EF-3
Charles Malone
My boss hands me a list of addresses and says I need you to inspect each of these properties. No one will be home, she says, they are all abandoned.
Amy typically delivers instructions with a likable mix of con铿乨ence and humor. During my job interview she pulled out the original posting and asked me to read the last line out loud. It said that employees would get wet. Each year, she said, either during training or the 铿乺st day in the 铿乪ld people seem surprised by this and they quit. Mosquitoes breed in water. You have to go in the water to kill them. I don鈥檛 know how to be more clear about this, she says.
When I agreed to take the job a few months before the end of the semester, my father was disappointed that I wouldn鈥檛 be home for the summer. By the time it started, it didn鈥檛 really matter.
Amy knows this work can suck. It takes a toll on the body. We are always soaking wet, always out in the sun. Our feet never get a chance to dry out. We have to keep our eyes out for rattlesnakes, snapping turtles, and shotgun-waiving property owners. As she explains what I have to do today, she鈥檚 timid. The task doesn鈥檛 frighten either of us, it just feels uncomfortable and invasive.
Matter-of-factly, she lays it out, we鈥檝e seen a spike in the mosquito population downtown since the tornado. The trap numbers are high. Almost all Culex. The city is very concerned about a West Nile outbreak. We鈥檝e upped our fogging, but the numbers are not going down. We believe there鈥檚 water where there usually isn鈥檛. The city gave us this list of homes severely a铿ected by the storm. I need you to go and check them out. Also, make sure you get lunch.
I tell her I鈥檒l do it. I am just waiting for my partner Jason to show up. She apologizes.
Jason called in sick today, I鈥檓 sorry.
Sick in Jason-speak is tired, or hungover, or just not feeling it.
I understand this is not how the job is supposed to go. Nothing here has gone according to plan. On my 铿乺st day in the 铿乪ld, I was standing in a swamp dipping and counting larvae just as they鈥檇 showed us in our training. A cold wind pushed over the cattails and roughed the surface of the water. The temperature dropped from 87掳 to 60掳 and the air tasted electric, like licking a battery. I called out to Jason, something seemed wrong.
I began to walk, then run back to the truck. I dove under the rear bumper to dodge the softball-sized hail that began to fall. When Jason reached the truck he decided we should drive as fast as we could away from the storm. My protests were useless. Hail slamming the truck sounded like a clothes dryer full of rocks. The emergency broadcast system screamed through our work radios and through the truck stereo simultaneously. As he spun around the corner onto Main Street, I leaned forward to look into the passenger side mirror. I saw the tornado burst through an old grain mill and cross the road in the center of town behind us. It was like watching television, it felt far away, unreal. A ball of ice shattered the mirror. I twisted around in my seat and saw the whole disaster racing away from us. Snapped boards, corrugated metal sheets, tree limbs, bricks, swirling like the inside of a blender. But swirling away from us. I told Jason that we were safe. He slowed the truck, calmed, and spotted a pizza place and pulled over. I鈥檓 hungry, he said.
鉂
Now, a few weeks later, I drive back through downtown. The tornado porn tourists, college students from Fort Collins and retired business people reborn as nature photographers, have 铿乶ally stopped patrolling the east side of town. The glass has been cleaned up and the streets are quiet. A large swath of houses still looks like their roofs had been plucked up by curious giants. The tires and sections of cedar fences have been piled beside the jet skis and screen doors. Everything waits for insurance companies and garbage trucks.
My task is simple: anything that can hold water, even something as small as a bottle cap鈥攃heck it, drain it, treat it鈥攃oy ponds, kiddie pools, buckets, tires. Yet, when I pull up to that 铿乺st modest house, a dorky, welcoming late-70鈥檚 split-level, and I walk around to the side yard and see the siding stripped from the entire side and back of the house, every window shattered, and a corner of the roof gone, I鈥檓 just heartbroken.
In the backyard, there鈥檚 a pink bicycle and a pink helmet full of water, full of pupae. I dump it onto the cement patio. It is brutally hot out and I think I hear the water sizzle. I reach through the shattered French doors to set the helmet in the dining room. I don鈥檛 know for sure that it belongs to this house. The gas grill, slammed through the fence, lays open on it鈥檚 back. The lid is full of water baking in the sun. Tiny exoskeletons 铿俹at on the surface. I heave the thing back on its feet. Through the hole in the fence I see the neighbor in his bathrobe watering his roses. His house is completely untouched. He just stares at me.
It鈥檚 okay, I say, Mosquito Control.
A few stops later I鈥檓 in Waterford Lakes, the house is brand new, a country club luxury home. The golf course is watered so heavily that we have to treat the place twice a week. All the product we put down on Monday is gone by Wednesday and the breeding cycle is just quick enough that we can鈥檛 wait a whole week. The place is so green compared to the high, dry plains outside of town. I can鈥檛 even smell the sage and rabbitbrush. I pull up with yellow lights 铿俛shing on the truck to knock on the front door. There is no front door, just some yellow tape crossing the void below it鈥檚 audacious pillars. I walk in. The house has never been lived in. Mold spots the drywall near the door. The interior opens cavernously. Hello, I call out.
I hear movement upstairs and I tense up. Please let it be a fox or racoon. Please let it be a wolf or a bear. Nothing scares me more than people. I can tell they are trying to move quietly. I know it is human.
It鈥檚 okay, I say, Mosquito Control.
A very thin man comes down the stairs wrapped in a plaid blanket and boxer shorts. You can鈥檛鈥ou don鈥檛 tell anyone I鈥檓 here. Something jerky in his movements makes me uncomfortable. His right hand tucks behind his hip and leg.
Look, I just need to look through the property to make sure there鈥檚 no standing water. You gotta go, he says.
I just have to do my job; nobody needs to know. My boss doesn鈥檛 care anyway. I don鈥檛 really know what to tell him. I try the fear tactic. I鈥檓 trying to prevent an outbreak of the West Nile Virus.
Is that serious?
Yes, it is very serious. You get a headache, you feel tired, you ache, things get foggy, weak. By the time the fever sets in there鈥檚 nothing you can do to avoid the convulsions. You can end up paralyzed or in a coma.
Sounds like withdrawal, he says. You should probably check out the upstairs bathroom.
I don鈥檛 say out loud that I really don鈥檛 want to. His hand still behind his back, I can see the muscles in his forearm are knotted. I wish that fucking idiot Jason showed up for work.
I follow him up the stairs and he begins to talk to a woman in one of the bedrooms. Her blond hair is a tangle. All she has on is a loose, tattered tank top. She closes the door abruptly as I arrive on the landing. A 铿俛sh of breast and rib. He points at the bathroom with the steak knife in his hand. The window has blown in and soggy drywall clogs the tub鈥檚 drain. Rain has collected in the bath and it鈥檚 full of writhing larvae, multiple stages. The tub is also full of glass. I don鈥檛 want to put my hand in there to clear the drain. I look around for something to use. Looking out the shattered window, I see crews already replacing windows and siding on some of the other houses. Judging by the patio furniture, the other homes have more permanent residents. I see a crushed trampoline on a small decorative island in the lake that separates the homes from the golf course. There is a red kayak twenty feet up in an old cottonwood tree. Tree limbs everywhere. A tow truck drags away a white BMW with a crumpled roof. Hail damage dimples many of the other cars.
I see myself in the mirror鈥攏ot the round, friendly self-image I have. My cheeks and jaw show sharp angles. My tanned skin stretches taught and lean. I realize that this guy must be intimidated by me. I realize I am burning more calories in this job than I take in. All these long hours carrying heavy gear, walking miles, often waist deep through walls of cattails. My body has changed so much this summer and I haven鈥檛 noticed. I know there are a lot of things I鈥檝e not let myself notice lately.
I take the towel rod out of its mounting and poke around the tub until the drain clears. I toss some Bti insecticide in the tub just in case.
I thank the man, he asks me if I can spare them any money. I tell him I鈥檒l set my lunch inside the front door after I check the backyard. It鈥檚 all I have. He thanks me and says I don鈥檛 look so good, like maybe I鈥檝e got that Nile virus.
I don鈥檛 know what to say about them living there. I want to urge them to 铿乶d some other place, just so no one asks me any awkward questions, but I don鈥檛 know what that looks like for them. If I was in a position to be more helpful I wouldn鈥檛 have this job killing mosquitoes for a notch above minimum wage. I walk through the decked-out kitchen with two ovens, a Viking range, double-wide wine fridge and built-in espresso machine. There is a real estate 铿倅er on the counter with professional photos of the house and golf course. The price is closer to a million than to half a million. I dump my lunch out of the little cooler bag. I leave.
Honestly, I鈥檓 not that worried about West Nile. I know fear of the disease drives cities to hire us. I also know that eighty percent of folks who get the virus never know it. Most of those who have any symptoms just get the shits and feel tired. It鈥檚 less than one percent who really su铿er. The economics of this business callously tie to the occasional death.
Some nights, I run the fog truck through this neighborhood because only Jason and I know our way around the zone and he鈥檚 not one to put in extra time. You should be out with your 铿乤nc茅e he says. I need the hours, I answer. He tells me he鈥檒l take her out instead. I remind him that he鈥檚 gay. He says he doesn鈥檛 know what that has to do with anything. The controls for the sprayer have to go out the drivers鈥 side window. The whole night mosquitoes 铿倅 in through the gap, fog drifts in through the gap. I am bitten dozens of times. I鈥檓 more scared of the repellants we use building up in my system than I am of West Nile or the chemicals we use to fog. I pull these doubles all the time. I鈥檓 making money, sleeping brie铿倅 and soundly. I don鈥檛 have to talk to anyone outside of work.
I understand the fear, the reason people slather themselves with deet. The idea of something uncontrollable, unavoidable, and unpredictable moving through your blood. Originating from a being as small as a mosquito. Small as that and destructive as a tornado.
I took this job before my father died from an aneurysm, which is a kind of tornado. I was dragging my feet about moving home after graduate school and then there was nothing to move home for. Both things happened the same week. Back for the funeral, the house might as well have had its windows shattered and the front door torn from its hinges. It might as well have been gutted, never lived in, or full of junkie squatters. He was there, then he wasn鈥檛.
I can鈥檛 shake the thoughts of my dad while I try to inspect the old mill building. Sky slashes through the roof all over. One grain elevator belt is intact and the cups are full of water. Another has broken. There鈥檚 equipment toppled everywhere. The 铿俹ors creak. Some of the stairs are missing. I don鈥檛 know for certain which damage is from the tornado and which belongs to time. Dust hovers in columns of light, hovers with the smell of dry grass. The scent is a near perfect match for my dad鈥檚 dad鈥檚 farm. It鈥檚 too dark in here to do any work. I can鈥檛 see the water I need to treat, but I feel its dampness in the air. The 铿俹ors creak louder. I鈥檓 not sure it鈥檚 even safe and without really noticing tears stream down my cheeks. For once I am glad Jason called o铿.
I set my dipper and bag of insecticide down. I sit cross legged on the 铿俹or. Doves coo in the rafters. The building groans. I take my feet out of their boots. I slip the soggy socks o铿. My feet are ghost white, skin puckered like dried fruit. Blisters peel o铿 in 铿俛ps.
I 铿乶d the building comforting. My father鈥檚 parents had an old farm and its big red barn was just like this. Vast and yawning鈥攐ld and quiet and 铿乴led with evidence of past inhabitants. Sun bends through sagging panes of glass. The light is the light of every childhood summer. It is the golden light of my engagement photos.
I think about that evening when photographer took us out into a corn铿乪ld just before dusk. The tassles, the giant bales of hay, Ellie鈥檚 blue dress, the hills in the distance鈥擨 close my eyes. I see that whirl of black cloud smashing into this building. I see the old beams, these massive timbers quake. I imagine the idea of safety and shelter vanishing into impossibility, the rupture of the division between ideas of inside and outside. I have been outside for so long.
There鈥檚 a crack of radio static, a crude beep.
Amy calls on my radio. She asks how things are going. I tell her they are going well. I have 铿乿e or six more houses to do after lunch.
I turn o铿 the radio. I call my dad鈥檚 cell phone number just to listen to the snippet of his voice. It鈥檚 been a few weeks. I feel silly, self-indulgent. While it rings, I wonder how long before the number is recycled. There he is: a guarded, even-toned version of himself. I leave a long message that starts as an apology. It ends with a bunch of self-justi铿乧ation interrupted by the time limit. I call back again to leave a pure apology. I call back again just to hear him.
Before heading home, I drive by one of our problem sites, a farm on the edge of town. The 铿乪ld is a shallow sheet of water glinting with afternoon light. The east edge of the 铿乪ld sits lower than the west. Every other week or so the farmer 铿俹ods the 铿乪ld to water his corn. The site takes a couple hours to do alone and it鈥檚 the last one I have to do today. I walk up and down the ridges of dirt. My boots stick in the mud. They pull up the 铿乻hy scent of fertilizer. I gage the aperture on the blower to get the right amount of product down; I feather the throttle. The ear protection I wear turns everything into one smooth ohm. Work numbs me. I think about picking up the weekend shift. The humming truck and fogger. A great horned owl watches from the tree that marks the corner of the property.
I talk to the owl while I work. He says I don鈥檛 look so good. Like maybe I have that Nile virus. He says, if I鈥檓 going to work the night shift, maybe he鈥檒l take Ellie out. I remind him he鈥檚 an owl, and he asks what that has to do with anything. The sun hovers still high but not as hot above the mountains on the horizon. I feel very tired, my legs are so heavy, I tell him. I think that I have been hollowed out. Something huge has swept through me, but I haven鈥檛 done the work to clean up. He says that I鈥檓 being self indulgent letting my personal tragedy blur with the dozens of personal tragedies around me. The pink bicycles and needle marks. The broken windows and crumpled cars. There鈥檚 a work that I鈥檓 not doing. You鈥檙e right, I say to the owl, or the ohm, or to Jason, or to Amy, maybe to Ellie, or to my father. I鈥檒l take the weekend and spend it with her. I squint at the particular color of blue above the snowcaps. A color like a fabric you might hold, brie铿倅 between your 铿乶gers.
Charles Malone works with writers in the community around Kent, OH. He recently won the Moonstone Arts Chapbook prize for his poems 鈥淎fter an Eclipse of Moths.鈥 His full-length collection 鈥淲orking Hypothesis鈥 is out with Finishing Line Press. And, his first chapbook 鈥淨uestions About Circulation鈥 was published by Driftwood Press as part of the Adrift Chapbook Series. He edited the collection 鈥淎 Poetic Inventory of Rocky Mountain National Park鈥 with Wolverine Farm Publishing and has work recently published or forthcoming in Dark Mountain: Abyss, Hotel Amerika, The Best of Boneshaker: A Bicycling Almanac, The Sugar House Review, The Dunes Review, and Saltfront. Charles now works at the Wick Poetry Center at Kent State.