deck he’d found — still in its car, of course — over in the hoity-toity part of town. He cranked the volume and shouted along vaguely with the German he didn’t understand. 

Slowly the lights fell away and the road opened up. He stomped on the accelerator, shifting through the gears, ignoring a metallic cry from the little engine. Fresh air flowed in, tickling his arm and ruffling his hair. His sweat dried. He overtook other cars and swerved around them, cutting as close as possible, laughing at the terrified expressions highlighted by their dashboard lights. 

The road began to climb. He downshifted, car bucking as he ground into third. The engine screamed into the red as he forced the little car to race up the hill. Tall pines loomed over the road now, moon flickering between, until the road narrowed and they closed over him. He leaned into the curves and accelerated out of them like a shot, disregarding the weathered center lines. Still holding the pedal to the floor Frances was cresting the hill, exhilarating in a moment of flight, in the sensation of the car falling away from him, when both headlights winked out.

* * *

“Sheesh.”

“Yeah. Guy musta been going, well, shit, a hundred? One twenty?” 

The two policemen skittered several yards down the embankment to where the mangled frame of a car lay at the base of a gigantic oak tree. The bark was scattered, heart wood splintered and bare almost eight feet off the ground. More parts were scattered down the hill like the tail of a meteor. It was as if the car had dramatically fallen apart at the seams. No two pieces were still connected.

“The hell is this stuff?” The first officer scraped at the ground with the toe of his boot. Yellow powder dusted the entire debris field. “Looks like some clown came by and poured cornmeal everywhere. Who the hell would do that?”

“No fucking clue. Hey there!” The second officer waved at an investigator who was leaning over the largest chunk of wreckage. “Whatcha got?”

“Weirdest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. No skid marks on the road,” he waved up the hill they’d just come down, “and it looks like the car fucking flew into this tree. I have no clue how fast he had to been going for that to happen. And here’s the weird bit. He should be hamburger. I mean, look at this shit.” The investigator toed a piece of metal which might have been a door panel, but was too misshapen to tell. “But he’s not. Looks like he just got out of the shower.” The others leaned in and nodded in bemused agreement. 

“What the fuck is that powder all over everything?” 

“That? That shit is pollen. Came in through the busted windshield. Tell you the truth, I was kinda freaked out by it, until someone figured it got shaken out of the tree when he hit.”

“Makes sense, I guess, specially after the past coupla weeks. Still, it’s kinda weird, being only here and all.”

“Yep. But I’m not gonna worry about it. Dumbass had it coming. At least no one else was hurt.” They all nodded in silent agreement. The investigator clicked his pen and jotted down another note. 

The two officers turned and walked down the hill, glancing deliberately at the bits and pieces lying everywhere. Seeing nothing of note, they eventually turned and climbed back toward the road. They stopped once when a flash of light caught them by surprise. A moment’s investigation proved it was just a shiny new headlight, winking in the sun.


Inspired by a couple of truly awesome women I'm fortunate enough to count as friends.

Skyward

Dust devils lifted debris and spattered it against the white curvature of the old airplane, scouring fresh glistening scars deep into the aluminum skin. The plane trembled in the gust, remembering trundling across sun-melted tarmac at IQT, wheels clinging to stickyhot macadam, air painfully thin, racing faster and faster, grasping for lift. It remembered sliding sideways toward DCA, buffeted by swirling winds over the Potomac, racing caustic gulls to the runway. It remembered the triumph of thrust overcoming gravity, climbing skyward into deepening cerulean, clouds streaming from the tips of its wings in delicate evaporating vortices.

Elsewhere in the boneyard, carcasses of stripped aircraft shuddered, open fuselages groaning and warping. Moans were pulled from desecrated machines as wind whipped through torn skin, giving voice to the remainders.

The plane remembered flying over a kite festival not far from PEK, sneering at the pitiful “aircraft” bobbing without power in the slightest breeze, tethered to people even further below. With thundering screaming engines it had conquered the sky, chasing the sun and watching the Earth fall away in an endless shining curve.

Thunderheads gathered, sweeping air before them in bursts that swirled into a gale that beat against the old craft. It remembered the kites, dancing on the slightest breeze. It remembered lift. It remembered flying. It quivered, balancing delicately on time-softened tires, and then, ever so slightly, the nose rose. The wind gusted again, harder, pushing. Lifting. The nose rose again, higher. The plane tilted upward, wind caressing its wings, sliding past the scars of amputated engines, flowing over ailerons and stabilizers, elevators and flaps and gifting them with renewed purpose. The plane lifted, reaching. It twisted into the storm, holding steady, waiting, waiting for a cyclone to tear it free again from gravity.

Days later the plane sat, still balanced on rear wheels and tail, nose pointed skyward. It waited. It remembered.

prompted by this video: skyward

Climbing Wall

Feeling her fingers slip, Annalee pressed the pads of her left hand deeper into the rock. It did no good. The additional weight scraped off several layers of skin as she fell backwards, toes sliding out of their tiny holds. Her loud “FUCK!” echoed back from the wall and she sat into her sling, webbing creasing her buttocks and groin, rope thrumming in her right ear as it stretched taut.

“Whoa, cowgirl! What’s the rush?” The teasing voice carried up the rope. She looked down at the man belaying her. Shaggy hair was barely contained by a tie-dyed bandanna. His lean face was tanned behind a few days beard. He smiled and she caught a glimpse of white teeth before he reassured her “I gotcha.”

Well duh! she thought. You’re on belay. “Thanks!” she hollered back. Don’t know why I’m climbing with a stranger. Dumb. But he’d done everything right, and the folks at the climbing gym had said they would make good partners. They’d been right so far.

She wiped the blood oozing from her fingers onto her shorts and turned to the face. Securing her toes, she stretched again for a tiny ledge. Her ankles popped as she caught it, easing fingertips over the edge. She could feel every knuckle strain. Finally it felt secure and she lifted her right foot, sliding it up slowly, seeking a hold. There! Turning her toes outward, the soft instep caught as much as possible. Her calf tightened as she slowly shifted weight, tension running up through the knee and into the thigh. She increased the pressure, rising to the right, pulling with fingertips and the ball of her right foot. Her left foot came free and she began, too early, to tap around for a toehold. Suddenly the dust of the ledge above gave way and -- tearing her fingernails to the quick -- she slid down until once again the rope caught her.

“Ah fuck it.” She was quieter this time – disappointed. Leaning backwards she shouted  “I’m not gonna make it.”

“That’s cool. You coming down?”

Duh! “Yeah.” She found her original holds and shouted “Climbing.”

“Climb on.”  The rope immediately slackened, giving her just room to begin moving down. He really was a good belay – just right with the rope, always attentive. Annalee slowly scrambled down. At the bottom she faced him and they exchanged a quick “off belay” “belay off” before she removed her helmet and unclipped her harness. Still looking down she thanked him again. “I’m really glad you do that.”

“What? Catch you?” his tease was gentle. She looked up into a smile and returned it.

“Well, that too. But I mean saying ‘belay off’ and ‘off belay’ when it’s totally obvious.”

He shrugged. “It’s the right thing to do.”

They busied themselves for a few moments rearranging gear and coiling ropes. When everything was just right she yawned and asked, “You ready?”

“I’d like to, if you can stay awake.”

“Might need an anchor, but yeah, I can hold you. Remember, it was your idea to meet at dawn.” She allowed herself to be a little sassy. He could handle it. He started laughing as they worked together to fasten an anchor rope around a nearby rock outcrop. When it was secured Annalee unscrewed the lid of her bottle and gulped down some water before taking a couple bites of gorp.

“Need a break?” he asked as he returned his own bottle to the gearbag.

“Nah, just a little thirsty. We’re good.” She smiled again at him, admiring. He was built for climbing, long and slim with deceptively lean muscles. He pulled off the wrap that held shaggy locks out of his eyes and buckled on a helmet.

“On belay.” He stared directly at her as he spoke. The words were suddenly seductive, challenging.

“Belay on,” she responded in kind, then blinked several times as he turned quickly away from her to the rock face behind him.

“Climbing.”

“Climb on.” He reached, pulled, and suddenly she was watching a vertical dance as he wove his way steadily up the face. Annalee was astonished at how quickly she had to slide the rope through the brake, feeling him move through the quivering live rope. He climbed with such grace she almost became mesmerized and only a sense of responsibility kept her from gawking. All too soon he was at the top.

“Wow!” she shouted up. He turned and grinned down, pleased at having impressed her.

“Think you can bring me back?”

“Of course!”

He planted his feet and leaned back, away from the wall. “Ready to lower!”

“Lowering!” Annalee did a couple of stuttersteps forward as she took his full weight, but the anchor held fast, and he easily walked backward down the wall as she fed rope through the descender. Soon he was next to her. He walked close, facing her, and quietly said “off belay.”

She found herself leaning in as she replied “belay off.” Her heart pounded. It was a wrench when he turned away to unhook and remove his helmet.

After a quick consult they decided it would still be cool enough for one more ascent after breakfast. They coiled the ropes and gave the gear a quick once over before settling down to eat. They’d brought pretty much the same things: yogurt and apples, peanut butter and bananas. She shared a Danish carefully wrapped in foil as a special treat. Afterward they both smelled of cinnamon and vanilla icing, and she imagined how his lips would taste. They chatted, comparing notes on climbs they’d done before and mutual acquaintances at the climbing gym.

“What do you think about that line?” he pointed to a route thirty feet to the right of where they’d ascended – at least, where he’d ascended – an hour before.

“I dunno.” She was embarrassed to admit that she might not be up to it. Of course, she’d had breakfast and the rock no longer sheltered slippery pockets of dew. But the new climb was definitely harder, maybe a 5.15. It was at the very outer edge of her abilities.

“Come on. You can do it. I’ll go first so you can see the holds.”

Annalee laughed. “Yeah, like my little t-rex arms could reach your holds!”

He made a face, then pushed again. They debated for a while, Annalee feeling increasingly uncomfortable.

“Look,” he said, exasperated, “they put us together because you said you wanted to get better. This will help you get better. And it will be a nice change of pace for me.”

Annalee was stung by the condescension that slipped into his voice. “Okay. Okay! I’ll give it a try. But you saw how I did over here. And I’m gonna be slow.” The explanations bubbled up defensively. She really didn’t want to do this. “How about I belay you, and I’ll try another time?”

“C’mon.” He locked eyes again and she flushed. “You did great the first try. You were probably just hungry. Like you said – it was my idea to come out before dawn.”

She found herself wanting to impress him. “Yeah. You’re right. I’m just. Well. It’s a tough route. I’m not sure I can make it.”

“You can.” He leaned forward, touching his forehead to hers. “Annalee, you can do this.”

“Okay. If you say so. But I probably won’t make. And if by noon I'm blubbering like a baby, I'll be screaming your name and begging you to save me.”

“You promise?” he teased, then relented. “Nothing to worry about, cowgirl. I gotcha.” He smiled radiantly and suddenly grasped her hand. Turning it over, he looked at her raw fingers and scraped knuckles. “You’re a good sport, you know that?” Then he kissed the back of her hand, tickling it with his beard. Her breath hitched. He sprang up and began setting up.

“Okay, okay. Left hand up and a little to the right.” His voice held her up as she reached for the next hold. She gripped and tried to relax. She’d been on the rock for almost two hours, slipping and trying again, slipping and trying again, prodded back each time by the desire to please him. “Right hand straight up about a foot.” Reach, pull, step, lift, stretch. She no longer wanted to get to the anchor.

“Take.”

“What’s wrong, cowgirl?”

“I’m tired. I’m not gonna make it. I need to come down. Take!”

“You can do it. Just try.”

“I AM trying!” Tears of frustration leaked into her voice. “TAKE!” She held her breath, waiting for him to tighten the slack. To take her weight.

“No. I’m not going to help you give up.”

“Please?”

“No. I’m really disappointed in you, Annalee.”

She held fast with her right hand and pulled the left off the rock to stretch out a cramp. Her center shifted and both legs started shuddering. Typewriters. That’s what her mother had called it when that happened. She leaned in again, resting her knees against the rock and slowly stretching out one leg at a time.

“I’m really sorry. But I’m getting cramps and my legs won’t hold me much longer.” Annalee wiped the sweat from where it was collecting in her eyebrows, leaving a bloody chalk line across her forehead. “Please? Take?”

The rope, instead of drawing upward, slipped down past her shoulder.

“Adam?”

Annalee tried to turn, but she was stretched too far, spread-eagled against a granite cliff forty-five feet above the forest.

“Adam?” The weight of the rope was pulling it down faster and faster until it sang in her ear.

“I’ll try, Adam. Please! Take? Please? I’ll do my best!”

The fused plastic end of the rope whipped against her cheek, leaving a stinging welt. She automatically slapped her hand to the injury with a gasp, then clutched at the rock when the mass of the rope tugged at her middle, drawing her backwards. Drawing her down.

“Help me! Please Adam, help me!”

The blood on her fingers made them slippery. Annalee gingerly wiped them on her shirt, working her way through a rotation of stretching, fighting the exhaustion and trembling. She reached for handholds, waved her toe against the wall seeking toe holds, imagined climbing blindly down. She was lost. She waited, but knew. She was lost.

Tally

Somewhen along the way he told me that any pair of people has a finite number of words. One hundred twenty thousand, to be precise, spooling out like thread. When the words are depleted, the relationship ends as abruptly as Atropos cutting a thread in her tapestry.

I hoarded my words after that, making do with short phrases, dropping the flowery language I had used before. I think it was a relief to us both, my silence. I no longer felt obliged to move conversations along, chattering to fill the empty spaces. He no longer had to sift through the chaff of words to find meaning. Our conversations grew more intense, more considered. We moved more slowly with each other. We listened more deeply.

I found myself counting. I stopped sharing the dross of the day, instead offering a single well crafted gem of a story. When I spoke he paid absolute attention to my every word. It felt like we were dating again. I came to see his reticence as wisdom, his brevity, profound.

Still I tallied. I sat up late at night, comforted by his sleepy sighs, trying to recall every one of our conversations. I reconstructed and deconstructed the intoxicating wordplay of our first dates when we had explored politics and philosophy and favorite television shows. We had compared books and personal histories, travels and adventures. Nothing had been out of bounds. No limits had been imposed on our banter. I came to regret words wasted in trying to impress him.

I took to writing notes for the little things. Grocery store, get milk. This tactic required strategy, lest it become awkward. Sticky notes on the door jamb, found after I left for work. Dry erase reminders on the bathroom mirror. Texting was a godsend, although I fretted that even those brief messages counted against me.

I marshaled my anxiety, confining it to five minutes at the end of each day. Hiding in my office I would write down the day's number, dropping the tiny shred of paper in an old mason jar, cringing as the drifts grew deeper. I wrote in many colors on minuscule slips of paper that pressed against the glass in a mosaic, slowly building a picture of the passing days. Toward the bottom I could see days in which I wasted thousands of words foolishly spent on gossip. With time and practice I pared the totals down. Three hundred. One hundred twenty five. Fifty.

We hurtled toward 120,000 and I found myself gasping in fear, clinging wordlessly to him until he peeled me loose and begged for an explanation. But how could I give him words, when doing so brought the end nearer? I shrugged and shook my head, and he looked sadly away.

Meals became strained. He spoke, and I wondered if his dialogue counted against us. I tried using hand signals, but we both became impatient with my gesturing. His anger grew to match my desperation. I tried to explain to my friends, but they brushed my concerns aside. One told him of my fears, and he took me to a therapist. She prescribed Xanax and several articles about anorexia and control disorders. I fired her. At home I curled up with him on the couch, relishing our quiet time together.

We passed one hundred thousand, and I grew tongue tied. I gave up the pleasantries of “good morning” and “good night”, dropped “please” and “thank you”. I tried to slow time by not speaking of it. He looked at me askance, and grew quieter, too. I rejoiced. He slipped to the far end of the couch.

He left at 117,232. I tried to shout that we had more words, more days, we could continue. He gave me a speech which I should have treasured, but was to busy counting to hear. When he turned his back I wanted to beg, but I couldn't make a sound. I'd forgotten how.

Bits and pieces of his last talk come to me in my dreams. I write the words down and drop them in the re-purposed mason jar. Sometimes I try and make them into sentences. Into sense. Friends tell me it had nothing to do with the tally. That we lost our connection when we no longer talked. But I know I must have miscounted. That's the only explanation that makes sense.

Crawlspace

His knees grew damp from the cold dirt under the house, even through the double-thickness of canvas. Good. He must be getting close to the broken line. He'd been crawling around in the near dark for a good half hour, cursing the idiots who'd run a water line through a crawlspace, no matter that it wasn't really a cold climate. Of course the damn thing had broken during a super cold spell. And of course the homeowners were out of town. According to the water company the meter had been spinning like crazy for at least a week. They'd finally gotten hold of the family, and the man had called him from some sunny spot in Florida. Friend of a friend recommendation. Work was slow and he needed the money for the holidays, so he took the job on the promise that they'd pay when they got back in a couple of weeks. He'd leave an invoice in their mailbox when this shit was over. 

The handyman craned his neck the best he could, following the lines and ciphering out hot and cold, electrical and gas. The maze was even more complex than usual. Old construction. His right hand splashed down into a wrist deep channel of icy water that flowed sluggishly over his fingers and the flashlight. Fuck. He yanked up, smacking the back of his head hard against the rough cut joists above and spraying himself with mud as he shook the flashlight to dash off the water. It dimmed, glowed bright, dimmed again, then held steady. Thank god for that at least. He looked down at the water, following the stream with his eyes and straining to see where it had come from. It shouldn't have been flowing. He'd turned the water off at the street at least forty-five minutes ago. Didn't matter. He was getting close. 

He shifted to the left to avoid the water, wiping his muddy hand on his shirt. Moving forward slowly he realized the stretch of dirt before him was a quagmire of mud just this side of frozen. Ugh. That was going to add a big-ass PITA charge to the bill. Not sure how he'd explain it, but there was no way he was going to crawl through four inches of muck for a stranger and not bill extra. Goddamn it. He'd never make it home in time for the game. He reached back with his left hand and dragged his plumbing toolbox forward, hoping the dented metal was sound enough to keep out most of the mud. He'd hate to have to wash all his tools on top of the rest of this shit. Goddamn it.

He looked up again, slowly shining his light along the glinting pipes. At least they were copper. Switching up from galvanized or god-forbid PVC would have been an even bigger nightmare. Finally he saw the break. It was big, at least four inches long. The pipe had bulged and split like lips where the water inside had frozen. Strange that it was so far under the house, where the cold shouldn't be so bad. Didn't matter. It was a pretty simple fix. Maybe he'd get home in time after all. 

The man dragged through the mud on his knees, his boots becoming cumbersome as the ankles filled with slime and the toes grew damp. Fuck a duck. He kept as upright as possible despite the low ceiling, and used his hands only to drag the toolbox and hold the flashlight. Below the hole he sat back on his knees, leaning awkwardly to fit under the low clearance. With the pipe cutter he sliced the copper on either side of the break. He measured and cut a length of fresh pipe then moved into the process of flux, fit, solder. The heat and light from the blowtorch was a welcome respite from the cold that was biting deeper and deeper into his fingers and damp pants. He placed the new pipe and soldered one join. His angle was awkward, and his neck and back were starting to ache from the bend and the cold. He reached upward a final time, feeling the rough wood of the joists combing through his hair as he twisted himself into a good position. Finally he got the last joint done, and turned to place the torch and wire back in the box.

Suddenly his knee sank and sank some more. There was no bottom. Hands full of tools and a flashlight that shouldn't get any more wet, he vainly flung his arms up and to the right, trying desperately to shift his balance. It didn't matter. He prepared himself for a face full of mud, bracing for the chill as it oozed down his collar. Shit. Fuck. Damn! He held up the light as high as possible, hoping to keep it dry. The landing was soft and slow. Shoulder. Elbow. Face. Nose and top of head. But he didn't stop. The mud grabbed him, wrapping icy fingers up into his shirt, down his waistband. It oozed over him as he slid further and further sideways until he was, impossibly, upside-down and the mud thinned and he sank, kicking his feet up, grabbing with his heels at the edge -- what edge?!? -- and still he sank, muscular arms too dense to float. Then the flashlight was under and the dirty water glowed yellow and dim for a moment and he realized that he'd fallen into an abandoned septic tank. And still he sank, twisting desperately to get upright but the light failed and he couldn't tell up from down and his clothes were thick and heavy canvas and cotton and his jacket was good for weather, but not water. His boots sank faster and finally he was upright but still there was no bottom and the mud closed in above his head, a bizarre science experiment of bone dry dirt and water that had flowed and filled for days.

The homeowners were a little puzzled as to why the handyman hadn't turned the water back on at the street, but they figured it was a safety measure. They waited a couple of weeks for the bill and when none came they tried calling, but the voicemail box was full and after a couple of tries they kind of forgot about it. It was his problem, not theirs.