Paste by Austin Goodmanson

Before bed I soak my boots in bleach. The rash is back, probably fungal. There’s no way to keep meat juice from pooling in the soles. I wear plastic bags over my socks now. The rash still comes.

Sam’s already in the tent for the night. I can hear his show playing on the tablet. I pop the top off the spray bottle and dunk it in the bleach bucket.

Inside the trailer I spray every wall. Soak the bitches. By morning the black blooms push back through the drywall. Sam’s bloody noses and coughing are worse. So are the fevers. And we’re done with daycare. No more pretending that kind of abandonment is normal.

Normal is a lie. The real normal is a slow grinding down. 

I can’t afford it, anyways. 

Sam’s asleep, so I shut off the tablet and head to the back bedroom where my workshop’s set up. It’s a fucking mess. I should clean it, but if I start cleaning I won’t build a thing.

On my desk is a crumbling sidewalk, a tilting streetlight, a rusted-out car. This is life. At this scale, the size of the paint chips matters. The specks of dirt in the cracks. Even the cracks themselves. If one thing’s off, it all looks fake. I erase anything that gives away the artifice. Make it real. Falling apart.

I work until almost four a.m., spray the walls one more time (black spots already poking back through), then crawl into the tent beside Sam. He coughs in his sleep. I stare up at the peak of the tent, thinking about the piece. I’ll finish it tomorrow. Post photos.

I set an alarm for seven but sleep through it.

When I crawl out of the tent, Sam’s gone. I panic for a second, then spot him in the driveway, cross-legged, stacking chunks of broken concrete from the yard. He’s lining them up by size, connecting them with twigs. A wall, maybe. A fence. He doesn’t look up.

“What are you doing?”

“Making something.”

“I thought you were asleep.” 

“I thought you left already.” 

“I would never leave you like that.” 

He looks up, squinting through the sun. “You always do.” 

He’s not wrong.

I’m late again. He makes his own lunch. I leave him in the mold.

 

Clock in.

Carcasses in rows. Skewer chickens. Rub ribs. Feed meat into the grinder. The rash burns in my boots.

After lunch, Beau calls me in.

“You’ve been late a lot. Everything okay at home?”

“Sam’s sick again. I’m building my business.”

He nods. “Adam’s noticed. If it keeps up, I’ll have to let you go.”

“I get it.”

Clock out with a warning.

 

The air’s thicker when I get home. Spores breed while I’m gone.

Sam’s nose is bleeding. I wipe his cheek, prop him in the tent, tablet in his hands.

Then I go inside. The piece has been pulling at me all day. I let everything else go.

I take photos, post them, then start laying out supplies for the next idea. Two more pieces, sequenced with the one I just finished. A triptych of ruin. I find half a tub of old paste in the kitchen. Thickened, but I can still use it. Enough for two more if I stretch it.

Everything on the table gets shoved aside: styrene sheets, rods, balsa wood, greebles. There’s not enough foam board. No frozen dinners this week. Ramen and eggs until payday. I’ll make it work.

Outside, Sam coughs. I check on him. The tablet’s still on in the tent, but he’s not inside. He’s crouched at the edge of the yard, stacking concrete chunks and twigs into a curve, a gentle slope leading into a drop.

“You remember Valleyfair?” I ask.

He nods without looking up. “This is the log ride.”

He props a stick with a stone. Another behind it. Connects the rails. The drop, the turn at the bottom. He’s got an eye for it.

I leave him to it and crawl into the tent. Check my post. No likes. The sky lightens. I could call out again. Beau would probably let me go for good.

The tablet buzzes. Scaletron: Looks good, man!

First time he’s ever responded. Proof I’ve been right all along. Just keep pushing. The world opens up.

I lay down and tell myself I won’t fall asleep.

 

When I wake, the tent air is wet and hot. Sam’s curled against me, wheezing. No one’s reposted. Beau’s been texting. The lockscreen shows the preview: “Just so you know…” 

I don’t open it. 

“Get your shoes on,” I say. “We’re going on a road trip.”

By the time we’re inside it’s late. I pay with the last eighty in my account. Sam’s hand is warm in mine. He’s tired, but too excited to care. The park smells like bleach and fryer grease. Everything’s glossy. Decay still leaks through.

He walks, leading, straight past the arcade to the log ride. The line crawls with worn-out parents and their still energetic kids. I study the track. Too symmetrical. Too clean. Then I see it: grime in the corners, chipped paint, sun-bleached fiberglass. The final piece.

Sam takes the front. I climb in behind. A teenager slams the bar. The raft lurches. Water splashes over the edge and the chlorine burns my rash.

Sam looks back, grinning. I give a thumbs-up.

The ride inches forward through fiberglass trees and peeling animals. A cave screeches with looping bats. The chain grabs. We start to climb. No music, just ticking gears. Sunlight halos Sam at the crest.

The raft shudders, a hollow grind under the water. Something snaps.

For a second we just hang there, tilting. Warm water slaps my shins. The fiberglass groans.

We jerk sideways.

“It’s okay,” I say. Been telling him that since he was born.

The raft slips and lurches. Sam yells as he lifts. He’s flung clean over the side. I reach, miss.

He lands on the maintenance ledge. Upright, watching.

The raft lists. One axle gone. Something slams from behind. I’m thrown forward and my legs are pinned under the seat as the plastic splits. A bar rams my spine, shoves me into the gap between track and wall. Behind me the other raft climbs the stern, driving mine deeper into the gears.

The water rises up to my chin as I lift my head and see Sam on the platform, looking at me. The teenager is running toward him and she’s looking at me too, her eyes bulging. There’s chipping paint next to my head.

Real ruin. The water keeps coming, fills my mouth as the gears shriek. My ribs crack. Red coils away like pulled thread. My leg goes, and Sam doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch. There’s only him.