Invisible Men. Eric Freeze

and then clicked the torch on. It felt good not having to light the thing, flame on, like the Human Torch. He lifted the flame to the coupling and caught a bit of the beam behind it. There’d be some charring, no big deal. Seven seconds this time and he pushed the solder in and it dripped around the joint and he was done.

      He shut off the torch but the flame on the wall had picked up and was going strong. He pulled his coat sleeve over his hand and beat at it. The sleeve came back hot and charred. The flame started curling up the slatted wood, fed by the cold air. He would need water now, and lots of it. Fred clattered down the aluminum ladder and ran to the water main and turned the valve and heard it filling the pipes. He hadn’t soldered the other side of the patch and bursts of brown water sprayed from the joint. He jumped up and yanked hard but had no control; the water was at least a foot from where it needed to be. Fred moved the ladder and climbed up and held his thumb over the pipe and angled the flow as best he could at the growing flames. There. The flames hissed and smoke filled the air in wooly billows. Fred covered his mouth with his sleeve, trying to avoid his fluxed hands and he climbed the crumbled steps to the bulkhead doors and threw them open.

      Outside he sat down, dizzy. He’d inhaled several lungfuls of smoke and felt like an asthmatic trying to get his breath back. He breathed through his nose and the cold set in his chest. His jeans were muddy from the knees down and the flux saturated the sides of his thighs where he’d wiped off the excess. His parka had silver stars of solder burned into it and the one sleeve was blackened. If Donna drove by right now, she’d see a bum, a little on the heavy side, face smeared with grime, sitting in front of his cheap-ass house on his frozen lawn. It would confirm everything she’d told him, how he was the kind of guy who could fuck up winning the lottery.

      The smoke cleared. Not a bit of charring on the outside, protected by all that aluminum siding. Fred lumbered back down the steps and took his bearings. Moisture hung from the joists in beads. If he didn’t get these pipes fixed, didn’t get the water on and call the utilities to hook up the gas, they’d freeze that way, like little transparent teeth.

      The charred wall was still steaming and the blackness spread out in a fan. At the center where he had pointed his torch was a hole the size of a quarter. And through this hole, light. Without thinking, he pulled the fabric of his parka over his hand and punched into the weakened wood. More light. He pulled off chunks of charred wood until the slats grew thick again and he had trouble getting it to budge. It was a crawl space. He went to get a pry bar.

      He couldn’t tell at first how large it was, but the bar made quick work of the planks and Fred could see it had probably been put there after the house had been framed. The brick foundation leveled off to a dirt floor that was damp and smelled like moss. Weak light checkered the ground underneath an iron grate that Fred recognized from the back yard. What he thought was a drain was actually an old cistern. He made his way in but had to stay low, hunched over. The walls were worn concrete, ragged, exposing the brick beneath like moths had eaten its surface. The ground was soft and that meant moisture. He wondered if he’d have to fill this space in with gravel or sand. Another few hundred bucks down the drain.

      The house had been his idea, not Donna’s. Donna was never on board. But even if they only had renters half the time, he calculated, over the next five years they’d still come out ahead on their loan. It’d be a long-term investment, just five years and it’d keep paying a profit. That was what he kept telling her, and later, what he kept telling himself. Long term. Who cares if they couldn’t make payments for a few months? It was a temporary pinch. A pinch and then a release of money filling up the coffers.

      He scooted feet first along the dirt floor when his boot caught something. From the texture on the surface—a rough, mottled gray—he had thought it was a rock partially buried in the soil. But he pried up a corner with his shoe and some of the dirt fell loose. Then he kicked at it, heel first. A tarnished button. Denim. He continued to kick and then pushed out the entrance and reached back in to grab and pull it out. The material was faded blue and splotched with oil stains and dirt. But the shape was unmistakable: a pair of crumpled overalls. And they looked to be his size.

      Fred took them home. To his tiny home. He’d been alone now for three months. In a way, he wondered if the new-to-him house was to fill the void. Something to take up the time, so that instead of eating dinner over the kitchen sink, or watching TV in the dark, he could be over in the basement soldering copper, flux on his hands, wiped in snot-like streaks on his pants. Or maybe it was to make up in the areas where he felt inadequate. He’d never made a lot of money, not even during the boom. But this would change everything. Property management. His chance to make an investment. A little elbow grease and then rent it out for double the mortgage. Or flip it for twice what he paid. It was a risk he was willing to take. If he didn’t burn the place down in the process.

      Fred put the overalls in the washing machine in the basement. He could use a pair, especially for plumbing. The overalls had only a couple pockets, but they’d keep the grime off, like a second shell. He stripped down, turned off the lights, and chucked the rest of his work clothes in the washer too. Sometimes when Donna was on her period he’d come down here and jack off. He’d wipe up his semen with dirty clothes and then put them through the wash and hope she couldn’t smell it on him when he came upstairs. Now, in the darkness, he sat in a hamper full of clean laundry and his heavy body felt limp and deflated. It should’ve been enough for him, this house. It was small but they had worked hard for it, calculated their monthly bills and then insulated and weather-stripped the thing so it cost them hardly anything to heat. It was a bungalow. He loved that word: bungalow. It seemed to capture all the middle-class optimism of a first home. And now he had bungled it. Bungled the bungalow. When the buzzer went off he snaked the intertwined laundry from the top-loading washer to the front-loading dryer. With the dryer door open, there was just enough light to change into a pair of flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt.

      Upstairs, the kitchen was dominated by the fridge. Donna’s request. The 29-cubic-feet monstrosity dwarfed the plain oak cupboards. Because of the ice dispenser plumbing in the back and its four-inch-thick door, the fridge stuck out like a giant stainless steel monolith in a too-tight doorway. He thought of getting drunk. He’d been saving a six-pack of Coronas and he reached through the long necks for the yellow handle and pulled them all out. They’d get warm, sure, but he didn’t want to have to go back to the fridge. He had a date with the couch. And the Sci-Fi channel, maybe Stargate or Battlestar. Something to take him out of this world.

      The next buzzer sounded hollow. He meandered downstairs to the dryer, where he pulled out the clothes and carried them to his room. He dropped them on the floor in wadded clumps and sifted through for the overalls. His new find. With the new-to-him house. Free. Along with the stress of busted pipes and repainting and removing years of hard water and soap scum from the shower. Hanging from his hands the overalls made him think of those dustbowl photos, depression-era Joads. They were a grayish-blue denim, faded around the knees. He looked for some sort of tag or initials or symbol in the rivets. But there was nothing. Just oil stains that darkened the denim in cloudy spots the size of plums. What the hell, he thought. He put them on. One leg, then another. The overalls didn’t look to be that long, but he couldn’t see his feet through the other end. He stood up and instantly felt the beers, all six at once it seemed like. His head was a pressure cooker about to go, the world shook, the edges of his vision were blurred and indistinct. It was like going cross-eyed, two fields of vision separating, and his eyes straining to merge them again. Was that his hand? That white shape between him and the mirror at arm’s length? Whatever it was, it was fading, along with his lumpy torso. He sat on the bed and his shoulders tingled like he’d slept on an artery and the blood was just now starting to circulate again. And his head. He held his hand to his forehead, like he was checking himself for a fever. His vision was still getting worse. All he could see were the mocha walls of his apartment, and, before his body fell back against the bed, the crisscross of denim from the back of his overalls.

      He woke in the morning with lines of light striping the room through his mini-blinds. At some point he had pulled his feet up and rolled onto his side facing the window. The light was hitting him right across the eyes and he pulled his pillow over his head and shifted to his other side. He would get up now, headache or no headache. Even if there wasn’t much to