Seven hundred thirty four….seven hundred thirty-five...seven hundred thirty-six….seven hundred thirty-seven I counted to myself. I stopped to wipe the sweat from my face and ended up covering my forehead with dirt instead. It was warm this spring, hitting the upper 90s(about 32 C to those of the metric inclination) in Florida not unusual but definitely uncomfortable. I reached over to grab my water bottle and took a long swig of tepid water with a delightful sulfur aftertaste...Florida water sucks.
"Hardy! Are you not done yet? I pay you by the hour, but that doesn't mean you can milk it!", screamed Mr. Jenkins. "When I was your age I wasn't afraid of hard work!"
"Yes sir, Mr. Jenkins!", I yelled looking up out the ditch with my brown eyes. "I'll put my nose to the grindstone and start pulling myself up by my bootstraps!"
"Damn smartass millennials," he grumbled as he stomped off.
To be honest I'm not sure someone who is over three hundred pounds can do anything other than stomp. I sincerely doubt Mr. Jenkins has worked a single day in his life unless spending his family's money and eating himself into an early grave count. I've seen the man put Velveeta cheeses on his pizza, the fact that he hasn't keeled over yet blows my mind.
Cheap bastard wouldn't even pay for a backhoe to dig this ditch across his property. Instead, he chose to hire an "underprivileged youth" to do the job for him. I've been digging this damn ditch daily after school and on weekends since the ground thawed. I thought I would have put on extra muscle by now, but exercise and limited diet do not combine to build bulk. Stamina I had plenty of, as well as the ability to concentrate on a task no matter how boring(High School for the WIN!). I needed the money though, graduation was soon and the privilege of being a ward of the state would end and I would be out on my own. Then all this great countries opportunities would be open to me...a high school educated orphan. Orphans here, unlike those who live in England, don't receive invitations to magic schools, float away on giant peaches housing bugs, or win ownership of a chocolate factory. A whole lifetime of ditch digging vistas lay before me...ooh, can you feel the excitement?
Looking out across the acres of well-manicured lawn contemplating how far I had dug so far, I pushed my hair away with the back of my hand from my face, smearing sweat and mud on my pale skin. The lawn stretched from the house out to the main road, about a football field in length. The actual road itself was blocked off by a small wooded area to prevent others from seeing the house and blocking the sound. I had made it three-fourths of the way to the road so far which considering the ditch was half my height at 3ft was phenomenal progress in my opinion. I should finish before graduation, despite what Jenkins thought. I grabbed hold of the shovel with both hands and jammed it into the mound of dirt, I'm sick of counting shovel fulls, maybe I should switch to singing?
"You load sixteen tons and what do ya get?
Another day older and deeper in"...CLANG!
Clang was not the next line in that song from what I remember. Looking down into the ditch a small glitter of gold sparkled through the brown mud. My first thought was that Mr. Jenkins didn't bother to label where the water and sewage pipes were and I had hit one of those. Throwing the shovel out of the ditch, I bent down and wiped away mud slowly revealing a bronze object about 10 by 5 by 5 inches. Its base was round and tapered up into something resembling a gravy boat with a handle on one end and a spout on the other. On top a rounded cap was stuck fast, resisting my admittedly weak efforts to open it up. I gave it a good shake and heard nothing rattle or thump within. Now I could ask Mr. Jenkins about it, but as soon as I did that he would have grabbed it out my hands and I would never see it again. As the man was not hurting for money I decided to keep it from him. Maybe I could sell it to an antique dealer, and every little bit would help after graduation even if it was only a couple of dollars.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
Checking my watch, and seeing it was time for my work day to end I climbed out of the ditch and placed the gravy boat in my lunch bag. I then gathered up my shovel and throwing it into the wheelbarrow and took them back to the shed. I had to make sure everything was clean and ready for work the next day because Jenkins only paid me when I was digging, not when I was prepping or closing down for the day... I mentioned he was cheap right?
I walked past the front porch and waved at Mr. Jenkins, who didn't acknowledge my existence other than to look down at his watch and write the time down on a piece of paper. He would probably deduct the time it took for him to yell at me from today's hours...jackass.
Walking down the long driveway, I came to the main road and began the hour-long hike back to the orphanage where I lived. I was used to the walk, and almost on autopilot drifted further in the roadside pull off as cars rushed past not even needing to adjust my balance as the air pushed me from behind. My thoughts drifted to the gravy boat in my bag, trying to estimate it's worth. Would it be better to take it to the pawn shop or the antique store in town? The pawn shop would buy it for sure no questions asked, but at a huge markdown. I'm not sure about the antique store, they might need it appraised. Not to mention they might question where I got it, worried that I might have stolen it. I'd try and clean it up after I got back to my room, with a little spit and polish I would probably get a bit more out of the sale.
With those thoughts filling my head I arrived at the halfway house/orphanage I called home. It was a dump, but considering it housed a bunch of orphaned kids you couldn't expect much. I had to make sure that the gravy boat was hidden, damn kids here would steal the gold filling out of your mouth if you were a heavy enough sleeper. Stopping first in the laundry room I swiped some socks belonging to Milo Stevens. A complete cock goblin and thug, anything I could do to screw him over brought me a little joy. He had been in the orphanage almost as long as I had, and while I lacked any outstanding talents or abilities that would entice adoption or fostering, he was skilled in intimidation, sadism, cruelty and being an all around asshole to prevent anyone from wanting him. It's funny we were both in the same boat, me because I was average and him because he was a sociopathic Neanderthal.
Creeping up the stairs I stealthily walked past his room and unlocking my door and into my own. It wasn’t much, but it was home for most of my teenage years. A bed with a worn sunken mattress took up the right side wall. I had splurged and bought some more comfortable bedding to replace the harsh sheets there when I moved in. On the walls I had plastered the wall with pictures of castles, vast forests, and fantastic ruins ripped from travel magazines. I liked to stare at them and imagine I was someplace magical, that there was something mysterious and wild out there...despite what my life showed to be the case. A wobbly desk stood under the window facing out toward the street. Chipped and scarred from years of abuse before I had taken ownership it was serviceable. I set my bag under the bed I grabbed a change of clothes, a towel, and some soap and headed out to the shower. After a quick shower and a change of clothes, I felt more human. I made sure to fill a small bucket with water from the bathroom sink and took it back to my room.
Closing the door and locking it behind me I sat down at my worn desk adjusting my weight as I leaned against it to prevent it from wobbling underneath my arms. I reached under the bed and dragged out the bag and pulled out the gravy boat.
Taking the time I carefully picked off the dirt and clay from the gravy boat. After cleaning it somewhat I couldn't find any details or decoration. It was smooth and I'm pretty sure made out of brass. Taking Milo's sock and the water from the bucket I began to thoroughly clean the boat. Even though I was tired from a long day at work I put effort into scrubbing off the tarnish and remaining dirt, trying to get it looking as new as possible. Polishing the boat(not a euphemism) caused smoke to lightly than ever thicker began to come out of the spout.
The smoke, a dark purple color, quickly filled up the room obscuring my vision and causing me to hack and cough. I started to panic and grabbed my wet towel from my shower and began to beat at the origin of the smoke, hoping to put out the fire or whatever it was.
With a flick of the towel, I heard a quick snap and a sharp retort.
“God’s dammit, stop whipping me with that thing! It hurts you son of a goat lover.”