Home Free

HOME FREE

By Sonnjea Blackwell

Copyright 2013 Sonnjea Blackwell

Smashwords Edition

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Dedication:

To my mom, Sheila Elliott

The man in front of me was losing his pants,
and I was facing a good six inches of hairy ass and butt crack.
Oddly enough, not my favorite way to start the day. It was six in
the morning, I hadn’t had my coffee, and I was at the home
improvement emporium, waiting to pay for my little basket of light
bulbs and switch plates. I knew they were called switch plates
because when I asked the guy for “light switch thingies” he rolled
his eyes, pointed to an aisle about seven miles away and said,
“
Switch plates
are on aisle four hundred
and eleven, next to the blow torches.” He seemed awfully snotty for
someone who had to wear an apron to work.

As much as I wanted to turn away, I was
spellbound by the crack. The guy was leaning on one of those
heavy-duty rolling carts filled with lumber and boxes of nails in
every size. Every time he inched the cart forward, the jeans dipped
a little lower. He never hitched them up, and I began to wonder
what was going to happen when he reached into his back pocket for
his wallet. I spied a display filled with bouquets of flowers,
impulse buys for contractors in trouble with their wives, and I
imagined a flower arrangement in the crack. Not the whole big
bouquet, of course, but maybe just a few stems of carnations and
daisies, sort of Hieronymus Bosch does Home Depot.

“Alex?”

I froze, straining my peripheral vision in an
attempt to spot whoever had spotted me. I didn’t get up at dawn to
visit the megawarehouse because I enjoyed the view. I went at that
hour because the only other people there were sleepy contractors
who I assumed didn’t know me or at least wouldn’t recognize me. I
was a tad conspicuous because I was about half a foot shorter than
everyone else, and I had a wimpy little basket of switch plates and
light bulbs instead of a macho rolling cart overflowing with power
tools and enough wood to frame a house. But I was incognito. An
Oakland A’s baseball cap covered my shoulder-length,
straight-as-a-stick brown hair. Cool Nike wraparound sunglasses hid
half my face. A big, shapeless gray sweatshirt over blue and white
plaid pajama bottoms obscured my body, leaving my gender in serious
doubt. Red flip-flips did nothing to disguise my size ten feet. I
amused myself by pretending I was a famous celebrity, cleverly
disguised so I could go out in public and not be pestered by my
adoring fans.

“Alex Jordan?” the adoring fan persisted.

I pulled my gaze away from the butt vase.

“Where?” I asked, looking around and mentally
kicking myself for not painting my toenails or at least putting on
a toe ring. Jack Murphy stood in the next checkout line over,
inspecting me, his forehead creased with worry. I’m terrible with
faces and can only recognize a handful of people I went to high
school with, but one of those people happened to be Jack Murphy, a
guy I’d had a huge crush on my sophomore year. He was on the swim
team then, and he looked like he still worked out. A lot. He kept
staring at me like he thought he knew me but I had aged
really
badly.

“I know it’s you, Alex,” he said, finally
convinced.

“Hey Jack, how’s it going?” Just act casual,
I thought.

“Can’t complain. What are you doing
here?”

“Actually, I bought a house here in town, but
I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t say anything to anyone just yet
because I haven’t had a chance to tell my folks. You know how that
can be.” I shrugged and smiled. I’d lived within five miles of
every member of my family for eight days now, and none of them had
a clue.

“No, I mean,
here
. In
public. In that,” he nodded towards my ensemble. “Are you in some
kind of trouble?”

Oh, just kill me now.

I flopped on the sofa, kicked my feet up onto
the box marked MISC LIVING ROOM and surveyed my domain. Pretty
fucking dismal, I thought. I was in my brand new abode, which was
far from brand new. I had gotten it for a song because according to
the realtor it was in need of “a little TLC”, which was like saying
Chris Hemsworth has okay arms. The previous occupants had done some
damage to each other as well as the structure in a domestic
squabble that began with a drunken fistfight and ended with the
wife pulling up floorboards in the master bedroom with the
intention of stuffing her husband’s drunk ass under the house to
sleep off his latest bender. When she got him half in and half out
of the hole in the floor, she lost her train of thought and
wandered off to set fire to the drapes. They both went to jail and
the landlady dumped the house on the market, as-is, just so as not
to have to associate with the riff-raff anymore. I’d convinced
myself I was handy and wanted to renovate the place. The truth was
it was all I could afford.

As if that weren’t pathetic enough, the house
is in my hometown of Minter. Minter is a small town in the middle
of California’s San Joaquin Valley, the most productive
agricultural area in the nation. That’s a euphemism for redneck
country. There’s a creek running through the middle of town, a lake
for families to hang out at during the blistering summer months,
and plenty of sports to keep the kids out of their parents’ hair.
There’s one mall and only two Starbucks. It’s the type of town that
people say is a great place to raise kids, but the truth is, the
economy is among the poorest in the state, opportunities are
limited, the weather sucks and most of us kids who were raised
there couldn’t wait to get the hell out, one way or another.

Anyway, through no fault of my own, I
recently found myself in the process of a divorce. I’m a freelance
graphic designer and I do okay, but I wasn’t going to be able to
afford to continue living in southern California, a place where
kids actually want to be raised, and where mortgages reflect that.
As I said, the divorce was not attributable in any way to me,
except in the sense that I was the wrong gender, and Max, my
almost-ex, had been fairly generous, either out of guilt or utter
relief not to ever have to see another vagina, I’m not sure which.
In any event, he kindly suggested we split the sale of our cute
townhouse in Huntington Beach sixty-forty, knowing that would leave
me enough money for a down payment on a place of my own, but also
knowing that it would be far, far away from him and Raoul.

I was startled by a knock at the door, and I
went to let in Jack Murphy. I’d showered and changed since the Home
Depot debacle, but central California in July is generally in the
hundred and ten degree range, and I’d been playing at unpacking, so
I didn’t have high hopes for my appearance. The air conditioner was
on my list of things to have looked at. Lucky for me, that was
Jack’s reason for coming over. Ever the professional, once he
recovered from the astonishment of my woefully deteriorated
appearance, he remembered I’d said the magic words: “I bought a
house here in town.” Next thing I knew, he was offering to come
over and take a look at it for me. He was sure he could make me a
good deal, since we went to high school together and all. I
scoffed. He or his brothers went to high school with everyone in
this town, and if they made everybody good deals, Murphy & Sons
Construction wouldn’t be in business. But I was desperate and I
knew I couldn’t do all the work myself, so I invited him over to
give me an appraisal.

I opened the door and smiled my please don’t
screw me over smile. “Come on in.”

He gave me the once over and relief flooded
his face.

“Want to show me the problems, or you want me
to take a look and tell you what I find?” He seemed to be taking up
most of my entryway, although I couldn’t see any fat on him. His
jeans fit reasonably well, and I felt optimistic that when he bent
over to work, I wouldn’t be subjected to an unsolicited view of his
butt crack. That was a relief since I had no flowers. He was about
six feet, three inches tall, muscular in a good way, and tan from
working construction. He had wavy hair, medium brown like mine, and
twinkly blue eyes. He still fell into the handsome category,
although I could definitely see him as Santa Claus in another
twenty years or so.

“Well, the master bedroom is a disaster. I’ve
just been working on the small stuff like removing the carpet and
patching the walls and stuff. The AC doesn’t work. I think the
kitchen is in okay shape. Oh, and there’s a squeaky floorboard in
the hallway that’s driving me crazy. But I’d love to know what you
find.”

I gave him a quick tour. The house makes a
circle, the entryway expanding out into the living room, which is
separated from the dining room by an archway, and then a swinging
door opens from the dining room into the small but functional
kitchen. Another door leads out of the kitchen to the hallway, a
medium sized master bedroom with its own bath, a small bedroom,
another bathroom, another small bedroom in the front of the house,
and then you’re back in the entryway. The thing I loved about the
house, besides the price, was the set of French doors leading from
the master bedroom to the backyard swimming pool. In Minter,
swimming pools are de rigueur, not a sign of wealth or status or
prestige. When fully one-sixth of the year consists of triple-digit
temperatures, the cost of keeping cool isn’t considered a luxury.
Only the very poorest neighborhoods were without pools, and even
many of those sported inflatable wading pools on the front
lawns.

We were back where we started. “I’m looking
forward to my bedroom being livable so I can wake up in the morning
and step right outside to the pool.” Might as well make it sound
like I intended to swim laps for exercise.

He nodded and wandered off in the direction
of the bedrooms, his tool belt clanking as he walked.

My cell phone rang, and the display said
“Parents.” Nothing good could come from that. I hollered after
Jack, “Hey, you didn’t tell anyone I was here, did you?” He didn’t
answer and the phone kept ringing, so I picked it up.

“Hello?” Please be dad, please be dad, please
be dad.

“Hello, Alexis.”

Aw, fuck.

“Hi, Mom.”

I’d been avoiding my family, not because
they’re inherently evil or anything like that, but to delay the
inevitability of my becoming, once again, the family
disappointment. Having managed to acquire a spouse, I had spent the
last few years in relative obscurity, leaving the parental regret
to fall upon my brother Kevin. My dad is a math teacher at the
junior college and my mom is a nurse, and they’re still married, to
each other even, which makes me the first divorcee in the family.
Brian is my oldest brother. He’s six years older than me, married
to a woman who’s name I can never remember, has two kids that he
insists are his but who I suspect were actually fathered by Satan,
and lives to torture my other brother, Kevin, and me. Brian’s the
child any parents would be proud of. He would never dream of
getting divorced, or of failing in any other way. We’re not close.
Kevin is only a year and a half older than me and would get
divorced in a heartbeat, if only he could find someone to marry him
first. At least he wasn’t living at home anymore. We had fought
like Middle Eastern countries when we were kids, but basically he
was the kind of big brother a girl would want.

The next half hour sounded a lot like “blah,
blah, blah, oh honey, blah, blah, your father and I, blah, blah,
Brian would never, blah, blah, blah.” Somewhere near the end, I
yawned. My mother got indignant.

“Well, I’m obviously keeping you from
something important, though it’s the middle of the day and you’re
home, so apparently it’s not a job. But I’ll let you get back to
whatever it is.” She knew I worked from home, so that was a dig
about my career and my manners. My mother is great at
multi-tasking.

“Actually, I’m over here eating bon bons and
boning the contractor.” How’s that for multi-tasking?

“Alexis! Why must you say things like that?”
She sighed the sigh, and I knew it was accompanied by the
heavenward eye roll and the appeal to God, wondering what she had
done wrong. “I have to go to work now,” my mom worked twelve-hour
shifts, eleven a.m. to eleven p.m., five shifts in two weeks, “but
come over tomorrow at two. We’ll have a family barbecue and you can
tell us everything.”