Homes - Randy Chen

The shiny white van pulls up by the curb and begins unloading each eager individual, one by one they spill onto the grassy lawn before the empty house. Lively conversation all around and the sound of metal against metal as hammers and crowbars are exchanged between excited hands. Footsteps fill the house and then pounding, crashing, and clamor. One boy bends at the knee to pry a stubborn nail from a floorboard.

Clap the thin aluminum door shut behind you and hold the broom with both hands. Step outside onto the wooden platform, the crest of the plywood staircase that leads up to your trailer that is painted white like gleaming disaster. Sweep the square of wood that you stand on, keep it kempt, keep it tidy. Look out to the blue blue sky and see the gray cloud in the corner bringing raindrops in but a few hours. Turn to the noise next door, grasp the broom with both hands, and watch.

They sling crowbars into the ceiling, splitting the plaster open and then a downward yank and the ceiling comes down in pieces. Falls apart with each new fissure. The air is hot and dusty and the smell of mold sifts down from the rafters. Remnants of the attic spill out with each rupture in the plaster skin. A magazine, three beer cans, and an old sweater. Breathing hard, breathing stale air through styrofoam masks, feeling the sweat linger and refusing to evaporate.

Make sure there is not a stray piece of leaf or trash on this wooden step. Watch the workers ruckus inside the empty shell next door. Hear the sound of dropped tools, the thud of metal hitting wood, the sandy footfall of fiberglass and insulation. Turn inside your home your trailer and pour yourself a glass of iced tea.

One boy stands atop a ladder to remove a ceiling fan. With a gloved hand he pulls with all his strength and it pops loose from its plastic joint, the wires exposed like naked ligaments. With a pair of rusty wire cutters, he severs them with one swift maneuver and carries the wooden fan outside and sets it on the green grass.

Place your glass of tea on the rough wooden banister that lines this step. Rest your elbow on it, look at the workers, watch the workers because there is nothing else to do today but be wary of splinters.

They move the slabs of plaster outside onto the curb to be taken away. They pour the insulation from plastic garbage cans outside onto the curb to be taken away. They shoulder the dislodged beams of wood outside onto the curb to be taken away. The dank entrails of a gutted home, steaming with the scent of dust and mold.

Look the gray corner of the sky has been stretched and it begins to rain.

The crowd hurries to the white van and quickly stashes the tools inside. One by one, they elude the rain, ducking in the door under the drumming of raindrops and pull away from the rubble arrayed on the curb, piled high like humanity.

Clap the thin aluminum door shut behind you and carry the empty glass of tea indoors. Move from the kitchen to your bedroom in one step and lie down on your bed as the sun begins to set. Craft yourself more makeshift idols from the temporal smoke of volunteers and find some way to dream because after all, the comatose world as you know it breathes slower and slower, weaker and frailer with each forgetting.