Code Junkie

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Kevin, there's nothing you can expect us to do," Ted scratched his neck.

Jerry was on all fours, reaching behind the air-conditioning unit, tugging at wires, moving dirt with his hands, and all-around being useless. I did appreciate his immediate call-to-arms mentality. I mean, combined, we were all pretty fucking useless, staring at this ravaged air conditioner.

"What is this stuff anyway?" Jerry asked from the ground, dabbing his fingers in the blackish slick on the side of the house and all over the unit. "It's like... it's as if a small animal said 'fuck it' and cannon-balled from your roof."

"I don't think that's what happened," I said, helping Jerry to his feet. "I really don't want to pay for this, especially if a bunch of those little fucks were responsible for it."

"Isn't your neighborhood supposed to have souped up security and all that?" Ted chimed in.

"Yes, they are," I said, acknowledging that I lived in a 55+ community. "Maybe this is what grandma meant by 'useless,' eh?"

The two of them nodded, staring absently at the mechanical mess in front of us. We continued the small talk and social commentary, we agreed that we should try cleaning off the purple and black hell that was smeared all over it, before the sun got too hot and started cooking it. I could not imagine what this could potentially smell like baked. Amidst further speculation, I unreeled the garden hose from the back of the house and turned it on. Capping half of the open hose with my thumb, I shot a stream of the cool water at the mess, slowly taking it away from the dulling off-white of my house.

"Whatever it was, it got fucked up," Ted said. Jerry smirked and nodded.

"Do you guys know anyone who can fix this kind of stuff?" I asked. "I'm almost positive it's out of warranty. My grandma bought it when she moved in and it was never a problem for her. Figures it takes a group of punks to break the streak."

"Google it?" Jerry offered.

"No shit. Was just curious, off hand."

"Well," Ted began, sounding somewhat hesitant. "I know someone. But you're not going to want him here."

"Who?"

"Take a guess,"

"The fucking Swede?"

"No. Who the hell is 'the Swede'? Guess again."

I had no idea at the time, but I guess I shouldn't have been surprised.

Sara had told me that Mitch had been in some sort of art program with her at the local college. I assume that his creative career was simply flourishing and that he did manual labor just to maintain his modesty. I was sure that was the case. Absolutely positive. But there we were a few hours after my failed repair mission with the guys.

"A raccoon or something probably chewed through it," Mitch explained, further pulling apart the wire grating.

"Yeah?" I did not buy it. He says raccoon and I look at the air-conditioner and the torn hole is adequately sized for Jerry to be able to comfortably sit on the blades of the fan. "So how often do you run into linebacker raccoons?"

"I don't know, Kevin, I'm only working with what you gave me," and he turned back to the work.

"Nah," I said. "I appreciate it. I do. It's just... bizarre."

I then remembered the night I had found him staring at my house from across the street.

"Hey, we never really talked about that night I saw you out front," I started.