Scratcher

Warren waffled between pedals at the yellow light, then lurched to a stop at the four-way intersection alongside a vagrant in the median strip.  He couldn’t read the cardboard solicitation; it was wedged in the man’s armpit while he warmed his cupped hands with his breath.  Warren’s floor heater suddenly felt luxurious. He wiggled his toes in his workbooks and turned up the heat.  He felt for change in his cupholders and sweatshirt pockets but all he could find was a folded-up scratcher, a loser.

       Too many headlights raced west in front of his windshield, blurry in the morning twilight.  He thought about all the tools behind him in his van that he’d have to reorganize from braking so hard.  He thought about his boy and girl still asleep in their shared room, radiating heat under the heavy wool quilts his wife patched together. Then he pictured the new timber subdivision sign at the edge of the city where he was headed—Bluebird Commons—and the rows of newly framed townhouses he needed to plumb for waste and water.

       Warren cranked down his window and let the cold rush in.  “What happened to spring?” he blurted.  The man turned, still thawing his hands.  His hair and beard were thick and streaked with grays, like Warren’s.  “What’s your sign say?  Any clever jokes?”

       “Help me work through my sorrow,” the man said, the sign still wedged under his arm.

       The headlights changed direction in front of them.  He thumbed the folded scratcher in his pocket and asked the man how felt about crawl spaces, if he could work with his hands.

       “I’m terrified of spiders,” the man said.  “I’ve always worked white-collar jobs, but once I built my son a big, beautiful tree house.”

       “Where’s your son now?”

      The man’s eyes turned glassy.  Warren caught sight of the green arrow and the lineup of cars in the rearview.  Horns beeped, then blasted, but Warren didn’t give two shits about the noise.  The only thing he’d ever stayed up worrying about was what he’d do with himself if something horrible happened to one of his kids.  He reached across the cab, pushed open his passenger door.  “You’ll have to get over your fear of spiders,” he yelled, then told him to hurry his ass up before the light changed.

Kyle Bilinski lives in a new-old house in Boise with his family.  His writing can be found in places like Iron Horse Literary Review, Necessary Fiction, and The Twin Bill.