The Shelter

by Peter Foley

  “I have some ideas I could walk you through right now.” Stephen ruffles through his papers.

  Mr. Johnson glances at his watch. “No. I best get back to the golf course. Let’s resume this in one week. Use the time well, Stephen. Wow me.”

  “Okay, Mr. Johnson, speak to you next week.”

  Stephen’s a Texan. A raw-boned, fresh-faced, big handed, six-foot-four, Stetson wearin’, blue jean wearin’, wheelin’ dealin’, pickup riding twenty-six-year-old in alligator boots. He ends the call with a shake of his head. Closing the laptop, he looks over to Larry.

  “What the hell’s it all about, Larry? I’m never going to get rich making sheds. I’m destined to be rich, I deserve it.”

  Larry laughs. “Get over it, you’re a grunt, just like me, and you always will be. It’s fine! What else is there to do in this town anyway? At least you get to sit in a nice little shed and design smaller sheds, and you don’t have to drive the forklift all day like me. Look! My ass cheeks are getting sores! You got it better than the rest of the guys; you got your health, you got your stupid face, and you got some beer money. What more is there to have? Anyway, another pay rise would only make Muchnik hate you even more.”

  “Fuck that guy…” Stephen says in a reflex action. “Wait, that reminds me,” he glances at his watch, “I have a meeting with that fat prick now. I deserve a pay raise just for putting up with his bullshit. Wish me luck,” he shouts as he leaves the shed-office.

  “Good luck, and remember, he’s the boss, your boss, so don’t be a dick,” Larry shouts back.

  Stephen turns to Larry and holds out both arms. “I make no promises.” And with that, he makes his way from his annexed private workshop to The Shed’s main warehouse.

  Inside the large, noisy, dimly lit main building something new is happening. There are four, maybe five guys in blue “SecurCo” overalls climbing up ladders and running cables to different parts of the building.

  “What’s all this?” Stephen shouts above the din of circular saws. Muchnik, a squat man with a flabby face, waves him over. In Muchnik’s world only two things live; things that make him angry and things that make him confused.

  “We’re installing fifty-three new security cameras across the site. And we’re improving the lighting so the cameras perform better. These cameras are full 4K resolution and have a thirty-meter zoom. So, no more slacking off for anyone anymore,” Muchnik says.

  Scanning the warehouse, Stephen sees cameras being installed over every work bench, down every corridor and in every storeroom, there appears to be no escape from the all-seeing eye.

  “And the cameras are going in your shed, Stephen.”

  “So, this is what the profits from nine thousand hedgehog houses buys you? Fifty-three security cameras up your ass? Don’t you think this is excessive? I mean, come on. You can’t spy on people all the time?”

  “Yes, I can. And so can Knocker. As head of security it’s Knocker’s responsibility to monitor the cameras. He’ll have access to the security app so he can monitor the staff – I mean site, 24/7.”

  “We already have random security searches every day, and a metal detector at the door to make sure no one smuggles a pillar drill out in their shorts.”

  “You already hired Knocker, your brother, as the head of security. Isn’t that enough? This place is hardly a crime hotspot. You’re paranoid. You’d happily let your pervert brother spy on us while we crap, wouldn’t you? And where is he? We got to talk about this now.”

  “My brother is not a pervert and that’s abusive behavior, it’s insubordination. That’s a verbal warning on your permanent record. I’m stamping down on all of this. And it’s no concern of yours where my brother is. You’re an employee, just like everyone else in here, and you will follow my rules.”

  “He’s asleep in his car again, isn’t he?”

  Motioning no more interest in the conversation, Muchnik turns and walks into his office. Stephen looks out to the parking lot to see a foot pressed against the passenger window of a car.

  “Larry! Get over here with that thing! I need to borrow it,” shouts Stephen.

  Larry drives over and darts out from the seat of his forklift when Stephen motions for him to get out.

  “Watch this.” Stephen jumps onto the seat with a twinkle in his eye. The tires squeal as his boot hits the gas pedal. He drives to the side of Knocker’s Cadillac and, gently, with great care, lines the forks between the wheels, being sure not to wake the man inside. Looking to Larry, Stephen puts a finger over his mouth and shushes the crowd gathering outside the warehouse. Stephen, with perfect poise, moves forward slowly, easing the forks under the body of the car, but the whirl of the hydraulic cylinders isn’t subtle. The noise causes the sleeping foot to flinch.

  Now sitting upright, Knocker Tubber, the formerly sleeping security guard, looks out of the window with dream-like amazement. His muted cursing from behind glass triggers laughter from the warehouse staff. It’s too late for Knocker, he’s sky-bound and there’s nothing he can do about it apart from boil and burst blood vessels.

  “Stephen! You’re a dick. MUCHNIK! MUCHNIK!”

  Knocker bangs on his window as both he and the car rise higher. He fumbles a window open and swings a fist at Stephen, missing his target by several vertical feet. Stephen remains careful in his work. Knocker reaches for his cell phone and calls his brother’s office. Muchnik sprints out of the warehouse with his phone pressed to his ear and his jaw dropping. He’s just in time to see Stephen gently place Knocker’s car on top of the big red storage container outside the main building.

  “I guess he’s got a good view to keep an eye on things from up there, eh, Muchnik?” Stephen yells as he leaps out of the forklift.

  “You’re a madman!” Larry says, grinning and gazing at the lofted car in awe. “You better get out of here! Look at Muchnik, he’s having a shit-fit!” Larry laughs uncontrollably. The other grunts of The Shed howl, sputter and crease with laughter directed at Muchnik, who’s apoplectic and purple. Confused words fall from his mouth and the word “fired” is said often.

  “Screw this,” Stephen announces. “I’m done with this job and I’m done with this town. Screw it, I’m going to Hollywood. I’ll be in touch for a reference. Adios, dickheads.”

  Stephen jumps into his cherry-red Ford pickup and screeches out of the parking lot. He knows the road from Texas to Hollywood will be long, but there will be no Knocker or Muchnik when he arrives in LA. Instead, there’ll be beaches, cold beer, women, easy money and no clouds in the sky. “California, here I come!”

  5

  Somewhere between God and John Wayne

  “Just you, me and the road, Hank, keep them songs coming,” Stephen says to the steering wheel as he turns up the volume on his Hank Williams playlist. Songs about rambling men, whiskey, honky-tonk women and lonesome hearts are perfect for the twenty-two-hour 1,409-mile impulsive drive from Texas to California.

  A solitary, transient burst of summer has appeared to promise new life to the land. On days like this, a mirage hovers above the blacktop. The horizon is a hotline spanning three-hundred and sixty degrees, it holds down a vast, empty desert and the only sign of movement is the undulating telephone poles fixed by the roadside. Stephen’s cherry-red pickup makes good progress in the heat and isolation of the beautifully wild expanse. There’s no work here, there’s no checks here, and there’s certainly no bosses here.

  Mile after same mile, Stephen’s mind wanders. Some idle thoughts hover and dance like butterflies, other more ancient memories stand like tombstones.

  Ophelia. This is the first time I’ve left Texas since Ophelia…

  Her name is a time machine. It sends him back nine years, to when his youthful naivety brought encouragement and excitement. The high school he and Ophelia attended, St John’s, didn’t elect a homecoming king or queen, but if they had Stephen and Ophelia would have been appointed to those illustrious courts by a landslide.

  She’d
have hated that. She’d rather be drinkin’ on the bayou.

  From the moment he saw her green eyes, tousled red hair and blue denim jeans he knew she was trouble. He can still clearly remember the hot early-summer nights with Ophelia and a crate of Best Maid Sour Pickle. But it wasn’t always paradise, Stephen and Ophelia used to fight.

  That one time, in her backyard, man, she got wicked pissed.

  He told her to get him a beer from the cooler.

  She got off the blanket and went to the cooler, but when she came back she was steamin’, like silent-mad; so mad she couldn’t talk. She just stood there and opened the can real slow, then she gave me that look, and I knew something was comin’. I didn’t have to wait too long to find out what. She poured that beer over me, every drop. I got so mad I chased her around the yard with a hose. I tackled her to the ground and drenched her. Man, what a laugh.

  Every time, during each and every fight, they’d pull back from a punch and lean in for a kiss. Fighting was a strong aphrodisiac for Stephen and Ophelia, and it would still be so today, if it were not for her brothers.

  Fuck those guys.

  One night, Ophelia and Stephen got into a loud fight in her garage. It was the one and only time his pickup ever broke down.

  She wouldn’t stop yelling instructions at me, like I don’t know how to replace a starter on a pickup. We yelled back and forth in our usual way until Barney, one of her brothers – the one who always carried a Folgers coffee can around to use as a spittoon – took it at face value and we had a Come-to-Jesus meetin’. Honestly, I took a hard punch from that guy, but I gave one too, then I ducked and that idiot Barney put his fist through an ol’ plate-glass window. The glass cut his forearm up so bad. Real deep, through the flesh and down to the white stuff, you know? The blood was everywhere. The doctor’s said he was lucky to have an arm left, or right, which ever one it was – ha. Me and Ophelia weren’t the same after that.

  After the fight, her whole family hated Stephen and whatever chances they had at love turned to dirt. All that remains from those times is the old pickup truck he’s sat in. He pats the steering wheel.

  … Ophelia’ll be long gone by now, I reckon.

  Ophelia hated her hometown, Leechfield.

  She’s probably moved up to Houston.

  He shakes his head and strokes the hair out from his eyes.

  She’s probably married and arguing with some poor sucker right now. I hope she stayed in Texas, at least.

  He laughs.

  I’m not sure any other place could handle her.

  He sighs. In the distance left and right patches of grass move by slowly. The steering wheel jitters on a stretch of coarse road. There’s no wind apart from that which the pickup breaks. He shakes his head and admires the peace, not thinking anymore, just looking at the road ahead and listening to the soft thunder of his engine and the roll of his tires on hot asphalt.

  Stephen’s trip turns out to be a flawless one made in good time, until Bakersfield. It’s in Bakersfield that he notices hundreds, maybe thousands of cars sitting in the outbound lane, mile after mile, fender to fender. He thinks back, and since around Mojave County he’s been the only car headed into California. That should have been a warning sign. Curiosity eventually gets the better of him and he turns on the radio to catch the latest local traffic news. He scans the dial and settles on the first station he finds:

  “This is DriveTime with KBBLBBL, brought to you by Father’s Meat and Grill - Mature meat at rare prices!

  I’m Vance Trick and we’re going live to the phone lines. We want to know what your hurricane plans are and whether you think Armageddon is coming to California. Ha-ha. Our first caller is Ralph. Top of the morning to you, Ralph. You’re livveee!”

  “Hi, how are you guys?”

  “We’re doing good, thanks, Ralph, no clouds in my sky today. How about you?”

  “Okay. I’ve been listening for a long time but I’m a first-time caller. I’ve been listening to you guys since you were on college radio, you remember the Monkey Game? JBL campus? That’s how old I am.”

  “Ah-ha! Memories, memories. We couldn’t get away with that outside college! WHATSUPP!”

  “Yeah, I know, right? WHATSUPP! Hahaha. Well, so, this Hurricane Jason, ya know, it’s all going to blow over, ya know. First thing they said was it was nothing to worry about, then it wasn’t even goin’ to happen, then it was going to blow itself out in the Pacific. I just, man, ya know, now they want us to panic? I tried to drop my kids off at school today but they’re closed due to the weather! I mean c’mon!”

  “I hear ya, I hear ya, I do. So, that was Ralph. He thinks it’s all a hurricane in a teacup, a pretty sunny teacup right now, as I look outside our studio window – but is that likely to change for the worse? Edith, you’re on the line.”

  “Hi Vance. I’m calling to say that this whole thing is so scary. I’m packing up my car and heading to Eastbourne, Texas. I figure I should go visit my sister until this thing is over. She has a small ranch, it’s nice, but she’s getting on in years, and you know how it gets, the llamas can be difficult to chase at her age. My nephew, he’s a law enforcement officer, and he says he’s been briefed that they’re going to evacuate half the State. Now, my Joey’s a good kid, and he wouldn’t lie to me, not to his Aunt MooMoo. And have you seen what’s on the Facebooks? My Sara’s always on that, she says the Chinese have built a radar that turns clouds into hurricanes with 5G radiation. Why is no one talking about that? And the Democrats–”

  “Sorry, Edith, as you can hear, the music’s coming in and that’s my cue to cut to the ads. I do want to make time for all of ya, so stand by. I’ll be right back after this message…”

  Here at Pastor’s Meat and Grill we love Christmas, but why only thank Christ once a year? We’ve condensed the spirit of Christmas into a sauce we know you’re going to love, all year round!

  Jingle-Jingle all the way – Bring Christmas to any barbecue with Pastor’s sacred sauce. It’s like Christmas, in your mouth!

  “Okay, we’re back! How about that sauce, eh? Get some on your meat, that’s what I say. I have a text here from Adam. He says, ‘I see my neighbors boarding up their windows and moving valuables to the attic, what’s the point? A direct hit is going to wipe us out anyway, so why bother?’ That’s a good point, Adam, good point, now, back to the callers. Ben, is that you on the line?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Okay, what do you have for us live here on KBBLBBL?”

  “I’m sitting here and where I am there’s not a cloud in the sky, so where is it? Where’s Jason? It’s all a conspiracy by the media, the fake news, and shame on you for taking part in it. It’s just another lefty attempt to weaken our economy under this president.”

  “Sorry you feel that way, Ben, but last I heard, the weather can change, so keep your eyes on the skies!”

  “Well, I’ve taken the precaution of going to the grocery store and stocking up on the essentials, just in case. Me and my buddies have enough supplies to wait out an ice age.”

  “That’s good for you. I hope you left something on the store shelves for me! Thanks for the call, Ben. This is KBBLBBL bringing you the hurricane live to wherever you are and whoever you are.”

  Sounds like bullshit to me.

  Stephen turns off the radio, returns to the sweet melody of Hank, and doubles down on his route to Sunset Boulevard.

  6

  Where are the steaks?

  It’s a strange truism that biblical hurricanes in the modern age always wipe out the supermarkets first. As you read this, every F-Mart in California is breaking under the pressure of Hurricane Jason, even before the gale-force winds begin. Inside each large and powerfully lit store people are hurrying and tackling their way down the aisles, leaving only a scattering of items behind. In place of common groceries like bread, pasta, beans, meat or toilet paper you’ll find a special offer on disappointment and empty shelves. Let’s stop by the F-Mart on Whittie
r Boulevard, East Los Angeles, and see for ourselves.

  “I’ve never seen so many empty shelves, it’s insane. I don’t understand. Why is it when people think it’s the end of the world the first thing they worry about is wiping their ass?” Courtney Weaver says as she and her husband, Ethan, browse the shelves.

  “I know. And it’s not just toilet paper. It’s like, quick! There will never be beans ever again! Buy all the beans! Beans are power now!” Ethan laughs. “It’s selfish, and it’s just dumb people doing this to us. Look at this, it’s funny what people leave behind.” He holds up a can of spruce barley. As he poses with the can, a disgruntled man hurries past with a cart piled high with crates of beer. “That guy’s going to drink his way out of this. Nice! Oh, by the way, how are we going to wipe our ass?”

  “Your mom’s on toilet roll duty, when she’s out and about this week she’ll buy what she finds for us.”

  “Cool.”

  The young couple push their scantly stocked shopping cart down what once was the pasta sauces aisle. Finding nothing there, they turn down an impoverished but still-busy meat section.

  “So… my company lost most of its operating capital today,” Ethan says. “Well, seventy-five percent of it. I’m relying on the online sales team’s numbers to keep us afloat.” Ethan runs his eyes across the empty shelves.

  Outside the store, night grows restless with rain.

  “Oooo-K…” Courtney says. She encourages Ethan to elaborate.

  “All public events are cancelled from today, all events for the next three months are cancelled. In all my years, I’ve never seen an overreaction like it. I have no way to support a public events company that can’t put on public events for three months. I need half a million a month just to break even. I don’t have reserves of gold in the Swiss Alps, ya know? Let’s see if we can bag us some toilet paper here?” Ethan directs Courtney’s attention to an F-Mart employee pushing a full pallet of toilet paper down a neighboring aisle.