The Fall
By Christopher Bell
Desmond Gruber was fed up with his workers by eleven Thursday morning, their every breath making his shoulders shake. The Hogan job was supposed to be a breeze; an essential renovation for two nice, albeit dumb newlyweds with large pocketbooks. As the foundation gradually creaked then adjusted, Desmond knew these men weren’t right for the job. Their work ethic aside, this particular structure required that extra care from worn hands.
“Are we out of 2x6’s?” he asked Ned, who was smoking atop the empty Koi pond.
“I dunno, Desi. Aren’t there any left in the truck?”
“No,” Desmond replied. “Which is strange because I thought we’d already gotten everything we needed for the day.”
“Maybe I fucked up. You still got that receipt?”
Reaching into his jacket pocket, Desmond unfurled the Home Depot slip. On Wednesday he'd asked for eighteen 2X6's for the upstairs bedroom and twenty 2X4's for the deck off the basement. Ned had reversed the numbers, a small itch spreading to the back of Desmond’s head. “Can I get the keys to the truck?”
“Sure,” Ned dug around in his jeans, fishing out the chain. “So I guess I fucked up, huh?”
“Don’t worry about it. We need a few other things anyway.” Desmond turned away, breathing heavily as he walked alongside the house.
Clark and Frank leaned against his truck, their tools scattered in the bed. “I need you to move your shit. I gotta go for a run,” Desmond said.
“Easy boss,” Clark smirked. “There ain’t much here.” He pulled the front of his shirt out and scooped a few metal parts into it.
“All taken care of,” Frank giggled.
“I’ll be about an hour,” Desmond slammed the truck bed shut. “Get started on the deck,” he added, before hopping behind the wheel. The guys barely maintained their composure as he kicked the engine over and skidded down the gravel. Desmond didn’t care about their attitudes, childish grins reflecting in his rearview . He’d inherited the supervisor gig after Steve’s heart attack, and now there was no getting around it. They would work or their asses were out on the street; no room for leniency in a world where so many barely got by.
The highway dipped and dragged, cars cutting him off or driving too slowly in the left lane. Desmond honked a few times before turning the radio dial in search of a stress-reliever. The tape deck had chewed his copy of Back in Black two months earlier with little discretion. Since that dark day, he’d learned to tolerate dentist commercials and sharp voices swaying him further into bouts of tension and indifference.
Home Depot was even worse than the site, a teenage stooge in the lumber department stretching Desmond’s remaining nerves. He didn’t feel for the boy despite two summers at Rick’s hardware, and all the jobs that followed. Desmond wished life had remained so simple, the townsfolk beyond appreciative. Common courtesy didn’t continue as he hit thirty then forty, every subsequent customer complaining that the work never met their expectations. No one realized how much went into each individual nail holding the corners together.
Pulling out of the lot, Desmond’s stomach rumbled furiously; the standard PB&J lunch Greta had packed was insufficient considering his day. He sped up before jumping back into the right lane and signaling to the emergency turnoff. The bright red authorized vehicle signs were of no concern. He’d taken the route before, up the hill then back around, tucking away in the lot between the big rigs and authorized motor vehicles. It was the quickest way to salvation without pulling a ticket and paying the toll.
There was already a line of ten people at Burger Boss, the other rest-stop eatery workers twiddling their thumbs despite the lunchtime rush. Desmond stood impatiently, the thick smell of charred cow making him salivate. He rarely got away from life long enough to enjoy a Big Boss Special, such greasy delights often reserved for reluctant travelers on their way to somewhere else.
Bodies gradually moved forward; an eager sweat glistening above his brow by the time Desmond reached the register. “A number one,” he gargled. “Super, with a Dr. Pepper and extra sauce.”
When they finally called his number, he thanked the fast food worker and grinned all the way to an empty table. Without thinking, Desmond plopped down on a plastic chair, the legs sliding out from under him. He tumbled, a vicious thud echoing throughout the turnpike rest stop as he saw the floor then the ceiling. Other chairs and table legs mushroomed as Desmond landed squarely on his ass in the middle of the crowded dining room.
Eyes darted to his flailing legs, before he took a deep breath and quickly forced his body back up, attempting to recover some vague sense of dignity. “It’s okay, I’m alright,” Desmond said, his voice louder than expected. “I played football in high school, so this is nothing I ain’t used to.” Nobody responded as he dusted off and grabbed his doggie bag from the floor. Defeated, he walked to another section, sat and ate, despite the sting of circumstance.
His food didn’t taste right, heart jumping only to slow with each subsequent bite. Digestion was much worse, every step back through the parking lot hitting a little harder. His burps grew in size and frequency until he reached the semis and noticed an empty spot where the truck once sat. “Fuck,” he sighed, flushed by more than gravity.
He paced past the gas pumps and reluctantly called Clark at the site. His employee chuckled through the receiver before hanging up. Caught between towns, Desmond searched for nearby impound lots and dialed the closest two. Neither one gave a straight answer. He returned to a table inside and waited, watching others sit and scarf their lunches. The stench of burnt beef churned his insides; no clean stalls in the turnpike restroom, just ones with fewer stains. Desmond didn’t bother with the paper seat cover, straddling the bowl and releasing only a moment before the Brillow County Impound called and confirmed his early suspicions.
“I’m on my way,” Desmond wiped and sighed.
Clark couldn’t contain his glee as they drove another ten miles out of the way to pick up the truck. “I’ll be saving my gas receipts, boss,” he said, kicking up dust. Desmond barely responded, charging the impound fee to the company card and wishing his armpits were dry.
His drive back to the site was almost peaceful, the sun on his back while other cars passed at a regular frequency. The workers smiled as Desmond checked their progress, both parties refraining from criticism if only to save face. He found a private corner to hammer and let most of them leave early.
The Hogans swung by just before five to walk the grounds. Packing up his truck, Desmond answered all of their questions with a forced grin, each complaint barely registering. He’d turn this skeleton into a home, even though eventually people would forget his hard work and compliment some interior decorator instead.
Returning home, Desmond called out into the nothingness. “Hello? Anyone around?” He walked through the kitchen to the living room, where his stepdaughter, Marie, flipped through channels and scrolled on her phone.
“Is your mother not home?” he asked.
“No, she texted me, said she was going out with friends after work.”
“I guess that means we’re on our own for dinner.”
“I already ate,”Marie said. She was laughing.
“What?” Desmond asked.
“It’s nothing. Carson just posted a video of this fat guy falling on his ass.” The girl squinted then glanced up at her stepfather. “Ya know, this looks a lot like you.”
“Let me see,” he said, taking her phone. Desmond watched his tumble from hours earlier, strangely entertained. He handed the device back to his stepdaughter and smiled. “What a jerk.” Microwaving dinner and finding another television would be a pleasant escape to an otherwise lopsided day.