Every block from north to south was slush, filling potholes lake-sized and deep enough everyone without a lifted truck wished they had one. The sidewalks were worse, part frozen and crackling in some spots, liquid dog shit in others. It stunk. One hour the sky was summer bright, the next winter grey, undecided what season it ought to be but mostly—it just stunk of early spring.
Bike lanes were few and far between, and in this weather it would be too easy to get sprayed or hit or spilled over the rubble that passed for asphalt. So he rode on streets some places and sidewalks on others earning middle fingers and hollers from cars. The center of town was all big box stores and car dealerships and fast food joints, colourless but for signage.
By the time he arrived at Home Depot, avoiding the goose pond for a parking lot, his feet were soaked. He stuck his bike in the metal rack, no lock, and went through the doors near the garden center, strode past customer service, the checkouts, paints, rugs, washers and dryers, most people ignoring him as his boots squelched over the concrete. An abandoned cart, he pushed it to tools.
Ryobi. DeWalt. Milwaukee. All the customers minding their own business and all the employees were elsewhere. Mentally he checked off some wishlists as he loaded the cart. Drills. Grinders. A couple things no one asked for—impulsive grabs. A sawzall, a fistfull of shit off an endcap.
Then he pushed the cart outside, unhooked some bungee cord from the basket of his bike, and played Tetris with the boxes before riding again through the slush.
***
At the back of the restaurant near the garbage bins—avoiding the seagulls, co-workers in stained aprons smoking and talking under a cloud of mostly tobacco, some pot—Danny stood off by himself, cigarette in hand, watching the guy on the bicycle approach with a spray of brown water.
“What you got for me?” the cyclist asked.
An exchange was made. Danny took most of the tools from the basket—brilliant job stacking, wow—in exchange for about a hundred wholesale dollars of cocaine the bicyclist would be cooking into crack and now Danny had to figure out where to stick all these tools. What the fuck did he know about selling tools? He’d get his money’s worth, and more, even if he didn’t know the difference between a drill and his ass.
“The fuck you gonna do with all that?”
“Stick it in the freezer.
“Alright.”
“How much you want for the sawzall?”
A car idling in the parking lot hardly noticed the exchange. The man inside had already been fed and watered and since the place was near enough to the counselling center where he waited to pick up his niece, he adjusted the seat back to catch a nap.
Danny knocked at the window. “Hey.”
King didn’t open his eyes. “‘Sup.”
“Where you been?”
“Working.”
“Working now?”
“Waiting for Ashley. Then I got errands.” He had word his ex was in town.
“Wanna buy a sawzall?”
“The fuck am I gonna do with a sawzall, Dan?”
“I got more than that. Come take a look.”
King popped his seat upright, rolled the window all the way down, leaned out to squint past the black-speckled plow hills decorated in faded Tim’s cups and cigarette butts, over to the treasure heap of hot goods, and saw nothing of interest.
He said no thanks, and Danny asked “You sure?”
“Eh, let me see the grinder.”
Milwaukee, decent. King vaguely recalled his uncle needed one for something. Crunching ice brought him back to task. His niece had rounded the corner and was making her way to the passenger door. Time to go.
None of the cooks glanced at Danny as they all marched back inside. He hauled the things to the walk-in freezer, stacked the boxes next to frozen fish.
“I’m guessing you won a draw, right?” a waitress asked, two plates to each hand.
“Wanna buy some sandpaper?”
She only laughed and left the kitchen.
***
King’s ex-wife drove a silver Hyundai Accent that King was likely paying for. That money is supposed to go to the kids. He read the license plate over and over, as if it might change and would no longer be her car. Had to be sure.
“And there it is,” he said into his knuckle, gripping the wheel. He swore the curtains moved in an upstairs window.
“There what is?” Ashley asked.
“I bet you she’s in there—”
“I have homework.”
“—If she’s sleeping with that goof I swear to god—”
“We’ve been here for 40 minutes.”
“Look!”
The front door of the townhouse opened, Cindy stepped out, laughing at an unseen figure in the doorway. King had parked too far to get a good enough view. Bet he hides cause he’s so fucking ugly, bet he’s taking all my child support, smoking it—
“What?”
King growled. “What’s so amusing, Miss Cindy?” What’s she see in that guy? Drugs?
The silver Hyundai backed out of the driveway, and King turned the key, started following. She was heading north. East. Toward the lake. I’d plow her right into the lake. She turned left. McDonald's drive-thru. He waited across the street. Drove ahead, watching for the Hyundai in his rear-view mirror. Did a u-turn on squealing tires and ignored the honks, she was almost too far out of view, no time for polite traffic, red light, no one coming, drive right through, there she is.
“Can you take me home?”
“I gotta know where she’s going.”
“You’re divorced.”
He said nothing, but his foot pressed that much harder on the gas.
She had been grabbing supper, how nice. Back at the townhouse. King parked in a spot with a better view, this time. Fuck, she had a key. Let herself in.
“I gotta pee,” Ashley said.
His eyes burned to watch his ex walk through a door that wasn’t the one he paid rent for.
It began to snow. The sun was setting. Ashley had let herself out of the car, did whatever she needed to do, came back in the car, kicked the grinder away from her feet. King broke his eyes from that house with his ex’s Hyundai parked out front long enough to get an idea. He had visions—grand visions of taking the grinder to her car. Show that bitch. In his mind he gave artistic flourish to the words I AM A WHORE on the hood of her car. He picked up the red box and started tearing at the tape.
“It’s tool only,” Ashley said.
King stopped. Turned the box. All the anger and noise in his head hushed so fast it made a vacuum of thought. “Tool only!” The vacuum popped. He slammed his back into the seat. “Danny!” The rage returned, transmogrified. “Fucking guy ripped me off! I need the battery, goddamnit! You know how expensive those things are?”—backing up and turning the wheel sharp—“don’t know how to steal nothing—tool only, Danny, you stupid sack of shit!”
***
The dusting of snow had his toes frozen, but inside the big tin box he was starting to thaw. He had watched for security and chose a good spot to camp. It was quiet amongst the tall shelves but for the birds up in the rafters and the shuffling of night stockers picking up boxes or putting them down or sliding them, go down the aisle, do it again. He’d shift his camping spot, didn’t plan on sleeping while he waited for them go on lunch. Big money to be made stealing batteries. They were locked up tight.
He’d be gone in the morning. The snow turned to rain. No more overnights for a while.
What was your inspiration for this ? Great stuff.. this is pretty real...