3. The Bobcat

September, 2003

The next Saturday Trent brought a friend with him from Michigan to help dig dirt. Trent explained that the previous owners had brought in a lot of soil for their flower beds. The extra dirt had changed the drainage—the backyard sloped toward the house and water drained into the basement. This explained why I heard the sump pump running every time I went downstairs to do laundry.

Trent and his friend shoveled dirt into the back of the truck all day Saturday and all day Sunday. By Sunday evening when I looked out the window I couldn’t see any progress. He took his friend back to Michigan that night.

On Monday I came home from work to see a little bobcat (the earth-moving equipment, not the animal) in the backyard and Trent driving it, picking up a load of dirt in the front bucket, then spinning it around to drop the dirt in the bed of his pickup. The little bobcat was spinning back and forth and Trent seemed to be having a good time. I watched them, the man and the machine, mesmerized. They looked like they were dancing together across the dirt. I wanted to take their picture but didn’t want to be embarrassed if he caught me. I walked outside instead.

He apologized for not asking me before renting the bobcat but said it was the only way to get the dirt dug before the ground froze and I agreed. Chicago is built on a swamp, the soil is heavy clay that sticks to every shovelful. It is a back-breaker.

When he stopped for the night I looked out the back window and saw the little bobcat resting by the neighbor’s garage. I took its picture. The shape of the ground appeared to be changing but I couldn’t tell for sure. The alley was tightly lined with fences and garages, except for my backyard. There was nothing between my house and the alley. I felt exposed. I felt vulnerable.

The next day when I came home from work and looked out the window the little bobcat was again parked by the neighbor’s garage, but this time I could see the difference in the ground. It sloped away from the house and ended at the alley, a few inches below the level of the asphalt. Trent was just finishing nailing bright orange plastic webbing fencing to 2×4s planted in a row where the future fence would be. I walked outside and he said, “I thought this might make you feel a little safer, until the real one is up.” I thanked him.

We had some conversation about the exact dimensions of the parking pad, how it should meet the asphalt of the alley, and the grade of concrete he should use. I didn’t know concrete came in different grades and I accepted his recommendation.
He said he wanted to show me something on the side of the house so we clambered over the low chain-link fence that blocked the side yard. A climbing weed had crawled up the brick and Trent explained that the weed puts its climbing feet into the brick and damages the brick. He said the weed should come down. We grabbed the bottom parts and pulled it off the wall. It broke near the top and a small part was left hanging. He said it would dry up and fall off but if it didn’t he would get it with a ladder.

He climbed back over the fence and held out his hand to help me over. I put my hand in his and as he pulled me over I felt a powerful wave go from his hand to my hand and through my entire body. When I got over the fence he let go of my hand and all I wanted was for him to hold my hand again, to touch me, to feel his hand again, to feel that wave. I held out my hands to show how him how green they were from pulling down the weeds and in hopes that he would touch me again but he didn’t even look. He just looked up at the sky or at the clump of weed hanging from the wall. He didn’t look at my hands and I let them fall.

The next day I watched him cut boards for the fence. He would place a board on his table saw and then slice it with the blade, sawdust swirling in the sunlight. It was hot and he was sweating and the sawdust was sticking to him and the sun was glinting off the sawdust. He looked like a great golden bear. I watched how he held the boards, how he felt the weight of them, how he measured them, how his strong hands carried and placed them carefully. I wanted to trade places with those boards. I wanted him to carry me and place me carefully.

by Jule Kucera on February 5, 2010

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2. Trent

August, 2003

Trent came back a few weeks later, driving a 1980’s era Chevy truck that had mellowed to a soft blue. I stood on the upstairs back porch, sometimes leaving to do other things but most of the time watching him and hoping that the reflection of the sun off the porch windows made me difficult to see.

He had a big, heavy chain that he attached to the back of his truck and then wrapped the other end around part of the fence. He climbed into the truck and stepped on the gas. The truck ran forward, the chain straightened, the truck lurched, the section of fence came down, the brakes squealed, and the truck was strangled to a stop. Then he got out of the truck and repeated the process on the next section of fence. It was tricky because the alley he was driving in was only a foot or two wider than the truck. He didn’t have much room.

There were actually two fences, a chain link fence that faced the alley and a wood fence right next to it that faced the house. After both fences were down I realized that there was also a telephone pole, standing naked now that the fences were sprawled at its feet.

He backed the truck up to the telephone pole. It was hot. He had taken off his t-shirt and I watched his shoulder muscles work as he wrapped the chain around the tall pole. He repeated the accelerate-jerk-slam process over and over until the pole wobbled in its hole. He got out of the truck and pushed on the pole. It tilted but wouldn’t fall over. He got back in the truck and jerk-slammed it a few more times, but the pole was determined to stay where it was. He got out of the truck and took the chain off the pole. I thought he had decided that the pole wasn’t that much in the way and could be left where it was when he squatted down, wrapped his arms around the pole and lifted it out of the ground. He turned slightly and let the pole fall in the alley, away from his truck. I may have gasped.

He told me he was going to the dump. (How did he tell me this – had he hollered up to me? Had I gone down to offer him something to drink?) I disappeared into the house. When I looked out the porch window a few minutes later the wooden fence was gone and the truck was gone, but the metal fence was still lying in the alley and I was angry again. Why didn’t he take both fences at the same time? Both would have fit in the truck. He was being paid hourly—was he just trying to make the job take longer? As I stood there an old pickup truck with plywood sheets affixed to both sides pulled up and stopped. Three men got out of the truck, picked up the fence, threw it in the back of the truck, and drove away. When I told Trent about it later he said, “Scrappers. They come through about every 20 minutes.” I said I had never heard of this before and he said it was a booming business in Chicago. He offered to take me over to the scrap yard if I wanted to see it but warned me that it was kind of scary—a Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome kind of place. I declined.

by Jule Kucera on December 12, 2009

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1. The Beginning

October 27, 2009

If you are one of those people who likes to know how the story turns out before you decide if you want to settle in with it or not, if you want to know in advance whether the hero lives or dies, here’s the answer: he dies.
However, even though the hero dies, that doesn’t mean [...]

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