Mysterical-E

He Said, She Says

Liquid Dynamite
by M.G. Allen

There was dirt between his toes again when he woke up. The bottom half of the covers were damp with dirt, mud, leaves, and straw. The shovel lay askance in the hallway like a thick wooden tripwire. Filthy footprints and brown clumps were strewn down the hallway.

Sleep digging again?

This was the third night in a row. No, wait, fourth. He could never remember doing it; such a labor intensive quirk. You went to sleep and did things you never remember. For years his ex accused him of snoring, yet he’d swear that he never snored. Sleep is a kind of amnesia after all.

But this…

Sleep talking, sleep walking…easy to do while you’re sleeping. Digging a hole in the back yard? Not so easy.

He sat up on the bed, fingers feeling around the nightstand for his Camels. He smoothed back his long straight brown hair and lit one. Almost a decade ago, one summer as a teenager, he worked for a swimming pool installer, digging dirt for eight bucks an hour. It was the hardest he had ever worked in his life. That should have been aversion therapy against shovels, he thought, Yet here I am digging holes in my sleep.

The last two days he just laughed it off, contributing it to the beers and shots he’d had with William and Hal at the Crow’s Nest over the weekend. He had been out drinking quite a bit lately. Beers and shots made him do crazy things, often altered his behavior. Last night he hadn’t drunk at all, just sat in his living room on the computer surfing around on Facebook. He had one beer only. The crazy spell should have passed, right?

Ah, fuck it. Work soon. The clock said 6:34. Usually he woke up early to flick on the Marshall amplifier and play guitar before getting the work day started. He walked over to the massive amp but drifted passed it, puffing his cigarette, pushing open the back screen door to the patio deck. Down there an inner voice spoke to him. It was through the collapsed portion of the chain link fence, about fifteen to twenty feet through the tangled brush where the ground softened.

He hiked down to it. Birds twittered in the trees overhead. The hole was gone. What the hell? He couldn’t tell where the hole had been. It was swallowed up in brush, leaves and vines. He backtracked from the fence and tried to find it again. No luck. It was gone. Curtis-baby, you are a freak, he thought to himself. Mum’s the word on this, for sure. He might be tempted to let it slip to Frank, his brother, at the shop, or maybe while they were in the truck on route to a job. He could just forget about the whole thing now.

By the time his was in the van, the newly embossed Frey Brother’s Plumbing logo on the side, pulling into their office park, it was a normal day: a cool sunny morning, a metal thermos of coffee by his side, frost rimming the dusty windshield. Inside, Frank was rambling to the newly hired receptionist, a Styrofoam cup in his hand, entertaining himself more than her with his personal brand of small talk. Andy and Bill checked in, two other employees, currently working on a sewer line replacement across town. Other guys trickled in. A huddle formed around his desk. Frank got into boss mode as he received the latest updates on their work.

It was a routine day. By ten o’clock they were driving around unclogging some abused drains. With the sun high in the sky, they went for lunch, to Frank’s favorite Bar-Be-Que joint, the Frisky Pig. His older brother, the more gregarious of the duo, chatted up with the owners. They were long time friends of the family. Fred and Ellen were always there, either cooking or taking orders.

He and Frank parted ways mid-afternoon, Frank repairing a leaking water heater while Curtis filled up the van for a faucet installation twenty miles out of town.

At home that evening he dialed up his ex-wife, Sherry. She had mentioned to him that she wanted to borrow the riding lawn mower so he needed to touch base. It was better to take the initiative and follow up, to set a day and time more convenient to his personal schedule. Running a business trained you against procrastination.

Carl’s gonna do yard work? Like to see that. He probably never held a rake his whole life, the cream-puff rich boy. Sherry hated being out in the sun too long due to a childhood bout with
photodermititis, rendering her only able to do yard work in cloudy weather. She was a real freak about sun exposure.

“You know I don’t get out in the sun like that,” she had said over the phone when he joked about her getting up on the mower. Previously he would drive to her house and cut it but not since Carl started hanging around again. He and Sherry had split up on good terms after a two year marriage. The whole affair had felt so forced anyway; they were too young, unprepared for commitment, jumping into something before they got their own psychological issues worked out. Judging from other people he knew it was pretty common for young marriages to fail.   A lot of his previously hitched friends and acquaintances were now divorced.

Their marriage had been lackluster and awkward to say the least. It was only a matter of time before one of them cheated. Sherry took the initiative here. With Carl. Her infidelity wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It gave him the upper hand, allowed him to depart from the failed union without losing his house or any favored belongings. On the positive side, being married made him feel adult minded enough to accept a plumbing apprenticeship from Frank then going in as half-owner. Now, he was twenty eight years old with his own house, a paid off automobile and an ever-increasing salary.

He was even starting a band. Trying to, anyway.   He, Hal and William had started doing a few open mikes around town. He played lead guitar. Hal sang and played bass. William pounded the drums. They were getting less horrible as the weeks went by. They had not decided on a name, just getting on stage, Hal saying, “Hi there, I’m Hal Taylor, this is Cutis and William. We’re gonna play some songs. Please don’t walk out.”
They didn’t. The audience stuck around and actually seemed to like them. Curtis was starting to feel rocker star-ish. About a week ago he had bedded his first groupie.

Things were looking up.

Sherry didn’t answer so he left a voice mail. Even better, very efficient. At home with his XBox, William called and tried to drag him out for beers. Curtis declined. It had been a long day, he was bushed. He said he would definitely hit them up for beers soon. He would be ready to practice probably next Monday.

In the morning: dirty sheets, a shovel in the hallway, propped against the wall. Putting on his slippers he squished down the little path and through the busted fence. It had been raining, the sky turgid and gray, the air smelled like mud. The hole was back, a puny one like he had given up halfway through digging. No wait. There were several inches of water in it from the rain. That could have made it seem deeper. Rain? He dug in the rain? Without waking up? The bed sheets weren’t even wet. He mentally dropped the subject.
Just go to work. Forget about this crap. He did.

Frank was in a shit mood all day. He was pissed that one client was refusing to pay a bill because they weren’t able to adequately clear the drain. They did a pretty thorough job of snaking it but supposedly it got clogged again, later that day, so she says, the crazy old hag.

“Those pipes are corroded to hell and back,” scoffed Frank, after Katie explained the conversation she’d had with the old woman.

“She needs them replaced but too cheap to do it. Can’t have it both ways, you know.”

“She probably dropped food into it or sumthin else.” said Curtis. “The least little thing could clog up those drains.”

“No kiddin’.”

Curtis had set it up therefore Frank was none too happy with him. He didn’t have the stern, no-nonsense that Frank had when dealing with clients. Frank was the fiery action man; Curtis was the passive one. Quite a pair they were. I’ve got my own kind of fire he always said to himself it just takes me a little longer to get there. It was slow moving but his fire was explosive when it arrived. Like liquid dynamite. Whether he was jamming guitar on stage or cranking a drain snake at work… liquid dynamite.

Frank dialed up the woman and threatened her with a collection agency. Curtis sniggered from his swivel chair. What a joke. That was too much trouble. Frank rarely ever used them, especially for such a small charge.

When he hung up, Curtis asked, “Just write it off?”

“Yep,” he replied.

Frank was too preoccupied to inquire much about Curtis. As far as big brother Frankie was concerned Curtis’ life was storybook perfect, no wives or kids, a thick income, girls popping in and out of his bed fast as an assembly line, the way married family men viewed young single men.
Bachelorhood was never quite that easy. Having a wife meant you would have groceries stocked in the cupboards, clean clothes, and a tidy house.

It’s not sexist to say women have a knack for those kinds of things; it’s reality. They place domestic stuff higher on their priority lists. Or maybe they’re better at multi-tasking. Maybe it was bachelorhood that was making him crack: spending too much time alone. He was disappointed that the “groupie” girl he met at Rock-a-Feller’s wasn’t more interesting. Maybe he should find a girl to go on a normal date with.
We could rent a movie and cook some food, giggle, talk about art or something. Then fuck. Something romantic, you know. He didn’t want a steady girl but maybe he needed one.

The next morning he didn’t bother going down beyond the fence. Fresh dirt and mud in the bed. The shovel was in the den this time. I’m still digging a hole in my sleep. Got it. I can dig it, man. Funny joke. Ha ha!
The big gaping hole would be there; maybe it would qualify as a trench by now. Perhaps he could spot Beijing through it, say Hi to people there. He’d always wanted to visit the Great Wall.

I’m like a dog burying my bones he thought. Bones. Thinking that word made his stomach hitch. More than a hitch. He ran into the bathroom and vomited. Fifteen minutes later he had washed his mouth out, changed his filthy shirt and pants and thought no more about bones and especially not about dogs.

Work was work. Frank was in a more chipper mood. Curtis told him about the band he was forming with the guys. Frank said it was a nice idea.

“That should help get you out of your rut a bit.”

Strange he should say that. Curtis hoped he wouldn’t launch into some kind of lecture. He had heard it all before: get out there, meet another girl, get your life together, blah blah blah…

Instead he just stared airily across the cluttered office, “Ah, the rock star life.”

He drummed his fingers on the desk.

“What ya’ll gonna name it? The band, I mean.”

“I’m thinking Liquid Dynamite,” he joked. “Or Clobber!”

Frank belly laughed, slapped the stack of papers on his desk. Every plumber knew these products. They depended on them. These were powerful acids plumbers pour down drains to dissolve clogs. These liquids were fiery and dangerous. Like good rock and roll.

“That’s good: plumber chemicals and Rock n’ Roll, a mighty fine combination indeed.”

He thought a second.

“I got a better one.”

He winked and pumped his fist suggestively in the air.

“The Pipe Layers.”

Curtis forced a laughed and retorted, “You got me beat there.”

“Damn right, son! You’re a Frey brother, know-da-mean? Frey brothers got…” Finally realizing a young woman was across the room sitting at her computer, he stopped abruptly and giggled.

“Sturdy pipes!”

Great hearty laughs. Katie just shook her head, blushing.

“Sorry, Katie!”

He saw that she was holding back a smile. You can’t be too uptight working for the Frey brothers.

They were booked solid for the day, hydro-jetting a drain with other guys in the crew. Around lunchtime, while munching Bar-Be-Que sandwiches, Sherry called and asked if he could bring over the riding lawn mower. She needed to cut the grass.

“Surely you’re not getting up on that thing, Sher.”

“You know I don’t get out in the sun like that. Somebody else is gunna cut it for me.” He knew who that somebody was. She wouldn’t say it. She rarely mentioned Carl in their conversations. Thank God for that.

“How’s Albert doing lately?” she asked sounding cheerful.

That name struck him like a rock to the head. He closed his eyes.

“Oh, Albert.”

“He’s okay, right? Please tell me nothing happened…”

“No, no. Get a grip, Sherry. Of course, he’s fine. In fact I took him to the vet. Yesterday.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing. Just a normal check-up. He’s as healthy as can be.”

“God, I sure miss that little devil. Can you bring him when you bring the mower? Mind if I keep him for a week?”

“Sure.”

His voice almost cracked. He collected himself.

“When do you need them both?”

“This weekend. I’m not sure exactly when but when I hear back from my landscaper, I’ll know the exact day and time.”

“All righty.”

They hung up.

He met up with William and Hal at the Crow’s Nest. They high-fived him and pressed him for details about the girl he took home the night before.

“We got our first groupie,” said William raising his beer. “That means something.”

“It just means I got laid,” said Curtis.

“I could have taken her but I’m not into fatties,” said Hal.

Curtis popped him on the shoulder.

“She was not fat. Well, not real fat.”

“Not fat. But not really hot.”

“Opinions vary.”

“It’s good publicity, nonetheless,” said William.

They toasted to Curtis.

Three bands were set to play, pretty exciting for a chilly Saturday night. Hal was a little peeved that they hadn’t scheduled another practice session. Their schedules were unpredictable; both Hal and William had kids and Curtis sometimes worked late, usually not but often enough. Watching the first band doing their sound check, jealousy simmered among them. They should be on stage putting on a show, not sitting out in the audience.

The first band played their set: mostly REM and Pearl Jam covers, typical FM mainstream rock. Snore. The next one was a little better, blues based, old timey and rootsy: Lead Belly, Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters…They even played an R.L. Burnside song.

A few beers and shots later, Curtis spotted Sherry’s “landscaper” perched at the bar. Carl. With a girl, even. Curtis wasn’t in the know about their status but he was quite sure Sherry wouldn’t approve of this. He knew she wasn’t too comfortable with an open relationship. She expects a certain amount of loyalty. At least on the surface. Ole smoothie Carl justified his suspicion by quickly removing his arm from the girls’ shoulder as soon as they locked eyes. That big toothy smile quickly emerged. He raised his drink in acknowledgment, a gesture that spoke nothing. He didn’t appear embarrassed, ashamed, annoyed, nothing, so typical of him. The guy exuded pure confidence with zero to prop it up.

“That’s the guy?” asked William.

“Yep. That’s my buddy Carl.”

“I think I saw him at Rock-A-Feller’s last night,” remarked Hal. “He looks familiar.”

“So what?” said Curtis, getting annoyed. He didn’t want to get annoyed.

“Do you think he’s taunting you? Just a thought.”

“I wish he would,” he replied. “That would make things much easier. This fake nice guy routine is killing me.”

“He’s putting a burn on you,” said William. “He’s being passive-aggressive. That’s the worst. He knows you’re trying to be nice and let things go and he’s taking advantage of it.”

“You’ve been into the books lately, Willy-yam,” snarked Hal. “You’re turning into a regular Dr. Phil.”

“Knowledge is power, as they say.”

“Whatever.”

“If I let him get to me, that’ll just fuel him even more,” Curtis mused over his beer. “Let’s drop it.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“I’ll second it.”

They drank.

But he didn’t really enjoy it, not with that thick bastard overshadowing the evening; it would be an early night, no doubt about that. After a few more rounds they trotted out to the parking lot.   Carl had made the unfortunate move of parking his shiny Benz in the back. That area was way too secluded. They couldn’t resist. It was time for a pit stop before heading on. They surrounded the little car and giggled like children at their handiwork.

Curtis woke up to find a body in the hole. But he hadn’t been sleeping. Plastic containers were scattered around. He was crying, his safety glasses and paper mask kept threatening to slip off. The fumes around him were heavy.

The day after peeing on his Benz at the Crow’s Nest, Carl came storming up to his house. This was Sunday afternoon. He heard the car pulling up the gravel road. He was not surprised to see him.

“You bastards peed on my Benz!” he shouted, towering over the little car, pointing at him, his fancy wristwatch twinkling in the sun. “You’re gonna pay for a new paint job, you and your loser friends!”

“Hey, Carl, just settle down. We did no such thing.” Curtis kept his voice level, propping his shoulder against the porch post. He could play the cagey angle, too.

“People pee back there by the dumpster all the time. Maybe their aim was off.”

“So how do you know where it was parked? You just admitted your guilt!”

“Yeah? So what? You’re not welcome here. Get off of my property. Right now.”

Carl didn’t budge.

“Hey, I understand if you don’t like me. You’re entitled to your opinion. But don’t take your anger out on my car. Do you know how much this thing costs? Obviously not! Maybe I could ruin something of yours if you had something to ruin!”

He was on a roll.

“All you got is that rolling toilet of a van, a dirty beat up truck, that old falling-down clapboard shack behind you-”

“Oh, clapboard, my ass!”

Now Curtis was revving up, started explaining how everything was paid off, that at least he owned all this stuff. He spat that Carl was a phony dirtbag nobody liked, a failed bankrupt ex-business man up to his ears in debt… Albert ran out from the backyard and started barking, his old half-Collie half Labrador pal.

“Who was that gal with you last night, by the way?”

“That’s none of your business.”

He could barely hear him over Albert.

“Quiet, Albert! Quiet down!”

“And look at that freakish mutt…”

Of course, Carl had to start insulting Albert now, leaning over the chain-link fence. Neither was listening to each other by this time, just hurling insults. Carl slipped through the rusty gap in the fence where the gate had been once upon a time.

Curtis prepared himself for a fight. Finally. He was going to enjoy this. He wasn’t going to get it. Instead of coming towards him like a real man, Carl stopped at the middle of the walkway and pointed at the yapping dog.

“I bet you love this dirty old mutt. Hey. Whoa. If he bites me, I swear, Curtis…”

Sure, Albert was getting close to him. He was baring his teeth but anyone could see he wasn’t about to bite him. He didn’t have the strength. He was an old dog, for God’s sake. You couldn’t. You shouldn’t. How could somebody..? In horror he watched Carl draw back his foot, clenching his fists, gritting his teeth. His foot connected with Albert’s side. A pitiful yelp from the old dog, a ten-year-old dog…in bad health.
Albert skittered, regained his footing, hobbled off, dazed, and then collapsed in the yard. In a blurry, sluggish haze (like liquid dynamite sizzling) Curtis spotted an old rusty pipe wrench on the railing. He had dozens of pipe wrenches and assorted tools around his house, sprinkled hither and yon. Even a rusty wrench or two in the grass could be found. Rusty tools sunk into the high weeds like Carl soon was.

Carl was bleeding and oozing spit from his mouth. He had bashed his face in. Two blows did the job. Curtis gave him an extra one for good measure.

The rest of the afternoon was a slow awful drama, crying, loading up Albert to take to the vet to be cremated. The vets in blue scrubs patted and consoled him as he sat in the lobby. He didn’t waste any time getting rid of Albert. It was too painful. He couldn’t stand to see his old friend dead and lifeless so soon.

Plus he had to clear his mind. He could allow no distractions for the work that lay ahead.
He sank Carl’s Benz into a river that night. Before going home, he drove by the shop to pick up an extra case of Liquid Dynamite.

***