Home

There is a house to my left, new, but old in it's fashion. My personal taste does not aim towards it, but my beliefs say that it will make someone proud to present it to a crowd. I built this house, in hopes that someone will want to proclaim it as "home." Their home. Two floors, a simple layout. Maple wood across the floors, furnished with the finest finish, of course. It would need to be polished once or twice a month, a situation I blame children for. The walls hold an alabaster white, not my pick, but the deadline for me to do so was passed by, it was out of my hands. The banister of the stairs, a golden project of my own, was sanded smooth by my calloused appendages. Rough skin does not a contractor make, although it seemed this way through the process. Perhaps this was not so simple of a layout, the complexities were further than "This is a lovely home." People on the hunt for a home don't often think of the work and decisions put into the making of something such as this, they see the basic setup, and they see what they want to see. They see their furniture, their things, their future. That's that. Gregory, a well trusted man on my crew, a friend of mine, and a brother in hard times, broke me out of my trance.

"Denver, this place will be on the market in two weeks. Just made the call, gave all the information for the listing. They're having a lady come out tomorrow around two o'clock to take pictures and all that. Will you be around?" hearing this be finalized woke me up from the fact that this house was done. I no longer have to rise with the sun to drive to the site, and set with it in my evening sweat.

"I suppose I can stick here for a while." A large part of me wanted to go so I could make sure the lady would get the right shots in the right places.

"Well, we finally finished it. The last hammer was thrown in Asher's truck and we made our last rounds. A bar is in our near future for celebration, my friend." There's a relief in this man that I have not heard since this project first began. "Meet up at the pub?" he stated more than asked.

"You know it." I spat in a sigh. Greg began walking to his car and muttered something I couldn't understand, but I was too uninterested to ask. I was focused on my house. Being alone in this light, staring at this dwelling, I've realized that my blueprints turned into the house I wanted a life in. For a year, my crew and I have put work into the foundation, and it is only now I figure this out? I've become vexed at this epiphany, I decided not to show at the pub and just go to my apartment.

Unlocking the door to my seemingly empty life, a contemplation entered my mind. Was this truly the life I wanted, or not? I open the door, and see my four corners before me. A fake plant greeting me where I stash my keys. Even in its faux ways, it looks dead. I look dead. Remembering where I should have been right now, my barstool reminded me that I came here instead of there for a reason. Remaining as a single being tonight, I poured myself a drink as a bartender, a rather skilled one at that. My one-man show made a gin concoction to be consumed in four to six swigs. Silence surrounded me in this place like nowhere else could; it depicted the most imperfect picture of a bachelor, aged to forty-two, one with no proof of an existence, other than the stacks of mail coming to my address. Definitely no greeting cards here, but plenty of bills. Speaking of which, I should find the letter that confirms that I will actually get paid my month’s finances. I get the money of a man who should own a house, a beach house, and seven muscle cars, all the same model, but each in a different color. I’ve belittled myself into a cardboard box, somewhere off of the highway in Albany, Oregon. I don’t want to live just somewhere any longer. I desire something greater. As I now search for my phone in my ocean deep pockets, God and man only know why so much space is needed, I think of the listing websites that post homes around this area. Yanking my phone out of my pocket, I feel the irritating buzzing that happens when someone has the urge to talk about new happenings. Gregory was the one with such an urge, so I picked it up.

“Denver, you said you’d show, you didn’t, what happened?” Like a disappointed mother, his tone didn’t quite ease me into an obvious punishment.

“I decided I was tired, so I went home. That’s all.”

“You could have called or left a message. You had the crew and I worried for a while.” Not only had I encountered the mother, I now have eighteen nagging wives, charming at one point, but now I’m sure I’m a player. 

“Don’t worry, I’ve made it home safe and sound, dear.” I mocked him. 

Now stern and unamused with my sudden foolery, “Just be on the site tomorrow.” And his line went dead. I clicked on my search engine and typed up ‘new houses’ to see a new world of Families and Co. Kind looking, stay at home mom, sheet-rock and silver shingles type places. Not my style, but I’ll take a gander a bit longer. Scrolling through a land of competitive lawn battles and landscape repairs, I see a new tab possibility in the bottom right corner of my screen. ‘Soon to be listed’ in bold, intrigued, I tapped it and the first result on the next page was the address of my work site, the most recently finished one. The details enthusiastically stated that pictures were soon to come. Something in me hated the fact that I had to go back over there tomorrow, see my work get ten pictures for every square inch that’s there, and then have to make small talk to some woman that takes these pictures for a living. Many may say I’m bitter, but I have reason. I want my house back.

I woke up with a refreshed mind this morning around nine. I tasted gin from last night, still lingering on my tongue. I thought I should keep it there until it was time to go meet up with the listing lady. To pass time, I took a jog around the complex, not something I normally do, but it seemed like it would be a calming experience. On this cardio show, it was hard not to notice how quiet everything gets while being focused on absolutely nothing, but everything at the same time. My breathing was synced with my steps, and my thoughts were collected and clear. As I concluded my jog, I was bombarded with the thought of not having any clean laundry for today, so I decided to toss an old shirt into the dryer, doused in Febreeze. I hop in the shower, letting the water hit my face aggressively, waiting to hear the ding of the dryer go off as my cue to leave.

Driving over to the site, traffic appeared to be a topic of yesterday’s news, and the radio was playing songs from my teen years. Nostalgic feelings now in me, I am now even more calm than before. My Crossover car, now reaching the driveway of the house, is put into park at 1:46. I see a red convertible pull up right as I step out. The woman steps out of her car as she’s yelling over the wind, “Hi! I’m Jeanie! You must be Denver,” she approaches me with an arm extended towards me for a handshake, “so great to meet you! I’m super excited to see the inside, and take many great pictures!” She’s a lively one, a bit too much, and brightly colored in mismatched everything. She was yammering at me about how she loves what she does, her personal life, and beyond. I stopped her in the middle of her next sentence about her new marriage, “Congratulations for all of that, really.” I had heard enough vigorous excitement coming from her. “Jeanie, what if I told you I want this house?” The question hurried out of me.

“I’d surely believe you! This house is gorgeous, I mean absolute gem. Can’t wait to see who it goes to!” She overpassed my blunt inquiry; I gave a ditsy laugh for her sake.

“I was serious, I’m thinking of making an offer for the house.” I thought she’d jump in by now, but I was wrong. Instead, she seemed to be taken back by this. 

“Well, I heard that a contractor that built the house can’t buy it, unless they move on to a new company by the time open house operation begins, or before they put in an offer.” She continued to take pictures of the house. I pondered over what changing companies would do. For starters, it would take me away from the only people that make me feel like living. I would break workers' loyalty, make my crew doubt me. A lot of back and forth self battles are driving through me, and I’m only making scenarios thus far. Jeanie asked me to unlock the door so she could start marching around taking interior photos. She walked through the door, and I could already smell that new paint covering up her floral perfume. There’s the alabaster, even brighter than normal because the sun is beaming through the windows and bouncing off the walls. The sound in here has an echoey reverberation that I adore at most times, but Jeanie’s clacky heals are the only things yelling through the spaces. Light rock should be entering the crevasses, a Cuban smoke should seep through the furniture, and landscapes in frames all across the walls. These were no longer scenarios, this was what I really wanted from life, and for my life. 

“Alrighty! I’ve completed all the rooms and spaces! It’s time for me to head out now. These pictures should be up on the listing site sometime around midnight. It was great meeting you!” As she closed the door and left. I decided to make a call to one of my crew members. Dialing as if I were a sloth of some sort, I was coming up with what I wanted to say; what did I want to say? It was too late to think anymore because I had already pressed the call icon, and it was ringing. 

“Hello?” Kash picked up. He’s my boss’s son, the one who everyone goes to to get their questions answered so they don’t have to directly go to the head. An escape of a man for a ton of weasel workers.

“Hey, it’s Denver Sikes. I just finished up with the listing lady and was just about to call it a day when I wanted to ask...well.. Is it true that I wouldn’t be able to buy a house that this company has made while I worked on it? Jeanie told me about that, the listing girl.” I wasn’t sure on how to phrase it properly.

“I’m aware of Jeanie, Sikes. And about the wonder you had, do you remember the workers contract you signed?” Answering questions with a question game, I see, I don’t play this very well.

“Hardly. It’s been fourteen years since I’ve seen those papers. The only memory of it I can recall is signing it.” 

“You should touch up on it sometime, it would be nice if someone else besides me knew something,” I’ve caught him being passive, “There is a section in the contract bringing up the topic of this matter. The main point, or company rule, is not purchasing or placing a bid on a project you’ve worked on. Self explanatory. With this, if you wanted to own a house that this company created with you on the team, you would need to either quit your job, or find another construction corporation to work with.” I let this sink in for a moment; Kash seemed to appreciate the temporal silence.

“What are our neighboring companies?” I try giving a hint to him as to where this is going so that I don’t need to say it later. 

“Why are you asking, Sikes? You’re not thinking of transferring, are you?” He seemed surprised, yet I can’t really blame him. I took a pause so that he’d just answer me, “There’s Spreed’s, there’s Kimmel Hem’s, Lincoln’s… those are our biggest competitors.” I heard a distant sigh from his line.

“Hem’s, huh? I’ve always been offered a job by the director; it’s never been an offer, never a done deal.” 

“You want that house off Langston's, don’t you?” He laughed, not even shocked at this point. “I can see why they’ve offered to you… you’re a smart planner and great blueprint man. Fine in your work. You even won yourself over with your work.” What I liked about Kash is that he didn’t care about personal decisions, and didn’t need to know. He’d just hook someone up when they wanted something. Whatever was the fastest way to get someone out of his face, he’d make it happen. 

“I’m going to transfer.” 

“Yeah, yeah, Sikes. I’m already getting the papers for it so you can come in tomorrow and sign them. You know this breaks workers’ loyalty, correct?” He honestly sounds relieved in a way.

“I’ll be there to sign off tomorrow.” Disregarding the last part of what he said, I hung up. Still standing inside my soon to be house, I drove to my current home, and waited for midnight. Jeanie said the pictures would be up by then, and she wasn’t far off the truth. I looked at all thirty-seven photos, and I kept going back to how I was going to sign papers to change companies to have the house. My finest accomplishment. 

I fell asleep to wake up to a missed phone call from Kash. This morning at ten, he left a message saying that his father, my boss, wanted to see me. About three hours ago, I should have responded, but I’ll be on my way over there now. 

As I drive over to the office, I’m reasoning with myself about Hem’s. The whole decision went so fast. It’s not done yet, though. 

I walked into the office, into my boss’s room. He wasn’t there, but left a note for me.

“Sikes, you’ve been a pleasure to work with, and been a living talent to see perform. It’s a shame you’re going to Hem’s, and it’s a shame that I hear as so from Kash. With this transfer, you will not be able to transfer back to this company. Expect a paid leave, and best wishes to you.” And underneath this note lied my transfer papers and contract. I signed a copy and left it there on his desk while taking the other one. And from here, my life moved forward.

Two and a half weeks went by, and I’m working with Kimmel Hem Construction Sites, and I am moving my belongings from the empty apartment I once had into my new Albany house. My simple, but not so simple two story layout, with maple wood flooring, and white walls. Many would say plain, but comfortable is where it resides with me.

Now standing in front of this house once again, I no longer wonder who will call this place their “home” because it was mine the whole time.