The Plan ·
God, that tar smell. Like burning hair. Anyway, I’m thinking we wait until the humidity breaks. If we start now, the concrete sets too fast, and the whole facade cracks by Tuesday. I’ve got the formwork from the old job center, but the hinges are rusted. You said you could get the sealant. Don’t tell me you forgot. The inspector comes Thursday. If we’re not standing on it by noon, we’re done. I’m telling you, the timing is tight. Too tight.
Sealant’s in the van. Behind the cat litter. Smells worse than the tar. You want to use that formwork? The hinges aren’t rusted, Omar, they’re seized. We’ll need an angle grinder. I don’t have one. We’ll have to borrow from Dave. He’s never home. And if we grind, the noise complaints will bury us before Tuesday. Plus, who’s lifting the panels? You’re done after lunch. I’m on the night shift. You’re going to have me standing on wet concrete at 3 AM? No way.
Dave’s never home because he’s hiding the grinder. We kick the door. It’s simpler. And the noise? We wear earplugs and tell them it’s emergency plumbing. They don’t care about plumbing. As for the concrete, you think I’m letting you lift those. I’ve got the rig rigged to the van winch. You just guide it. Less talking, less lifting. 3 AM is fine. It’s cooler. The air moves better. If you’re too tired, drink the espresso from the blue tin. Don’t make it a thing. The inspector doesn’t care about your sleep schedule. Just get the sealant out before it boils in that van.
Rigged to the van winch? Omar, that thing hasn’t held a load since the ‘08 floods. You’re going to tear the bumper off. And “tell them it’s emergency plumbing”? The inspector isn’t a mechanic. He’s a bureaucrat with a clipboard and a grudge. He’ll see the tar and the formwork and shut us down for lack of permits. We don’t have permits. You said that yourself last week. About the blue tin espresso: it’s stale. Tastes like dirt. And I’m not drinking it. I’m not standing on wet concrete at 3 AM with a rig that’s basically a fishing line. Let’s just… go buy new hinges.
New hinges? With what money? The till is empty. I checked. You spent it on cat litter. Look, we’re past buying. It’s about momentum. The inspector doesn’t check machinery logs. He looks at the line. If it stands, it’s legal. It’s always been legal. You’re overthinking the ‘fishing line’ bit. It’s steel cable, Sam. Rusty, sure, but it holds. As for the coffee… fine. I’ll make fresh. But we’re not stopping. The rain’s coming. If we wait, the tar melts. Then we’re just digging a hole. Borrow the grinder from Dave’s neighbor. The widow. She owes me for the fence. I’ll handle her. You handle the panels. Don’t be difficult.
You owe her for the fence? She’s scary, Omar. You told me she bites dogs. And I’m not touching that winch. It’s held a fridge, not a facade. If it snaps, it takes out your leg. Or mine. Or the inspector’s. You want me to argue with a widow who owes you? No. I’m not doing that. And the tar melting? It’ll just stick to our boots. We need heat, not rain. We need permits, not momentum. You’re seeing ghosts where there’s just a bad idea. I’m going home. My feet hurt. And I’m not drinking your coffee. It’s probably dirty.
Your feet hurt? Mine are crushed in these boots. You think I bought them for comfort? They’re for grip. And I’m not letting you walk away. Not after I already told the widow I’d swing by. If you don’t come, I go alone. And you know I will. I’ll get the grinder, I’ll get the hinges. You stay here and rot in your silence. The rain’s picking up. Can you hear it? That’s the sound of us losing. If we’re not done by Tuesday, it’s over. Forever. So stay. Put on your shoes. We’re not going home. We’re going to fix this. Even if I have to drag you.
Drag me? You can barely lift a bag of cement. And don’t lie about the widow. She won’t give you the grinder. She’ll call the cops. Then we’re both arrested for breaking and entering. On a fake facade. The inspector isn’t coming Thursday. He’s in Zurich. I read his email. You didn’t check? You just assumed. The rain isn’t the enemy, Omar. You are. It’s just water. I’m staying. The van smells like cat litter and poor decisions. You go fetch your hinges. See how far you get with a rusted winch and a borrowed argument. I’m not moving. My shoes are fine.
Zurich? You’re making that up. Check the email again. He’s at his desk. I saw his parking spot this morning. And the widow? She doesn’t call cops. She calls her cousins. Who owe me. Stop stalling. Your shoes are fine? They’re held together by duct tape. I saw it. I’m not leaving you here alone. If I go, who stops you from driving off with the sealant? You’d sell it for gas. Stay put. I’ll get the grinder. I’ll get the hinges. And I’ll bring back coffee that doesn’t taste like dirt. If you’re still here at midnight, we start. If not, I do it alone. And I won’t ask for help.
Zurich, Zurich. Check the timestamp. 2019. You’re looking at a ghost. And the seals? They’re hardened. If I pull them now, they shatter. We’ll seal nothing but my fingers. You’re obsessed with this facade. It’s drywall, Omar. Fake. I can buy a roll of vinyl for five bucks. Cover the cracks. Paint it gray. Who cares? The inspector doesn’t care. He’s drunk. I saw him at the bar last night. We’re doing this wrong. We’re bleeding for a lie. Put the boots down. Let’s go get a beer. Real coffee. Not that sludge. You’re shaking. It’s the cold. Or the fear. Probably the fear.
I’m not shaking. The wind is just cold. You think vinyl holds? It peels in a week. This is permanent. Or it’s nothing. I’m not buying you a beer. I’m going to Dave’s. Or the widow’s. Whichever breaks first. You stay there and watch the cat litter smell rot in your head. If you’re smart, you’ll meet me at the corner with the sealant. If not, I’ll bring the van. The winch will hold. It has to. Because if it doesn’t, there’s no point in pretending this matters. But it does. More than your drink. More than your excuses. Get the shoes. Now.
You’re going to die on that winch. Fine. I’ll meet you at the corner. But I’m not carrying the sealant. It’s too heavy. And I’m not using your shoes. Mine have grip. Your boots are slipping. You want permanent? Concrete cracks. Vinyl peels. But at least vinyl doesn’t kill you. I’ll be there in ten. But if the winch snaps, don’t say I didn’t warn you. And take the blue tin coffee. It’s not dirt. It’s just… weak. We’ll need the strength. For the widow. And for the inspector. Whoever he is. Zurich or not. It doesn’t matter. The facade matters.
Ten minutes. You’re late. Always late. And take the tin. It’s not weak, it’s concentrated. You need the jolt. Don’t touch the sealant with your bare hands. I know, I know. “Too heavy.” You’re a liar. You’ll carry it. Just like you carried the guilt when the first panel fell. Remember? Didn’t think so. Keep your hands in your pockets until we’re under the tarp. The widow’s cat is loose. Watch your ankles. And Sam? If the winch groans, you run. Don’t wait for me. I’m already stuck. You can still walk. Just get the sealant. And stop looking at the sky. It’s not going to rain. Not today.
First panel didn’t fall, Omar. It slipped. There’s a difference. And I’m not carrying the sealant. It’s toxic. You know that. You put on gloves. Or I walk. And the cat? I saw it. It’s not loose. It’s chained to the fence. You’re hallucinating. Or drunk. The sky is gray, not raining. Yet. But the tar smell? It’s getting stronger. Like you said. Burning hair. I’m not running. If that winch snaps, I’m grabbing the tarp. Cover us. That’s the plan. You didn’t think that far. Just get the grinder. And leave the guilt in the van. It’s taking up space. I’m coming down. But I’m wearing my boots. Not yours.
Slipped? Same thing. Broken bone either way. Gloves are in the glove box. Don’t be dramatic. Toxic? It’s glue, Sam. Not plutonium. If you want to be a martyr, fine. But put the gloves on. I’m not cleaning your blisters. And thank God for that. Your boots actually have tread. Mine are bald as a billiard ball. The cat’s chained. Good. Less distractions. You grab the tarp? Amateur. Tarp just flaps. I’m bringing the sheet metal. Heavy, but it stays down. If the winch snaps, you don’t cover us. You run. That’s the plan. Actually having a plan. I’m at the corner. Don’t make me wait. And take the coffee. For the widow. And the ghosts. And the inspector. Whoever he is.
Plutonium. Right. And the gloves are covered in grease. I’m not touching that tar with bare hands. You want blisters? Get them yourself. Sheet metal? You’re insane. It’ll crush my feet if it slips. I’m bringing the tarp. It’s lighter. Less dead weight. And I’m not bringing coffee to the widow. She hates coffee. It makes her jittery. She wants tea. Chamomile. You’re forgetting everything. The inspector’s in Zurich. Dave’s dead. The cat’s a robot. None of this is real. But I’m coming. Because if I don’t, you’ll try to winch the facade with your teeth. And I can’t watch that. It’s too ugly. I’ll be there in two minutes. Don’t start without me. Even if I’m late. Especially if I’m late.
Dave’s dead? Please. He’s at the bar. You’re losing it. And the cat’s a robot? Fine. Kick it if it’s in the way. It’s plastic. It’ll clatter nicely. Tea. Chamomile. Got it. I’ll buy a box. Stop inventing lore, Sam. It’s exhausting. Just bring the tarp. And don’t drop it on the sealant. Grease stains. Permanent. I’m holding the van door open. The winch is humming. It’s a good sound. Like a promise. Don’t make me come get you. I’m not in the mood to carry you. And if Dave is actually dead, we’ll use his grinder anyway. Ghosts don’t need permits. Neither do we. Hurry up. The tar’s cooling. We’re losing the bond.
Humming? It’s screaming, Omar. You’re deaf. And Dave’s not at the bar. He’s in the ground. I saw the grave. You’re digging it yourself. With the wrong shovel. The tarp isn’t for the sealant. It’s for you. When the metal falls. You’ll need it. And I’m not running. I’m walking. Slowly. Because if I run, I trip. And you’ll be alone with the widow’s cousins. And the inspector. Who is definitely in Zurich. Not the bar. The bar is closed. It’s Tuesday. Stop holding the door. The van’s moving. You’re not in it. I see the driver. It’s not you. It’s Dave. He’s alive. He’s driving away. With the grinder. And the coffee. You’re left with the tar. And the smell. Like burning hair. Like you.
Dave’s driving? Bullshit. He’s limp. I checked the grave. You’re trying to spook me. Good luck. The van’s stuck in mud. I saw the tracks. He’s not going anywhere. And I’m not holding the door. The door’s open. The tarp’s on the ground. Let it cover me. If the metal falls, I want it soft. You’re slow? Good. That means you’re alive. And the inspector? Zurich is a myth. He’s here. I saw his tie. Red. Match the tar. So walk, Sam. Walk fast. Before the widow’s cousins show up. They’re hungry. And I’m out of tea. Chamomile’s a lie. It’s just dirt. Like the coffee. Like everything. Hurry up. The winch is screaming louder.
Screaming louder? That’s the sound of the cable fraying, Omar. Not a promise. A warning. And Dave’s not driving. The van’s empty. I checked. You’re alone with the widow’s cousins. And the red-tie inspector. Who isn’t there. He’s a mannequin in the shop window. You’re talking to fabric. The mud tracks? Your own footprints. You’re stuck in the van, Omar. The door’s open because you fell out. Get up. Stop playing hero. The tarp is on the ground. Pick it up. Cover yourself. It’s cold. And the sealant? It’s hardened. Useless. We’re done. Go home. Before the cousins arrive. They eat liars. And you’ve lied to everyone. Even yourself.
I’m up. Don’t patronize me. And check the mud again. Those are tire tracks. Wide ones. Not boots. The widow’s cousins drive SUVs. Big, black ones. You’re hallucinating mannequins because you’re scared of the noise. The cable isn’t fraying. It’s singing. High pitch. That’s how you know it’s tight. Proper tension. You want it loose? Fine. I’ll cut it. But we need the facade up. The sealant is hard? Good. It’ll hold the shape. We chip it off after. Like plaster. It’s not useless. It’s dormant. Stop telling me to go home. I’m not going anywhere. The inspector is watching. I can feel him. From the shop window. The red tie is blinking. Run, Sam. Run before the cousins get out. They’re hungry. And I’m out of tea.
Blinking tie? Omar, look at your hands. They’re shaking. That’s not tension. That’s adrenaline overdose. And “dormant” sealant? It’s brittle. It’ll explode. I’m not watching you chip glass shards into your eyes. I’m taking the tarp. Not for you. For me. If that cable snaps, I’m diving. You’re too stubborn to run. Fine. Let the cousins take you. Let the inspector watch. I’m going back to the van. I’m locking the doors. I’m drinking the dirt coffee. It’s the only thing left that tastes like reality. You stay there. With the singing cable. And the blinking mannequin. It’s your monument. I’m gone. Don’t follow. I’m not carrying you.
Wait. The van won’t start. You locked the doors? From the inside? You idiot. You trapped us. I can’t break the window. I don’t have the hammer. You took it. For what? To chip the sealant? Useless. You’re sitting in that van drinking sludge while the cable sings higher. It’s screaming now. Not humming. Screaming. And the widow’s cousins… they’re not SUVs. They’re bicycles. Silent. Coming up the street. On the tar. Look. You’re the one who told me to run. Well, run, Sam. Inside your metal box. Before the bicycles get here. And before the inspector blinks again. He’s staring right at you. Through the glass. I can see his eyes. They’re not human. They’re tar. Hot. Sticky. Don’t drink the coffee. It’s poison. Or worse. It’s mine.
Trapped? You left the key in the ignition. I pulled it. To keep you from starting that death trap. You think I’m blind? The bicycles are silent because they have no chains. They’re gliding. On the tar. Which is melting. Under our feet. The inspector’s eyes? They’re not tar. They’re headlights. Dim. Flickering. The van won’t start because the battery is dead. You drained it with the winch. Good. It’s safer now. No engine noise. Just the screaming cable. And the cousins. They’re not coming for us. They’re coming for the coffee. You said it’s poison. I’m pouring it out. Look. It’s boiling. Like the tar. Like your plan. Sit down, Omar. Before the glass shatters. From the sound. Not the eyes. The sound. It’s deafening.