A story about a young woman sipping a drink in a junkyard. Why did I find that interesting? Well, I like to try things from time to time that provide more of a challenge. Tackling an image with zero conflict or heavy drama was less challenging than I imagined. It was a pleasant break, almost a creative vacation, to explore this woman’s story. I look forward to trying something like this again.
Thanks for reading.
Artwork by Nokse Mojo
https://www.artstation.com/artwork/NxmAn5
DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.
The Story
Angie watched the sky because she couldn’t see the ocean. Flat on her back, hair tucked into her sweaty cap to cool her neck as much as to keep it out of the dirt, she drank in the procession of clouds traveling across the otherwise stark sky. The gulls weren’t here yet, but she heard them. She wished she could see them.
“Do my eyes deceive me or are you actually lying down on the job, Angela?” It was Bert, who looked exactly like a guy named Bert would look. She smelled the extra pickles he’d ordered on his triple stack hanging in the air longer than his words.
“Five minutes left on my break,” she said.
“Your Ma should have left the A off the end of your name ’cause your head’s always in the clouds. It’d better be served bluffing the boys out of their bonus checks. We always keep a spot open for you.”
“Jake smells worse than Paul, and Paul smells worse than–” It was unfair to keep going, Bert having given her a job when no one else had. And he’d gotten enough grief from his wife who had given him a swarm of girls, some of whom probably weren’t his. His wife’s reputation was known by everyone but him.
“You,” Bert said with the broken clock of comedic timing.
Angie gave him a pity chuckle and thereby a pity tit jiggle. She sat up, shook out her hair, and didn’t open her eyes until the blood flowed back into her face, keeping the fat brushstrokes of clouds in her mind’s eye.
“Tell you what,” Bert said, “You get the eight we just got in done by five and I’ll give you an extra fifteen to”–he waved his hands crazy-like around his head–“daydream, or whatever the hell it is you do.”
He gave her the smile of a father, one she remembered from years ago, her first and last memory of her own father, the corners of his mouth rising thoughtfully as if proud, the creases going dark from two-day-old stubble.
“All right, all right,” Bert said. “Twist my arm. Twenty. But–” he wagged his finger over his shoulder as he walked back to the office “–if I catch you lying down out here, break or not, there’ll be . . .” He slapped the final half thought out of the air before disappearing into his cave.
Angie went to work. She was pretty good with the crane, all the boys lined up outside to admire her, pretending to do work, proving that fact. It wasn’t long before Bert shooed them off like gulls, but she’d given them the satisfaction of stacking the eight cars higher than they thought possible, indicated by their slack jaws. She even made one in the stack upside down as a cherry on top. She would have done more, but it was fifteen minutes till her deadline, so one would have to do.
Eight was a good number. Space efficient yet short enough to remain sturdy. She returned the crane to its nook, because she didn’t want to leave any loose ends that might make Bert retract his offer.
A wave of gulls coasted over the jagged horizon of junk only to scatter, not at all keeping to the boundaries of the sky rivers. The base of her skull nearly touching her spine, Angie decided that there were more similaries to the sky and earth than differences. It was just a matter of context, of timing.
“Time’s up,” Bert called in the exaggerated voice of an umpire. Dad liked baseball, too, she remembered. “Lean back any farther and you liable to end up on the ground again, and I believe we already covered that topic.”
Bert held a Styrofoam cup with a red bendy straw, half the paper sleeve still on it. “Bought this for Janey, but she decided she doesn’t like strawberry tea anymore, and well, I thought you might.” He offered it to her.
Angie hated strawberries and anything strawberry flavored. “I do,” she said. “Thanks, Bert.”
Why a man with so many daughters who thought the world of him, his or not, needed more appreciation was beyond her, but she was happy to oblige, especially when she saw the look in his eyes, which weren’t checking out her breasts, and they could have, her coveralls being a little too snug, and one-too-many buttons undone due to the heat of the crane’s cab. She regretted the mental tit jiggle accusation from earlier, slipped the paper off the straw, and took a sip, doing her best to keep a straight face through the flood of oversweetened tea.
“Think of that as a bonus, then,” he said, expecting a laugh from her.
She conjured a good enough one, then decided another sip was easier to handle.
“Go on then,” he said. “You earned it.”
She climbed her car tower without losing the drink.
“Jesus!” Bert called from below.
She thought about saying something about angels, but figured she’d leave the bad jokes to him, and she didn’t need a nickname, and he loved giving nicknames.
“It’s fine,” she said. “Look.” And she rocked left and right, back and forth, to prove it was sturdy.
Bert gave her a a you’re-crazy-but-all-right shake of his head, then another one of those fatherly smiles that strangley made her heart hurt. But she realized it was more from the view. The ocean, unobstructed and calm but for a few whitecaps and bobbing gulls. Why they weren’t soaring in the boundless sky with their brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, was beyond her.
She took another sip, and it didn’t taste so bad. Along with the view of the water, the kiss of the breeze, a chunk of crushed iced added the texture she needed to recall what was, she was happy to find, another piece of Dad that needed less than the twenty minutes she had to assemble. She used the other nineteen to savor it.
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