||Help me like you helped the swingset,|| said the carport.
“I don’t know how.”
||Get a chainsaw,|| it said, ||and slice me in half. Right across the roof. That’s the quickest way.||
“What if I got something and stored it underneath you?”
||Something like what?||
“The swingset,” I said.
||It’s dead, though, isn’t it?||
“Does it matter?” I said.
||If it’s dead, I’ll be lonely,|| the carport said.
“You’ll be useful, though,” I said.
||Okay,|| said the carport.
Once Mrs. Temple finished hauling all her groceries into the house, I dragged the dead swingset under the carport.
“There you go,” I told the carport, gripping a beam.
It failed to respond. I picked up the spade. It didn’t fail to respond.
||You’ve ruined my entire existence,|| it said.
* * *
||You have to understand,|| the spade went on, as I snuck back into the garage across the street. ||They’ll never use me again. Not without a grip. They’ll either throw me away, or they’ll leave me here forever, telling themselves they’ll get me fixed up, but then never doing it. Do you see how many long-handled spades they’ve got?||
I could see three others, hanging from hooks in the wall, side by side.
“But these are shaped differently,” I said to the spade. “Here’s a chipper, there’s a digger, and that wide one’s a pusher—its blade’s so curved it could hardly scrape dirt.”
||Right. Exactly. And I’m an all-purpose type. There’s nothing I can do that one of these others can’t do a little better.||
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll go back for your grip.”
||Are you crazy?|| said the spade. ||You’re crazy. Or blind. Have a look at the end of my handle, why don’t you. It’s way too splintered. There’s no reattaching the grip—it can’t happen. You have to end me.||
“Are you sure?” I said.
||If you leave me like this, I’ll be neglected for years before the rot and oxidation begin to take hold. Til they begin to take hold.||
“What do you need me to do, then?” I said. “How do I help you?”
||You can either snap my handle off just above my scoop’s collar, or bang the scoop on some concrete or rocks til my blade develops an upturned lip.||
Either of these methods would have been too noisy to enact in the garage—someone may have been at home—so I snuck back out, spade in hand. My intention was to head a few blocks southwest to the Prairie Orchards Phase III construction site, a tract of cleared lots where they were laying foundations for some hundred new duplex and quadruplex townhomes, but, emerging from under the half-closed garage door, I heard a woman’s voice—heard it with my ears—and the voice said, “Excuse me? Hello. Excuse me.”
She was standing on the driveway in a baby-blue tracksuit with wide pink piping, matching sneakers. Her perm-crisped bangs appeared glued to her forehead.
“Who are you?” she said.
“I’m really sorry,” I said.
“Who are you?” she said.
“Do I have to tell you?”
“Tell me and I’ll probably only call your parents. Don’t, and I will certainly call the police.”
||Please,|| the spade said.
“I’m caught anyway,” I thought.
I hoisted the spade overhead, both-handed, bent at the knees, jumped in the air, and came down swinging as hard as I could. The collar’s grasp on the handle must have gotten loosened while I’d murdered the swingset: the scoop snapped off upon contact with the driveway, and, just as I landed, it spun back into me, right above the knee.
I sat on the concrete, breathing fast from the pain, and tossed aside the handle. I told the woman in the tracksuit—whose expression cycled through fear and surprise before landing on pity—that my name was Belt Magnet. She asked me what my mother’s phone number was, and I told her that too, and told her I was sorry, that I didn’t mean to scare her.
I followed her limpingly into her kitchen. She called my mom and prepared Crystal Light. Under her breath, she sang the brand’s jingle—“I believe in Crystal Light cause I believe in me!”—while stirring the powder into the pitcher, which caused me to anticipate Caribbean Cooler, as that was the most-advertised kind in those days, and I recall feeling puzzled and grateful the both when it turned out the flavor was Pink Lemonade. Fake pineapple taste always made me feel dizzy.
* * *
—
Ms. Clybourn—I’d heard her say her name on the phone—added vodka to her drink, then sat down across from me. She flattened her palms on the glass kitchen table, either side of her tumbler, spread out her fingers, and lowered her gaze. She said, “Your mother asked to speak to you. I told her she couldn’t. I told your mother you were indisposed.”
“Why?” I said.
She kept her eyes on her hands. Maybe her nails. She didn’t seem to hear the question.
I said, “I like your manicure.”
She sipped from her tumbler, leaned back in her chair, held her hands up in front of her face at angles.
“I’m disappointed in this manicure, to tell you the truth. In the bottle, the lacquer was a milkier pink. On these nails it’s a pink I’d describe as ‘thin.’ I’m always getting suckered. Do I look like a sucker? I’m not really asking. Anyway, your mother—it’s not that your mother didn’t want to hear your voice. I don’t want you to think that. It’s just that I said you were indisposed. You were using the toilet was the implication. Of ‘indisposed.’ I implied you’d be using the toilet for a while. Sitting on the toilet. I don’t quite understand why I did that. I can’t remember the last time I said ‘indisposed,’ but, you know, you might have mentioned she worked downtown,” Ms. Clybourn said, allowing—via blunting that last word’s first vowel, then inserting half a syllable after its second (don-tah-win is how it sounded)—her soft, Southern accent to enter full bloom. “It’ll be at least an hour til she gets here, young man. You’re lucky I’m a lonely woman of leisure [leh-zhur]. A busier person might have called the police to get you out of here quicker. I still might call them, lonely though I am. I advise you entertain the hell out of me.”
“You’re very pretty,” I said. “And you have a nice voice.” I meant it—both things.