By the missile doors was a small square hatch and Kent crouched down and opened it. The hinges screamed and the sound bounced around a tunnel underneath and startled sparrows out of the creosote bushes. A tiny steel ladder dropped down a chute into blackness.
Kent brushed the rust off his hands. I’m glad you’re here, he said. I don’t know when they’re coming but they will be. The Russians, the Chinese– the Arabs. We’re going to resist. They want to take this country, they can pry it from my cold, dead hands. Come take a look and we’ll talk, said Kent. He gestured at the ladder. You go ahead.
There was something about the air. Not a smell but something cold he could feel in his lungs. He hesitated. Then held his breath and climbed down into the dark.
Evaluation
He needed a raise. To save enough money to quit. HR was six months behind on his annual evaluation. This meant they knew he’d ask.
He’d had to follow up. The meeting was this morning. 9AM. The HR head would review his evaluation. They’d have budgeted an amount. But they wouldn’t mention money unless he asked. They’d pass his request to some anonymous personage. Come back with a smaller amount. A prior evaluation noted he did not always dress for the job he wanted. He would need to wear his crisp white shirt. It was custom tailored at Men’s Wearhouse. A client. He’d had to buy it for a wedding. All cotton. No armpit stains.
He’d got up at five to iron it. Hung it on the shower curtain rod in the hope the shower steam might soften it. It didn’t. He had to spritz it down with the water gun from the iron. He took care to rinse out the chamber three times in case the old water had rust. Laid the shirt on the carpet and laid the iron on it and nothing happened. He waited for the iron to get hot. Tried again. This time it hissed. The fabric got marginally smoother. He spritzed it again. Ironed it again. It was still wrinkled. This was one section of one side of the sleeve. The whole shirt was spread out on the floor. It looked like there was a schooner sail worth of gesso white fabric left to go. He dragged the iron on the shirt intently. The correct speed took many tries to calibrate. Slow enough to flatten the shirt but fast enough to not leave iron shaped burns.
When he was done he took the tupperware of chili he’d packed the night before. And the wet smooth shirt. Not folded. Not on him. The seatbelt and his back against the car seat would mangle it into a state far worse than when he’d started. Carefully draped the long unfolded shirt over the back seat. When he got to work he parked. Carefully hoisted the shirt up and out. Carefully slipped it on. It was hard to chicken wing his left arm into the sleeve with the right arm in, without wrinkling the shirt. Hard to bring his hands to chest level to button the cuff buttons. Even this movement left an accordion of deep folds at the inner elbows. He bent his body only where this area was already ruined. Closed the car door. Locked the car. Picked up the heavy tupperware and his briefcase off the trunk lid. When he got to the dark glass door from parking garage to office, he put the briefcase down. Then the tupperware. Pulled the door open. Held it with his foot while he picked up the tupperware. The briefcase.
The meeting was nine o’clock. Later he would heat his chili. Take it to the park. Sit on the bleachers by the baseball diamond. Eat in the sun watching starlings and squirrels. A celebration. At 9:10 he got an email. We have to delay until this afternoon. Apologies.
The bleachers might be dirty. Instead he microwaved his chili. Ate in the break room. The florescent lights sputtered. Made a sound like Tuvan throat singing. He opened the tupperware. Steam twirled out. The edges of the chili were molten. Bubbling. He dipped in his white plastic spoon. Held it aloft. Regarded it.
An amoeba-shaped hunk of meat squatted in the red grease in the spoon. It formed a face. Frowned malevolently. You know what I’m going to do you, it said. To that fucking shirt.
He did know. He paused. He blew on the chili in the spoon. Hand shaking slightly. It rippled in the hot liquid like distant tyrannosaur footsteps in Jurassic Park. He waited. Waited. The searing meat hunk glowered. You think I won’t get you, faggot. It was ninety nine per cent cow and one per cent the thumb of a man from Chiapas. He’d walked miles in the dark desert under the Milky Way. Forests of dry branches, hooked spines crawling with scorpions. To work the blades overnight at the meat packing plant. What he’d loved was playing his requinto. He’d been due for a raise too.
Go ahead, pussy. You’ can’t wait forever. His hand shaking like he was reaching out to get it cut off and he stretched out his lips and the meat sensed its moment and jumped. He shifted back fast. Caught it on his black pants and his other hand instead. The soft place between his finger and thumb burned like a hornet sting. That’s right bitch, he said.
The Youth
They were on Skype. Hello baby, said Joy.
Hello beautiful
She was in her hotel uniform. White polo shirt with purple piping. Hair tied back. He could picture the big teak desk in front of her. Feel the jungle air like the bathroom after a shower. Did you do it, she said.
Yes.
OK there is only one more thing. You will get a text with an address. You need to take the drive there.
OK, then maybe–
Yes, baby. After. Bring it to Four Finger Fritz. Her mouth fought to not put vowels between the letters. Four Finger Fritz. It is very important.
And then I’ll come–
OK baby I have a guest, she said, and she made a kissy face and her fingers got impossibly huge and he was back on the home screen. Hold music.
The destination was outside Inglewood. A scrapyard. Look for the white Winnebago outside. He went on a Saturday. The hills above Burbank were on fire and the air smelled like Burn-In-Bag Match Lite charcoal smoke all the way down the 110. A client. Ty Pennington hosted cable segments on grilling targeted to dads and dads at heart. Co-branded with a gel men over 50 could rub on their thighs. They said it increased testosterone.
It was a hundred fifteen degrees. The sidewalks sprawling with pup tents and blanket forts and the buildings were plumbing parts stores that had steel cages pulled down over windows spray painted TAMIKA GOT A FAT PUSSY. He parked the black 1979 Mercedes SD with the blistering roof paint in front of a party store with a donkey pinata hanging. The side facing the window bleached white like the bones of an old fish on the beach. A skeleton with skin like pork rinds blew its way around the tents and stacks of bike frames in a black electric wheelchair. Cinder block shaped head cocked out wildly at a Stephen Hawking angle. Wrinkly loose eyelids stuttering. A barefoot man in wet yellow silk shorts ambled by with a 1987 boombox on his shoulder playing Run DMC. Another man built like Kimbo Slice speeding up the street on a 23 inch pink girl’s Huffy bicycle jumped off it at full speed. He began beating Yellow Shorts as the bike caromed into the gutter. The boom box shattered on the street with a sound like a thundercrack. The origin of the dispute was unclear.
The Winnebago was the kind with the orange and white trailer bolted on an 80’s Toyota pickup truck. The front wheel by the curb was off and the truck sat on a jack that made you want to kick it. Rusty brake caliper dangling like a bear trap. Someone had spray painted the windshield. Road cone orange letters:
CHINKER PUSSY = SIDEWAYS