+ + +
Chapter Twelve
Will woke up to noise. It wasn’t the infernal growl of the boom truck Maartens had hired to load material to the roof, or the banging of hammers, sharp reports of nailguns, or the shouts, curses and endless ragging of workmen. It was a roar, dull and steady, like sitting in a vehicle at a rail crossing while a train rumbled past. It was dark as well. Will checked his phone and discovered it was almost mid-morning. He couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t awoken within a half hour of either side of side of sunrise. Though his windows were still opaque rectangles of thick polyethelene, they could still provide a visual answer to the cause of the noise. Thick rivulets of water showed through clear enough. It was raining. Raining like hell. The heavy plastic bulged and luffed with the storm’s accompanying gusts.
Will rolled out of bed. The campground was no more. The parlor now had more in common with a dorm room. The tent was down, packaged up and moved into the living room, joining the camp stove and lantern. The dust was no longer an ever-present irritant. Diligent sweeping had gotten what could be swept up out of the house, and several wet moppings had taken care of the rest. The chunks of plaster no longer dropped from the floors and ceiling, and what was left clung fast to the lath. It would take the sledge or the prybar to tear it loose. His air mattress had finally sprung a leak. He replaced it with a cheap foam mattress. The light was now provided with a funky looking brass pedestal lamp he discovered in a Venlo shop that was more junk emporium than antique store. He haggled with the owner and got it for half the price it was listed at. He was working on changing his spending habits. Better to be perceived as a stingy rich bastard than a spoiled boy trying to buy friends.
The main floor was not fully electrified, but Maartens had a guy rewire it, and all of the outlets and switches were in place. The power company had finally gotten to work, but had yet to connect him. He was still reliant on the generator/battery hook-up. The utility crew’s arrival had instigated a battle, with Will the losing end when they would not bury the feed lines. Maartens had been a surprise ally in this fight. He supported Will’s reasons, but when the argument was raised that this would be the only residence, not just on this particular grid but in the entire county with undergound electricity, he couldn’t find a reasonable counter. They wouldn’t even compromise in sinking the cables once they were halfway to the house from the road. “We don’t have the proper conduit,” was the explanation. Will had his doubts, made them clear, but even his offer of buying “the proper conduit” wasn’t accepted. Maartens’s support was rooted in, Will believed, that not having visible power lines was more historically appropriate. He did come out on top in a single skirmish, however.
When the final pole was placed, there was a yard light at the top of it. Will asked one of the lineman to take it down. The man refused, arguing it was on his work order. Will tried to politely convince him to disregard it by saying he didn’t give a fuck about any work order, and “take the goddamn thing down.” He was told that it wouldn’t come down until he had a word with his supervisor, a gentleman Will had gotten sick of talking to throughout the entire subterranean cable disagreement. He was also informed it was common knowledge that the Sheriff’s Office wanted a yard light on the property of every rural home, and it that it was a “safety issue.”
“I’ve met with the Sheriff personally,” Will answered. “He didn’t say anything about requiring a yard light.”
The lineman told him he was sticking to his guns on this one.
At the mention of guns, Will offered to go into town, buy a rifle, and shoot the light off.
the top of the pole. Then he would be open to discussion with both the power company’s supervisor and the Sheriff. Maartens had witnessed this exchange as well, but didn’t offer any opinions in the dispute. He walked away at Will’s threat to purchase a firearm.
The lineman finally consented to removing the yard light, but not without making it clear it would be done under protest, and it would be brought to his supervisor’s attention. Will told the man he had his full support in that decision. “But,” Will heard as a final word in the discussion, “if the Sheriff wants it back up, I can promise it’ll go back up. That’ll be coming straight out of your pocket.” Will assured him the responsibility was all his, and whatever consequences should ensue he would humbly suffer them.
Will hated yard lights. He’d only been exposed to one in his entire life, and it was on this property. It had been in the back of the house, and actually very close to where the new power pole was placed. The room he stayed in during his visits—“his room”—had been at the rear of the house, on the other side of the bathroom as his mother’s. The light, a large, buzzing globe from within a tube of mercury vapor blazed with the intensity of nuclear fission. It was set at a height more or less even with the second floor windows. Even with the shade down and the wispy, curtains pulled, the light that bored into the room was bright enough to read by.
The supervisor never came back. Neither did the Sheriff, though Will sweated it out for over a week, not so much at the idea of being compelled to install a hated means of exterior illumination, but that he’d have to sit through another sales pitch for the coroner job.
+ + +
Whew! Good to get back into the “zone.” And, now, a word from our sponsor: https://www.amazon.com/Lunacy-Death-perspective-developed-investigation-ebook/dp/B079DWFH9T/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1540002696&sr=8-1&keywords=lunacy+and+death+book
