The Little Sleep (20 page)

Shelves on the side walls hold coffee cans full of oily rags, old nails, washers, and screws. There’s nothing taped underneath those shelves. The shed has no ceiling struts like the basement did, but I do check the frame, the beams above the door. Empty.

The rear of the shed has one long shelf with all but empty bottles of windshield washer fluid, antifreeze, and motor oil. Underneath the long plank of wood is a section of the rear wall that was reinforced with a big piece of plywood. There are nails and hooks in the plywood. The nails and hooks are empty, nothing hangs, but it looks like there’s some space or a buffer between the plywood and the actual rear wall of the shed, certainly room enough for a little roll of film, says me.

How much space is there? I knock hard on the plywood, wanting to hear a hollow sound, and my fist punches through its rotten surface, out the rear wall of the shed, and into the sunlight. Whoops. I pull my bullying fist back inside unscathed. There’s less space between the plywood and wall than I thought, and it’s all wet and rotted back there, the wall as soft as a pancake from L Street Diner.

Ellen won’t notice the fist hole in the wall, I don’t think. When does she ever go behind the shed? I try to pry off more of the plywood, but another chunk of the back wall comes with it.

Dammit. I’ll demolish the shed looking for the film, if I have to. Can’t say I have any ready-made excuses to explain such a home improvement project to Ellen, though.

Take a step back. The floorboards squeak and rattle. Something is loose somewhere. I back up some more, pressing my feet down hard, and in the rear left corner of the shed, where I was just standing and punching a second ago, the flooring rises up and off the frame a little bit and bites into the crumbling plywood above it. Maybe X marks the spot.

I go back out onto the lawn and fetch a hand trowel. It might be the poop-scooping shovel of yore, it might not. It ain’t Excalibur. I use the thing like a crowbar and pry up that rear corner until I can grab it with my hands. The floorboard isn’t rotted; the wood is tougher and fights back. I have a tight grip on the corner, and I pull and yank and lean all my weight into it. There’s a clank and the hand trowel is gone, falling into the gap and beneath the floor, making a suitable time capsule.

The wood snaps and I fall on my ass. The shed shakes and groans, and for a second I think it’s going to come down on my head, and maybe that wouldn’t be a bad thing. Maybe another knock on my head will set me straight, fix me up as good as new.

The shed doesn’t come down. The shaking and groaning stops and everything settles back. My fingers are red, raw, and screaming, but no splinters. I squeeze my hands in and out of fists and walk toward the hole in the floor. The sun goes behind a cloud and everything gets dark in the shed.

I go into snake mode, crawl on my belly, and hover my face above the hole. I look down and see the ground and the hand shovel. Fuck it. Leave the shovel under the shed where it belongs. I don’t need it to tear up more of the floorboards. My hands will do just fine.

Wait. There’s a dark lump attached to one floor joint, a black barnacle, adjacent to the corner. I reach out a hand. I touch it: plastic. Two different kinds of plastic; parts feel like a bag and other parts feel more solid but still malleable. I jack my knees underneath my weight and the floorboard buckles and bows out toward the ground under the pressure, but I don’t care. I need the leverage and both hands.

I lean over the dark lump; it’s something wrapped in a garbage bag and duct-taped to the frame. My fingers get underneath, and it comes off with a quick yank. On cue, the sun comes out again. Maybe that cartoon sun is my friend after all.

Things get brighter and hotter in the shed. I move away from the hole and stand up. There’s duct tape wound all around the plastic bag. I apply some even pressure and the inside of the package feels hard, maybe metal. Jesus Christ, my heart is beating, and—yeah, I’ll say it—I am goddamn Indiana Jones, only I’m not afraid of snakes. If this thing were a football I’d spike it and do a little dance, make a little love. But I’m a professional. It’s all about composure.

Through the plastic, I trace its perimeter. I’m Helen Keller, begging my fingers to give me the answers. It’s shaped like a wheel, and it’s too big to be a roll of film. It’s a tin, or a canister, or a reel of film. A movie.

It gets darker inside the shed again, but the sunlight is still coming in through the punched-out hole in the back wall. My back is to the door and I feel their shadows brushing up against my legs. I’ve been able to feel their shadows on me since the first trip to Sullivan’s house.

“Whaddaya say, Genevich?” says one goon.

“Jackpot!” says the other.

Looks like I was right about them choosing to wait me out, let me do all the heavy lifting. Seems to have worked out for them too. They get the gold stars, but I can’t let them have the parting gift.

I turn around slowly, a shadow moving around a sundial. The two goons fill the doorway. They replace the open doors. They are mobile walls. The sun might as well be setting right behind them, or maybe one of them has the sun in his back pocket. I can’t see their faces. They are shadows too.

One of them is holding a handgun, a handgun in silhouette, which doesn’t make it look any prettier or any less dangerous. Its
barrel is the proboscis of some giant bloodsucking insect. Its bite will do more than leave an itchy welt, and baking soda won’t help.

I say, “If you’re a couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses, God isn’t in the shed and I’m a druid.”

“Looks like you’re having a little yard sale. We thought we’d drop by, see what hunk of worthless junk I can get for two bucks,” says Redhead. “Whaddaya say, Genevich? What can I get for my two bucks?” He’s on the right. He’s the one with the gun and it threatens to overload my overloaded systems. Things are getting fuzzy at the edges, sounds are getting tinny. Or it could be just the echoes and shadows in a small empty shed.

Even in silhouette, Redhead’s freckles are visible, glowing future melanomas. Maybe if I keep him talking long enough he’ll die of skin cancer. A man can hope.

Baldy joins in, he always does, the punch line to a joke that everyone sees coming. He says, “Two bucks? Nah, he’ll ask for ten. He looks like a price gouger. Or maybe he’s selling his stuff to raise money for charity, for other retards like him.”

I’m not sure what to do with the plastic-wrapped package in my hands. They’ve seen it already. Hell, I’m holding it in front of my stomach, so I nonchalantly put it and my hands behind my back. Nothing up my sleeves.

I say, “What, you two pieces of shit can’t read the
KEEP OFF THE GRASS
sign out there?”

They take a step inside the shed and have to duck under the doorframe to enter. The wood complains under their feet. I empathize with the wood. I did say I was a druid.

The goons take up all the space and air and light in the shed. Redhead says, “We’re gonna cut the banter short, Genevich. You have two choices: we shoot you and take the movie or we just take the movie.”

“And maybe we shoot you anyway,” Baldy says.

I do register that they’re confirming my find is in fact a movie, which is a plus, but I’m getting tingly again and the dark spots in my vision are growing bigger, ink leaking into a white shirt pocket. Come on, Genevich. Keep it together. I can’t go out now, not now.

I shake my head and say, “That’s no way to treat the gracious host. Bringing over a bottle of wine would’ve sufficed.”

Redhead says, “We don’t have manners. Sometimes I’m embarrassed for us. This isn’t one of those times.”

I say, “There’s no way I’m giving you the flick. You two would just blab-blab-blab and ruin the ending for me.” I don’t think they appreciate how honest I’m being with them. I’m baring my soul here.

Baldy says, “Sorry, Genevich. We get the private screening.”

They take another step forward; I go backward. We’re doing a shed dance. I go back until the rear wall shelf hits me across the shoulders.

Redhead raises the gun to between-my-eyes level and says, “We do appreciate you clearing out a nice, clean, private space for your body. The way I see it, we shoot you, put all that crap back inside the shed, and no one will find you for days. Maybe even a week, depending on how bad the smell gets.”

I say, “I didn’t shower this morning and I sweat a lot.”

Baldy says, “Give us the movie. Now.”

That’s right, I have the film, and until they get it, I have the
upper hand. At least, that’s what I have to fool myself into believing. I am a fool.

I can’t move any farther backward, so I slide toward the right, to the corner, to where I found my prize and to the hole I punched through the back wall. The rotted plywood and wall are right behind me.

I say, “All right, all right. No need for hostilities, gentlemen. I’ll give it to you.” I pretend to slip into the floorboard hole, flail my arms around like I’m getting electrocuted. Save me, somebody save me! The movement and action feels good and clears my head some. I might be hamming it up too much, hopefully not enough to get me shot, but I don’t want them watching my sleight of hand with the package, so I scuff and bang my feet on the floor, the sounds are percussive and hard, and then, as I fall to my knees in a heap, I jam the film inside my jacket, right next to the manila envelope. The photos and film reunited and it feels so good.

Redhead traces my lack of progress with his gun. He says, “Knock off whatever it is you’re doing, Genevich, and stand up.”

I say, “Sorry. Tripped. Always been clumsy, you know?” I hold out my empty hands. “Shit, I dropped the movie. I’ll get it.” I turn around slowly. I’m that shadow on the sundial again.

Baldy says, “Get away from there, I’ll get it,” but it sounds tired, has no muscle or threat behind it because I’m trapped in the corner of the shed with nowhere to go, right? Redhead hesitates, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything to stop me from turning around.

My legs coil under me. My knees have one good spring in them. I’m aimed at the fist-sized hole in the wall and ready to be fired. I’m a piston. I’m a catapult.

I jump and launch shoulder first toward the plywood and the rear wall underneath the shelf, but my knees don’t have one good spring in them. My feet fall into in the hole, lodge between the floor and the frame, and then I hit the plywood face first. The plywood is soft, but it’s still strong enough to give me a good shot to the chops. There’s enough momentum behind me and I bust through the shed and into the fading afternoon light. I’m a semisuccessful battering ram.

There’s a gunshot and the bullet passes overhead; its sound is ugly and could never be confused with the buzz of a wasp or any living thing. The grass is more than a couple of feet below me. I tuck my chin into my chest, my hat falls off, and I dip a shoulder, hoping to land in some kind of roll. While dipping my shoulder, my body twists and turns, putting a tremendous amount of pressure on my feet and ankles; they’re going to be yanked out of their respective sockets, but they come out of the corner. Upon release I snap forward, and land awkwardly on my right shoulder, planting it into the ground. There’s no roll, no tens from the judges. My bottom half comes up and over my head into a half-assed headstand, only I’m standing on my shoulder and neck. I slide on the grass in this position, then fall.

There are two loud snaps, one right after the other. Breaking wood. I’m on my stomach and I chance a look back at the shed, instead of getting up and fleeing for my life. Most of the rear wall is gone, punched through, and the hole is a mouth that’s closing. The roof is falling, Chicken Little says so. Yet despite the sagging roof, the shed is growing bigger, a deflating balloon somehow taking in more air and taking up more of my view. Wait, it’s moving, coming right at me. The cinder blocks are toppling, and so is the propped-up shed.

The goons. They’re yelling and there’s a burst of frantic footsteps but those end suddenly. The curtain drops on their show. I might meet a similarly sudden fate if I don’t move. The shed falls and roars and aims for me. I roll left, out of the way, but I go back for my hat. I reach out and grab the brim right as that mass of rotted wood and rusty nails crash-lands on the hat and my fingers are flea lengths away from being crushed. More stale dust billows into my face. All four walls have collapsed, the doors broken and unhinged. Just like that, the shed that stood forever is no more.

I yank my hat out from beneath the rubble. It has nine lives. I stand up and put the hat on. It’s still good.

Most of my body parts seem to be functioning, though my face is wet. My fingers report back from the bridge of my nose; they’re red with blood. No biggie. Just a scratch, a ding, otherwise good to go.

I have the film. The goons don’t and they’re under a pile of suburban rubble. I step over the cyclone fence and remake myself into a woodland creature. I give one last look behind me.

The backyard of the Genevich family plot has the appearance of utter devastation and calamity, the debris of Tim’s life destroyed and strewn everywhere, spread out for everyone to see, should they care to. Secrets no more. Tim’s stuff, the stuff that defined Tim for the entirety of my life, is nothing but so much rusted and collapsed junk, those memories made material are asleep or dead, powerless and meaningless, but not harmless.