The World is Flat
User
(This is a slightly more recent story of mine, but still fairly outdated. It is another of my long-process stories, but it still uses an older style of mine.)
Short Prose
Camden
A shock of wind whistled through a column of cinderblocks. In the back the facility was lifeless where the concrete was paved, quiet in the hem of rock and steel, motionless over the stark shadows. Camden took a breath and thought it promised rain.
He’d surveyed the sky hoping. But the slate river thunderheads were chaffed by remoras of blue. The air was like softened California butter, the humidity unbearable, almost, something warm to taste on the tongue. The coarse stubble of a split open brick twinkled. His skin was slathered in sweat and overheated blood circulated sluggishly. He wished it would rain. It was evening and the shade was optimal at the service entrance, with the sun staring across the facility ridgeline. People came here for business. He drew the wrist out from the dark sweater sleeve, checking his watch. It was an analog remake and the hands showed he had five minutes to savor the lull in the work. With elbows propped on thighs, he tapped his feet and imagined the patter of rain.
The two-step foldable ladder leaning against a stop post made for a taciturn seat, better at least than the cement steps at the service door, under the canvas awning, where the janitors lugged cans and mops. His mind elsewhere – far from these man-made wastes – he picked at the blue paint peeling off the bars, etching out the hidden corrosion. The rubber mats of the steps were crisp and smelled new but there was dirt and gravel in the seams.
At the creak of movement he twitched, fingers moving for his belt. The lacquered black metal wedged into its holster was coldly hot. The pistol clinked on the lip of the step. He counted his heart beats throbbing through his neck, and the hard pulse against the peppered divots of the gun grip. Two minutes passed in calmness and his chest sagged and his hand retracted. Someone had slammed a door and they’d gone on. Loud voices faded from clarity were in debate. He found himself hunching over again. Nine times he’d used the pistol; never to shoot someone, only practice. The gun never something he’d carry lightly. Alone, under the streetlights at night, the glint of it kept some of the rabble at bay.
Shinning yellow poles outlined the loading bay, and a construction zone hazard pattern was tattooed to the pavement. There, embedded in the curving tarmac, the tire-prints of the freight trucks. A guard-post sat at the gate beside the main road. Cold white security cameras scrutinized from every angle. Camden didn’t have an explanation for why, at times like now, his attention turned to these trivialities. Maybe to avoid what he didn’t want to dwell on.
A glow from the butt of a white rod poised between fingers cast light through the shroud of his smutty green hood. A silky scar woven into the protrusive bridge of nose, a badge of past follies; streaks of stubble plastered around his nose and lips, straw brown hued. He had a grizzled face. The dimples and the folds around his mouth, the wrinkled skin at the corners of his eyes, and the thin bags beneath them were tokens saying he was older than his thirty-four years. It was the appearance befitting of a seaman or lumberjack.
He drew a drag, cheeks swelling as he tasted the flavors in the smoke particles. A puff seeped down the trachea, into the soft tissue of lungs, and he breathed out a plume of grey, watching, drily, the swirl through the lazy breeze. For Camden, smoking was a rare, solitary habit; one that no matter how less he liked remained a part of him.
A piping thermos of tea radiated heat through his left hand. The steam rose ghostlike over the black liquid stage. He’d steeped the bag seven minutes to extract flavor. Tea was the warm, rejuvenating drink of evenings, while he reserved a cup of coffee for mornings. Ignoring the fact of the temperature he sipped; sweet chamomile and agave flavors. The small preparation space in the break room was easily crowded, and often he thought there was the pungent odor of canned fish, so he brewed his own from his propane heater here at the facility, kept out of doors, sealed in a crate, buried under other empty ones.
Standing stories above the rest of the rectangles of the block, the towering facility barely shone now, fifteen years from reconstruction. The ticking seasons had effaced most of the silver polish gleam, leaving a more tolerable grey-white hide. Around when he’d started work spray painters marred the southeast corner with a gang sign, now faded to a watermark. The knowledge of the little changes gave Camden the feeling he was tethered to the place. In the front, above the French glass welcome doors, there were those black block letters boldly spelling out the company name. A quaint marble fountain babbled from betwixt branching cobble paths, flanked by the trimmed hedges and neatly raked soils typical of a Zen garden, or one of those old car dealership plots.
The facility as Camden saw it wasn’t posh and pretty; at the edge of the city is was a purple birthmark on the face. There were traces of weathering in places, especially where the builders’ neglected to use the fine steel. Brown stains of rust tainted the iron scaffolding trellised up the face. The metalwork led to the foot-wide eaves, over a hundred feet high, and there curved over onto the flat roof, the ugly collection of utilities concealed by the false façade, where only mechanics went: ventilators and AC units, and a solar grid that was meant for sunnier days than these. The facility had been rebuilt twice, its destructions accredited to fires, remarkably effective at gutting the non-wood structure. It was a grist mill long back when there was a canal, and later it became a warehouse, and now it was known amongst the menial hands just as the facility.
Rain should be in the air – if only. There was no need for Camden to close his eyes to picture the glistening streaks. There was that fresh wildflower-wet aroma. In the humidity he tasted the flavorless taste of water, in the stuttering breeze the dry buttery scent of home, in the province of Greater New California.
Camden thought it’d be nice to hear the steady drizzle, augmented by the xylophone chimes of droplets plucking and splashing where the water pooled. Just a trickle would be welcome to rinse away the sweat and dust accumulated on stale work-clothes.
Although modernized, the facility was home to birds, who found nesting spaces atop window framing, beneath ledges, in the crumbled gaps between mortar slabs, and a few in the boughs of the scaffolding in the absence of trees. The janitors campaigned against them: shredding nests, releasing smoke bombs and spreading poison, with short-lived success.
A Jay or a Blue Bird – Camden had forgotten how to tell the two apart – fluttered to a patch of grass beyond the slab of cement and rummaged through the gaunt blades. It pecked at the warped frame of a plastic bottle.
Camden forgot himself in observation. The voice of a boy came startling.
“Birdy! Here birdy!”
The kid trundled around the facility edge coming from the public gate entrance, leading a woman. She was probably his mother; Camden saw both had locks of blond hair like pure spun rye, gold as jewelry. Probably they were looking for the father to take him home from work. Mother shook her head apprehensively, black leather purse flapped on her hip, metal zipper clinking. It was the look of the lost in her furrowed brow and roving eyes. When she came into sight of the man hunched over on the two-step, she gripped the hand of the boy hard and steered him away. Camden was immobile until he heard the timid mother close the gate behind them. He thought of it, puzzled, and took his breaths steadily. And concluded she’d been scarred off by the attire, by the green hood over the face, the cigarette between the lips, the unkempt stubble, the black sweats sagging down the legs, the vagabond’s slouch. It was the look that people thought of as the freak-flags. Few out of their niche associated with them, thinking what they did couldn’t be good.
The bird flew on, disappointed. Worms would come up for air in the rain, when their soil became inundated. Camden cracked a tired smile – thinking half of birds satisfied, and half of rain osculating his face, of opening his mouth and letting it drain down his throat. He’d missed cleansing, washing grime off, lifting up the heart and mind from the gunk. Looking northeast he saw beyond the rise and fall of buildings to the horizon line. The clouds coalesced in a dark tumultuous sheet there. The white flashes were random and subtle. Lightning? Perhaps a thunderstorm raged out that way, too far off to be heard. There, the earth being drenched, overburdened sky shaking dry.
He jerked at a feeling. The thermos fell, clacking against the cement, and the tea bled out. He heard the clunk of rubber boots and the swagger of loose clothing. Howard Dobol sauntered from the generator shed, his blue uniform smeared with grease, soda can crammed in a fist, a toolbox hanging by the other.
“Hey man.” he said. “Spacin’?”
Sure, he thought, he’d come out for a breather, for some alone time. He swallowed hard, watching that soda can tip back into the man’s face and his Adam’s apple slick with sweat pump. There was a line dividing comfort and discomfort, a fine line Camden felt easily breached by infringing on his privacy.
“Hi Charley; so will it rain soon or what?”
“Raining in Hudson. I heard on the radio.” He threw back a last gulp. “– Man is it humid. Kinda glad I can’t stay to chat, Dan needs a ride.”
“Oh –. The leg, how is it?”
“Fine. He still stumbles.”
“Ah…”
Dan Ferlin… Worst thing for Camden about his accident was that he knew him and he’d been there, heard the guy’s animalistic cries. It was a three-point leg fracture after a fall from the balcony on the third level. The white nubbins protruding through the flesh had been followed by blood that came too quickly. In light of it Camden didn’t feel much for conversation.
Charley’s crumpled aluminum tatters struck a receptacle, and he turned and sauntered away just as he’d come, boots clapping against the concrete. He called over his shoulder.
“Catch yah later, Camden.”
Camden looked away, starring listlessly into stacked rolls of metal. Another bird of some kind darted in and then out, finding nothing of interest in the bland cylinders. There would be something to do if it rained. Children pounding feet in mud puddles, water veins carving rivers and estuaries. Pool it in his hood and drink it. Watch it descend in crosshatching streams down the facility’s lips, overheads, rails, and tubes.
He checked his watch again and frowned, sighting away right, to the street. Two cars pulled through with yellow headlights plain and emotionless. The delivery truck was three minutes late. It was unlike John. He drove an impeccable schedule, never missing a drop-off or pick-up time. The rain in Hudson was bad to sidetrack him. And the delivery was time sensitive, the way the boss put it.
“I want you out there waiting, and soon as he’s in you get that b**** unloaded, got that?”
A minute passed like an hour when he had to wait.
The clouds looming over the facility were shifting; dynamic machines of billowing cotton shrugging off one dark dye and another, forming their grey-green tapestries, swelling with a breeze that grew stronger as the sun dipped. In an hour it would be city sunset over the rooftops. Camden thought he heard the growl of a diesel. Cool air glided by, tossing a crumpled page of newspaper across the tea stain. A truck drove through the intersection at 21st and Packer, with wispy white exhaust at its bumper, coming in the direction of the facility, and Camden heard the croak of the suspension and the clamor of the pistons. He could see it, the black letters of it on the side. This was the truck.
A horn blared, three sharp barks. The engine cooed as it slowed, loaded wheels humming hot and worn. The service gate grinded open automatically with that nail scrapping sound, and the truck bellowed up the cement ramp. It seemed like it was groaning, stressing to get the last haul done with. Its metal and plastic shook impatiently. Steam hissed from the brake pads, the engine pulsated. It was the little eighteen-foot box, but riding low. John rolled down the window and waved a hand. Black hair matted to his reddened forehead.
“Gonna help or gonna take in the view, Camden?”
“You’re late.” Camden rose, snubbing the cigarette. “OK, I’ll guide you back.”
Fumes from the tailpipe stagnated in the air, smelling of grease and sulfur. The truck bucked into reverse, beeping. The shrillness of it would bring Camden a headache in a minute. Scrunching his nose he moved to the loading bay and looked back at John in the mirror.
“Straight back now.” he gestured.
“How’s this?”
“Keep coming – three feet – OK, stop!”
Camden jerked up the bay latch and the corrugated door ascended with a loquacious clamor. Sterile warehouse air spilled out. He pulled the dangling chain and strip lights flickered alive, shedding white over the scrubbed clean antechamber, over the heaped sacks and crates and boxes and rolls on pallets. At times it got busy, you could tell by the paths worn down to shine on the floor. Things were divided up by foggy plastic walls. The refrigerated vault was in the back behind a stainless steel door, a black wall hoarding the secrets.
John dropped from the cabin. He was no thin man; like most drivers he had a paunch. The pear stomach pushed taught on his white t-shirt and the bronze belt buckle caught the distant orange of sun. When Camden looked he saw him bent and wincing.
“God –” John said.
“You OK, John?”
“I’m fine. It’s that last step.” He massaged a leg. “Always hit it.”
There was a pink streak against the skin, dead flakes peeled back. He’d scraped himself against the metal protrusion recessed behind the wheel. Now limping, he made his way to Camden and wrestled the ramp from his hands and with a grunt jiggled it from the frame under the truck bed.
“Damn thing – come on, pull.”
It spanned the three foot gap to the bay. Camden snapped the clamps to prevent tottering, and swung up. The weight of summer sleepiness came off on wings.
“What’s on the list?” he asked, gazing down at John’s balding head.
“It’s A2s this time.” John checked his clipboard. “Just put them where the others go.”
The door rattled open. Inside were crates, identical except for the chocolate swirl grain in the wood, each emblazoned with the red ‘A2’ mark. In thirty minutes he’d be going back to the apartment.
“I’ve got this John, go rest your leg.”
“No – no time.” John hoisted himself up on the ramp, groaning, drawing quick breaths. It wasn’t like him to exert himself.
“Should’ve been here sooner.” He rubbed his back. “Why aren’t there more hands? We can’t do this in ten. The gates are shut in ten.”
“What’s that?” Camden reached for a crate and the smell of sawdust got him up the nose.
“You’ve heard, haven’t you? The curfew’s changed. No one does anything after six.” He grabbed Camden’s shoulder. “What I’m saying,” he stared, “is that we’ve got ten minutes to shift this freight and make ourselves scarce.” The chill in the grey eyes passed through Camden, He took John’s word for it and went to the work
.
“I’ll ferry them out,” he said. “You haul ‘em?”
“Yep.”
It was dryer within the truck box, a slight respite. The crates were crammed edge to edge leaving the fender’s half-foot width for footing. The things were not especially heavy, the A2 crates, resting on the fingers fine for end of the day work. They would make ten.
One by one the crates were moved with the pull and shove of breathing. A lukewarm tingle of nerves dazzled along Camden’s spine as he wondered. Patrol cars were wandering the streets, but he didn’t look for them yet. By seven minutes the truck lay bare, only wood chips along the bed and the odor of construction work.
A white cruiser drifted through the intersection, two cop silhouettes visible through the tinted windows.
“Three minutes until curfew. Move indoors.”
John dragged the hatch shut and together they hauled the ramp back in place. No busted thumbs.
“Well done, Camden.”
The cop car had slowed and the cops were starring.
“If your place is too far,” John said, “the facility’s got a couple bunks for the drivers. Fine for a one-nighter.”
“Thanks.”
“Take this card and let yourself in while I park ‘er.” He gave Camden a white slip. “Catch you in a minute,” he said, and he meant it. The door slammed and the gear-shifter ground into second. The engine seethed testily.
The cop car had halted. A rounded plastic mouth of a megaphone poked out over the passenger side roof.
“Two minutes to curfew!”
Camden rounded away barely concealing the tension. He could feel the black pits of eyes under the blue caps looking on derisively.
“You’ll be taken in to custody if you are not indoors.” Somewhere a siren flared. Tires squealed short on pavement scarring it darker. Two cops trained their gazes skeptically on Camden’s retreating hood as he dipped into the facility service entrance and was gone with the click of the auto-lock. The scarlet globe by the doorknob winked obstinately.
Camden found the room was painfully clean with the pungent scent of antiseptic. Engulfed in the exhaustion of the day, he was prone sagging in a cot within seconds and barely registered input from the senses, although sleep, a coveted thing, was all to slow in coming. In the minute before John joined him he was frowning mindlessly up into the stained past-white no-smoking sign, fraught with a tense medley of discomforts. He thought, tormented, he heard the patter of rain. Then John returned sweaty and nervous and collapsed like a sack of potatoes and the lights went out, and for two restless hours Camden’s breathing and blood pumping too slowly and too hot was all that he felt. He couldn’t say, later, just when unconsciousness smote him into dreams.
Story to be continued…
