The Midnight Job
By Jill Strickland
The early morning sun burns my back. From my front porch, I watch Bill next door lumber around his yard in a bathrobe. For crying out loud, put some clothes on. He smirks and toasts me with his mug. Bill is the reason I don’t sleep anymore.
The garbage truck roars toward us. What if it can’t stop? What if it plows through Bill’s flowers and hits him? I mean, bumps him. Nothing serious. Just a concussion and a couple of nights in the hospital. That’s all I ask.
My wife, Doris, brings coffee. “What are you smiling about?”
The garbage truck stops at the curb.
“Nothing, dear.”
#
The sun is setting. I just want to water my lawn in peace, but here he comes, sidewinding through his screen door to hiss at me from his porch.
“Evening, Dan.” He draws on a cigar with puffing cheeks.
“Evening, Bill.” I squeeze the water hose in one fist, clench a beer in the other.
“Congrats.” He lifts an eyebrow. “That lantana finally has a flower.” He leans against his railing. “They’re idiot-proof, so you can’t kill them,” he coughs a laugh, “unless it’s on purpose.”
“Doris loves lantana,” I lie, shifting the spray to the scraggly bush I’d thought was a weed. The water jet knocks the tiny pink flower into the mud.
“And everyone else loves roses.” He sweeps his gaze over his army of bushes loaded with fragrant flowers. “These beauties require skill.” Smoke squirms from his self-satisfied grin.
Disdain is the look I’m going for when I squint at him, but my face is hijacked by a wet-eyed yawn.
“Tired, neighbor?” His gray mustache twitches.
I feel my shoulders sag and my face droop. Yes, exhausted. The next sip of beer tastes of bitter defeat.
From the east, a breeze hustles the trees and pushes water spray from the hose back over me. Fine mist cools my arms and face. From the corner of my house rise the cheerful pongs and poongs of my wind chimes. Bill hates wind chimes. I face him to fully enjoy his reaction.
Eyes rolling, he shakes his head. Jaws clench and grind the cigar. His face, shiny with sweat, turns dark red. Finally, he spits in disgust.
Bill is not invincible.
I square my shoulders. “You’ve painted your porch,” I say, feet braced, arms loose at my sides. “Did the association approve that color?”
Mirroring my stance, he lifts his chin. “Why?”
“Too orange.” I look right into his eyes. “Someone could make an issue of it.”
“Not if they know what’s good for them, Dan.” Breaking eye contact, he throws the cigar down on his porch and crushes it beneath his gardening clog. “Sleep well tonight,” he turns and jerks the screen door open, “if you can.” The door slams shut behind him.
He’ll never be reasonable, and that leaves only one solution. Thanks to Bill, I’ll be the only person on the street awake at midnight. No witnesses. But am I willing to get my hands dirty? Cross that line? Yes, I am.
#
The trouble began after Doris and I returned from vacation a few months ago. We’d bought a beautiful set of wind chimes, and I hung it from the corner of my house for everyone to enjoy. Day and night, each pong-poong evoked memories of tropical adventures and ocean breezes. People from blocks away commented on how well the sound carried.
Bill complained. I believe the word he used was cacophony. I’d intended to keep the peace and take the chimes down, but I got busy. Next thing I knew, he’d mounted a floodlight on the side of his house that blazes directly into my bedroom window. Every night atomic white fingers of light pierce through the slats of the blinds to stab, stab, stab at my eyeballs. Who could sleep? When I mentioned this to Bill, he pretended not to hear me. The neighborhood association declined to intervene.
#
It’s midnight. Doris snores under her pillow as I review my plan. It strikes me that I’m premeditating a crime. Self-defense is off the table. I open my eyes beneath the double sleep mask I must wear. Incandescence seeps past the edges. I’ll plead insanity.
Slipping out of the house, I pick up the wooden crate of implements I’ve stashed behind the lantana bush. I’m forced to wear sunglasses as I approach Bill’s property because it’s lit up like high noon.
Confronting the source of radiation at the side of his house, I tuck my screwdriver into the pocket of my robe, pull on oven mitts, flip the crate upside down, and stand on it to reach the floodlight under the eaves. Unscrewing the scorching lamp at its base, I yank the unit straight down, hard, snapping the wires.
Blessed night returns. Tossing the lamp and tools into the crate, I walk back to my yard. The glow of the moon is polite. Sleep will be long and deep at last.
The snap of a twig startles me. A broad figure blocks my path.
“Evening, Bill.” My arms tighten around the crate.
“Evening, Dan.” He raises a canvas bag and shakes it at me, pong-punk.
I shift the crate side-to-side, making the loose parts rattle.
“That lamp kit was very expensive.”
“Must be the plutonium.”
“I’m out a lot more money than you are with this cheap souvenir.” He twists the bag, producing a weak clunk. “I could sue you for compensation.”
I stand speechless, my brain stalled from sleep deprivation.
Then I sputter, “I have a h…huge garage.”
“Get over yourself.”
“My nephew’s band needs a place to practice.”
Crickets, literally.
The panic on his face makes me wish I had a nephew.
“Forget it, you win.”
“Hey, Bill, when we work together, we all win.”
“Shut up, Dan.” His dark bulk moves past me.
Peace returns to our neighborhood.
Jill Thomas Strickland is a retired teacher and job-hopper. She writes short fiction and is working on a mystery novel. She lives on Amelia Island in Florida with her husband.
