Part 1 (1/2)

Jack and Mr. Grin.

by Andersen Prunty.

This book is for Gretchen. Thanks for saying ”Yes.”

One.

A perfect fall day. Jack reclined in the seat of his car, watching the fluffy white clouds drift across the deep blue sky, dreading going back into work. It was always during lunch the dread set in. That was when he had the desire to just fire up the ignition and drive home. But he needed the money. Needed the money just to live and, having no college education or any sort of trade skills, this was the job he was forced to take. At least it was nine to five so he could spend his evenings at home with Gina.

The windows of the car were rolled down and clean smelling air filtered through it. He'd like to just lay outside all day on a day like this. Find a nice green meadow somewhere and just lie on his back and stare up at all the clouds and how they would change and come and go all day. He looked at the digital clock set in the car stereo. Only fifteen minutes left. Cla.s.sical music floated and tinkled from the speakers. He didn't know the names or the composers of this music until the broadcaster told him but he liked the sound of it. It was relaxing, peaceful, beautiful.

He didn't have enough time to settle into a good nap so he moved the seat forward, looking at the wall of the building in front of him. There was a bit of lawn between the parking lot of his work and this building. A s.h.i.+rtless man in a long bandana did pushups in the gra.s.s. This man had been out there, doing the same thing, forty-five minutes ago when Jack had come out for his lunch break. He must be exhausted, Jack thought. But the man, heavily muscled and glistening with sweat, continued to pump away. Jack pinched the little roll that had developed on his middle section since he and Gina had settled into their comfortable domestic routine and the s.e.x had stopped being a daily occurrence. Perhaps he could stand to do some exercise.

He dismissed the notion.

He was far too lazy for exercise.

Taking a deep breath, he got out of his car, leaving the windows down, and began the long walk back to The Tent.

Two.

He didn't know why but the red and white striped tent was at least a quarter of a mile away from the parking lot. He always had to start back to work ten minutes before his break was over just to make it in time. Maybe, at one point, they had planned on expanding but, as far as he knew, there wasn't a giant demand for dirt packing.

By the time he made it back to The Tent he was breathing heavily and he had worked up a pretty good sweat. The building being a tent didn't do a lot to alleviate the heat. It was nearly impossible to install central air conditioning in a tent. He was just glad the steamy days of summer were over. They did bring in a few s.p.a.ce heaters during the winter so that had always been tolerable. But those mean, humid days of summer... It made him glad for the change in season.

He walked through the open door of the tent along with a couple other coworkers. The foreman, John Briggs, stood by the opening, the lower half of his face covered in a dirty painter's mask, and glanced at his watch, mentally making sure no one could forge their time cards.

Again, Jack was filled with the urge to simply turn and walk out. There had to be better jobs than this. But he always managed to rationalize it until he stayed. The pay was better than average-more than he would get just starting out anywhere else. And the insurance, while inadequate, was not overly costly.

In the middle of The Tent stood a giant mound of dirt. A man in a yellow jumpsuit hosed down the dirt. That was Carl. The reason he wore the jumpsuit was not work related. It must have been sweltering inside that plastic-type material. The dirt had to be hosed down because they had turned on fans due to the heat and, if not hosed down, it was like a dust storm.

He reached his work station just as the afternoon horn sounded. He took a deep breath. A picture of Gina, covered in grime, was taped to the wall of his work station. The rest of the area was filled with small plastic bags, boxes roughly the size of hardback books, and a trowel. The middle of his work area was filled with dirt. Dark, rich, fertile-looking soil in a mound up to his chest. He would spend the rest of the day transferring this mound of dirt into plastic bag-lined boxes.

He put on his painter's mask and got to work. If he didn't wear the mask he could feel the dirt running down the back of his nose. He would cough it up. It was bad enough to feel it all gummed up at the corners of his eyes when he woke up in the morning whether he showered or not.

After working away for about an hour, Briggs came by to dump some more dirt into his station.

Jack folded up the box he was working on and started another.

”I noticed some of your boxes feelin pretty light,” Briggs said.

”Yeah?” He didn't really give a f.u.c.k one way or the other, as long as he got a paycheck at the end of the week.

”Yeah. See, the key is to give the dirt a little spritz.” Briggs reached down and pulled a green squirt bottle filled with water and spritzed the dirt with it. ”See there?”

”That's genius, sir. I don't know why I wasn't doing that.”

”That ain't all though. Then you gotta pack it in there. Really pack it, you know?”

”I'll pack it as best I can, sir.”

”I'll be checkin back with you.”

”I'm sure you'll find much improved results, sir.”

”I'm sure I will.”

Briggs strolled back amongst the other stations, leaving so many questions unanswered. It had been nearly three years and still Jack wondered, Why? Why the packing of dirt? Where did the dirt come from? Where did the dirt go? What made this dirt so special? It couldn't be used for gardening in such a small quant.i.ty. All of the boxes in his station were pre-labeled. He looked at the one he picked up. It was headed for some country called Grisnos. Where the f.u.c.k was Grisnos? He would try to remember to look it up on the Internet when he got home but he knew he would probably forget. He forgot nearly everything about this place the moment he left. Most days, he tried to forget he even had a job.

Three more hours, he thought, looking at the picture of Gina, wondering how she was getting along at the cafe. At least she worked with interesting people.

He looked at a beefy lady in the station across from his. She lowered her painter's mask and snorted the dirt, leaving a smear across her upper lip. If Mr. Briggs saw her do that, she'd be fired, Jack knew. She put her mask back into place and hiked up her lavender sweatpants until the seam lodged firmly between her gargantuan b.u.t.tocks.

Three hours. Three f.u.c.king excruciating hours.

Three.

Their bellies full and their libidos emptied, Jack and Gina lay on the floor, a cool breeze blowing in through the open windows. Now that it was dark, the air was almost chilly. Jack brushed a strand of her black hair back from her forehead, curling it around her ear. He smelled the top of her head. He liked the smell of her sweat. It was like an exotic spice. Something he couldn't quite place. He thought about the surprise he had for her and hoped she would like it.

Earlier, he had brought dinner home and, after was.h.i.+ng up to his elbows, they sat on the living room floor and ate. He had planned to take a shower after dinner but Gina had advanced on him before he had the chance. He hadn't minded in the least but still felt compelled to remind her that he was filthy.

”I like it,” she had said, nipping the hollow of his throat with her full lips, licking some of the dirt away.

”We'll get the sheets all dirty.”

”Who says we have to go to bed? We can stay out here and you can get me all dirty.”

That was all the initiative he needed. It had been quick and ferocious and wonderful.

Now it was over and he felt even dirtier than before.

”I think I really need to take a shower.” He stared at the ceiling.