“What’s your favorite color?” Everyone knows their favorite color and can answer promptly and with reason. Pink because it’s soft and feminine. Green because it reminds us of nature. Yellow because it’s bright and sunny and cheerful. Brown is not high on anyone’s list of favorite colors. Which is a shame. Brown is criminally under appreciated. Brown is everything warm and cozy. Brown is the soil that feeds us. Brown is comforting. It’s a worn couch with a soft blanket. Hot chocolate or tea or coffee steaming and warming our hands and bellies. The richness of a favorite dog’s fur. Everything about the color calms and soothes. A brown soul is the best soul to find. They radiate comfort. Stability. They are earthy and wholesome. They pull you in like gravity and just being near them makes you want to set your burdens down and sigh in relief. They’re home. They welcome you in with open arms and set you down with dinner before you know it. Everyone should have that friend to turn to. Not the gray-souled friend that serves as an anchor. But the brown-souled friend that acts as the comforter. The grounded friend that gives and folds around you when you need it. That lends solace and peace wherever they go.
I had “served my debt to society”. I know logically what that means and how it’s intended. Too bad the actuality of how society sees it doesn’t align with the intention. Like a dog that bites once, I’m never to be trusted again. Only it’s unethical to euthanize humans when there may be the same factors at play. Provocation, fear, self-defense. Those can get a human a sentence that doesn’t end in death. So I guess I’m luckier than the dog. But I’m still not to be trusted. Society doesn’t want me back. They’ve made that perfectly clear. A couple of friends kept in touch over the years but still keep their distance. A chat or a text message. A phone call and lunch at a greasy diner. Have I really earned my way back into civilization? Or does everyone assume I’m just out for a jaunt before I succumb to another episode. The camper van I had traded my truck for leaned a bit sideways in the parking lot. It was downright luxurious compared to what I had gotten used to. Having my own space had been unnerving at first. The first night I had parked it next to my sister’s barn and could hear nothing but nighttime sounds outside. I hadn’t slept a wink. I’d turned to playing music at night after that. Not having hundreds of other people and their noises around was taking more adjustment than I realized. This was the 2nd week I’d been scoping out possible jobs. I was coming down to the wire. My release wasn’t dependent on gainful employment but my livelihood would be. And so far, Society had made it clear that my “debt” was paid but still on my credit report. Even in my podunk backwater hometown, it seemed I was considered a risky investment. Reliable transportation- check. Clean drug screen- check. References- check. Clean background- stop the presses. I sat in the van for a minute longer in the lot and then steeled myself to go in. One more rejection can’t hurt. I’ve heard apologetic no’s. I’ve heard vehement no’s. I’ve heard indirect no’s. I’ve heard excuses being used as no’s. It was becoming an art form. The donut shop was warm and humid. The insides of the windows covered in moisture making it hard to see inside. It was deserted except for a couple of retirees near the register. “Hey, Vic! You got a customer!”, one of them called to the back. A middle aged guy was wiping his hands as he came out of the kitchen. He barely looked at the two at the counter. Vic gazed over at me. It was a strange feeling. It had an empty feeling to it. Like he had nothing invested in it. He felt distant even though he was no more than 5 feet away. Maybe Society had failed to realize his debt was paid too. “I stopped by to see if you were in need of help. I’m looking to pick up a job. I’ve got references and I’ve worked a couple kitchens.” I got straight to the point. No sense beating around the bush and taking up his time. Vic gave me another up and down look. “What hours you trying to work?” “Anything you need, sir.” I’m bracing myself. “My schedule is wide open. I’ve got references, live just out of town with my sister. Transportation isn’t an issue.” I pause and glance at the old-timers sipping their coffee and listening to us. “I’m looking for a second chance. I didn’t use my first one the best. I’m going to make a better go of it this time. Just to make sure I’m being up front with you before I use anymore of your time.” Vic again just watched me. He leaned a hip against the counter and stared for a long while. I shifted my weight. Something about his inspection was off-putting. “How many places have you applied to?”, he asks. “Most of the stores and restaurants here in town. And the cabinet factory. I’ve had to have talked to 20 places or more.” He frowned. This was it. The no was coming. I wondered what kind of no it would be. I was betting a direct one. Vic didn’t seem like he had much concern for anyone else’s feelings. “Was it drugs? Or domestic? I have some things I won’t tolerate. No matter what your justice system declares.” I blink. “No, sir. It was a manslaughter charge. A fight that went sideways, badly.” “Did you start it?” I swalllowed. “No. But I could’ve handled it better. I’ve had plenty of time to look back at where it all went wrong.” He stared silently again. He really is disconcerting. The two guys had begun mumbling to themselves and their donuts. He flicked a look at them. “I can use the help. It’s just me and a couple of cashiers. You’d be learning how to make donuts and work the kitchen side. Does this seem like a problem?” My knees wobbled in relief. “No, sir. I pick up quick. When would you like me to start?” “Be here tomorrow at 8pm to get the formal paperwork done. You’ll be working the night shift and prepping for the morning rush.” “Thank you for the opportunity. My name is Jared, by the way. Jared Hawthorne. I’ll be here.” I extended a hand to shake his but he’d allready stepped back towards the kitchen. Vic raised an eyebrow at my offered hand. “Cathy will be the cashier on duty. Tell he who you are when you get here and she’ll get you started until I arrive.”
Mid-morning sunshine broke through the blinds and woke me from a halfway decent sleep. I'd slept in later than normal. My one day off this week had been bookmarked for sleeping and rotting. It was glorious. A couple of errands to run at my own leisure with plenty of time for coffee breaks in between. It's the small things in life. My phone was on the charger so I roll over to grab it and see if I had gotten lucky enough that the world had dissolved itself while I was asleep. Alas, no such luck. There are a couple of missed calls (spam likely) and several text messages. My friends had obviously been awake much longer and had polluted my phone with every video they had come across. The modern love language of videos and memes. I feel so cherished. My bladder is demanding that I leave my nest and pretend to be a rational adult. I turn the furnace up from my phone (thank you, modern living!) and make a dash for the bathroom. I'm just getting in the shower when the phone chirps again. I give half a thought to ignoring it but grab it while the water is warming up. Eli: are you awake yet? I debate ignoring it again. Me: just barely Three dots keep appearing and disappearing. Yup, shoulda ignored it. I get in the shower while Eli tries to get his words to work. Whatever he's wrestling with will take a minute. Or 20. However long I decide this shower needs to be. The hot water is just the thing I needed. I'm debating whether to just live in the shower when the water starts cooling. I've so far decided that I need to start eating better, start playing bass as my new hobby, and that the bathroom needs remodeled. Very productive planning time. I'll definitely follow through this time. The phone screen is fogged up but I can see the light flashing in the corner for a new notification. Eli must've learned how to use his words. Eli: I need a favor. Just a little one. I know it's your day off. Either that's an apology or his way of telling me he knows I've got nothing else going on and no excuse to fall back on. Either way, it's not a small favor. Me: I have plans. they involve coffee, a couch, and a tv. Eli: It's a quick one. Coffee will be on me. I put the phone down and let him work out some more words while I find sweats to put on. If Eli really wants something done, he's going to have to put in the work of actually asking. Too many times, I've been roped into some BS idea or another at his insistence that it's "not a big deal". Eli: you'll need boots and gloves Me: like hell I will. what are you trying to do? it's all of 30 degrees outside Eli: work stuff. I need help with a pick up job. Me: and you're paying in coffee? I suppose I can volunteer my services. I hate that Eli and I are in the same line of work. Thank fates not as competitors. Different clients and specialties. But close enough that professional courtesy is expected. Me: I'm not using my truck. You're chauffeuring. Eli: My truck is empty. and clean. it'd be an upgrade for you. I snort. Not a chance. But if I'm on the hook now to help out, I'm riding shotgun and playing passenger from hell. Me: what time? I'm not changing out of my sweats. No way I'm getting dolled up for you. Eli: wouldn't expect anything less than your best. Give me 30 minutes. That give you enough time to put on your makeup? I toss the phone on the bed and try to track down my boots. This should be a fashion statement.
Eli pulls up the drive and blasts the horn. Of course he does. As if I didn't hear the driveway alarms, exhaust, and his shitty music from the main road. "I'm not listening to that garbage," I gripe as I climb in. The seats are heated, at least, and I can feel my muscles relax. I should probably shop around for newer trucks but prices have gotten a bit ridiculous. Inflation is a bitch. "You're a whole lot uglier and hairier and grumpier than my usual passenger princesses. I think I've been catfished," Eli grumbles as he turns the music down. "Oh, I'm just getting started. Wait until you have to get my Starbies order right. And I'm expecting a five-star lunch for this." I'm fiddling with the radio and heat vents. It really is barely tolerable outside and not the kind of weather I had been planning on spending much time in. "My usual stop is the place on Main and Locust. They have the best baristas in town." Eli rolls his eyes and pulls the truck back onto the road. "The pickup is in the opposite direction. Isn't there a coffee place somewhere east?" I looked at him. "No," I deadpan. "If you're calling in favors, you're the one on the hook. You coulda called someone else but I'm guessing you need the extra oomph to get this thing in the truck. And back out of it." He grunts again and heads west towards Main St. Guess that answers my question. He'd normally call me on my petty bullshit and give me more grief for it. Dammit. That means I'm actually going to have to work. On my day off. I toy with whether the friendship is worth saving or not. And decide it probably is. Making friends as an adult is hopeless. Can't throw 30 years down the drain over one lost day off. Eli has been around since we were boys terrorizing the hillsides and hollers. I'll keep him around a while yet.
Coffee in hand and music changed to something much more appealing, he has the truck blasting down a gravel road doing Mach20 with the confidence of a toddler that can "do it himself". It's awe-inspiring and terrifying. I check my seatbelt again and get an annoyed eyeroll from him. "I'm not going to wreck the truck. I just got it paid off. I'd rather keep this one for a bit." He checks the upcoming road sign and swings right. "Pretty sure that was a stop sign," I comment. "Do you see any cars at all? Pretty sure the intersection was clear. This whole end of the county is abandoned." We finally come up on a big house tucked into the hillside. I whistle. "That's a helluva house to be hiding out here. And gotta be new cause I don't remember ever seeing it out here growing up." Eli backs the truck right up to the garage. "The pickup is upstairs. It's a big bastard. the first time I tried, I pulled my damn shoulder. That's why you're here. All that protein powder and steroids are about to pay off." I glare over the console, "I don't take steroids. I've worked hard to look like this. Dedication and discipline. Two words you know nothing about." He blinks at me, "Let's see if those cultivated muscles are actually functional then, shall we?" "Have I ever called in a favor from you to help me lift anything?" I ask blandly. His answer is to get out of the truck and walk around the back of the house. Hopefully he's opening the garage door. I'll give him a couple minutes. No need for both of us to freeze when he can do this part on his own just fine. The garage door begins rolling up and I climb out of the truck and stroll into a very tidy, very white garage. Traditional BMW sitting on one side and an empty space on the other. "Where's the other car?" "Airport. Out of the way. Homework has all been done. Boxes are checked and it's a pretty standard routine. I just got hung up on the sheer weight. Or I'm actually getting old." Eli opens the door into the house and gestures inside. I slide my gloves on and turn to him, "Do I need to mask up?" "No. It's all dealt with. Inside job this one. Pretty textbook really. Just heavy." He leads the way through the kitchen and upstairs. One hall door is open and he heads for it. I sigh and prepare myself for whatever shitshow I'm getting into. "I really can't believe you got me out of the house for this." The pick-up does actually look pretty neatly wrapped and ready. Wonders really never cease. Eli gestures to the package on the floor, "Told you. Heavy." The body on the floor has to be tipping in over 350 and heading for 400. I'm not sure how he ever got him prepped for transport. The cleanup and wrap job really are top notch. Eli at his finest. But this guy is flabby with a capital F. The kind that comes from a lifestyle that also bought this house and what I'm betting is the trophy wife that found Eli. Heavy. Eli warned me. "Allright, let's get this show on the road then. You still owe me lunch after this." I stooped to test lift the shoulders. "If I can get the shoulders and you take the legs I think I can handle the top heading down the stairs first." The weirdest parts of this job sometimes are the logistics. "Do you think we can do it without breaking the wrap? He's pretty snug but I'd hate to have to redo the nastier bits of cleanup through the whole house. Contractor is trying to keep the house mostly intact." Eli inspects his wrap job again for weak spots. "No problem. That's what I'm here for." It would, in fact, be a problem. I'm going to be kicking myself for ever putting it out into the ether.
A couple of minutes later, I'm hoisting the stiff up a bit to even the load somewhat between my downhill position and Eli making his way slowly down the steps after me. I've reconsidered and decided the guy is closer to 400. And wasn't carrying it well. Pathway to diabetes and chronic joint issues if Eli hadn't solved that problem for him. We make it to the bottom of the steps and I breathe a sigh of relief. The vision of the poor sap rolling down the stairs and taking me with him had been replaying in my head a couple of times. It didn't end well for me in any of the versions. We set down to give Eli's shoulder a break. The pained look on his face was nearly enough to make me feel bad for him. Then again maybe not. He's made enough on this job to cover his chiropractor bill, I'm sure. He sits on the stair. "I owe you for this one. I'm not sure I know another meathead within range to help me tackle this one. All the scouting and pictures, I knew he was big. Nothing I haven't done before. I must've really done something strange to cause the shoulder issue." I frown at him. "You know, if you hit a gym once in a while, you might be in better shape to do these jobs. Then you wouldn't need the meathead. Or figure out how to create a pick-up dolly to strap them too. Patent it and make your fortune on easy-stow body moving tools." I grin and perk up at the thought. "And give me royalties for the idea." Eli groans and gets back to his feet. "Not sure there would be much demand. That's a very niche market that may be hard to break into with that advertising plan." He gestures back to the wrapped pick-up job. "Let's get this over with." I stoop and lift my end and ease my way back towards the kitchen. Thankfully an open concept with a straight shot to the garage. Then the steps down and to the back of the truck. It seems to happen in slow motion. I see Eli open his mouth to say something and my back foot comes "down" on open air. There's no floor. Those visions of rolling with the wrapped body come to mind again for half a second. And then they're coming true. My hands let go out of reflex to catch myself. Eli loses his grip. There were steps into the kitchen. Rookie mistake. And I'm going to pay for it. I land hard on my back, thankfully keeping my head from cracking on the tile but the air is knocked out of me. The body is coming next. It lands half on me taking the rest of my breath and half on the floor with a sickening slap. Eli is standing at the top of the small three step flight with a shocked look on his face. He jumps down to push the guy off me. With that done, I try to suck in a breath. "Did you really just miss the step???" Eli is asking. I'm staring at the ceiling gasping like a fish wondering at what point my day took this turn for the worse. My ankle is throbbing like someone took a hammer to it. My back feels like an over-tightened guitar string. My head feels clear and my arms seem intact. I take a deep breath and feel a pinch along the side. A big pinch. "I think that bastard cracked a rib," I hiss. Eli looks over at his pick-up. "Shit, he's leaking into the wrapping. We either have to move him now or rewrap him before he busts a seam somewhere." I groan again. He looks me over, "Can you move or did you actually break something?" "I think I broke a couple things but let's get this done. I'm not hauling my ass back out here again." I push up and grimace. "And I sure as hell didn't volunteer to do a cleanup job." I roll and feel the pinch in my side get worse. At least cracked. He scrambles to his feet and rolls the package over checking for splits or leaks. He seems satisfied enough and rolls it back onto its back. "We should probably carry him. That wrap isn't going to hold up through a fall and being drug across the floor. Can you do it?" I'm still laying on the floor dazed. Job's gotta get done though. I've always came through for Eli and he's always came through for me. I can't believe I fell down the steps. What kind of karmic justice was that? Had I offended the cosmos lately? "I can do it. Let's just make it quick before the swelling sets in. Where is this dude going? Is the unload going to be this bad?" I'm at least on my hands and knees working my way to my feet. "Unload is easy. Roll off and done. The rest is already taken care of on that end. We're just the delivery service today." Eli grabs my hand and pulls me up. "You leave any body fluids? I've got wipes in the truck. I'll come in and do a quick wipe down once he's in." We hoist the pick-up again. My ankle and side are now screaming in tandem. I'll have hell to pay for this. But it's only 40 more feet and then home free. I've never been so glad that Eli never had that truck lifted. I wouldn't have been able to heave the guy up any further. The garage steps go much smoother. And slower. We have to swing the guy a bit to get him rolled into the bed of the truck. Not graceful and I'm sure not dignified. Poor guy is probably watching us abuse his corpse and figuring out who he wants to haunt more. Hopefully it's Eli. I'm just the unwitting help on this one. I climb back into the truck slowly and carefully. Every breath has a bit of burn. My ankle now has it's own heartbeat. Eli's heated seats are doing their best to sooth my back. I'm never answering another text message on a day off. In fact, I may just start silencing my phone and leaving it in a drawer. Eli climbs in and tosses the wipes into the back seat. A glance in the mirror shows the garage door is shut. The truck lurches down the driveway as he stares straight ahead and begins navigating the gravel roads to make it back to civilization. "So, are we doing lunch at the hospital?" "No, nothing they can do for cracked ribs that I can't do myself. And I'll let the ankle go a couple of days and see what it does. You know, this is really going to set back my gym routine. I may need someone to prepare meals and help me shower even." "You were nearly crushed by a pick-up job. I'm not sure how you're going to justify what happened when it was clearly caused by your own negligence. I'm not at fault for your inability to watch where your big feet are going." He snorts, "And I want nothing to do with your shower. You can find some poor woman with daddy issues to help soothe your wounded pride. Though finding one that can cook too might be a reach." I settle back in the seat and check my seat belt again. He's only driving Mach10 this time. Poor guy in the back is having a rough day today. I look down at my sweats and hoodie. No signs of blood or mud. Coulda been worse I suppose. Eli's good for it. He'll have my back next time no questions asked. "Let's go to that Italian place down on 7th. The breadsticks there are better and the sauce isn't as sour as the one on Sycamore. I don't care how much you like the waitress, I can't stand that sour sauce of theirs. It tastes rancid. You're going to pay for my to-go order for later, too. Then we can do drop-off." He nods like he knew what the demands were going to be and for once doesn't even argue with me over which Italian place. Makes falling down the steps and being crushed by a body almost worth it. I flex my ankle a bit. Then again maybe not. I'm going to regret volunteering for this job for weeks to come.
Streetlights are flashing on as the evening darkness settles in with the rain. The LED glare is harsh and sudden. The late fall dampness is terrible. The rain never seems to let up. Everything is soggy and sticky. It's a miserable time of year. The restaurants along this street are still doing brisk business. Everyone on their way home from work and shirking the duty of cooking. Takeout is the quick option and takes much less mental fortitude to prepare. I duck along the vinyl overhangs to stay out of the worst of the drizzle like the most mundane version of Frogger. I caught a whiff of curry from a doorway and ducked inside. I'm no better than the others dodging dinner duty for the night I realize. The idea of tucking myself into cozy pajamas with Indian food and hot tea and couch rotting for the evening was a convincing enough argument. This kind of weather is perfect for not being productive. Especially after having your soul sucked out for eight hours in an inner office lit with only the overhead fluorescents that I'm sure are contributing to an early death. Whoever designed the modern office space should be tried for war crimes. Bag in hand, I try to duck over it to keep it from getting completely soaked. I'll already have to nuke it since there is no way I'm not taking a blazing hot shower as soon as I get through my door to knock the chill out of my body. The idea of hot water motivates me to move just a bit faster while pondering why I haven't packed my bags and migrated. My shoes are starting to feel damp. Damn. Normally the walk home is soothing and I can meander while letting go of the corporate persona I carefully build each morning. It's a grounding exercise. Days like today not so much. There's an alley ahead that I use as a shortcut when I'm late in the mornings (frequently) or when the weather is terrible (also, unfortunately, frequently). I duck around the corner and into the blessedly emptier walkway. The buildings shield some of the rain though the puddles still soak my shoes. Small wins. I'll take it. I keep fantasizing about a South American beach resort where there are only two seasons- tourist season and not tourist season. I'm not picky. I can live with the constant threat of a coup or pickpockets as long as the sun keeps shining and it's warm. I should really start taking vacation during winter to those warm places. I fear if I went though, I'd never get back on the plane to come home. Find me a cabana boy and settle down as the world's worst waitress at a tiki bar. A girl can dream. The alley ends a half block from my building. I can see the green door through the slightly hazy fog that is hanging around. Sanctuary and that hot shower within reach. Apparently so am I. I'd forgotten the warnings that had been on the news and radio the last couple of days. Dammit. Winter Solstice is coming up in a couple weeks and the locals had gotten bold. Every year. We do this every year. I'm not careless. I know how this works. The hand had been quick and covered my mouth as they pulled me sideways into a doorway. I struggled knowing it wouldn't likely help but I had to do something. Resignation to my fate seemed like it would be the wrong reaction without a token attempt at escape. Once my food was in danger of being spilled, I stopped. I mean, they would let me eat. They weren't complete heathens. I looked to see who held me and saw a damp, blond haired Sidhe eyeing me. I shook my head and patted his arm. He definitely looked confused. He gripped my arm but uncovered my mouth slightly. "You're supposed to fight me and scream," he almost asks. "Eh," I say, "I know the routine. Kidnapping by you lot isn't the worst thing that could happen." He looks even more confused. "Have you ever worked in an office for 8 hours a day with no end in sight except retirement or death? And frankly, my bets are on death first with the way inflation is going." I sigh. "I know you're going to tell me how horribly I'll be treated and that you're taking me away from my life and everything familiar, but as long as you let me bring my food and take a shower when we get there, I'm game. I know that the threats are exaggerated and you're not nearly as bad as the propaganda that's put around." He looks absolutely put out that the struggle seems to be over and that he never got to terrorize me. I pursed my lips, "And really I never belonged here anyway."
The windows are down and the hot air of summer is blasting into the car. It's sunny and the world is gently cooking under the early summer warmth. The freeway cuts through and around the hills covered in green canopies and fields of cattle. The early evening sun is glaring through the windshield at that awkward angle that's too low for the visor but too high to adjust your seat. The smell comes out of nowhere. Grassy, fresh, and dusty. The faint residue of diesel exhaust tangled in with the rest. Suddenly, I'm not on the freeway home from work anymore. I'm sitting next to the barn with a bottle of water and a sandwich. We're halfway done putting up this cutting of hay and we'll be working til dark to finish. Pop is sitting on the tractor under the umbrella shooing flies away with his broad straw hat. The barn is already full of the sweet warm smell of sun-dried bales. Grassy, fresh, and dusty. Pop is telling us about a time he had helped throw hay as a boy and gotten tangled up with a nest of yellow jackets. Us kids are listening as if it were a war story and a grand fight of good versus evil. Dust swirls lazily in the sunshine as the breeze blows it off the hay wagon. And then I'm driving along the freeway again. The smell of hay fields lingering just a bit longer before it's washed away.
It’s just a cabinet. And not even a particularly sturdy one. I’m impressed it’s still standing and that the doors haven’t been ripped completly off. It’s not quiet. I can’t get that lucky. I briefly consider lining it with scraps of fabric to insulate myself further from everything that exists outside of my cabinet. I’m not designed for this world. I’m not wired right. The older I get, the more aware I am of not being like the rest. Or at least like the other people I know. They ENJOY the chaos and closeness of our way of life. My sister does her best to never be alone. To never have to face her own thoughts and fill the void that peace and quiet brings with it. I crave the distance. The feeling of space that comes with no one being within reach or brushing up against me. The feeling that makes my skin crawl. The worst part of communal living is the casual approach to physical contact. I can’t give up my cabinet. It’s a space all my own. Well, not mine. But for the 30 minutes I can spare before someone will come to find me, it’s my space. My peace. My slice of sanity between the crush of overcrowded streets, shared beds, and meals with far too many mouths sitting at the table. I can hear people passing through the stairwell like migrating animals. They say this is the way we’re supposed to live. Community based, close family groups, in hordes that keep piling more and more people into limited apartments that are bursting at the seams. People are social creatures. They crave and thrive on constant physical contact. Except me. I crave these moments that I can salvage. There must be something wrong with me if these 30 minute retreats go against everything my family wants from life itself. I’m not sure what they would think about the idea of taking a break for yourself once a day or so. Probably wonder if I needed to visit a doctor. And then lock the cabinet. Or worse, take the doors off.