The Shed

The Shed

The house is old like all the other houses on the street. The shed looks older than any of the houses. In the yard there are a few trees and the wooden shed. The boards are rotted away at the bottom so that it looks as though the earth has gnawed on them. Inside the smell of a barn. Grey dust floats. On the ground gardening tools covered in porous rust. The sun glares through the holes above.
          After trying to wrench open garden sheers Robert walks into his kitchen. Susan’s arm reaches into the fridge for milk. A woman is sitting at the table.
         “Robert this is our neighbor Beth.”
         “Hello Beth.” Handshake.
         “Hello.”
         “Beth lives right across the street. She was telling me that she runs a business that makes personalized stationary, invitations, and cards, things like that.”
         “Oh neat.” Nod.
         Smile. “Yes. My husband works at the university as a research technician.”
         “How much milk.”
         The milk drops into the cup.
         “When.”
         “So what kind of research does your husband do?”
         “Mostly he works in the particle physics labs.”
         Susan sits down with her coffee. “Robert is an engineer so he’d probably get along well with Mark.”
         “Oh yes I’m sure.”
         Susan smiles and sips. “We would love to have dinner with you and Mark sometime. Of course, you would have to pick the restaurant. We haven’t really learned where any place is yet.”
         “Yes that would be fun. Let me know when you would like to go.”
         “How about tomorrow? I understand if you are busy.”
         Upstairs at the sink. The mirror has brown spots caked on. Robert scratches at them. Nothing comes off. They are going to need a mower and a shed. His face is in the mirror. He has a week. Create a shed in a week. No. Not a shed. Art. Architecture. The greatest shed ever. Something never seen. A new form. Nature, God, joy, sadness, supreme harmony, supreme discord. A shed for shed’s sake. A historical landmark, local news, an HBO documentary. Other menial buildings which attempt to capture the beauty of the shed, but fail. His face remains unmoved. But really, this is it. Ideas have come before, but this time no giving up. Winks at himself. Scratches a brown spot again.

The sign is in suspense over the entrance. Athkok is written in a slanted Asian font. The words are framed by white Roman columns. A Fusion of Greek and Thai in stubby Greek lettering. Mark worked late so they are meeting here.  Red orbs float over each table.
“Welcome to Athkok. Will there be two of you this evening?”
“We are meeting a couple. I think they are here.”
“Yes right this way.”
         A cloud of spice and searing meat grow thicker as they go in.  He is drinking a beer and she has tea. His hair is combed across his forehead in precise order. On top a few strands shoot out at various angles.
         “Hey I hope we aren’t too late.”
         “Oh no we just now sat down.”
         “Mark, Robert.” Shook hands not too hard.
         Susan and Beth talked for a while. They both lived in Indiana. The towns were close. An appetizer came. Hummus, feta cheese and spring rolls. Tasty.
         “So I heard that you work in a particle physics lab.”
         “Yeah. I mostly take care of very complicated machinery.” Shrugged and ate a roll. “You are a engineer?”
         Laughed. “I design plastic storage boxes. Before we moved here I was doing sinks.” Drank wine. Sweet and cheap with a musty after taste. “I don’t start the box job for about another week.”
         “So what are you doing until then.”
         “I plan on fixing up the new house a little.”
         Susan’s hand on the back of his neck. Her cheeks splotchy with red. “It’s an old house. There’s a lot to do.”
         “Ok so here is what I want to do.” Every one turns to him. Maybe it’s the wine. “So there is this old shed in the backyard.” Susan will be mad. “I have this idea. Garden sheds are about the ugliest things anyone ever sees. Sometimes there are sheds that look well kept and all that, but they are still pretty simple, never much to look at. I want to design and built the most amazing garden shed ever. Like I mean something that they will call architecture.”
         Everyone is laughing. Susan does her nervous laugh. Mark really likes the idea. “So what style are you going to build it in?” He runs his hand through his hair.
         “That’s the thing. I’m not. I’m going to create a new style. When I say new I mean totally new. I’m not going to borrow ideas from any building ever designed before. It’s going to be original.”
         Susan leans back in her chair with her wine glass in her lap. Beth smirks then tips her head forward.
         “You want to know what I think?” Mark is leaning in. “I think that is impossible.”
         “What’s impossible?” Robert puts his elbows on the table.
         “You can’t do it. You can’t create anything new.”
         Susan’s foot nudges Robert’s leg. “Why can’t I?”
         “It’s your brain. It’s everyone’s brain. It’s too limited. Every idea that you can have, every design you make for your shed will be a result of determined functions of your mind.” Mark tapped his fingers against the table after every sentence. “You mind functions off chemical reactions. Each one of these reactions is following scientific law.”
         Beth and Susan start talking. Places to buy cheese.
Mark takes a drink. “Sometimes though, in small probabilities, things happen not in the way they are predicted. Quantum irregularity. The point is something can happen outside of those rules. The problem is even these irregularities are part of the laws. Furthermore the irregularities don’t happen by your will. They only occur at random and so a person can’t be said to have created anything.”
“Pshhh. Easy solution. I’ll stick my head in the microwave for a couple seconds. That should cause some irregularities.”
“But even the decision to microwave your head is determined by those laws. So at the root of your irregularities would be determined order.”
“Well damn.” Robert pours more wine. “I guess my new goal is to be a prolific vessel of scientific irregularities.”
Susan won’t speak to him on the way to the car. Robert drives slowly because he’s a bit drunk and doesn’t know the city. He imagines the car hitting another car head on. The hood buckles and the back wheels come off the ground. Pieces fly off, all the same color under the street lamps. Robert is waiting.
“I’m glad you made a new friend.” Her voice is piercing.
“Yeah he seems like a good guy.”
“I wish you could go out to dinner and be normal.”
“What’s wrong? Everyone was having fun. They thought my idea was interesting.”
“The problem is you exclude half the people from your conversation and you kind of look like a drunk fool. You are the crazy guy who thinks he’s going to create an artistic revolution from his shed.” Robert’s lost now. Should have turned left. “You aren’t doing that stuff with the shed either. There are too many things that need to be fixed and replaced. If you really want a new shed you can build one after we get the house fixed up.”
“Yeah I’ll get everything done.” He wants to be by himself somewhere under trees far away from any person. He wants to see the moon and stars and the vastness of the universe.
“I just need you to help me. We need to get the house livable and we need to make friends.”
At the house Robert comes in from the garage last. He glances into the back yard. It’s a dark rectangular shadow surrounded by more shadow. A faint glow shimmers on the roof.

The morning is bright. There is pressure on the back of his eyes when he looks outside. It feels good. Robert drives to the sandwich place. One with turkey and bacon and lettuce and one undecided. No, not undecided. Can’t even choose a sandwich anymore, much less choose to build a shed. The line is long. Behind him a man with a priests collar. Very young. A loophole?
“Hello father.”
“Hey how are you?”
Handshake. “I’m doing pretty well. Great weather today isn’t it.”
“Yes it is.”
“I’m Robert.”
“And I’m Jerry. Pleased to meet you.”
“I have a question for you Father Jerry.”
“You can just call me Jerry. But ask away.” He leans left then right and keeps his hands in his pockets. He hasn’t stopped smiling.
“Do you think man can create? I mean create something original.”
“Good question.” More leaning even faster. “Let me consider this for a moment.” He kept his eyes up so that he seemed to be thinking.
“In the beginning God created. That I believe. Can man create anything that God didn’t already create? I think man only took what God had already given him and made things out of that. Everything stems from God’s original gift of creation.” He wraps his hand around a fist and then opens all his fingers like a flower. “God can also inspire man. He can give a man an idea that didn’t exist before and that the man wouldn’t get on his own.” The line moved forward. “Like the prophets. He gave them wisdom that wasn’t human.”
Old ideas, old starched collar. Quantum randomness and divine inspiration. A place for his mower is all now. “Ok ok.” He pretends like he’s satisfied with that. Roast beef with cheddar, lettuce, tomato and bar-b-que. Divinely inspired.
“Thanks for answering Jerry.” Hands full of sandwich. Makes a little bow.
Robert sits in his car. Bites. Maybe not divine. He pulls off the tomatoes. Licks his fingers. Tilts rearview mirror. His face again, chewing. Behind him cars drive. Each window flashes under the sun. His eyes are starting to yellow. This won’t be the end. His shed will still come. It is waiting within him to be born. He will rip open his chest and pry apart his ribs and the masterpiece that has been within him will fall into the dust and no longer will men doubt. He can’t hold himself idle any longer. The time has come and if he fails there will not be another chance. His face chews mechanically. Robert starts the engine and pulls out of his space.

Susan is upstairs. The floor shutters when she steps. Robert drops her sandwich on the table. She’s going to be the last obstacle. The creation of beauty must have obstacles.
“Susan I brought you your sandwich.”
Feet stop. “Alright I’ll be down in a minute.” Outside the shed stands underneath the shade of the tree. Speckled with sun. “I was thinking you could paint the bathroom today. I’ll give you the color I picked out and you can get the paint.”
Can’t stay. Need a reason. “I was planning on going to get the oil changed right now.” More. “I want to make sure I go before they get busy. I should be back in thirty.”
“Ok.”

         One car is already there. One bay is open. A skinny guy with a scant beard waves the car in. Stop. Waiting room must have free coffee. Gross, but free. The guy from the other car is on the maroon and cream plastic sofa. Various magazines on a table. Coffee pot and Styrofoam cups. Brown bubbles swirl on top of the watery coffee. Not as bad as it could be. The other guy is wearing jeans and a black t-shirt. Something about a band. He’s reading Musician’s Friend. He might be thirty. Can’t really tell.
         “Do you play?” Point the magazine.
         “Oh.” Lifts the magazine in front of his face. “Yeah I play bass in a band.” Lowers the magazine.
         “Cool.” Hundredth time he’s heard cool. “What kind of music do you play.”
         “Eighties metal. Mostly covers and stuff like that.” Rolls up the magazine and holds it across his lap. “Metallica, Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath, Guns and Roses. You know, that sort of thing.”
         Sips coffee. “Sounds like some good stuff. I’ve never heard of a band that just does eighties metal covers.”
         “Yeah I know, right? You’d be surprised how many gigs we get. People love rockin out to all the stuff they used to listen to. Once most people get past a certain age they don’t really listen to new music. When they do they always think it’s not as good as the stuff they liked when they were kids.” Starts tapping magazine against his shoe.
         “Yeah I’d say that’s true for me.”
         “Even if these older people went to the best show in the world they probably wouldn’t enjoy it as much as they enjoy hearing the stuff they grew up with. The power of nostalgia is strong.”
         The door opens and the guy with the puny beard is there. “Mister Branley your car is finished.”
         “I’ll catch you later man.”
         Robert picks up Musician’s Friend and flips through. Coffee’s still hot. Door again.
         “Your car’s ready too.”
         There’s almost no traffic. He turns out onto the street. Robert finds a pop station. Making love in the club. He tries to listen. Bobs head to the bass. No this is shit. Turns off radio. No more will the old be better. Not after the shed rises above the filthy trite dribble of the masses. That’s just it. It will be so small and unpresumptuous. Subtle in its psychological and emotional effects. Bordering on religious. Not just a fulfillment of the artist impulses within a single man, but something by which society is transformed. Here are tired old houses, tired old cars, tired old street signs. Most of all the world is tired old men. The garage is dark and when the car is off silent. Paint for the bathroom. Need to escape. Another excuse.
         Inside he can’t hear Susan’s footsteps. Maybe she’s out for the paint. Some sort of note and then make the plans for the shed. Upstairs first to see if she’s there. Susan is in the bathroom on her knees. She has a bucket and is scrubbing the tiles. She grunts with every stroke. Her legs look long and her thighs clench together. Little flecks of soap spatter her arms. Susan’s butt pushes toward Robert as she scrubs.
         Can’t stand here and be weird. “Hey Susan.”
         “Oh, hey babe. You must not have had to wait.” Her voice was straining from the work.
         “Yeah they were really quick.” Steps in toward her. “Looks like you’re doing a good job.”
         Fake chuckle. “Yeah these tiles are really bad.”
         Thin tendons run under her hair and down her shirt. His hand is on her shoulder. Still soft even when it’s straining. He bends down and places his lips on hair. He pushes his lips down on her head. His hand moves down her back and up again.
         “I left the paint sample in the hallway. It should be right by the door here.”
         Robert stands up erect. “Ok. See you in a bit.” He presses his fingernails into the flesh of his palm. She still works. She moves like a machine. Scrub grunt scrub grunt. Robert walks to the hall and picks up the sample. Moonlit Yellow. He shoves it in his pocket. He pinches his tongue with his teeth. Pain in his head.
         Out the back door and into the yard. The sun throbs overhead. The air inside his shirt warms. In his pocket the paint sample pokes against his thigh. The door of the shed hangs open. Robert walks into the dark hole. Shafts of light protrude through the ceiling. He closes the door. No latch. Robert undoes his pants and looks up at the green and white holes. The wind shakes the leaves on the trees. He sees his wife before him. She is bends down and takes him into her mouth. He keeps forces himself into her harder. She wants him so much. Foam from the soap dots her beasts and neck. Robert opens his eyes. The rusted tools lay about the shed floor. His semen falls onto the dusty floor and over the tools. The boards are gnarled and gross. A cobweb hangs in the corner. It’s good enough for a mower.