GRUEBERFEST '07 - The God Awful Road (653 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.54 on 30 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by write-of-way (View user info) at 2007-10-24 05:40:08 EDT
"Emmitt can fix anything."
Hazel looked at her new neighbor in the filthy wife-beater, the tobacco stains on his teeth reminding her of blood spattered piano keys for some reason.
Must be something I saw on the late, late show, she mused. One of those black and white horrors she couldn't stop watching because the only alternative was the nightmare of her popcorn ceiling in the moonlight. It streamed through the thin curtains on restless nights and danced with the shadows of the dying oak tree outside her bedroom window.
I wish they'd cut that fucking thing down already, she thought. It looked like it would fall at any moment and crush her little house, but with her luck it probably wasn't going to happen anytime soon.
Some things take way too long to die.
She'd had to leave another school, and was beginning to wonder exactly how many more in the state would allow her to enroll.
She looked at mister wife-beater, still happily chattering with his murderous keys, oblivious to her wandering thoughts and sneaking not-so-unobvious looks at her boobs.
Not-so-unobvious. 'That's what you call a double negative,' Professor Bowden would say, 'and that means what, class? That's right! A no-no.' It never mattered that no one answered his questions. He always acted as if they had.
When she had trouble with her grades last semester, she went to his office prepared to give him a sob story about her dead parents, but it turned out all he needed was a hand job.
This was just as well because her parents were living in Florida. They didn't talk to her, but they were still breathing, as far as she knew. Last month's plea for funds was returned as usual, with her mother's spidery scrawl she recognized from the last dozen or so unopened letters.
It was funny, Hazel was pretty sure the post office would return them for free, but her mother always added a stamp along with 'return to sender.' One time the scrawl was in all caps and her mother added two stamps, which must've meant dad was smacking her around again. On second thought, the stamps were probably necessary.
Nothing in life came free.
After that first sticky but satisfying resolution to her grade problems, whenever Hazel hit a snag in class, all she had to do was schedule a teacher conference and the problem miraculously disappeared along with Professor Bowden's feeble grey erection. Actually, the miracle was that he could get it up at all and she could stroke him off without losing her breakfast.
Speaking of which, it helped if she looked into his eyes the whole time. It made him finish faster and her less likely to end with an embarrassing upchuck. And what is that, class? That's right! A win-win.
After the scandal, she was kicked out of school and her professor held onto his job by the foreskin of his teeth and how many hand jobs did that cost him, she wondered? Hazel had snuck back to see him only once, and that had ended badly. Well, badly for one of them.
And so she ended up two towns over in this run down bungalow court listening to the douche-drinking welcome wagon tell her how to get the old handyman to fix the drippy faucet in her bathroom.
"You gotta ask him loud," mister wife beater said, still grinning through murderous choppers, "and you gotta ask nice."
Yeah, right, Hazel thought. If there's anything she knew, it was how to get an old man to do her bidding.
"Well, thanks mister wife b-"Hazel stopped, giggling at her near mistake. Jesus, what the fuck's wrong with me?
"What's that?" he leered, leaning in.
Fuck. Dude probably hopes we'll get it on in the laundry room or something while his better half was at the grocery store sniffing for the perfect kumquat.
"I'm sorry. I don't know your name."
"Call me whatever you like. Just don't call the cops."
Sweet Jesus, Hazel thought. Old guy's delusional.
"Just kiddin.' Jerry's good."
"I'll bet he is," Hazel said, as ambiguously as possible to both hide her disgust and keep open the possibility of using the guy for something later on.
Before he could either continue the witless banter or ejaculate in his slacks, or both, Hazel said: "Thanks, Jerry. Appreciate it," and stepped back inside, locking the deadbolt.
She could almost hear his middle-aged semi wilt through the door.
The old handyman fixed the drip quicker than Hazel thought possible. His large, gnarled hands worked with surprising dexterity on the tiny parts he replaced inside the faucet. He didn't speak unless Hazel asked him a question, and his replies were terse but without annoyance, as if he thought her a curious child who required endless patience.
"What's that?"
"Stem."
"And that?"
"Washer."
"And that?"
"Seat."
"What's that stuff?"
"Dope."
"What does it do?"
"Seals."
Truth be told, Hazel was trying to bother him just for the hell of it. Her father was a plumber and she'd often watched him while he worked, so she knew her way around a leaky fixture. Her dad had wanted a son, but complications during her mother's pregnancy precluded subsequent children. So Daddy indulged his daughter's tomboyish nature until she grew breasts and he began to indulge himself.
Once Emmitt was finished, Hazel watched in silence as he packed up his ancient metal tool box, which must've weighed twenty-five pounds empty. She imagined he had every possible tool for every possible job in there. A man who didn't fuck around when there was work to be done. Just like dear old dad.
Hazel followed him to the front door in silence, and then stopped him on the porch with a question:
"How come you don't use teflon tape?"
He turned, and put a shaking hand up to his ear to indicate poor hearing. Funny she hadn't noticed his tremor before.
"Why don't you use teflon tape? Pipe dope's messy."
The old man just looked at her.
The moment lasted long enough that Hazel started to feel embarrassed, and was about to say forget it, thanks a lot, when he finally replied, "I like messy."
And then he tipped his cap with a finger, just enough that it could be interpreted as either a chivalrous gesture or a sweaty adjustment to the warm summer day, and lumbered down the steps, listing to one side from the weight of his tools like a wounded freighter.
Hazel got a job at the coffee shop in town, which was walking distance from Bungalow Heaven, an area filled with small pre-war houses arranged in courts. Being a waitress there made her feel like she was a character in one of the old movies that never quite succeeded in making her insomnia bearable.
She daydreamed now even more than when she was in school. It was almost as if the banality of life forced her separation from reality, and she was simply waiting for the divorce to become final.
The days bled into each other, and she felt she was slowly becoming invisible, which only added to her general state of depression.
Sometimes she'd sit on her porch for hours staring into space, barely noticing anyone or anything until the sun went down and she realized it was time to try and sleep.
She began to entertain thoughts of suicide, and fantasized about her funeral and what everyone would say. She remembered reading about just that occurrence in one of Mark Twain's books, and literally tore her meager belongings apart one night looking for his collected works before remembering she'd left most of her things in her dorm room months before when she got notice of her expulsion.
She sometimes fell asleep at night counting things she didn't care about. It was as if she was in love with her misery. She enjoyed the romanticism of suffering, and it was perhaps the one thing she held onto.
Otherwise, she was very good at letting things go.
"Heard you's havin' trouble with your switch."
Hazel just looked at the old handyman. She didn't remember telling her landlord about the light, but maybe she mentioned it to Jerry-the-wife-beater and he'd sent word.
"Oh. Hi, Emmitt. Come on in, I guess."
The old man carried in that enormous tool box, which made him waddle like a duck. Or a penguin. Yeah, a penguin. Like in Batman or that documentary with the eggs. Hazel smiled as she remembered the movie about those penguins guarding their eggs for so long in the cold. The male penguin just stood there for weeks or months or whatever it was, keeping that egg safe and warm until it could hatch and fend for itself. Why couldn't her fucking father have been a penguin instead of such a fucking-
"Which one?"
Hazel started out of her daydream. She realized she was standing in the middle of her oval rug, the one her grandmother made, crying like a baby.
The old man just stood there looking at her, expressionless, waiting patiently for a reply.
"Huh?"
"What switch is gamy?"
Gamy? Hazel thought. That's odd. It was so odd it immediately pulled her back into the real world and she said, "In there," looking toward the bedroom.
He nodded.
Hazel went into the kitchen and wiped her face. What a fucking dork, crying in front of the old man. She ran some water in the sink and then turned it off quickly.
"What?"
For a moment, she received no answer. Maybe I'm hearing things, too. Nice.
The old man's voice rumbled into the kitchen. "I said I could use your help."
Hazel puzzled over this as she walked out of the kitchen. The old guy had fixed several minor annoyances in her house during the six months she'd been here, and had never said two unnecessary words, and certainly never needed any help.
When she walked into the bedroom, he handed her a flashlight and nodded toward the switch, which was now protruding from the wall attached to three wires.
She flicked on the flashlight and held the beam steady on the switch as he unscrewed the wires from its side. She didn't think the flashlight really helped, but maybe the old guy had poor eyesight or something.
"This here's the neutral. The black is your hot. This one here's the ground."
Hazel nodded, fascinated as much by the old man's sudden willingness to talk as by the basic electrical lesson. He went on to explain how the switch interrupted the circuit, and she forgot all about the strangeness of his sudden chattiness and actually got interested in the way it worked.
"Town's strict about stuff. Even got its own little health department, separate from the county."
Hazel just nodded, unaware this was unusual.
When he finished, he thanked her for the help and replaced his tools in the heavy box.
She watched him leave, and went into the bedroom, flicking her switch on and off.
Something about the old guy made her smile.
She started calling him directly, bypassing the landlord and requesting every possible repair she could think of. She hesitated to call more than once a week because she knew eventually the old bungalow would run out of things to fix, and his visits were the highlight of her week.
Each time he explained what he was doing and patiently answered her questions. Each visit was a lesson, and he was an excellent teacher. He was always oddly formal with her, never volunteering personal information and asking none of her, either. Hazel initially wondered whether he enjoyed talking to her or considered her bothersome, but after awhile she figured he was probably just a lonely old man and appreciated the company.
Eventually there was really nothing left which needed attention except the occupant. She thought routine maintenance might keep him coming occasionally, but there was nothing that warranted asking the old man to maintain his once a week pace.
Hazel thought about breaking something on purpose, but that seemed disrespectful to the old guy.
She decided she would just call him and invite him for coffee. She went over it a hundred times in her head, as nervous as hell for some reason, but when she finally asked, he agreed as matter-of-factly as if she was asking him to fix a broken cabinet hinge. They started meeting once a week at the coffee shop on her day off.
He spoke only of his work, describing repair jobs from the previous week and occasionally drawing diagrams on a napkin to better explain exactly how he fixed a particular item. She found his descriptions of the people and apartments he serviced hilarious and interesting and insightful all at once.
At first, she only spoke of her job as a way of respecting his reticence regarding personal information, but eventually most of her life story spilled out, all twenty-two years worth.
When she got to the really personal stuff, like the dating and the boys and the incident at school, he betrayed no shock or judgment of any kind.
She was becoming attached to the old guy, sure as hell.
That fall, she discovered her father had died. She waited patiently for her day with Mr. Fixit, which she had taken to calling him, determined to relay the information as calmly as when she received the news. She had not been invited to the funeral due to the bitterness of past accusations, and felt confident in her neutrality. But when she told Emmitt, her feelings poured out in an explosive rush of pain and anger that would have overwhelmed her had he not simply listened patiently, as he always did.
They had become friends, at least as much as either of them had ever allowed, though he'd told her almost nothing about himself and she was an endless fount of personal information. They were two weary travelers whose lonesome roads intersected at just the right time and place, and both, in different ways, were extremely grateful for that fact.
===============================================================
Emmitt was growing attached to Hazel, as sure as hell.
She was easy company, as his dad would say. She never asked personal questions, and he was glad to let her take over their weekly conversations with stories about her abusive father, and school, and all her asshole boyfriends. She'd had some rough times.
Sure, he got bored every now and then. She'd begun to repeat herself at times. I mean, how many stories did a young kid like her really have, anyway?
Still, he enjoyed the hell out of her, and wondered how long it would last. Eventually she'd ask him about something other than his work, and he'd have to answer. Then that would lead to another question, and sooner or later she'd get to the meat of it, and he'd have to tell her the truth. Well, he didn't actually have to, but it was a rule he made for himself to keep things interesting.
He always told the truth.
Emmitt entered his ramshackle house just outside town. It was funny how he'd let the place over the years while keeping up the domiciles of so many others. He was born in the house, and he figured he'd probably die there, too.
It was at the end of a long dirt road he'd meant to pave for forty years but had somehow just never gotten around to it. Didn't seem to make much sense now. He had no children, no heirs. He imagined the state would take it over when he was gone. His grandfather had built the place in 1901 just after his father was born, and in all those years the town never edged any closer, which was fine with him.
He liked his privacy.
Emmitt sat heavily in his old recliner, tired after the day's labor. Old man Bartlett's boiler had failed, and he'd had to drive into the next town where they had a big box hardware store to save a few dollars on a replacement. Bartlett squeezed a nickel till the eagle screamed, and Emmitt couldn't say he blamed him. But the driving tired him out almost as much as the actual work.
He was getting too old for this.
After supper, he watched TV for a little while, but it was all so trite nowadays. It sucked, as Hazel would say. He found himself thinking more and more about Hazel, lately. He was really quite fond of her.
He shut off the TV and went down to the cellar, where the girl was chained. He flipped the switch and dim light crept across the dank room. Truth be told, he could've worked without the light, so familiar was he with the implements hanging on pegs in the wall. Her eyes, bright and terrified, flew open and she shook her head violently from side to side, as if she could somehow ward off tonight's attack with that tired gesture.
Like Hazel, she'd begun to repeat herself.
He decided to remove the gag tonight, just for variety. Plus it would probably keep her conscious longer if she could breathe through her mouth. He liked it to last on the final night. It was more satisfying, for some reason.
He removed the gag and turned his back to the screaming girl, finally deciding on the hacksaw.
Emmitt liked messy.
===============================================================
"Wow, this is exactly how I pictured it would look."
Hazel looked around Emmitt's living room, marveling at all the old books and lamps and fixtures.
"Old, you mean?"
Hazel laughed. There was a pause, and then they chuckled together. It felt almost like a first date, only comfortable.
Hazel touched a framed photograph on the mantle that looked to be over a hundred years old.
"Can I sit down?"
Emmitt nodded. Even after all this time, he still didn't really talk much, Hazel thought.
Well, tonight she was going to make him tell her all about himself. She'd been anxious to ask him about his life, the things he'd done, the people he'd known. She wasn't going to let him off the hook.
"So, Emmitt. Tell me all about yourself. I've been dying to know."
Emmitt smiled.
"I was hopin' you'd ask."
===============================================================
Hazel left after midnight, exhilarated. She always felt so alive afterwards. She smiled at the thought. Always. The word made her sound more experienced than she was.
Still, this one was easier than Professor Bowden. Professor Bowden was messy.
Hazel hated messy.
When she shoved his own screwdriver into Emmitt's temple, he had the oddest look on his face, like he wanted to warn her about the dangers of being careless with tools.
Maybe if she'd had a father like Emmitt...well, no use wondering.
She considered cleaning up and dragging his body down into the cellar to give herself more time before he was discovered, but he looked so peaceful she didn't have the heart to move him.
And besides, Emmitt liked messy.
It was funny how two people so different could get along so well.
Hazel went home to pack.
Time to hit the road.
User Reviews
Submitted by kaos-king (user info) at 2007-10-29 19:09:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
WRITE - OF - WAY!!!
You Need To Check Your E-Mail As Soon As Possible!!!
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2007-10-28 23:39:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
You know, I think your actual writing is really, really good, yet I took issue with a few points in the story. Something about the development of the relationship between the two didn't seem entirely believable. I'm not sure how I feel about the ending. But considering your opponents' stories as well, this is probably my favorite and is easily a +2.
Submitted by Bigmike (user info) at 2007-10-28 22:38:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by monkeyswithguns (user info) at 2007-10-27 09:18:10 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
good.
NO WAIT, I CHANGE MY MIND!!!!!!
Better than good, great even.
Submitted by Paloma (user info) at 2007-10-25 21:48:57 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This was awesome.
Submitted by supadupapupa (user info) at 2007-10-25 00:24:35 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Writing was hella good, hella good. I think this lacked the fear factor, but the story was hella good..
write more after this please!
Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2007-10-24 22:19:42 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
hahaha
I enjoy your reviews, Bubba.
I have to admit it.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2007-10-24 22:05:41 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2007-10-24 21:27:42 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I agree with Bubba.
Good story.
***
You read it here, folks. Write it down; it may never happen again. . .
Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2007-10-24 21:27:42 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I agree with Bubba.
Good story.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2007-10-24 21:19:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Berty (user info) at 2007-10-24 07:37:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2007-10-24 07:04:10 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
"Take it as WROTE?"
The uneducated should not review writing.
----------------------
Golly, I think I've just lost the title of 'most pompous uberite'.
This story is appaling Bubba and you know it.
***********
No, Berty, I know nothing of the kind. I don't understand what your issue is with the author, but this was a fairly good story.
Read my lips: GOOD STORY!!!
P.S.: Pomposity? My middle name. . .
Submitted by St_Jimmy (user info) at 2007-10-24 17:47:06 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
1.5
Submitted by St_Jimmy (user info) at 2007-10-24 17:46:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I liked your previous stories better.
This one has a great start, but the end is very rushed. All of a sudden, *poof* Hazel is a serial killer.
What the hell? Did Emmitt teach her? Did he try to kill her and she killed him first?
It just didn't feel like there was enough in the story to motivate Hazel to go from "angry young woman" to serial killer.
Still though, good effort.
Submitted by beer-turtle (user info) at 2007-10-24 17:26:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
tied it together well with a circular plot...
but I still felt robbed... it was like you just quit at the end...
You could have gone somewhere really sick with this, beyond even a weird love story. but rather as him being he teacher in depravity ... THEN she sticks the screwdriver in.
Submitted by EatMeCompletely (user info) at 2007-10-24 17:23:52 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I liked it.
Submitted by HotWillie (user info) at 2007-10-24 14:07:54 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This was fucking cool.
I reserve the right to bump you down depending on what Ballare turns in since this is the final, but I thought this was pretty kick ass.
I already rated the big man's post and told him the same.
Submitted by kaos-king (user info) at 2007-10-24 11:20:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
WRITE-OF-WAY
e-mail me at antius777.at.yahoo.com
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2007-10-24 10:48:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I for one did not see Emmitt's death coming - thought for sure Hazel would bite it.
Good work.
Submitted by Darth_Famine (user info) at 2007-10-24 10:40:52 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
not bad
Submitted by Void_Where_Prohibited (user info) at 2007-10-24 10:19:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
Liked it overall.
Submitted by ChaosJester (user info) at 2007-10-24 09:56:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
There were a few underdeveloped parts of the plot but, overall, I liked this.
Well written with pretty good character development. A little slow in the initial build-up, though.
Submitted by DudeThatsBOSH (user info) at 2007-10-24 09:49:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
yea I was entertained as well.. you sure like chaining people up in the basement though!
Submitted by odin (user info) at 2007-10-24 09:37:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by FALLEN (user info) at 2007-10-24 09:14:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This is not English 101.
predictable? perhaps. But being a G-fest story you know where these are going to end up.
The purpose is to entertain the reader, I, as the Reader was entertained.
so +2
Submitted by DudeThatsBOSH (user info) at 2007-10-24 08:56:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Berty (user info) at 2007-10-24 07:37:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2007-10-24 07:04:10 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
"Take it as WROTE?"
The uneducated should not review writing.
----------------------
Golly, I think I've just lost the title of 'most pompous uberite'.
This story is appaling Bubba and you know it.
Submitted by EmissionImpossible (user info) at 2007-10-24 07:34:13 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I dont think its bad, plus I have a sore throat. Yeah no logic, go figure.
Submitted by orph (user info) at 2007-10-24 07:33:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2007-10-24 07:04:10 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
"Take it as WROTE?"
The uneducated should not review writing.
Submitted by hour_man (user info) at 2007-10-24 06:53:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: -1
What Bert said.
Submitted by Berty (user info) at 2007-10-24 06:48:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
You've put a lot of time into this and I respect that, I really do, and I want you to know that I respect you, both as a woman and as a writer.
This post, however, was clichéd and hackneyed. David Hume taught that if we were to drop a rock and watch it fall to the ground that we should never take it as wrote that it will fall to the ground if dropped a second time, but even he would have cried out at the blatently obvious ending half way through the piece.
The writing was, similar as one would imagine to one of Helen's emotionless and mechanical handjobs, unstimulating and uncompelling. The additional perspective of Emmett added nothing to the substance of the story and what could have been a dark, macabre love story between tormenter and victim was sacrificed for something far more banal.