Half-a-Bubble-Off

      In hindsight, it seemed that even as a toddler, Josiah had a predisposition for spatial order. He’d crawl across the floor to the open doorway between the living and dining rooms, lean against the jamb to pull himself to a standing position while keeping the ceiling molding in sight, then look down at the baseboard near his feet, following the wall’s edge with the sort of intent attributed to those having an extreme attention to detail. Finally, he’d shake his head and yell, “Jaba-jaba, gaba-gee!” Sometimes he’d look at whoever was in the room, spit out drool, throwing both hands in the air, fingers splayed, laughing so hard he’d plop backward onto the floor, his plastic pants and diaper—maybe some extra padding he’d just added—keeping him unharmed.

           As he grew older his propensity for geometric precision emerged in simple ways. The edges of boxes and books needed to be perfectly straight; stacked items had to be parallel or at exact right angles with one another. His strict organization of material objects grew to obsession. He became an avid and fastidious woodworker, ensuring everything to be plumb, square, and level. After college, he pursued a career in computer programming and web design, areas where he could create the perfection he craved, though, beneath the surface things were not what they appeared to be.

           In recent months, with the construction of his backyard privacy fence, his obsession edged towards possession. It wasn’t so much the entire fence as it was the last foot—not even a foot. Some nights it kept him awake; on others, it manifested in suffocating dreams in which he explored all the possible scenarios to make right the thing that was wrong.

           The last corner post, a treated 4 x 4 placed less than six inches from the garage, defined the problem. He’d built the fence on the property line between his house and his neighbor’s. It ran parallel with the garage foundation which was a foot from the property line. Josiah’s design positioned a corner post where the fence would make a 90-degree turn back to the garage. The trouble arose with the tall garage wall. Though it was plumb from bottom plate to top plate, it had been constructed (not by Josiah) with crooked lumber, resulting in a bellow where the wall met the fence, so that in the shorter height of the fence, it was not plumb. In joining the fence to the garage he had to allow for the inch-thick fence boards plus one-and-a-half inch thickness for the rails. With this in mind, and the fact that the garage siding stuck out past the sill, the post had to be planted with about three inches between it and the garage, and as anyone with a minimal creative inclination can attest, minor flaws and mistakes are more apparent in constricted spaces.

           Over the last few months he had reworked this corner numerous times—shimming, cocking, and leaning things to no avail; at least to no solution that suited Josiah.

           “It looks fine,” his wife said, the few times she’d tried to console him, ultimately throwing her hands in the air and walking away.

           One evening, more than a month after beginning the project, Josiah was immersed in finishing the job, once and for all. Though his vocabulary was more understandable than when he was a toddler, once again, his curses spewed spittle from his mouth as he grunted at the fence between thrusts of the posthole diggers.

           “This is the … last time … I’m … fucking … with … you! So help me, I’m through with your sorry ass. I’m digging the hole, filling it with Quikrete ‘n sticking your ass in it, leveling it once—only once, you hear? Once—and when it’s set, I’ll nail it all back up, pack up my tools and go to bed—never looking back. So don’t screw with me anymore, got it?”

           “Got some help there, Josey? Maybe you’ll get it right this time.”

           “Shit!” Where the hell did that asshole come from? Josiah had waited for a day when he thought his neighbor would be gone for the afternoon. He should have made the fence taller—and out of rock.

           “No help. Just me. This is the last time. However it ends up, it’s good enough for the neighbors I got.” Turning with a smirk to look at George coming up behind him, he added, “Wouldn’t you say?”

           George, with a smirk of his own—one that somehow seemed friendlier—said, “Well, Josey, I always thought it was. I’ve seen you out here every day, banging on that post, pulling nails, twisting this, turning that—then hammering it back together pretty much the same as it was before. And when you haven’t been out here pounding and kicking at this corner, you’ve been staring at it from a distance, mumbling to it as if the thing were alive.”

           George continued to look at Josiah, straight-lipped as if expecting some explanation.

           “Well, I like things done right, that’s all,” Josiah grumbled. “I got to get something to drink.”

           Heading for the house, away from his neighbor, he mumbled, “Yeah, I do things right—not like some people.”

#

           That night as Josiah lay in bed alone, he wished he had stood back to examine the fence after picking up his tools instead of playing the “out-of-sight, out-of-mind” game. He had an urge, now, to go out with a flashlight and—“NO! NO MORE,” he shouted.

           The silence that followed his outburst emphasized his lack of control. He was determined to not allow his thoughts and feelings surrounding the chaotic corner (as he’d come to think of it) draw him onto the rollercoaster of anxiety that he’d been riding these past few months. Taking deep breaths, he focused on the tiny green light from his cell phone charger sitting on the bureau. The continued stillness was difficult for him but welcoming at the same time. It became easier the longer he indulged in it, reminding him of when he was a young boy floating in a river, allowing himself to be carried downstream. The only noise in the bedroom was the sound of the old-fashioned digital alarm clock that clicked when the tiny flaps turned over the minutes.

           Where the hell is she, this late?

           It was a voice he hadn’t heard in a long time.

           Click.

           Josiah looked at the clock.

           11:29 pm

           Every night since starting the fence he’d worked on it late and gone to bed alone, his wife out with the girls, his mind churning over details of that damned fence. Josiah suddenly realized how absurd it was for him to only now begin to question the whereabouts of his wife.         

End