Machine That Makes Ice

The fence makes Sam feel better. Stupid Sam.

When the pug dog, bent on fulfilling its destiny as a retriever, slams into the links while trying to catch a tennis ball, the fence ripples like milk, just enough so that Sam realizes: 1) he is not alone 2) there is still the Beyond and 3) in the Beyond there is Brother, waiting with his big hands and all the rest of his big body like his legs that are faster than Sam’s legs and the big way that Brother could darken the whole sky with his face and Sam, no stupid, stupid Sam–but Sam is a child. He must be forgiven. Right?

Brother has a pillow. The insides are a mixture of clay and feathers and mud and baby rabbit bellies. That’s what he tells Sam. No one is allowed to touch or use or even look at the pillow besides Brother. “Bed bugs and lice,” Brother says, even before they move into the Lodge off the 101—ten minutes from their corner, fifteen minutes if you count stopping at the store to see the man behind the counter.

“Bed bugs and lice,” Brother says, beating his pillow with a shoehorn. The shoehorn has many uses, which was important, Brother tells Sam. A good beating with the shoehorn and Brother sleeps well. He makes Sam bathe twice a day, because that is the rule. “This is a business,” Brother tells Sam, “Look clean.”

Brother is excited about the Lodge that he tells Sam to get ice from the machine down the hall, all by himself. Sam fills the tub in their room with ice until Brother says it’s enough, it’s ok. “Clean up,” Brother says. Sam climbs into the tub. Brother watches to see what happens.

Sometimes, Brother takes Sam to the park to show him the outside world. The outside reminds Sam of the ice machine, humming and lumpy and cold. Hand on shoulder, Brother walks behind Sam until they reach the park. With the fence between them, Sam can concentrate on the wood chips. One on top of the other, until toppling over. Rows of towers.

Brother sits on a bench outside the park and talks to whoever might be there. One time, it was a big-chested lady with a pug dog who told Brother that it was supposed to snow later. She asked Brother if that was his boy. She pointed at Sam. Brother patted the dog and told Sam it was time to go.

Brother has a corner. Everyone knows that your corner is your corner and you have the right to beat any persona non grata that tries to sell on your corner. Brother has been using this corner for years. “Don’t cry,” Brother says, “You’ll get used to it.” So Sam pulls his cheeks up and he pulls his eyes out because this the thing of it: a clean little boy standing with his Brother in the falling snow. Who can resist? 

It depends on the customer. Some take Sam right away, even pay Brother extra to borrow his shoehorn. You can do a lot with your own hands, but it helps to have a tool. Hard lives, very hard lives, and sometimes you just need something smaller and cleaner than you to blame it on, to beat it on, and Sam is the smallest and the cleanest which makes him the best. Which makes Brother the richest out of all the Brothers. Which means more customers are coming to him every day. Which is good business.

Of course, some people take too long to decide, as if caught between what was right and wrong, even though everyone knew that went out a long time ago. And for an easy price, you can rid yourself of all that pent up everything at least for today. It has stopped wars for the most part, these Brothers with their corners. It is everywhere. Who knew the solution to universal violence is an individual choice: shoehorn or bare fist?

Brother asks those old fashioned enough to consult with their consciences to go away, please, this is a place of business and it costs to eat and we haven’t eaten in a while so do you want him or no? Simple yes or no. Usually yes. You really can’t pass up such an innocent looking boy. Someone has to teach him about this hard life.

Sam keeps a list in his head: 1) the woman whose husband had cheated on her equals black eye 2) the teacher who had been fired equals bruise on right side below armpit and 3) the man with lung cancer. He coughs up blood even as he takes the  shoehorn from Brother. After his allotted time, the cancer man goes home, kisses his wife, plays with his children, and then lays awake at night wondering if the rumors were true about the winter that never ends.

There are more, but Sam has the chain-linked fence and his towers of wood chips. He has the tub at Econo and a cup of instant noodles after visiting the man behind the counter. Sam has all his arms and legs, which is lucky. So many of them have at least one part missing by the age of eight. Brother is notoriously kind with his boys, and Sam is his favorite. “Clean up,” Brother says, “look clean.”

When they need things, they just cross the street to the store. Brother is able to get a few packages of peanuts, a box of instant coffee and a DVD rental all for the price of five minutes with the man behind the counter. That’s how clean and innocent Sam looks. Sam is lucky to have Brother. Some days, the blood dries before he can reach up and wipe it off.

End.

Taylor Nam is an optimist and a doer. She has been previously published in Passengers Journal. In 2017, she graduated from the University of San Francisco MFA program. In addition to writing short stories, Taylor spends all her free time outside with her small dog named Leo.