Root by A. Sparrow Page A

little
bit iffy. I had a meeting with the probate attorney the next day to
see if there was any chance of hanging onto Dad’s pickup. There
were still credit card bills to pay, so there was a chance it would
have to go up for auction. They were holding the truck for last
while they tallied up the rest of our assets.
    I had hung onto the spare key and kept it in
my front pocket. It was my talisman. I would twirl it constantly in
my fingers like a worry stone.
    Gideon was already gone for the night when I
reached the storage facility. Jules, the elderly Haitian night
watchman, was barricaded in his booth with his fan and portable
TV.
    He wasn’t much of a guard. He never made
rounds; didn’t seem to even notice the world beyond his lighted
windows and TV screen. He just manned his booth every night and
went home every morning. It was surprising that the place didn’t
suffer more break-ins.
    I gave Jules no reason to turn hero. I made a
wide berth around his watch station, keeping to the shadows as much
as possible. There was a loose panel of chain link at the back of
the complex that was common knowledge among us squatters. I slipped
underneath, and made my way to the middle-most bank of sheds that
was home.
    I undid the lock, lifted the door of the bay
and crawled under, plunking down on the mattress after setting up
the window screens. Hot air wafted in from the sun-warmed
pavement.
    I laid back and thought of Ohio. I remembered
that park in Berea where Grams and I would feed the ducks and
squirrels with crumbs of stale Wonder bread from polka-dotted
plastic sacks. I used to pretend that acorns were space capsules
and maple seeds helicopters.
    And then I lost it. I don’t know why, I just
lost it. I had barely cried during the funeral itself, but now I
sprung like a leaky hose. I heaved and writhed and punched at the
walls, bloodying my knuckles.
    I spent whatever energy I had left, my anguish
settling down to mere snuffles. I kept checking my watch, wishing
for sleep that refused to come. Midnight became 12:08 which became
12:37 and then 12:49.
    I rolled over, leaving behind a patch of
sweat-dampened mattress. My shirt clung to my sticky back. A quick
rinse and some clean clothes might help. There was a hose down by
the main office. I grabbed a musty towel and a clean T-shirt left
the locker.
    As I turned the corner down the alley, I
noticed the gate of one of the side entrances ajar, its padlock
undone and hooked onto the mesh fence. I went over to lock it.
Gideon had probably left it open by mistake.
    I heard voices. Three guys stood around the
open trunk of a Honda under the glare of a flood light. Their
conversation halted when they spotted me. I froze.
    “ What you staring at?”
    “ I’m not … I wasn’t … “
    “ Get out! Get the fuck out of here.
What the fuck you doing here? No trespassing!” One of the guys
pulled a baseball bat out of the trunk. Another guy stepped back
from the car into the shadows, something bulky and angular tucked
under the front flap of his hoodie.
    I was a twitch away from turning and
running.
    “ James?” said the third guy. It was
Jared, leaning against the car with his tattooed forearms crossed.
“What’s up man? Still chasing gators?”
    “ I had off this week.”
    “ Vacation, huh?”
    “ Nah.”
    “ What the fuck?” said the guy with
the baseball bat. “You know this guy?”
    “ Yeah. James here is an old buddy of
mine. So what’s up, man? What the fuck you doing here this late?
You sleeping here?”
    “ Um, yeah. Kinda.”
    “ Oh, that ain’t cool,” said the guy
with the bat. “Morrie said he’d keep the bums out.”
    “ I bet it’s that fucking day
manager,” said Jared. “He’s got a soft heart, like me.”
    “ Soft in the head.”
    “ Go fuck yourself,” said Jared. He
tossed the stub of his lit cigarette at the guy with the bat. “So …
James. What up? Your mom kick you out of the house?”
    “ What the fuck is it with all the
small