Kate McIntyre
Doors
I haven’t been fine in a long time. A man stole the doors off my house. Front and back. He stood with them in the neighbor’s yard, beside the recycling bin. He propped each door against a shoulder like a spokesmodel showing a showcase.
When I told the man hey, those are my doors, he said, no, they aren’t. Hard to argue with that. The man, like nearly all men, was stronger than me. I could never heft doors like that. Maybe an interior door, hollow core.
I scuttled back to my porch, from whence vantage I watched the man with my doors. He didn’t have a van or truck. I wondered what the endgame here was, with my doors.
A cop showed up. I’d called him. He asked what the trouble was and I explained this man has stolen my doors. Well, the cop said, did you ask him to give them back. That’s all I tried, I said.
I’ll speak with him, the cop said. You go back inside. The concept of inside no longer applied, for the breeze now blew in through the front door hole and out through the back door hole. This is because my house faced west. If it faced east, the wind would flow in my back door hole and out my front door hole.
I didn’t want the man who stole my doors to know he was getting to me, so I watched through the window’s sheer curtain. The cop’s conference with the man finished with the cop’s hand laid familiarly on the man’s shoulder.
The cop came and told me he’d spoken with the man who stole my doors. There has been some mistake, the cop said. Now we’re getting somewhere, I said. The cop said, you have mistaken the identity of the doors, for the doors the man had propped against each shoulder were in fact his doors, of long standing.
I didn’t know how to take that.
You’re in a pickle, the cop said, so I’ll help you out. He went to his cop car and from the trunk withdrew a shell pink door with nine perfect panes of glass in the upper half, old glass, wavy and greenish. It was really a beautiful door. The cop had a tool set with him, too, which he used to hang the door in my front door hole. I watched from inside my house and the man who stole my doors watched from his position on the neighbor’s lawn. The cop worked quickly. As he screwed in the hinges, his nightstick and gun slapped his thigh.
The cop swung the new door open and shut a few times. It fit perfectly. That’ll be $350, the cop said. He held out his hand.
That’s too much, I said. It’s a beautiful door, but I never asked for it.
The cop’s ears reddened. The door is from my booth at Gold Star Consignment on Gold Star Boulevard. I gave you such a deal and this is the thanks I get.
The cop broke all the handsome little panes with the heel of his hand. He wiped the blood on my white siding, which just last week I had had professionally power washed.
This thanks, the cop said. He ran his bloody hand all down the porch bannisters.
The cop got back in his cop car and the man who stole my doors climbed into the back seat, where a cage separated him from the cop. The man who stole my doors told a joke as they drove away. I saw the cop’s head throw back, like the man who stole my doors was a real card. Fast friends.
I dragged my back door back from the neighbors’ yard to my back door sill. I propped it in place. I left my front door in the neighbors’ yard. If they asked me how the door got there, I’d tell them I don’t know, it’s not mine.
When I told the man hey, those are my doors, he said, no, they aren’t. Hard to argue with that. The man, like nearly all men, was stronger than me. I could never heft doors like that. Maybe an interior door, hollow core.
I scuttled back to my porch, from whence vantage I watched the man with my doors. He didn’t have a van or truck. I wondered what the endgame here was, with my doors.
A cop showed up. I’d called him. He asked what the trouble was and I explained this man has stolen my doors. Well, the cop said, did you ask him to give them back. That’s all I tried, I said.
I’ll speak with him, the cop said. You go back inside. The concept of inside no longer applied, for the breeze now blew in through the front door hole and out through the back door hole. This is because my house faced west. If it faced east, the wind would flow in my back door hole and out my front door hole.
I didn’t want the man who stole my doors to know he was getting to me, so I watched through the window’s sheer curtain. The cop’s conference with the man finished with the cop’s hand laid familiarly on the man’s shoulder.
The cop came and told me he’d spoken with the man who stole my doors. There has been some mistake, the cop said. Now we’re getting somewhere, I said. The cop said, you have mistaken the identity of the doors, for the doors the man had propped against each shoulder were in fact his doors, of long standing.
I didn’t know how to take that.
You’re in a pickle, the cop said, so I’ll help you out. He went to his cop car and from the trunk withdrew a shell pink door with nine perfect panes of glass in the upper half, old glass, wavy and greenish. It was really a beautiful door. The cop had a tool set with him, too, which he used to hang the door in my front door hole. I watched from inside my house and the man who stole my doors watched from his position on the neighbor’s lawn. The cop worked quickly. As he screwed in the hinges, his nightstick and gun slapped his thigh.
The cop swung the new door open and shut a few times. It fit perfectly. That’ll be $350, the cop said. He held out his hand.
That’s too much, I said. It’s a beautiful door, but I never asked for it.
The cop’s ears reddened. The door is from my booth at Gold Star Consignment on Gold Star Boulevard. I gave you such a deal and this is the thanks I get.
The cop broke all the handsome little panes with the heel of his hand. He wiped the blood on my white siding, which just last week I had had professionally power washed.
This thanks, the cop said. He ran his bloody hand all down the porch bannisters.
The cop got back in his cop car and the man who stole my doors climbed into the back seat, where a cage separated him from the cop. The man who stole my doors told a joke as they drove away. I saw the cop’s head throw back, like the man who stole my doors was a real card. Fast friends.
I dragged my back door back from the neighbors’ yard to my back door sill. I propped it in place. I left my front door in the neighbors’ yard. If they asked me how the door got there, I’d tell them I don’t know, it’s not mine.
Carl's Bad Cavern
Hot day. Carl and I spot a cave. Carl leans inside. Sneezes. First thing Carl says is, “Note that bottle on a high rock ledge.”
I hang back, though the cave’s mouth does have fetid charm.
“Green liquid in that bottle,” Carl says. “Refreshing.”
Carl doesn’t know about my secret canteen, made of a pig’s bladder, under my T-shirt, pressed against my belly.
The cave dirt shifts with each step of Carl’s boots. We pulled those boots off a drunk, and they fit Carl. Friends don’t share everything. I don’t share the contents of my canteen with Carl, for example. What if I’m thirsty later?
The cave bottle beckons greenly from the rock ledge. The cave dirt now covers Carl’s boots up to the laces. Soon cave dirt covers Carl’s calves where his pulled-up socks end. He’s sinking. I want to stop Carl, but I won’t touch that cave dirt.
“Carl,” I say, “that green is like grass. No; it is the color of poison. Don’t drink from that bottle.”
Carl falls up to his knees. He grasps at the ledge, and his fingers seize the bottle, impossible now for Carl to see the bottle as the cave dirt meets his thighs.
“It’s a Coke bottle, Carl,” I call, “But there’s not Coke inside. Not even Mello Yellow.”
The cave dirt sucks Carl down by his belt, the yellow belt with the adjustable buckle I found at the thrift store. Carl, whom I know now thirsts more than any person ever, ignores me.
Carl needed a new belt when he began to lose all that weight, those chalk marks on the blackboard with the grocery list tracking his decline 180, 176, 154, 143lbs.
I could still catch Carl by the armpits. For another second or two. I scratch the wall with a fingernail. The cave dirt burps. I retract my arm. Now Carl is just head and neck and arms. The liquid in my canteen warms my belly.
Carl has been dying, slowly first, but now quickly, while I still pause at the cave mouth, and Carl raises the bottle and pounds the green liquid as his neck and head drop into the cave dirt forever. I’m alone. I yell into the floor of the cave, “Carl I do not miss you.”
“Me, neither,” the cave dirt says.
I hang back, though the cave’s mouth does have fetid charm.
“Green liquid in that bottle,” Carl says. “Refreshing.”
Carl doesn’t know about my secret canteen, made of a pig’s bladder, under my T-shirt, pressed against my belly.
The cave dirt shifts with each step of Carl’s boots. We pulled those boots off a drunk, and they fit Carl. Friends don’t share everything. I don’t share the contents of my canteen with Carl, for example. What if I’m thirsty later?
The cave bottle beckons greenly from the rock ledge. The cave dirt now covers Carl’s boots up to the laces. Soon cave dirt covers Carl’s calves where his pulled-up socks end. He’s sinking. I want to stop Carl, but I won’t touch that cave dirt.
“Carl,” I say, “that green is like grass. No; it is the color of poison. Don’t drink from that bottle.”
Carl falls up to his knees. He grasps at the ledge, and his fingers seize the bottle, impossible now for Carl to see the bottle as the cave dirt meets his thighs.
“It’s a Coke bottle, Carl,” I call, “But there’s not Coke inside. Not even Mello Yellow.”
The cave dirt sucks Carl down by his belt, the yellow belt with the adjustable buckle I found at the thrift store. Carl, whom I know now thirsts more than any person ever, ignores me.
Carl needed a new belt when he began to lose all that weight, those chalk marks on the blackboard with the grocery list tracking his decline 180, 176, 154, 143lbs.
I could still catch Carl by the armpits. For another second or two. I scratch the wall with a fingernail. The cave dirt burps. I retract my arm. Now Carl is just head and neck and arms. The liquid in my canteen warms my belly.
Carl has been dying, slowly first, but now quickly, while I still pause at the cave mouth, and Carl raises the bottle and pounds the green liquid as his neck and head drop into the cave dirt forever. I’m alone. I yell into the floor of the cave, “Carl I do not miss you.”
“Me, neither,” the cave dirt says.
Kate McIntyre lives in Massachusetts, where she edits hex literary (hexliterary.com) with Daniel Miller and Joe Aguilar. Her website is katemcintyrewriting.com.