When the Hurlyburly’s Done

by Susan Crawford

Liam pulls his cell phone out of a small black case attached to his belt that Shelley
always says looks like a gun in a holster, and scrolls to her name, pressing the select
button. You’ve reached Shelley, her voice says, even though he hasn’t. He snorts,
snapping the lid shut and sticking it back in the case. After a second or two, he pulls it out
again and this time he leaves a message. “Call me back,” he says, “as soon as you get
this. It’s important.” He’s sweating, even though the thermostat in his office reads sixty
two degrees. He gives it a little ping, flicking his forefinger off his thumb like he’s
flipping a crumb off a table or slinging a spitwad across the room, but the mercury
doesn’t budge. “Gimme a hand here!” somebody yells, and Liam moves to the window of
his office, built in the middle of the warehouse, and stands looking out like Jonah in the
windowed belly of a whale. “Wha’cha need?” he hears, and then a series of short quick
pops, like a spray of bullets bouncing off a wall. He lights a cigarette, watching the
smoke curl into the air and stick itself to the polluted Plexiglas square of the sectioned
panes.
“Hey, Liam!” Behind him, Mr. Paulson of Paulson and Black Boilers Inc. lowers
himself gingerly into a swivel chair and rifles several stacks of papers on Liam’s desk.
“Where’s the inventory sheet on the Whitfield job?”
Liam shrugs.
“Cindy said she gave it to you.”
“Nope.” Liam stubs his cigarette into a metal tray on the edge of the desk and sets
the thermostat down to fifty-eight.
“What’re ya doing?”
“Huh?”
“The guys are freezing their asses off out there. What’re ya doing?”
“Oh,” he says. “Sorry.”
“What is all this?” Paulson says. “You got forty-three stacks of inventory papers
here.”
“They’re copies,” Liam says.
“I see that. Why’ve you got ‘em all stacked up in here?”
“You never know.”
Paulson swivels the chair around and looks up at Liam’s sweaty face. “You never
know what?”
“You never know about Cindy,” Liam says. “When she might need a copy. When
she might be out. Have you seen her office lately? Looks like a tornado hi–”
“Liam.” Paulson leans forward and the swivel chair squeaks in protest. “What’s
going on?”
“Nothing,” Liam says. “Why?”
“You sick?”
“What? I make a few copies of inventory sheets and you think I’m–”
“You’re sweating.”
“Huh?”
 2

“It’s cold as shit in here and you’re sweating,” Paulson says. “Plus, you have
forty-three stacks of inventory sheets you’ve got no reason to even have!”
“Like I said –” Liam shrugs, leaving the sentence unfinished. He tugs on the door
until it opens with a loud sucking sound, allowing him to step into the gaping insides of
the whale.