The Home Jar: Stories: Stories

Digging the Hole

Digging the Hole 1992 Louisiana Newlypavedwithtwofulllanes,theroadcaughtherbysurprise. in the thirties it had been a narrow dirt pike; for decades after, an oily gravel trail. When had this startling change come about? She could feel her toyota spring into a surprised reaction. on this state-of-the-art surface it was hell-bent on setting a record. She let it fly, the only car on the road. The radio she had ceased hearing miles ago broke through with an announcement: Stop! Stop! the deejay screamed at her. Stop! instinctively she slammed on the brakes and jerked to a halt at the foot of a bridge. She turned off the radio but the same urgent voice persisted. Through the sun’s harsh glare she could make out people milling on the bridge. They were workmen. An enraged man began jabbing a spear at her windshield. His torso was naked and sweating. An orange nylon vest was pushed aside by a heaving belly. You almost hit me! he screamed. in fact, you did hit me. She doubted that very much. in point of fact, the man looked fine. And his lungs were certainly in fine shape, as well as that part of the brain where filthy words resided. After an interlude of seething profanity to which she did not respond, he grew more infuriated and launched his spear at her windshield. Do you know 138 Di G Gi NG t H e H oLe what attacking a fucking state employee can get you! He grabbed the spear again and brandished it threateningly. Now she saw that the spear was actually a sign. She recognized its red octagonal shape as well as the four white letters. His screams dripped salvia as he helped her spell it out: S. t. o. P. S. S. H. — He wasn’t near finished, though she was past listening to a spellingbee.Hebracedthesignlikeacrowbarandmadeamenacing gesture toward her windshield. i’m gonna fucking break— Abruptly he halted. That was it; his tirade was over. He shook with the effort of stopping himself, but stop he did. The last of his curses spent themselves in a long cough. He raised his hand in apology. Sorry, he managed to hack out. Just be careful, ma’am, okay?Helimpedbacktothefootofthebridge(alimp!whatfiddlefaddle melodrama, she hadn’t even been close!) and took up his position, leaning on the staff of his stop sign. He kept clenching his neckmusclesandmouthingwordsthroughapenitentgrimace.No doubt he believed his shocking behavior and language were going to cause her immediate death by stroke. in her eighty-four years nothing so horrible as this had ever happened to her and yes, she could feel it coming on now, an explosion inside her aged head, a fatal collapse induced by one man’s savage epithets... The credit some people gave themselves. it was irritating, to say the least. Here she was making good time on a good road and now she was stuck at the foot of this bridge, a tiny bridge spanning a trench of swampy water. Why expand a road into two lanes if the bridge on that same road was going to remain a single choked slot? Why? 139 Nancy Zafris A good question for a lot of things. Worse, she was idling in a spot that caught the direct sun. She drummed impatiently on the dash as she waited out the family crossing the bayou from the other side. taking their biblical time about it, too. A rusty truck with an brood riding in the open bed trundled over. Saran Wrap for the passenger window, no less. They smiled and waved to her as they passed. The Dust Bowl is over! she tried calling to them, but she couldn’t get the window down in time. She was pressing the wrong power button. The side mirror bowed, providing her with a view of the fresh asphalt. After a few moments she became aware of a tapping noise. The man of many threats was timidly applying knuckle to window. He was motioning that she could go. it’s your turn, he said. He smiled encouragingly. Must have abused his granny at some point, trying to make up for it with her. He was solicitous now; he wanted to be helpful. He had twenty or thirty blond strands on the top of his head and no hat to shield the August rays. His bare shoulders and the tips of his ears...