Fuck it. Brandon swiped Anthony’s contact card off the screen and smashed the YouTube icon. In a few strategic clicks, a fatherly, balding man began to explain how to troubleshoot a sump pump. “Sometimes, the position of the float doesn’t allow for the switch to activate properly,” he nodded commiseratively to Brandon. “Grab something long enough that you can use to scoop it up and hold it in an up position to see if the pump will turn on.” Brandon looked down at his bare feet and surveyed the silty water rippling toward him.
He grabbed the closest footwear he could find–and in Anthony’s house, that didn’t take long. A forgotten pair of Under Armour hiking boots stood along the front wall of the basement dusted in snowy shards of parging. It was as though anything that stood in the basement for too long was slowly digested by the old farmhouse. He tipped the plaster flakes and stone crumbles from the insides of the wilted shoes before plunging his feet inside.
“Boot number two,” Anthony murmured as he sank it in beside the first. A small geyser of black water erupted against his right leg, darkening the denim trouser as the boot displaced the mire. “Whoa. That was unexpected,” he chuckled. “Sorry, mom! I’ll wash the jeans myself.” The left UA boot had slid considerably further into the filth than the right. Only the rubber capped tongue had been spared the christening, and the fetid water had begun to wick up the bottom inch of his jeans. Anthony found he was mildly surprised at the pressure he could feel through the boot as the spongy ground hugged his foot and ankle.
“Good news is that the left boot is just as waterproof as the right,” he observed as he tried to jerk the left boot free. “But oh my god, this is like quicksand.” He grunted with exertion as he strained his foot against the top of his boot. A trickle of sweat traced its way down his spine. “Guys, seriously,” he chuckled nervously, “I had no idea a little bit of mud could put up this much of a fight.”
As he tugged, the ground around his feet began to churn and mix with the water below until he was surrounded by a small ring of quaking black slurry rather than the lumpy earth that had been there when he started. He unstuck the shallower right boot with a loud “thwock” and stepped back onto the crunchy dry ground. “This was a fun experiment,” he said declared breathlessly. “I am now infinitely more satisfied with my purchase of these boots—” he gave his left another fruitless tug, “—and also infinitely more regretful that I stepped in here in the first place. To think I worried that I wouldn’t have anything interesting to show all of you today!”
Brandon sloshed toward the source of the water in the back corner. Dragging up the float with an old lacrosse stick yielded no result. The pump continued to placidly allow the water table to rise into the farmhouse. Stray bits of plaster were digging into the soles of his feet inside Anthony’s roomy hiking boots, but they remained dry. He crouched in the water, the loosened tongues of the boots bowing easily under his shins, and removed his phone from his pocket once again.
“Just like when your computer gets a glitch, sometimes you just have to power down and start it up again,” sump pump dad drawled patiently from the tiny speaker in his hand. Brandon reached up and pulled the warm black adaptor from the electrical box on the wall and counted to ten. When he pressed the brass prongs back into the slots, and the machine serenely hummed to life.
Anthony’s left foot began to cramp with his exertions, and when he paused to rest, letting his weight settle back on his leg, the Under Armour boot sank even further into the freshly disturbed bog. Wet wriggled it’s cold fingers around his ankle and wrapped them around his foot. The lining of the boot took on a spongelike feel. “Well, shit” he laughed as he flexed his dampening foot in the boot, making a burbling noise. He wrenched his socked foot from the imprisoned boot and brought it into the daylight. Bronze stains twisted around the white cotton the way fudge cascades down a dome of vanilla ice cream. “I guess even the best boots are gonna fail if you top them,” he panted.
He rested his foot against the dry rim of the bog, but as he bent to tug the stubborn boot free of its soggy clutches, he slipped. The fluted shaft of his white sock plunged into the slime with a quiet smack. Anthony turned the camera to his face, which was scrunched into a painful smile of disbelief. “Aw, no. Are you kidding me, guys? This went sideways so fast!” He ran his hand over his face. “I gotta focus on getting out of this mess. Literally. Guess we’ll head to the abandoned station another time when I’ve got dry boots! Later, all. Oh, and subscribe!”
Brandon smashed the button on the machine and a steamy froth of espresso began to stream into his mug. He rested his head against the stainless machine and closed his eyes, the warm vibrations of the brew cycle soothing the band of tension that stretched across his forehead. The day had started promisingly enough, sump pump drama aside.
The patio flagstones had still been damp from the night’s rain when he had stepped down from the back porch and crossed the yard. The rubber toe caps of his chucks had gleamed with wet after just a few strides through the grass, as though they had set off thousands of tender green catapults, each loaded with its own summer raindrop waiting to either be sprung or otherwise unburdened by the gathering heat of the day. Brandon had stopped and stood before the unseen boundary of the Kyle trap. The rain barrel stood empty, having funneled it contents and that of the entire surface area of the woodshed roof into this small swath of ground the evening before. A single rusty smudge of clay had emerged from a section of sod and stretched a few feet down the slope of the yard toward the patio, but aside from the stain the swath of grass between the shed and the garage remained unassuming. And devious.
He had smiled and adjusted his pants. So far, so good. All he would have to do now is keep the area damp until Kyle’s next visit. And that wouldn’t be today—the grass wasn’t long enough yet. He had turned and headed for the car, pulling out his phone and setting the stage for his unwitting victim.
“Morning, Kyle. Let me know when you’ll be by this week. Want to discuss details of the grading project next to the house in person so I can relay to Anthony. Have a great day. Thanks.” The text had swooped into the ether, and Brandon’s plan rolled ever faster, gathering momentum. Building anticipation.
He savored the smoky bitterness of the espresso as he sat down in the gallery workroom and started to work through the stack of lighting supply catalogs for the Ambleside Veterinary Clinic account. He was jotting down model numbers for a few variations on space-age pendant lights when Lee Ann, one of the gallery floor assistants poked her head in.
“Brandon, is Lydia not here today?”
He looked up and studied her face. Always soft, always placid. Lee Ann was the perfect personality for working up front because she could agree—or at least give the impression of agreeing—with customers on most anything. He had seen her nod approvingly of a Ming dynasty replica vase a customer was holding, using words like “classic” and “elegant anchor piece,” then unflinchingly praise the woman for her about face in heading to a Johnathan Adler display, the “perfect statement for textural interest that is surprisingly versatile.” Lee Ann was the kind of person you went to in order to be talked into splurging on the Jimmy Choos or acquiring yet another pair of Ray-Bans, like she was everyone’s perpetually doting aunt. But that “you deserve this and it’s going to be great” spirit isn’t what you wanted to have standing next to you at a concept board. Especially when your gallery name was going to be affixed to it. That Lydia would take his place and Lee Ann would likely move into hers if he left Michaelis had set off a pang of concern within him—especially since he knew he would inevitably take the brunt of Lydia’s resulting frustration. But that all seemed moot after this morning, anyway. He rubbed his temples.
Shoe Horny 