It Started With a Hole

The men came while Pops was watching television in his bath robe. He noticed them moving outside his window through the curtain, which made them look like shadows. A crease formed between his graying eyebrows and he turned the TV down in case he could hear one of them say something, but the men weren’t speaking. His slippered feet gingerly slid across the living room floor and he pulled the curtains apart just wide enough for one eye to peer out.

The two men in his backyard were wearing all black (or maybe really dark navy) jump suits, which resembled a janitor’s uniform and black baseball caps pulled down so their eyes weren’t visible. They each held shovels and were working in perfect synchronicity under the midday sun. As one plunged his tool into the ground, the other flung his dirt to the side and vice versa.

Pops tied his robe together sloppily and hurried out his back door, slamming it behind him.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” He said.

One of the men put down his shovel and walked past Pops without saying a word, disappearing into the house.

“Hey, you can’t go in there.” Pops yelled after him.

Moments later the man reappeared holding two glasses of lemonade, he walked past pops and handed one to his partner.

“This is private property. You can’t be here.” Pops continued. “Don’t make me call the cops.”

The two men continued digging and the hole in the backyard continued to grow. Pops ranted and yelled, and even pelted the two men with small rocks, but they just kept digging. They never identified themselves or gave any reason for why they were doing this, no matter what Pops did.

Finally, he went back inside. He picked up the phone and dialed a number, while he tapped the fingers of his free hand impatiently on his kitchen counter.

“Hi, Marie? I need your help with something. Can you come over right away?” He paused as the voice on the other end of the phone responded. “Thanks, see you soon.” He then flung the curtains open and went to watching his visitors silently work. Soon a gray sedan pulled into his driveway and his daughter shuffled in.

“Oh, thank God. There are these men in the backyard and I don’t know what to do. I was hoping you could talk to them or something.” He blurted. She turned her head to the side and looked out the window into the yard. She then dropped her purse by the door.

“I’ll see what I can do.” She said before she walked out the back door.

Anxiously Pops watched as his daughter approached the men. He saw her lips moving at one point when she turned her head in enthusiasm, but couldn’t hear what she was saying. At another moment she pointed to the window where he awkwardly stood, still in his robe. Apparently not getting through, she resorted to poking and shoving the men, even knocking a glass of lemonade from one of the men’s hands as he attempted to drink. Finally, he saw one of them speak. He tried to read his lips but he couldn’t make out the words. Abruptly she turned and started walking back towards the house. Meeting her at the door was Pops.

“Well?” He said.

“I’m sorry. You can call the cops if you want.” She said, always looking at the dishes unwashed in his sink and never in his eyes. “Listen, I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

She picked up her bag and hurried out before Pops could say anything more. He watched the screen door creak shut but he didn’t move to call the police after that. He had been to war when he was young and could always handle himself, he had phoned Marie more as a consultation than a bailing out. Maybe it was pride that stopped him from dialing 911 but he would never admit that. He looked out the window and wondered how he’d fair in a scuffle with those two men in his yard. They would already be hot and substantially fatigued from working in the sun, but Pops knew that wouldn’t matter in the end.

Instead, he walked to his cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey that was covered in a thin coat of dust. He pulled a chair close to the window and poured himself a glass. Even from that distance he could see the sweat dripping from the men’s faces. They worked until the sun began to set and could be seen as an orange ball in the sky behind them. As Pops was pouring the last of the bottle into his glass the men suddenly stopped. They stood there with the shovels in their hands as if they were waiting for something.

Intrigued by the new development Pops walked outside to join the men. Only a small sliver of orange could be seen left in the sky. He walked past a mound of dirt that ants were marching into for the night. The men watched him as he approached and they stood on either side of him when he finally reached the hole in the ground. Still holding the glass of whiskey in his hand, Pops looked at each man quizzically.

“So what was this about, boys?” He asked.

“I think you know.” One of them responded.

Pops, hearing one of their voices for the first time, was struck by how cold and methodical it sounded.

“It’s time.” The other one said.

One of the men took his glass of whiskey from him. Pops stood on the edge of the hole and when his legs gave way, he never stood a chance to save himself even if he tried. His robe fluttered in the humid, evening air as he fell; face down, into the hole. Soon he could feel clumps of dirt landing on his back and his head. His mind was reeling and confused but he couldn’t get his feeble body to move. It just lied limply in the dirt as clump after clump feel upon his back and head. The moon was gaining visibility in the dark blue sky as two dark figures worked tirelessly in Pops backyard.

They would finish here soon and then tomorrow they’d be at someone else’s house. This was the job they were doomed to and this is the job they would do. Always with baseball caps turned down, so the eyes would never be seen.