Weekly Story-week 5

Tires crunched on pavement as the dark green, 1980s-era pick-up groaned to a stop. In the grey misty haze of morning, it merged into the well-manicured hedge of 4224 Little Giant Court. His tired but trustworthy beast trespassed on the streets ruled by sleek, fancy sports cars. His gaze settled on the GPS screen. 6:45 a.m. The estate manager would be happy.

He had answered his cell phone, his ears assaulted by a high-pitched nasally voice. “Hello Jason? I’m Mr. Cheevers from the Gatlin estate.”

“Yes,” Jason replied, “There is a pickup scheduled there on the 12th at 10:30 a.m. How may I help you?”

“Yeessss, about that…”

Jason pulled the high-backed office chair away from the immaculate workbench. He settled on the smooth black leather seat, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You must come before 7 a.m. The Gatlins can’t have you despoiling the neighborhood. The refuse you are to collect will be brought out to you. There is no need for you to enter the estate.”

The smooth hum of an electric motor and gentle rattle of a chain, announced the opening of a steel security gate, refocusing Jason back on the job at hand. Opening the truck door, it screeched with age. A pair of large work boots struck the ground with a thud. The rest of his large, muscular frame followed. Adjusting the straps on his soot-stained coveralls while walking towards the back of the truck, a squad of men in matching black polo shirts and khaki pants approached. They carried various pieces of workout equipment: stationary bikes, a rowing machine, and some partially disassembled sections of a home gym. Dropping their burden at the curb, they turned around and marched back through the gate. The motor whirred to life once more and the gate slid shut with a quiet click.

Turning the pieces of equipment over in his calloused hands, his eyes evaluated each piece as he loaded them into the dented bed of the truck. These are almost brand new, he mused, latching the tailgate with a dull thunk, they deserve a better life. Walking to the driver’s-side door and climbing in, Clio—no, Calliope, teased the edge of his mind. Turning the simple metal key, the truck grumbled to life.

His hand engulfed the gear shift, pushing it into drive. Pressing the gas pedal, Hephaestus pushed Calliope aside. The ‘refuse’ would be reforged—by fire, by hammer, by Hephaestus' guiding hand. Metal parts, springs, and other components swirled in his mind, coalescing into a vision. A quicksilver flash darted in front of the green beast. His heavy boot clomped down on the brakes. The beast swayed under the heavy load, the silver car purring down the street. Disapproving eyes cast towards him as the driver powered the car around the corner.

His large fingers deftly tapped the next pickup address into the GPS. His boot pressed the accelerator, and the truck muscled onto the highway. With dazzling sunlight sparkling through gaps in the emerald hilltop in front of him, Stillwater Rapids faded into the distance.

The fading orange and red hues of sunlight, mingled with the dust and grime of a long day on the road, transformed the once shiny forest green truck to a muted palette of olive, brown, and moss. Picking its way along the dusty dirt driveway, long, wide-bladed grass scraping thin lines in the grime, the truck slumped to a stop. Piles of various metals surrounded the truck. Old sheet metal, steel pipes, copper tubing, A/C ductwork, all randomly occupying the area around a simple one-story wooden garage.

The truck door swung open with a sigh, and dust billowed around the boots impacting the ground. Crossing his arms in front of himself, then arching his shoulders up and back, he strode to the rear of the truck. The ‘old’ exercise equipment formed a new chaotic cluster in Jason’s hoard of materials.

Jason scrunched his eyes shut and slid his hand down his face, the dirt, sweat, and grease smudging to form the camouflage paint of a hard day’s work. He longed to start the sculpture he envisioned earlier. Smiling, he thought—First a shower, then food. It’s going to be a good night.

Slamming the mechanical pencil down on the large white drawing board, Jason’s shoulders slumped, his head drooped, and a long exhale sliced through the air. The vision his muses’ teased him with earlier refused to manifest itself on paper. His eyes jumped from the welding torch, to the bandsaw, to the ancient anvil and hammers, to the orderly rows of screwdrivers, pliers, and wrenches, searching for inspiration. None revealed itself.

Standing, he spoke, “Turn off desk light. Turn off overhead lights.” The room descended into darkness for a split second, then the blue glow of accent lights appeared. “Set temp to 72. Set humidity to forty percent.” His boots squeaked on the polished concrete floor, the accent lights forming soft pools of light to guide him to the exit and sleep. Fan whirred to life. Jason cocked his head, his ears towards the fans. Through the moving air, he thought he heard the faint sound of laughter. Calliope was a fickle mistress.

A glossy black hearse floated silently down his driveway. Drifting to a stop, it disgorged the remains of a once proud wrought iron gate. Another hearse followed, this one painted in swirls of reds, yellows, and blues. Stained glass coffins slid from the back of the car. Another hearse appeared, then another, and another. Their contents piling up like…BANG!

A sound like Hephaestus’ hammer hitting an anvil jolted Jason awake. His breath caught in his chest, his jaw clenched, and his eyes slammed wide open. His pulse pounded in his temples as he tried to comprehend the scene before him. Metal bars lay scattered around the floor, bent at odd angles. His eyes focused, and realization sank in. Vulcan, his orange tiger cat, had decided to reforge the picture frames on the mantle of the stone fireplace. Vulcan sat in the middle of the destruction, one paw moving rhythmically from rough, wet tongue to smooth the fur covering his ear. Chuckling, he threw the sheets back and swung his legs over the edge of his bed, his bare feet planting on the cool tiled floor. He looked at the cat sitting amid the wreckage of his newest creation. He drew in a sharp breath, words forming on his tongue. Opening his mouth to speak, the cat locked eyes with him. No words came out. The angry retort forgotten. Interrupted by a whisper in his mind. Who knew Calliope was a cat lover?

Jason worked all day, not even stopping to eat, powered by the vision and the forge in his heart. Hephaestus powered his arms, and Calliope guided his thoughts. Sparks flew. Saws cut. Metal was reborn. He finally put down his tools when the moon shone through the large skylight in the roof.

Three weeks later, his phone rang. Odd, he thought, they usually just email me.

“Jason. Calvin Whitford from the gallery. Your sculpture has sold, and for quite the sum. I think you will be very pleased. However, the winner was so impressed that they want you to deliver the work personally. Is that acceptable?”

“That is agreeable. When do they want it delivered?”

“They have requested delivery tomorrow.”

“I can do that.”

“Great! Once you are ready, I will send you the address.”

Golden rays of sun streamed into the loading bay. Flashes of silver and reflections of color danced on the walls as Jason loaded “graveyard of life” onto the bed of his beloved green pick-up.

Calvin’s message flashed across the GPS screen with the delivery address: 4224 Little Giant Court, Stillwater Rapids.