Inside
the cabin of his father’s old pickup, Eddie sat with a notebook and a pen. The
sounds of Bach pulsated through his earbuds. One bud was nestled in his right
ear, the other wrapped around his neck and under the collar of his plaid shirt.
Using his Advanced English Studies binder as a flat surface, he scrawled his
thoughts. The occasional pothole caused his pen to dance across the page, but
he didn’t mind. He’d lift the pen and wait for the truck to settle back into
steady rhythm with the road before continuing. Pencils were irrelevant.
His father was
driving, humming to classic rock that squeaked through the stereo.
There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold
And she's buying a stairway to heaven.
When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed
With a word she can get what she came for.
Ooh, ooh, and she's buying a stairway to heaven
His fingers
tapped the cracked leather steering wheel to the sounds of Zeppelin. He hummed
alongside Jimmy Page, being careful not to overpower the singer. The music
played onward. The truck stopped several cars behind a red light.
The man’s eyes
scanned the streetlight up ahead. “Is this it?”
The light turned
green. The two cars ahead of him started moving. The man released the brake,
edging on the accelerator. The truck sputtered. Zeppelin continued. The truck
passed through the intersection of 80th and Club Dr.
“Oh, phew!” he
smiled. “That’s not it. I think it’s up here.”
Squinting in the
light of the morning sun, the man spotted a blue street sign that read Richards Way.
“Does that say
Richards Way? I can’t really tell.”
Eddie didn’t respond.
“I think it is. Oh, look!” he chuckled. “I guess this is the spot.” His father pointed to a large billboard that read:
COMING SOON: THE NEXT BEST THING SINCE SLICED BREAD (AND WE REALLY LOVE
SLICED BREAD)!
NEW SINGLE-FAMILY, CUSTOMIZABLE HOMES FROM THE LOW $600s
HERE AT PRISTINE
RICHARDS RANCH RESERVE
CALL 303-222-6890 FOR MORE INFORMATION
“That looks pretty nice,
huh? Richards Ranch Reserve sounds fancy.”
Eddie ignored his father. The old man’s left hand flicked the turn signal, which did nothing but emanate a click clack click clack noise in the cabin; both turn lights had burnt out a while ago and were never replaced.
The expansive road they turned onto was recently paved; the bumpiness Eddie felt on the ride earlier was gone. A stone and wood fence had been erected along the flanking street, and in the middle of an empty pile of dirt was a pile of stones and bags of cement that would one day become an ornate sign that read Richards Ranch Reserve.
“Looks like we’re here,” Eddie’s father said. “Ready for another day of honest work, my boy?”
Eddie didn’t look up from his notebook; he already knew his father was smiling. His father repeated that phrase every day, chuckling at his poor sense of humor. Three summers into this part-time job, he was over it.
“Yeah, Dad,” he sighed. “It should be fun.”
The truck rolled to a stop behind a jet-black Mercedes Benz. Eddie didn’t notice.
His father shifted the truck into park. It lurched forward. Eddie’s pen sprang free again, sending a line of black ink up two rows of text.
“Hey,” his father put his hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “Eddie, look at me.”
He did, raising his head up to face his father, expressionless.
“What
have you been working on there? Come on, you can tell me.”
Eddie
hesitated.
“I’m
just writing.”
“I
see that! But what are you writing?”
he grinned. Eddie could see the yellow stains of his teeth.
“It’s
a short story. You wouldn’t be interested.” Eddie closed the notebook. He
capped the pen and stuck it through the spirals of the notebook before sticking
both items into the binder and tossing it onto the brown dashboard.
“Whoa,
there! I may be interested. Tell me about it.” He looked down at his watch. It
was one his father had given him, one he promised Eddie would have one day. It
was made of gold, but showed age in its tarnish and scratched face.
“We still have five minutes before we have to go meet with Mr.—uh, what’s his name again?” The older man fished inside the pocket of his orange flannel shirt for a piece of paper. “Ah, Mr. Benjamin Remington is his name. You can tell me about your story until then.” He folded the paper back into his pocket. “Okay, son. Please continue.”
Eddie pursed his lips. “It’s about a superhero, kind of.”
“Tell me more.”
“You really want to hear?”
His father tapped the steering wheel several times. “Of course I do!”
A smile curled on Eddie’s face. “Well, there’s this kid, and he’s outside playing with his Captain
America doll when he hears someone yell for help. He looks around the yard and finds a—”
A man walking in front of the truck broke his concentration. The suited man held a cell phone to his ear. Eddie caught a glimpse of his tie. It had two rows of vertical houses lining a street. The man gave a quick, disgusted glance at the putrid green truck, and continued walking. He stepped up onto the curb and walked up the metal steps of a construction trailer. Using his free hand, he opened the door and disappeared. Plastered in bold font on the door was a sign that read REMINGTON HOMEBUILDERS OF AMERICA, LLC.
“I think that’s probably Mr. Remington,” Eddie said.
His father nodded. “I think you’re right.” He patted him on the shoulder. “That tie gave it away, didn’t it? Tell me about the story after we’ve gotten settled, yeah?”
“Okay, Dad.”
With one hand, his father unfastened his lap belt.
Eddie
followed suit.
“Can you please grab the toolbox for me?” his father asked. “We’ll leave the lunchboxes in here for now.”
Eddie reached into the cab and pulled the gunmetal grey box from the middle spot of the truck’s bench. He didn’t see the lunchboxes. Sighing, he slammed the door and waited for his father to wrap around. In the time it took his father to walk the length of the truck, Eddie stared at the decal on the side of the passenger door. Centered inside a circle of peeling white paint read:
FRANK’S TOTAL LANDSCAPING SERVICES:
SPRINKLER INSTALLS
Only
the company name and one service were visible to Eddie’s eyes. The other words
had been scratched out by a hand shovel over the years, replaced by rust and
steel.
“Good! I think we have everything, right?” He stuffed his hands into his front jeans pockets. “Keys, phone.” He felt around. Once confirming both items were there, he pulled out his hands and pointed to the toolbox, reciting the word “toolbox” out loud. He finished by looking into the scarred bed of the truck, where a large roll of plush Berber carpet was rolled up on the driver’s side.
“Carpet,” he whispered. He perked up suddenly, clapping his hands. “Perfect! Let’s go meet Mr. Remington.”
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