It Must Come Down

“Humm, humm, humm!” I repeated.

I stooped continuously, showering azaleas and roses with water throughout the land. The last drops of water crowded the jug nozzle, trickling to a blue plant. Exhausted, I rose from the plant, eyeing the concrete foundation I loved. The aqueduct, mighty and long, spanned seventeen miles across Bareville. It transported water to structures, revolutionizing the presence of water for drinking, bathing, and other uses. Grandad Jacob engineered and facilitated its construction, soon amounting to a pillar of the community. Incessantly, a vibrating noise cast across my wrist. I glanced at the watch, noticing it was 8:00 AM, breakfast time. I ceased the alarm and walked the grassland back home. I entered the front door, strutting to the kitchen, and sparked the stove.

Crack, sizzle, two egg yolks flooded the cast iron skillet. I rustled the spatula, cooking the eggs to a yellow-gold texture.

Ding. I fumbled the spatula against the skillet. The toaster shot up two pieces of crisp toast, accompanied by a smokey sausage aroma escaping the oven. I piled my plate to its edge and spread Pearl Milling Company syrup across the food. I sat at the dining table with my plate, eating before the shiny bay window. A wind pelted against the glass, directing my attention towards the beautiful aqueduct. I paused with a slight chew, playing memories of my grandad and father shaping the aqueduct and cutting the ribbon at the ceremony. Bloated and fatigued, I scrubbed the dishes with dawn dish soap, washing the residue down the drain. I dried the countertop around the sink and walked to the front porch. A fresh breeze whipped against my skin, accentuating the calmness of the land. Ten minutes went by. Only one vehicle had passed since the time I sat outside. It whipped across the pavement, kicking up random trash, finally coming to a gradual slow.

A horn unrelated to the vehicle blared consistent beeps. My eyes squinted as I placed my hand over my eyebrows for a better view down the road. An erratic blue truck swooped in, emitting a harrowing pit of smoke from its rear. A wave of confusion washed over me. What was going on? The vehicle continued to speed, instinctually causing me to retreat inside my home, slamming the door and peering through the window.

The horn blared again, and the vehicle stopped. The driver's door flew open, revealing a chubby, exhausted man. He ran from the truck before it exploded, sending thick particles flying across the air, over the precious aqueduct. After an hour, the street bustled with sirens from police cruisers, ambulances, and firetrucks. The truck driver stood with the police, engaging in a conversation. He stated the vacuum truck overheated during the drive and blew the collection tank. The police roamed the area for another five minutes, walking the ground, documenting their findings, and devising a clean-up plan. A minute later, I entered the living room. I dove into my brown, fuzzy, Lazy Boy chair that beckoned, swallowing me into a heavenly sleep. An hour later, I woke up. I poured a cup of water in the kitchen and drank three sips. A raw cough shot up my throat, causing me to pound my chest a few times. As I relived the cough, I exited the front door and walked down the road, sweeping a grey film underneath my slippers. The catastrophic scene was gone. Recurring chirps from nocturnal creatures crowded the bushes, returning to the familiar surroundings of Bareville. I sauntered to my house and snuggled underneath the bed sheets.

In the morning, my alarm bounced the wooden nightstand. I groaned and released a hacking cough against the sheets. I unfolded my hand beneath the sheets and shut it off, rising from the bed to start the day. Under a slight stagger, I jumped into my slippers and walked around the bed to open the blinds. The sun pierced through, revealing slanted trapezoids of light. I opened the bedroom door and walked to the kitchen. A foul sensation bombarded my nose. Heaping and disgusting, the trash was packed over the rim. I forgot to empty it the other day. I grabbed the black bag by the red handles and walked out the front door.

“Plop!” The bag rustled, gliding across the sky and into the green garbage bin. I swiveled towards the front door when a car pulled into the neighbor's driveway. A petite woman dressed in vibrant blues, greens, and yellows exited the driver's seat. It was Miss Lyzel Brinkely.

She waved at me with a huge smile and a happy tone. “Hey there, Wahl. How are you?”

I matched her tone, “I'm doing great. How was your vacation in Cabo?”

“Oh baby, it was fun!” she expressed. “I went to El Arco, sportfished, whale-watched, and partied.”

She shook her body like a sexy Spanish dancer, rolling her suitcase up the driveway and into her house.

She briefly stopped on the porch. “Can we have dinner tonight at your place?” she asked.

I replied, “Of course! Does seven tonight work?

She exclaimed, “That sounds great, see ya then!”

We walked inside our homes and shut the doors. I spent the next few hours cleaning and preparing the dinner table with fine china, utensils, and napkins. As the time neared 7 o'clock, a delicate knock graced the front door. I straightened the runner on the table and went to the door, opening it to a stunning sight. Ms. Brinkley stood upright with a smile, hands before her, wearing a fitted royal blue dress with stiletto heels.

“May I come in?” she expressed.

I stepped to the side, hand out, directing her to the immaculate dining room.

I noticed I did not place the glasses on the table. I went to the kitchen for two glasses and a pitcher of water. I returned to the dining table and poured the water near the rim of the glasses. We sat at the table, chewing on a juicy steak and salad, initiating conversation. Thirty minutes later, our plates were empty. Lyzel remained at the table while I stood at the sink, washing the plates.

Lyzel expressed, “The dinner was so good; thank you, Wahl.

“Oh, no problem, Lyzel. I'm glad you enjoyed it.” I replied, scrubbing the last dish before returning to the table.

Lyzel took two more sips of the cold water and placed the glass on the dining table.

The liquid flooded her throat, forcing her to shake under a chill.

“Woo! I drank too fast.” She exclaimed.

Lyzel pulled out her phone, swiping the screen, when she stuck out her tongue. It was dry and a subtle shade of pink. She squinched at the sight before coughing loudly, forming a fist to pound her chest for relief.

I stated, “You look sick, Lyzel.”

“Oh, I'm fine. It's just a cough!” she expressed, still fixated on her phone.

A minute later, Lyzel coughed, bringing a thick film to her lips. The film flowed down her face as she hacked an intolerable sound that echoed the room.

“Gasp for air!” She breathed.

“Lyzel, Lyzel!” my voice cracked, and I reached out, trembling as I patted her back.

Lyzel tensed in her chair, rolling her eyes. Thump. She hit the table.

My heart raced; what was going on?

I snatched Lyzels phone, mashing buttons 9-1-1. The medics arrived in five minutes, pushing her to the white and red ambulance. I hopped in my car and trailed behind as it raced to the hospital, gripping the steering wheel in an irregular sweat. An hour later, a hum vibrated. A light cast a heavenly glow throughout the hospital room, striking Lyzel. She lay in a deep sleep, taking shallow breaths while attached to a breathing machine. A knock surfaced, and I flinched. The door opened to a group holding brown clipboards. Doctor Estelle Kentlock and her team arrived with news.

“Hello, Mr Jacobs, how is she doing?” she asked.

I looked towards Lyzel. “She's fine.”

Lyzel overheard the chatter and woke up.

Doctor Kentlock lowered by the bed, rubbing Lyzles arm. Lyzel cracked a smile.

Kentlock announced, “We have the test results. Dim the lights, Doctor Madison.”

The lights dimmed to a darkness, accentuating a blue illuminated presentation board. An unsightly x-ray of Lyzel's lungs plastered the screen. Doctor Kentlock approached the board, explaining Lyzel's diagnosis.

She expressed, “After extensive testing, we discovered a thick particle film inside Lyzel's throat. The film has coated and obstructed her throat to an egregious level, prompting consistent coughs and hacking.”

I grasped the chair arms, eyes widening to the size of golf balls; how could a film do this?

I questioned, “What is the cause of this?”

“The cause is unknown, but the breathing machine will extract the film. Her throat will clear within the next few days.” Doctor Kentlock expressed.

The screen shut off. Doctor Kentlock looked towards me.

“Mr. Jacobs, will you be staying here overnight? she asked.

I replied, “Yes, ma'am!” I fumbled with the blankets on the convertible couch.

“Alright, Mr Jacobs, I wish you and Lyzel a peaceful night,” Kentlock uttered. I'll see you guys in the morning.”

Doctor Kentlock and her team swiftly exited the door, easing it quietly against the frame. I sighed and looked at the ceiling, wandering off to a deep sleep.

Morning came, and Lyzel's condition was stable enough for me to return home. Sharp and quick, I drove the vehicle, steadily approaching the gray, thick particle road. I parked the car and opened the front door to a mess. I stooped to my knees, cleaning Lyzel's grey bile and collecting the overturned glassware to wash. As I cleaned the glassware, my hand slipped from the exterior, leaving a thick grey residue on my hand. What is this? I thought, my voice a bare murmmer. I set the glasses aside, attributing the residue to the air from the explosion. I rushed outside, placing a ladder against the aqueduct. I climbed, step by step, until I reached the top of the aqueduct. A grey film streamed in the water. The water is contaminated. It caused Lyzels' hospitalization. The aqueduct, a pillar of Bareville’s history and revolution, was infiltrated. I dropped from the ladder, tears crowding my eyelids, diving into the car for the hospital. I mashed the accelerator, reaching the building in ten minutes. Gasps echoed through the halls as I ran past, bombarding Dr. Kentlock's office with the discovery. A few anxious days passed. Lyzle was well and stood tall, free from tubes and incessant humming medical machines. I guided her to the car, struggling to follow as she danced her characteristic Spanish dance. “I feel amazing,” she uttered, flailing her arms with vibrance. We drove home, to a clear road, turning towards the bare grassland where the aqueduct stood. The demolition team left a remnant. I trudged the grass, approaching it with a hammer, bashing it to a fine dust. The aqueduct was gone. Several quiet months later, the people of Bareville gathered at the new structure. The second aqueduct, built with my grandfather's hammer, occupied the original land, boasting enhanced protection from the elements and a shiny metal exterior. The water within hummed with a clean, steady flow. People crossed the streets and drove into town to gather before the masterpiece. I stood before the crowd with a pair of scissors. One, two, three, a countdown echoed the crowd, followed by a snip of the bright red ribbon. The aqueduct was restored. Everyone sipped a glass of water with a smile. It was safe.