Pictures of Houses with Water Damage: Stories

by Hemmingson, Michael

  I didn’t know if Fishpole Pete was re-enacting a war scenario or intended to kill my friend. I rolled down the window and yelled, “Yo, Fishpole Pete!”

  He looked up and I pointed the .45 at him.

  “Leave him alone,” I said. “Let him go,” I said.

  Fishpole Pete had had guns pointed at him before, this I could tell by looking into his big brown eyes. He also knew my gun was real.

  “Drop the knife,” I said, “and back away.”

  Fishpole Pete did as I said, his hands up.

  “I was only joking,” he said.

  “Get in,” I said to Luke, and he did.

  We drove away.

  Luke laughed. “That was insane!” he said. “Oh, the irony! What if he killed me, just when I was to start my new life? What if he killed me and found my money! He woulda said God was smiling down on him, and it was his lucky day for all the hell he went through in the war. Man, you should’ve heard those stories.”

  “I heard enough,” I said, and drove him straight to Rehab, where he checked in.

  Before leaving my car, Luke shook my hand and said, “Thanks for saving my life, twice: from Pete, and for driving me here.”

  He did his time in Rehab, two months, and walked out clean and sober.

  Three weeks later, he died of a heart attack.

  His ex-wife sent me the high school photo in the mail.

  “It’s the only one I could find,” she wrote, “and I thought you’d like to have it.”

  I placed the picture on my fridge, held by a magnet in the shape of a fish.

  Have no idea what kind of fish it is.

  Branches

  David’s a guy I knew from the bar. We’d get drunk together once or twice a week. I didn’t know much about him other than he could drink more than I could and still drive.

  He said he needed extra work because he had two kids.

  I worry about them not having enough food, he said. Isn’t that what life is all about, food, he said.

  I felt for him. I owned a tree-trimming business. It was fall so there was plenty of work.

  I can do that, he said.

  He’d been working with me for a week and he was doing well. He was a hard worker and didn’t complain about his back or hands like some guys do.

  One day on the job his wife and kids showed up. She was a pretty blonde thing, small with a sad smile. One kid, a boy, was three years old; the other was an infant, not over six months.

  She showed up with a stroller and a picnic basket.

  Hey hey, he said.

  They kissed. It looked so tender and loving that I turned my head. David picked up both his children and kissed them.

  Wife and two kids and not even twenty-two years old. I was forty and didn’t have a wife and kids or anything. I felt like something was missing and that made me feel like drinking.

  What do I owe this pleasant surprise? David asked.

  Thought we’d bring you lunch and some sodas, his wife said.

  I am thirsty, he said.

  She reached into the picnic basket and handed him a canned Diet Pepsi. He drank it fast and said, Thank you, honey.

  Are you hungry, honey? she said.

  Yo, David said to me, can I take my lunch now?

  You’re your own man, I said, go right ahead.

  His wife asked me: Would you like some lunch?

  Already ate, I lied, but thanks.

  I just didn’t want to share food with them. I didn’t have anything against the wife and kid, they were nice as far as wives and kids go. I felt uncomfortable about the idea.

  They were poor and needed their food. I didn’t need food.

  David and his family sat under the tree he was trimming, branches scattered around them like the remains of a battlefield.

  I continued trimming my tree, standing high on the ladder. But I could hear them talking and I couldn’t stop myself from not listening.

  She had made ham and cheese sandwiches and had BBQ potato chips and ranch dressing to dip the chips in. The three-year-old had his own sandwich and soda and the baby drank from a bottle—I was almost afraid she’d whip out a tit and start breastfeeding the tot. She also had a bottle of wine.

  I can’t drink, he said, not now, now when I’m working. Well, I can drink, she said.

  It was cheap wine, didn’t even have a cork. She poured the wine into a plastic cup, holding her baby.

  The three-year-old played with one of the branches. This is nice, he said.

  I wanted to do something nice for you, she said, working hard like this, I wanted to show you that me and the kids appreciate it.

  What’s really going on? he said. Tell me the real reason why you’re here, he said. Something is wrong, he said.

  Nothing is wrong, she said.

  Something is up, he said.

  The sky, she said.

  Maybe I will have some wine, he said.

  She handed him her cup. He looked at me but I acted like I was too busy with my trimming work. I didn’t care if he had some wine. I had a flask in my back pocket.

  She said, My period’s late.

  He said, Oh.

  She said, Did you hear me?

  He said, How late?

  She said, A week.

  He said, Is that something to worry about?

  She said, I’m not sure yet.

  He laughed, just a little. He laughed and said, I’ll pack my suitcase and get the hell out Dodge. He laughed so she knew he was joking.

  She didn’t like what he said.

  She said, That’s not funny.

  I’m sorry, honey, he said.

  After work, David and I went to the bar like we always did. I bought him a couple of vodka tonics because I felt sorry for the guy.

  I can’t afford another kid, he said. Three kids. One was enough, more than enough, and I have two. I can’t afford three.

  Just get rid of it, I said.

  Abortion? No. We don’t believe in that.

  Didn’t mean to offend, I said.

  We’re not die hard pro-lifers, he said, we just don’t believe in doing that.

  You like kids, I said, kids are nice.

  You ever change a diaper?

  No.

  You ever sit up all night with a baby that has the flu, scared to death the baby might die and you’d have to live with that forever?

  No, I said.

  We had another drink.

  I might not come to work Monday, he said, I might really just pack my shit and become a piece of shit, a deadbeat dad on the run. I might bolt from this life and start somewhere new where I have no one to look after but myself.

  He was serious.

  Monday: David showed up for work bright and early. We had a full day of trees to deal with so I was glad.

  So you didn’t hit the road after all, I said.

  She started her period last night, he said.

  Pictures of Houses with Water Damage

  My son sits next to me in my truck and I’m driving him home and he says, “I don’t want to go back.”

  “I know,” I say.

  He’s playing with a toy truck. The toy truck is silver. My truck is dark blue. My son, he’s ten, and his name is David.

  David says, “We could drive away to another city.”

  It’s not a bad idea. I’d be arrested for violating the court custody order. “Yeah, well,” I say.

  He knows. He nods. He says, “I don’t like it there anymore.”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “No,” he says, “but I don’t like it there anymore.”

  “Is it because of Bill?” I ask.

  “Bill? There’s no more Bill.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s Jeff,” my son says.

  “Who’s Jeff?”

  “He comes around a lot now.”

  I can’t keep track of my ex-wife’s rotation of boyfriends.

  “Does Jeff drink?” I say.

  “No,�
�� my son says, and goes quiet. We’re near the house where my ex-wife lives. It used to be my house. I don’t miss it that much.

  I park in the driveway. There are two cars there—a Camaro and a Datsun 280-Z. The Z belongs to my ex-wife. Her name is Marilyn.

  “Ohhkkeyy,” my son says, getting his backpack in order.

  “See you in two weeks,” I say.

  “Yeah.”

  “Want me to walk you to the door?”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  “Call me if there’s a problem.”

  “There are never any problems,” he says. He gets out of my truck and goes back to his mother.

  I feel like getting laid. It’s a sudden desire; I’m driving away from the ex-house and my son and I’m thinking that getting laid would be nice. I haven’t gone out on a date or been laid in seven months.

  So I go to a bar. I have some beers and I’m not quite sure what to do. There are women here, and some of them are alone. Some of them are young, some are my age, and some are a number of years older. The beers taste good. I don’t drink like I used to. I used to really drink. That’s why Marilyn divorced me and I see David every other week.

  I start a conversation with a young woman. She has short blonde hair and her name is Lucy. She works at a supermarket.

  “So what do you do?” she asks.

  “I take pictures,” I say.

  “You’re a photographer?” she says, interested.

  “Well, I take pictures of houses with water damage.”

  She looks at me and goes, “Huh?”

  “I’m an estimator for an insurance company,” I say. “Water damage is my specialty. A house gets water damage, I take pictures of it, I make an estimate on how much it’ll cost to repair.”

  “Oh,” Lucy says, looking at her drink. “Isn’t that kind of boring?”

  “Isn’t working in a supermarket boring?”

  “Yeah, well, what do you expect,” she says.

  This conversation isn’t going too well. I don’t think I will be leaving with Lucy to have sex.

  One beer later, I’m talking to another woman. She also has blonde hair – it’s long and stringy. Her name is Rene and she works at a cyber café monitoring people on Internet-hooked computers.

  “How do you like working there?” I ask.

  She shrugs and says, “It’s pretty boring.”

  I am alone in my bed when I go home. I’m thinking of the houses I have to take pictures of tomorrow. I’m thinking of going over to Marilyn’s and confronting this guy Jeff. It’s easy to have violent fantasies. I picture myself having a few drinks with this Jeff and liking him when I want to hate him; we become the best of friends and this irritates Marilyn and I’m thinking this might be the route to go.

  My phone rings. It’s my son.

  “I can’t sleep,” he says.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” David says. “I just can’t sleep. Were you asleep?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me a story,” he says.

  “A story? What kind of story?”

  “A bedtime story,” he says.

  I’ve never told him a bedtime story before. My father used to read to me from books when I was his age. I can’t remember any of those stories. I could tell him that once upon a time there was a man who led a wild and crazy life, got married, thought he found some peace in having a home and a family, but messed it all up when he went wild and crazy again.

  “I don’t know any stories,” I say. “Why don’t you tell me one?”

  “That’s not my job,” he says.

  “It is your job now,” I say. “I just hired you.”

  “All my stories are boring.”

  “Try one on me.”

  He yawns. I know it’s fake. “I’m tired now. I think I’ll go to sleep now.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good night,” my son says.

  He hangs up the phone and then I hang up the phone and I close my eyes and it takes a while to fall asleep but I finally do fall asleep. Not even the ringing phone wakes me.

  You Can Call and Ask a Question

  The phone had been ringing at all hours of the day—morning, noon, night, 4 A.M. At first, the other end would hang up. The Caller ID was blocked but I had a feeling it was she, the one I used to love, and still love; the one that is not here with me and said she loved me too.

  Next, the caller didn’t hang up but stayed on the phone and was silent.

  Speak up, I said.

  Nothing.

  I could hear background noise—car horns, cars driving by; people giggling; TV shows—mostly game shows and reality shows.

  She—the one I once loved and still do—liked to watch reality shows, especially the dating ones.

  I started to hear breathing, usually when the calls came before the sun rose and a new day began.

  Call all you want, I said.

  Silence; breathing.

  If you have a question, I said, ask.

  Silence; breathing.

  Ask, I said.

  Breathing; silence.

  The answer is yes, I said.

  The Dzanc Books eBook Club

  Join the Dzanc Books eBook Club today to receive a new, DRM-free eBook on the 1st of every month, with selections being made from Dzanc Books and its imprints, Other Voices Books, Black Lawrence Press, Keyhole, and Starcherone. For more information, including how to join today, please visit http://www.dzancbooks.org/ebook-club/.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Executive Editor: Diane Goettel

  Cover design by Steven Seighman

  Copyright © 2010 by Michael Hemmingson

  978-1-4804-2607-8

  Dzanc Books

  1334 Woodbourne Street

  Westland, MI 48186

  www.dzancbooks.org

  This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media

  345 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  www.openroadmedia.com

  Dzanc Books was created in 2006 to advance great writing and to impact communities nationally by building and supporting literary readerships, creative writing workshops, and events offered across the country. As a nonprofit 501(c)3 organization, Dzanc publishes innovative fiction and supports several editorially independent imprints and literary journals. It provides low-costing writing instruction to beginning and emerging writers by connecting them with accomplished authors through the Dzanc Creative Writing Sessions, and runs a writers-in-residence program that puts published authors in public schools. Dzanc also awards an annual prize to support a writer whose work shows literary excellence and who is engaged in community service. Through its International Literary Program, Dzanc organizes an annual writing conference held in Portugal.

  FIND OUT MORE AT

  WWW.DZANCBOOKS.ORG

  FOLLOW US:

  @DzancBooks and Facebook.com/DzancBooks

  Dzanc Books is one of a select group of

  publishing partners of Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  Open Road Integrated Media is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audienc
es by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.

  Videos, Archival Documents, and New Releases

  Sign up for the Open Road Media newsletter and get news delivered straight to your inbox.

  Sign up now at

  www.openroadmedia.com/newsletters

  FIND OUT MORE AT

  WWW.OPENROADMEDIA.COM

  FOLLOW US:

  @openroadmedia and

  Facebook.com/OpenRoadMedia

  PICTURES OF HOUSES WITH WATER DAMAGE