Fiction: "Installers, Inc.," by Kenneth Quinnell
/Charlie Walters read the ad:
Can You Put Stuff Together?
Installers, Inc.
We Pay Hourly Rates
Our Customers Pay Us To Put Things Together For Them
Call: Phil and Jenny
555-8407
It sounded a little strange, but, hell, he needed the money. Charlie dialed the number.
“Hello, Installers, Inc. How may I help you?” A pleasant-sounding woman answered the phone.
“Uh . . . yeah. I’m calling about your ad in the paper. About putting stuff together.”
“Great. Let me put you on hold.”
Charlie heard the phone clunk down on a table. The woman yelled “Phil!!!! We got a live one!”
A few seconds later a gruff-sounding man came on the line. Charlie thought he sort of sounded like Walter Cronkite.
“Can you put stuff together?”
“I’m . . . sorry?” Charlie stammered.
“I said, can you put stuff together. That’s what we do. We put stuff together. I ran the ad so that I could get more people who put stuff together. That’s how I make money. Now, can you put stuff together?”
“Uhhhh . . . sure.”
“Yeah, I’ll be the judge of that. What you need to do is get your ass on down here and go through what you call your interview process. If you can handle that, maybe we got some work for ya.”
“Okay. Where do I go?”
“I thought you’d never ask. Get on down to 4125 Grantwood Street.”
The line went dead.
“I don’t know about this,” Charlie said to himself. “This guy sounds like a real prick. I guess it’s work, though.” He hung up the phone and walked out the door.
* * *
Thirty minutes, Charlie pulled onto Grantwood Street, driving slowly so as not to miss the street addresses.
“Let me see . . .” He looked down at a crumpled sheet of paper on the seat beside him. “I’m looking for 4125. And this is . . . 4005. Just a little further.” Charlie slowed even more. He sat with his left arm hanging out the window, fiddling with the cracked mirror. Charlie was sweating in the heat. His air conditioner didn’t work.
“Now that’s odd. It goes from 4123 to 4127. Where the hell is 4125. And who the hell has a business in the middle of a residential area. I don’t know about this.”
He circled back around. This time he noticed a narrow dirt road between 4123 and 4127.
“Now where the hell was that the first time I drove by?” He turned onto the dirt road. “I guess this must be the place.”
Driving about five miles an hour, Charlie pulled down the road, wincing as each tree limb scraped the side of his car. “I ought to make this bastard pay for a new paint job.” The road curved away from Grantwood Street and went deep into a wooded area.
“I didn’t know there was this much wooded area behind these houses. It sure looks a lot bigger back here than it does from the street.”
After driving for several minutes, Charlie entered a clearing. In front of him was a large, two-story house. It had an overall run-down look, as if it wasn’t kept up. Shutters hung from the hinges, cobwebs connected the porch swing to the splintered oaken railing, weeds grew cluttered up the yard and fell flat as he pushed the car up to the edge of the porch.
“I don’t know about this.”
Charlie looked around and didn’t see any other vehicles around, not even a beat-up old pickup truck. An old house like this just cried out for a beat-up old pickup truck. He noticed that there weren’t any lights on in the house and he couldn’t hear any sounds, either from the house or from the surrounding woods. He almost turned around and left, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw a sign on the front door. It read:
Installers Inc.
4125 Grantwood
Charlie turned off his car and put it in park. He walked up to the front door. Before he even had a chance to knock, the door opened. It didn't squeak like he expected it to. The door opened quietly. A woman who appeared to be in her mid- to late-fifties appeared in the doorway.
"You must be that young fella what Phil talked to on the phone?"
"That'd be me."
"Well come on in and have a lemonade!" She said with a huge grin. Charlie wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a spot of blood on one of the teeth in the left side of her mouth.
"I don't know about this," he muttered to himself.
* * *
A cloud of dust rose from the couch as he sat down. There were more cigarette burn holes on it than original buttons. Jenny sat in a brown wicker rocking chair after pouring Charlie a glassful of pulpy lemonade. Phil sat in a faded navy blue recliner staring at his house guest.
"So you say you can put stuff together?" Phil asked.
"Uhh...yeah."
"What stuff have you put together?"
"Oh, Phil, let the boy rest for a while, he just got here. So, Charlie, is it...?"
Charlie nodded.
"Where are you from?"
"I'm from here."
"Oh, really? Where did you go to school?"
"I went to Washington High. Graduated last year."
"That's great! Do you have a lot of family here?"
"Not really. My parents are both dead, and we weren't ever really close with the rest of the family."
"I'm so sorry to hear about your parents. So I guess you're an only child?"
"Yeah."
Charlie broke in. "So they taught you to put stuff together in that high school of yours?"
"Oh, Phil! Just you ignore him. He's got a one-track mind."
"Damn straight," Phil muttered.
"It's okay," Charlie answered.
"Oh, I'm sure it is, sweetheart. But I guess we better get down to business. Are you good at putting 'stuff' together, as my dear old husband has so often said?"
"I guess I am."
"Well, what have you put together in the past, boy?" Phil asked.
"I don't know. The usual. I put together an entertainment center and some bookshelves."
"That it?"
"No. I used to help my girlfriend's mom sometimes. She worked at an office supply company and had to put desks and shelves and stuff together. Sometimes I'd help her for a few bucks."
"Oh, so you've got a girlfriend?"
"Sure do, ma'am."
"That's so sweet. How long have you young lovers been together?"
"Not too long. About six months."
"Oh, that's not too long at all, is it."
"I guess not."
"Anyway, dear, let me ask the boy about his qualifications. So, you think you could work for us. You know, putting stuff together."
"I guess so...I don't see why not."
"Don't sound to confident, do you."
"No...of course I can work for you. I wouldn't have driven all the way out here if I couldn't.
"Now that's more like it. Let's see if you can back up that big talk." Phil stood up and motioned for Charlie to follow him. "Come into the workroom with me. Jenny, you get the pot boiling."
"Yes, dear."
Phil walked down a hallway that led to the back of the house and into a large workroom. Charlie followed.
"Well, let's see what you can do." Phil pointed at a opened cardboard box that sat on the floor. The side read "Computer Desk."
"You just want me to put this thing together."
"Yep."
Charlie opened up the box and pulled out a sheet of paper. Phil leaned against the wall and rested his hand on a sledgehammer. Charlie looked at the instruction sheet and reached for a Phillip's head screwdriver that sat on the workbench nearby. Phil lifted the sledgehammer and brought it crashing down on the back of Charlie's head.
"Supper's on, mama!"
* * *
Mitchell Gorman read the ad:
Can You Put Stuff Together?
Installers, Inc.
We Pay Hourly Rates
Our Customers Pay Us To Put Things Together For Them
Call: Phil and Jenny
555-8407
It sounded a little strange, but, hell, he needed the money.