The Closet
by Aaron McKay

I was building Mike's closet in the dark hallway of his house. I used a big rectangular sponge, the size of an old King James Bible, instead of sandpaper to sand down the final layer of spackle. That was a very intentional way to eliminate that fine white dust that you would get from sanding the normal way. It was also supposed to yield much better results.

Mike was a pastor for a small church. I wondered if he drew a commission off the tithes, or if he lived by faith.

He had taken off a while ago and I forgot to ask when he would be back. I suspected any minute.

I pushed the sponge to the bottom of the warm water in the blue pail and squeezed the air bubbles out. Then I pulled it out and squeezed the water out. It gave me a sense of controlling the elements.

I pressed the damp sponge against one of my joints and rubbed it back and forth, massaging the already smooth surface. I had taped and spackled so deliberately and carefully that it almost didn't need the sanding, wet or dry. I could have almost gone straight to the painting.

That spackle, dry as a wood splinter, sucked the moisture from my sponge. It felt like washing a rusty car.

There was a guy, I couldn't remember his relation to Mike, who lived there, on his couch. He was roaming the house, aimless as a ghost. I could hear him singing one of those irritating Christian rock songs. It was a love song to Jesus, but if you didn't know any better, it would have sounded homoerotic.

He sang, "I want to be in his arms again," as he approached the door of the closet. He sounded sad.

I looked at him, which caused him to stop singing. He commenced staring closely at my closet.

"What do you think?" I asked.

"About what?"

"Anything."

"I think I've just been dumped," he said, holding up a cordless phone. "She said we should spend time apart. I'm too immature."

I could imagine that. He was wearing a backwards baseball cap, a football jersey and long glossy basketball shorts.

I shined the fluorescent flashlight across the spot I had been sponging. "I'm gouging it."

"You need sandpaper or something?"

"The sponge is supposed to be the best possible method. This has never happened before."

I squeezed the sponge extra hard and barely dusted the spackle. "How's the job hunt?" I asked.

"Well, it's tough when you don't have a car."

I remembered seeing him and his girlfriend stepping out of a car. It must have been hers. She also had a kid about four years old. I couldn't remember how old this guy was, but he seemed much younger than me. Nor could I remember his name.

You can only ask someone their name so many times.

I shined the light across the seam again. It made shadows inside all the scratches the sponge was making. It looked like the tiny lines they scrape into sidewalks just before the concrete sets. "I need to get away from this for a minute," I said.

He was tossing the cordless phone, making it flip and spin like a high diver. He needed inspiration, or at least someone to tell him what to do.

The most inspiring thing I could think of was, of course, my Shogun. "Let me show you my bike," I said.

I pulled my bike off the side of the garage and rolled it to the middle of the driveway.

"You rode here?"

"That's my point!" I said. "It's only ten miles to the light rail. If you had a bike, you could apply all the way from Philadelphia to New York!"

"Man, that's a nice bike," he said with strained enthusiasm. "You must fly... like Lance Armstrong."

I stared at him a little confused. Apparently he thought that speed was the whole point. "It can only go about fifteen miles an hour." I pointed to the center of the rear wheel. "I took it down to a single speed."

"No kidding! This thing is a beast! You must go like... Lance Armstrong."

"Yes I do. I fly just like Lance Armstrong."

"Must be in shape, dude."

I was completely deflated by his stonewalling. "Yes, that's why I brought you out here: to tell you what great shape I'm in and to say that I fly like Lance Armstrong. Any questions?"

He was back to flipping that phone again. He dropped it, causing the battery to dance across the driveway.

"If you really wanted to work, you could make it happen."

He stooped down, grabbing the pieces. "I know I'm a loser. I'm gonna go kill myself now."

Did he think that was funny? I wondered. I had to agree with his ex-girlfriend. Maybe he was immature.

"You're in a slump," I said. "You can turn it around. You just have to want to."

"I see your point," he said, defeated. He opened the door and pushed the battery in place. As soon as the cover snapped back on, the phone rang, like an automatic reset alarm had been triggered.

Of course he answered, as the door shut behind him.

I wasn't ready to go back in there and face him again, or the spackle, so I scrounged around in the garage for a while. Under a crumpled sheet of plastic I found an unopened Coke. Jackpot, I thought.

I sat down on a paint can and started to drink it.

Then I realized that if Mike returned at just that moment, it wouldn't look good for me. So, I downed the rest of the Coke and returned the empty to where I found it and went back inside.

The guy looked much better. Much happier. He was in to some serious phone twirling.

"She take you back?" I asked.

"Nope. Forget her! That was Sarah. She wants to go to the gym with me! Looks like I'm not single anymore."

I gave him a look. He was back on top, no thanks to me. I couldn't share in his little celebration because whatever he was feeling was certain to be temporary. He hadn't figured anything out. It was by no choice of his that he was back in control. Nor was it his choice to be so down, earlier. He seemed like a puppet.

"Praise God!" he said. Then he waited for my reply.

Of course, I nodded. That's what you do. He looked closer at me, to make sure it was a real nod, so I kept it up. I kept nodding until he believed me. Then I reluctantly picked up the sponge again. It was heavy with water. I didn't think it would ever do the trick. "Maybe I'll take you up on that sand paper," I said. Giving up on that sponge, I dropped it a little too hard into the bucket, and a few drops to splash onto my wall. He surprised me by pulling a sanding sponge out from behind his back. Those basketball shorts didn't have any pockets.

He must have had the sponge tucked between the elastic and his skin. "Here," he said.

"That's been touching your ass hasn't it."

He stood there holding it out to me. "I guess." It was a kind gesture.

I hesitated to accept because something seemed strange about it, the way he was holding his arm out. He looked like a statue, almost. And I was like a smaller statue, looking up at him. It made me a little uncomfortable but reluctantly I accepted.

 

AARON McKAY is a married nontraditional student at Rutgers–New Brunswick. He is an English major who plans to join Teach for America after he graduates in May 2009.

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