Writing Exercise #3 - Bryr

Ten minutes later, Colton cut the engine and rolled to a stop across the street from Reg Walker’s house on 16th. The house was the largest on the street with clay shingles and adobe walls, a cobbled walk through the new sod lawn, wilting roses along the fence that wouldn’t last the summer. Red flower boxes were filled with pink petunias, lace curtains flapped through open windows, and a mat covered with grinning bunnies welcomed visitors to the front door. If he wanted to, he could pull right up into the driveway behind the blue Malibu. He could walk right in that side door to the garage without knocking, grab a beer from the mini fridge. He could rip off his shirt and walk around to the pool where Mrs. Walker would be laying out on her stomach in her yellow bikini, the laces untied to not leave tan lines. The butterfly just peeking out above her ass. She’d roll over, holding the skimpy fabric to her chest, tell him to turn up the Lionel Richie and get busy. He knew she’d lower her enormous sunglasses and turn her head so she could secretly watch him while he checked the pH, netted floating leaves, and trimmed the hedge. He’d haul those buckets of chemicals around, carrying them away from his body so his lats flexed. He’d carry the net across his shoulders to show her the length of his torso. When he was done, he’d wink and tip his hat and she’d lift that pencil thin eyebrow as if to say, “thanks for the show, handsome,” and go back to her book. Mr. Walker would thank him too, shake his hand and pay him in cash. Cash wouldn’t do it though. Not anymore. It had felt alright for awhile, overcharging Walker for the upkeep, buying plants that he’d have to replace every year, indulging Mrs. Walker’s every flamboyant decorating whim. Getting everything from Walmart and charging Pier One prices. Convincing her to leave her card on account at Home Depot. The new mower, the air conditioner for the trailer – these had gone unnoticed. Not only did Walker not look into his wife’s home improvement budget, he seemed to barely register Colton’s presence. He would never have suspected someone like Walker. Hair thinned to a horseshoe around a sunburned scalp. He wore short-sleeved button-down shirts in brightly colored patterns. The cuffs of his high-wasted trousers flopped around bare ankles and polished oxfords. Colton imagined him behind that desk, gum-snapping little hard bodies slumped across from him rolling their eyes, bitching about not making the cheerleading team or stepdaddy’s too strict. Walker taking notes, asking questions, laying that clammy hand over theirs reassuringly. He thought about Rhonda a year ago, before the pregnancy, before the drop out. Never so skinny, never that itchy kind of hot like the friends she brought over for sleepovers. But for a heavy girl she got around. And she always seemed to have things under control. He found condoms in her purse, a tube of spermicide, a fake id. She’d shown up at his place at fifteen, a fully equipped woman, he figured. She was nineteen now and had never asked him a thing, never thought he knew something she didn’t. He appreciated that somehow. Figured her business was hers and he’d just keep the rent paid and the toilet seat down till she moved on. Then Walker called late that night. He’d called before for Rhonda – something about her grades or taking tests, or going to college – Rhonda said he liked to keep tabs on lots of kids, not just her. Colton never answered the phone but Rhonda usually sprawled out on the couch and talked so loud that he always figured out who it was. That night she answered it and went straight to her room, shutting the long phone cord in the door. Colton couldn’t hear her but when she came out her face was red and sweaty and she downed two beers before she left the kitchen. He hadn’t thought much of it then – could’ve been anyone. But then he saw the two of them in a booth downtown at Vickie’s. She was wiping her face with a napkin and he was leaning across the table talking fast, palms up. When she ballooned up the next month like she’d been stung by a hive of bees, Colton put it all together. He’d already been working for the Walkers doing odd jobs. After Colton got fired from his job as janitor at the high school, Walker took him on as a handy man and Colton had been glad for the work. Walker left all decisions to his wife who changed her mind a lot, often way after the fact. Colton’d put in two different sets of french doors, painted the master bedroom three times, and the front yard had been redone twice. The front door opened and Walker and his wife came out, him in shorts and a visor, her in a white jogging suit and sun hat. Walker opened the door of the Malibu for her before he noticed Colton across the street. He waved and smiled, pointed to the lawn Colton had mowed the day before and gave him a double thumbs up. His wife tossed her wrist at him as they drove away.