Brian O’Dea
There are a dozen better things to do on a slushy Sunday afternoon than free labor, but when you drive a big red truck like Sheila, certain responsibilities are assumed. Besides, when you witness the beginning of something, you can’t help but be curious about the end.
Just three boxes, Blaine had texted. I’ll be back in June to snag it. Maybe July. You’d have my infinite favor and an open tab at Art’s Place. I hadn’t bothered to tell him I’d ditched the bottle since he left, but they make a decent burger, so the offer still had appeal. Come on, man. Please.
I didn’t mind missing the second half of the Thunder getting curb stomped on national television. Harmony had rehearsal for another couple hours, so I said sure.
Blaine had flown off to Florida months ago, but kept tethers still taut with Kylie back in Arkansas. She made the suspect choice to stay in the same house they had shared, never thinking that their love nest could turn into a mausoleum.
We all saw the writing on the wall. They became one of those couples whose on/off sign flickered more than a motel’s in a horror movie. By the end, just asking whether it was heads or tails felt like tripping a wire. Blaine taking work halfway across the country was just the coup de grâce. Kylie, bless her heart, swore they’d be fine with the confidence of someone who’d been cut but the blood hadn’t surfaced yet.
I’d been their third wheel from meet-cute through happy days. They’d both pulled me from the mud a few times, so I felt some responsibility to tie up loose laces. Hell, Kylie introduced me to Harmony after I fumbled through a salsa class, so what we are is owed in part to what they were, like a flower from a carcass.
I pass three liquor stores and five gas stations that sell beer before pulling into the driveway. Surveying the house makes me shudder. The garage is an open maw packed with cardboard boxes, rolled-up carpets, lidless tubs overflowing like fountains of junk. A stained king-size mattress looms against the wall. I’ve never seen actual combat, but I’ve been in enough Call of Duty deathmatches to spot an obvious ambush.
On the porch, a bald man stands frowning. I roll down my window and wave, but he doesn’t wave back.
“You don’t have enough room,” he says, approaching.
“I was told three boxes.” I put Sheila in park and step out. “I don’t think I can fit all this, but even if I could, I don’t have the storage.” This is a lie. I could, theoretically, fit it all somewhere, but I’m not about to tip my hand.
“Well,” the man says. “That puts us all in quite the pickle now, don’t it?” I dislike being lumped into a pronoun with him. He reaches his hand out and I take it. “Name’s Kaleb. With a ‘K’. Thanks for coming out.”
I don’t like how he spells his name, feels the need to clarify it, and assume the worst of his character for it.
“Come on inside so you can see the rest,” Kaleb says.
We walk across the patio into the living room. Huddled in the bare center like shipwrecked sailors is more stuff: bins, shoeboxes, luggage, golf bags, a dresser, and lamp with a twisted cord. Kaleb with a K looks at it like a fungus found beneath the floorboards.
I say we need to call Blaine to connect the dots. He answers but doesn’t turn his camera on. I give him a quick tour of the floor, and he starts swearing at various volumes and objects. Kaleb and I make eye contact and raise brows, but don’t bother to interrupt while he unloads.
Kylie swore she’d take care of all that shit, man, Blaine says. “We had a deal,” he says.
He asks if I am still in contact with Kylie. I say I am, but not in an ambassadorial context. He says that’s not a real word. I say that’s irrelevant to the situation. He swears again.
I know Kylie’s long gone to Kansas City with her new squeeze, but I don’t share this news. Harmony told me so one night, had me sworn to secrecy, and made the “I’m serious” face when she said it.
Blaine strings curses together, revokes all love he once held for Kylie. When he starts running out of steam, I tell him I have an open truck bed here now, but we’re in lifeboat territory. What do you want saved?
Blaine sighs, says stick to the list he texted me plus as many pots and pans as I can take. It reads like a recipe for forgotten clutter: cardboard boot box, short plastic bin, medium Rubbermaid, two tarps, and one old wooden ice cream maker bucket. Potentially, a tent.
Blaine starts spiraling into swearing and citing again how messed up it is Kylie didn’t do what she said. That he’s on his way to teach back-to-back yoga classes and this will seriously throw off his center. I say that’s unfortunate, but I need to get moving. He throws me an apology and thanks before we cut the call.
“Jilted lovers,” Kaleb says. “Can’t say I’m surprised.” He sucks across his gum and spits into a sink. “No sir, not at all.”
“Didn’t want to salt his wounds, but an ex is not a reliable exit strategy for moving.” I say. “Once it’s over, all bets are off. Everyone knows that.”
“Well,” Kaleb says. “I got cleaners coming tomorrow and new tenants Wednesday, so let’s get moving.”
Kaleb watches me identify the VIP items like a scavenger hunt with no prize. Doesn’t help me carry anything but almost cracks a smile as his piles shrink. I’m curious and open the boot box from the top of the list. There are no boots. Just crumpled paper I assume is sentimental and some loose batteries missing labels. I’ve still got half a truck bed open by the time all the list items are loaded.
“Good start,” says Kaleb. He pulls on a string in the garage’s ceiling, a ladder unfolds, and my heart descends with it. Before I know it, I’m balanced on a narrow step with Kaleb handing me more boxes, snowboard boots, and a motocross helmet.
“Well, looky here.” Kaleb whistles from upstairs. He starts handing me grow equipment, industrial bulbs, and metal planters. “Real classy. This might actually be worth a penny. You know about this?”
Blaine was the kind of guy who always had what you needed, but I never thought he had a whole shop in the attic. Back when I was in the mud, he came by and fed me quarters of Xanax like fish flakes until I drifted off to sleep. Left me a couple and said if I mixed them with booze, he’d beat my ass. As far as my friend group goes, pretty solid.
I tell Kaleb no, almost slipping on the ladder as I take a tub down. I refuse to put the grow equipment in Sheila, but say we can fill the rest of the space with whatever. We throw in a backpack with an old laptop, a slab of granite that sort of looks like Arkansas. A plastic tackle box and a torn suitcase. Kaleb tries to get me to take the tent, but it won’t zip into its case, and I won’t take something home that’s guaranteed to frustrate me.
We divide the rest into two piles: Dumpster and Donation. We go through the items like a medic who doesn’t have time to coddle. This one can be saved, this one cannot. End up finding the ice cream maker, but Kaleb says that’s actually his. I’m the world’s least enthused negotiator, so I leave it be.
Sheila’s bed is full and sitting a few inches lower than when I rolled in. I tell Kaleb that’s all I can take. Offer to help him bring a load to the dump, but turns out they’re closed on Sundays. Kaleb tells me I’m alright, the highest level of compliment this type of man can give another. He opens the fridge, and I hear the sweet pop of a Busch lite, a carbonated siren’s call I’ve missed more than I would like to admit these last six months. He looks over his shoulder and asks if I’d like one.
I do, but not just one.
I want the one that’s already open down my throat before the fizz settles, and before the buzz hits whatever else that’s around. I could pawn the laptop in the bed for at least a cheap bottle of Seagram’s, then roll that wave into Art’s if I feel like eating won’t slow me down. Stay there till the lights flicker on and scrape whoever’s still standing back to my place to keep digging. It’d be a sick night. It’d be a terrible morning, but the intensity of the shame I know I’d feel from snapping almost makes it more alluring—a hand in the fire, a fork in the socket—I’d sure feel something.
My phone vibrates. Harmony wants to have hot dogs for dinner, which doesn’t sound bad. No, not too bad at all. She tells me to pick some up on my way home, and I give the text a thumbs-up. I check the score of the Thunder game. They’re making a comeback, and if I leave now, I can catch the last quarter.
I tell Kaleb thanks but no, then climb back into Sheila and plod home, lugging all this new weight behind me.
Brian Francis O’Dea is a writer living in Fayetteville, Ar. His work has been featured in Fictional Café, Yorkshire Publishing, and ROVA Magazine. His debut nonfiction collection is forthcoming from Ozark Hollow Press.
Photo by Siebe Warmoeskerken on Unsplash