Crawlspace

“Iggy, get out from there! You’re gonna get stuck. I’m surprised you can even crawl on those knees of yours.” The old woman is standing out in the front yard, grass trimmed and flower bushes mulched. She is looking at the rectangular hole that leads to the crawlspace, the white cover panel laid off to the side. Two black soles can be seen edging further into the hole that leads below the house, a tan-sided construct three or four rooms short of being a mansion. The grounds around it seems crowded by its presence, two oak trees on either side and more visible overtop the roof. The neighboring houses might equal its size if you shoved them together. The woman leans over a little, hands on her hips, watching the man as he makes his way deeper. “They aren’t going to last much longer if you keep this up, and you just had that procedure done! The doctors told you to go easy on them. You might save a few hundred dollars in pest control but your medical bills are going to cost us thousands!”

“I’ll be fine!” His voice echoes back to her, the reverberation lending it a hollow quality. “I’ve got my thick jeans on,” he chuckles.

“Let me know when you need me to call nine one one. Just knock on the floor when you’re ready, you stubborn old goat.”

“I’ll be done in an hour!” he yells back, smiling as he inches along, flashlight lighting up the corners between the supporting posts and cobwebs. “Never thought running cross country in high school would come back and bite me in the knees.” He sniffs a bit from the dust, the smell of wood and must pervasive. “No sign of ’em yet. Better not be any termites this year, I swear.” He continues to shuffle forward between the support posts, white-haired head only an inch or so below the main beam that stretches overhead. He is at about the halfway point when the dizziness starts. The bottom of the house becomes the belly of a boat, tilting back and forth.
Crawl on →