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It took Dave a couple of weeks to decide, but when he finally went to sign his brand-new lease on a July morning, he found Perry outside, host to some unwelcome visitors. A flock of migrating birds had settled into the tiny patch of gravel by the front door of the mill. Their pink plastic bodies rubbed hollowly against each other as Perry pulled them up out of the ground, clasping them in his meaty hand like a flamingo bouquet.
“‘Project Graduation’,” he grumbled at Dave as he walked up. “What do I care about frickin’ ‘Project Graduation’? Why they gotta do that in the summer? They say I have to pay to have these things removed. I’ve got a dumpster says I don’t!” Dave grabbed the last couple of birds as he followed Perry to his office. “Seriously,” Perry said as he chucked the birds in a corner and settled into the cracked vinyl of his ancient dark green desk chair, “why should I give a damn about frickin’ ‘Project Graduation’? I don’t have a kid in that school.” He looked at Dave with an intensity that indicated this was not a rhetorical question, and possibly, that Dave himself, or at least his kind, was to blame for this impertinence.
“Well,” Dave said, squirming uncomfortably as he placed the lease on Perry’s desk, “a donation might make you some friends.”
“Can’t keep up with the friends I’ve got.”
“I mean, it might make people have sort of a friendly feeling for you,” Dave hesitated, then went on, “it might be good for business. Or . . . well, if you don’t, the town will have a field day at your expense. You pay one way or another.”
Perry got red in the face. “And that’s EXACTLY why I’m not gonna do it! I’m not gonna be forced!” Just then there was a knock on the door and a couple of earnest, nervous looking teens peeked through the window. Perry put his head in his hands and then motioned them in, sighing.
“Uncle Perry?” A pink-cheeked girl stood nervously before him, twisting her feet. “We, uh, need the birds.” Perry gestured impatiently to the corner where he had tossed them. She and the boy with her picked them up and gingerly turned back to look at Perry, who wasn’t reaching for his wallet. They started slowly for the door. The girl motioned for the guy to move on, while she leaned over and whispered anxiously, “I’m sorry. They made me give them a name. I didn’t know any other business people.” She shook her head and seemed like she might cry. Perry looked ready to storm the school, but he took twenty dollars from his desk drawer and handed it to her testily. “Thank you. You get,” she began hesitantly, “you get to say where they go next.” Perry’s eyes dared her to say another word, but as she began to scuttle out, he glanced at his desk, relaxed back in his seat and smiled the tiniest of smiles.
“Wait a sec.” He scrawled an address and handed it to her. “That’s where I want ’em to go.” She nodded and slipped out.
“Now for you, Mr. Abawhatever . . . Check?” Dave handed it over. “Key.” Perry passed it to him. “Well . . . any questions?”
“I’m sure I’ll have some, but for the moment . . . I can’t think of any. I’m just excited to get in there.” Perry’s attention had already begun to wander; he was shuffling a stack of papers on his desk.
“Ok, see you around,” he said absently.
“Thank you!” Dave smiled at Perry, who wasn’t looking anyway, trying not to betray the pounding of his heart now that he had the key. This was really happening. He walked up the stairs slowly, listening to the sounds of the other businesses that faded to a hum as he approached the third floor. He put the key in the lock and turned . . . or tried to turn. Maybe there was a trick to it. He jiggled and wiggled it and looked for a magic button, his excitement quickly turning to embarrassment as he realized he’d have to go back downstairs.
“Uh, I’m not sure, but I think this may be the wrong key?” Perry took it and squinted at it, sighed, and heaved himself up wordlessly. Dave followed him sheepishly and watched while he operated the lock, trying to understand the intricacies of it, but Perry was in and out in a moment and handed it back. Dave laughed nervously.
“Be careful; it will lock behind you.”
Dave laughed even more nervously, then cleared his throat and looked at the floor. “Thanks.”
“Not a problem.”
When Perry was gone, Dave hurriedly snapped a picture of the lock and sent it to Isla, keeping the door open.
<<Do you know how to use a lock like this?>>
She didn’t answer. Dave waited for five minutes and then sat down with his back against the door, his feet on either side of the frame. It wasn’t closing unless it took him with it. He waited ten minutes, fifteen, half an hour. He considered his options: he had absolutely nothing on hand to prop the door open with, and he could see nothing within arm’s reach. The door had a small hole where a stopper had once been attached. It was rusting around the edges. He could go inside and risk getting stuck. He could get something to prop it with and try to fiddle with it when he got back. Anything was better than asking Perry for help again, whose disdain for Dave, or perhaps mankind in general, was obvious. Dave searched for antique locks on his phone in hopes of stumbling across one like it. The lost time frustrated him, but all his plans for the day centered on being in and out of the studio. He was still searching when he heard feet screeching on the floor, then the staircase bouncing, and voices ascending. It was Isla, shining as she did when coming to someone’s rescue, with Phil and an elderly man in a short-sleeved plaid shirt. Dave stood up quickly without leaving the door and looked questioningly at Isla.
“I brought help! What’s the problem, exactly?”
Dave shook his head, embarrassed. “Oh, nothing, really, you didn’t all need to come up here.”
“Dad knows everything . . . have you met Dad?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Dad, Dave; Dave, Dad.”
The old man smiled pleasantly and nodded. “Peter Campbell is what people other than Isla call me. Let’s see this lock. I think it’s just like what we had at the shoe shop. Same era.” His voice was gravelly; old but hearty, warm and rich.
“Well, it’s open right now, I just didn’t want to get locked out . . . or in.”
Isla’s father looked at the lock. “Oh, you won’t get locked in.”
“I was told it would lock behind me.”
“It will, but that just means no one can get in; you can still get out.”
“Oh.” He felt more stupid by the second.
“Now, this is how you operate it if you want it to open from outside.” Dave watched carefully. “Did you catch that? Let me do it again.” Dave nodded. “Ok, now you try.” Dave clumsily maneuvered the lock. “That’s it. One more time . . . fine. That’s great.” Isla’s dad smiled encouragingly, kindly, and Dave couldn’t help but smile back. In the meantime, Phil swooped in to have his crack at it.
“I’m gonna bust the rust off of this and coat it with some oil just in case.” Phil fished a box of wire brushes and a little bottle out of a small tool box. Dave looked at Isla and her dad, uncertain what was next.
“Well . . . you want the grand tour?”
“I’d better get back to work.” Isla and her father disappeared into the hallway, but a moment later she was back alone. “You ok, Dave?”
Dave was a mellow dude, but there was something in the way he was biting his cheek that worried her. “To be honest, I didn’t expect an entourage. I didn’t even expect you; I was just wondering if you had any ideas.”
“Well, I did. And it was to come here. And I solved your problem, right?” Isla beamed, oblivious.
Dave looked sideways at Phil and muttered, “I’m just embarrassed, Isla. I didn’t expect my landlord and a stranger to show up. I didn’t even expect you. Phil already thinks I’m useless.”
“Phil? Haha he’s one to talk!”
“I guess it’s just pride, but I’d rather not have been caught with a lock getting the better of me.”
“They won’t tell anyone.”
“But they know, Isla. That’s the thing. But,” he sighed and shook it off. “It doesn’t matter in the long run. It’s ok; don’t worry about it.”
After Isla and Pete Campbell left, Dave finally looked around the room to assess what needed to be done while Phil kept filing and greasing away. It was largely a matter of cleaning. He didn’t have much at home for a cleaning job on this scale. “I’ll be back,” he said to Phil. He spent four hours running around trying to figure out where to buy an industrial-sized broom, mop, and wash bucket on wheels, only to find he could drive another hour to Portland or special order it. He decided to see what he could do about the bathroom for now. When he got back with a box of supplies, Phil had the lock neatly laid out in pieces on a rag on the floor.
“Ahhhh . . . um, what’s all this about?” Dave tried not to sound distressed about Perry’s seemingly very broken property.
Phil looked up. “Just making sure this will keep working for you. ‘Never do a half-assed job’, that’s my motto.”
“I . . . I’m not sure how Perry will feel about it.”
“Oh, he’s been here. He read me the riot act. I can take it.” Phil grinned. “But in the end, he said it was your responsibility and you’d have to pay for an ‘expert’ if I couldn’t get it back together. And of course, cover any damages and legal fees if squatters move in.” Phil laughed out loud. “But that won’t happen. I can get it back together, and you’ll be here every day anyway, right? But I can get it back together.”
And he did—he just didn’t finish doing it until nine o’clock, fielding several worried calls from Kim and becoming increasingly interested in being left alone. “How does anyone expect me to get anything done if I have to keep answering this thing?!” he said, chucking his phone aside.
In the meantime, Dave tackled the bathroom. After several hours of scrubbing, first it, then himself, he added a few sprays of wheat in a simple vase and an essential oil diffuser. It wasn’t beautiful, but it would have to do. Phil was still at it, so Dave ordered some supplies online, regretting that he hadn’t been able to shop locally for them. Then he searched for a cheap used desk on Marketplace or materials to cobble one together. He sketched out designs for a sign. At long last, Phil said, “Well. That’s done.” He got together his tools, which seemed to have multiplied as the day wore on. Dave wondered how many trips he had taken back to the house.
“You go ahead, I’m just going to . . . well, lock things up.” Dave smiled. “Thanks so much for your help. I’ll give you a free class or something.”
“Sure, buddy.” Phil smiled and slapped him on the back as he left. Dave took one last look through the huge room. As the flashlight on his phone glanced on a far corner, he thought he heard a scuffling. Was that a tail sliding through a pile of old newspaper? A shiver of revulsion went through him, but what could he do? That was a problem for another day. He inserted the key and the lock fell apart in his hand. Squeezing the pieces tightly, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly through his nose. He dropped the pieces into his backpack to bring home to Phil. Putting a thin blue fleece on over his gray t-shirt, he positioned his backpack using both straps to evenly distribute the weight, and pulled his ponytail out from under it. Dave took his time on the stairs, read all the graffiti, wondered who painted it and if that same person would do him the pleasure of decorating his studio for free overnight, and prayed that Perry wouldn’t try the door in the morning.
Outside, the air was brisk. The mill pond was sedate and aloof in the dark, no majestic natural beauty, but pretty in its way. His phone vibrated: a text from Isla.
<<I stopped by to see how you made out; Kim said you were still at the mill.>>
<<Yep>>
<<Is the lock fixed?>>
<<Not really. It’s in pieces in my backpack.>> He could hear the pieces rattle in time with his footsteps.
<<Uh oh.>>
<<Yeah. But it’ll work out somehow.>> He was passing the food pantry, silent at this hour of the night; did he see boots disappear around the corner?
<<Sorry I embarrassed you.>>
<<It’s fine. Your dad helped, anyway.>>
<<Better luck tomorrow.>>
<<Thanks.>>
<<Well . . . goodnight. You home yet?>>
<<Soon. You worried about me on these wild streets?>> Dave stood at a silent intersection waiting for the walk light.
<<Look, it’s no joke. There were a bunch of loiterers on your lawn earlier.>>
<<Oh?>>
<<Yeah. Let me know if they’re still there.>>
<<Ok. TTYL.>>
<<Yep. Goodnight.>>
His place was just ahead to the right. The lawn looked different in the dark, as if small, skinny children were standing all over it. Some trick of the moonless night, or . . . as he turned down the path and saw one of them up close, he realized that it was a pink flamingo. The flock had noticeably increased since they landed at Perry’s that morning. On the door to his stairwell was a scrawled note: “A warm welcome to Scottsville’s newest businessman. Your generosity has not gone unnoticed.”
His phone vibrated. <<You home yet? I heard Perry sent something over for you :D :D :D>>
Next Chapter: Please Don't Thank Me with Salad
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