Briefest Lives: Mr. White

A jacket is draped over the coat rack at the corner, drenched in sweat and productivity. The extra-large article is straight and hollow, taking on no particular shape, tailored to fit a man of no particular taste. The navy blue threads are well preserved, as the jacket is only worn in the company of others the like to wear jackets, and talk about where they got them from, and where they have them made. It is one of two. The other is for formal events, namely weddings in barns, where the bride and groom wear Hawaiian t-shirts and cut pineapple cake. A sticky, oppressive atmosphere is pushed back by industrial floor fans outfacing from the front door. A pool of water has formed by the central air conditioning unit, as two undocumented immigrants hired by the maintenance company repair the glycol gaskets. The condensation off the pipes, and onto the floor, reminds Mr. White of his refrigerator growing up, dripping, coating the floor in a sweet sticky resin that smelled like apple juice and fermented fruit. A regimented array of cheap, fizzy beer crafted for the unsophisticated and undemanding tastes of the middle American worker lined the top shelf, positioned strategically toward the back of the fridge to ensure a constant and steady temperature of 35 degrees Fahrenheit. Mr. White lingered in the hallway watching the workers continue. The walls of his house were crowned with pictures of family and friends, awards and trophies, of a lifetime of “job well done.” A crowded family photo of a wife, two boys and a daughter stared back at him in the dim, quiet stillness. He glanced across the living room, peering outside to a patio and a pool and a grill, like the one he always wanted. He walked to the pantry and took out a couple of juice boxes—it was all he had—while the other, more appetizing drinks disappeared questionably, usually between the hours of 10pm and 4am, when he was asleep and the house was stirring with scavenging parasites. He took them to the workers and passed them around with a smile and a pat on the back. Mr. White was over generous with his affections, willing to dole out in excess. His co-workers noticed that about him. He always had a story or some deeper lesson in his staff meetings on the oil rigs, always willing to take longer breaks to go over proactive maintenance sheets and identify negligent workers for forgetting to lock-out-tag-out an open butterfly valve. Manuel and Carlos, with silver and gold plated smiles received the drinks agreeably and went back to work. Mr. White walked out, passing again through the kitchen, where a wretched, depressed Exotic Shorthair languished in the heat, shaved unscrupulously close, leaving only its face remaining, a wincing old man. Stepping outside, he was assaulted by the stagnant, damp air and waddled his way to the garage. In the kitchen, a phone rings, and rings, and rings, and rings, and a message plays over the outward speaker phone. A gruff, low voice, enunciates the new correctional facility regulations in regards to the “previous incident.” No hugging, no touching, even during sessions. His badge would be ready later that day and could be picked up with the Warden’s assistance. Mr. White entered the ashy, dusty interior of the carport. In the corner, hedged between two rusty mountain bikes and a gun safe, was a broken weedwacker. On top of the safe, a green, paint chipped tool box, elegantly decorated with swaying cursive, with wide and unbroken Honeymooner charm, was open filed with cobwebbed tools. They stank of cigarette smoke, of fear, of regret, of heartache. Underneath the lid, a faded patch, threadbare and bleached, an eagle perched on the face of the moon, was epoxied underneath, the gold lettering nearly faded after the forty-six years since. Mr. White took from the box a wrench and began to fix the weedwacker, humming blithely.