The Cool Part of His Pillow

Chapter 2: A Seismic Event-4

Friends with swollen eyes are gathered at the granite counter. Many hold drinks. I can’t help but check if they’re using coasters. When they see Mom and me, some join hands. I’m not real sure who is facedown, inconsolably weeping, except that she used hot rollers. Miss Sondra slides Costco mini-pizzas into the oven, then wipes her nose with a strawberry print mitt. Dazed as I am, I still know it is not mine. People came with their own oven mitts. That’s friendship. On the kitchen island cooktop, a buttered skillet holds sizzling bacon, proving everything, even an untimely death, is better with bacon.

Most everyone is staring at the flat-panel TV tuned to a newscast. A male news anchor is saying, “One man in a parked car was killed and four others seriously injured today when equipment failure at a downtown demolition set off a deadly chain reaction.”

A remote is quickly aloft, aimed at the TV.

“Don’t. Turn it up,” I request.

A solemn reporter is in front of an artist’s rendering of a proposed building. “Killed at the ColonyScape Luxury Townhomes project was local banking executive Andrew Morgan, along with his three dogs.”

“Two dogs,” I rebut.

“If it were f*****g sweeps,” Potsy yells, “by tomorrow, it’d be four pit bulls, a sack of unmarked bills, and a clown doll in a car seat.”

Alarmed footfalls rumble toward the kitchen, coming to warn. “Jesus Christ, whatever you do, keep Barry off Channel Twelve!” Sue sees me and stops.

“This is no good,” my mother agrees. “You don’t need this right now.”

I shush them all.

“My first thought, honestly, was terrorists,” a paint store clerk is breathlessly saying.

“Tarantella Demolition Contractors is pursuing answers.”

A harried spokesman says, “We’ve even reached out to the National Earthquake Information Center regarding a possible seismic event.”

Sue’s incredulous. “An earthquake? Keep dancing, boys! It registered only on the Richter scale of negligence!”

Dee adds, “Those Tarantella creeps are notorious for low-balling bids. This will lead back to them.”

An Occupational Safety and Health Administration logo replaces the spokesman’s face.

“A call from WWOH-TV to OSHA has revealed three citations of conditions called ‘serious infractions’ since work began after Memorial Day.”

“This isn’t ColonyScape’s first brush with controversy, is it, Adam?”

A condensation of time-stamped city council sessions where dissenters speak rushes by in digital page turns.

“To be sure, Lynn. This project was beset with complaints from historical groups who monitor the revitalized downtown. Then came legal challenges from business owners on sewer concerns and inadequate parking.”

Here comes the best part.

“Astoundingly, a production company shooting a TV commercial was there when the accident occurred—

“What an amazing age we live in, satellite imaging, TMZ, Google maps, surveillance tapes,” her co-anchor marvels.

“And this remarkable footage was shared exclusively with WWOH-TV.”

“Some prick sold it to the news?” Potsy yells.

“We must warn you, what you’re about to see, while not graphic, may be upsetting to some viewers.”

Heads swivel. Lips part to implore. I raise my hand to halt them all. “I’m a big boy.”

It’s like deadly dominoes falling. First, a grinding of unknown origin. A massive yellow crane crumples onto suspension bridges. These break loose, sparking as they bounce against utility wires; the pole snaps in two. Bystander screams intermingle with the exclamations of those watching this in my kitchen. The hollow building visibly quivers. An exterior wall caves inward, forcing another wall outward. The crane’s counterweight surrenders with a boom. Concrete dust obliterates it all. Mostly all. Except for the shaky camera zoom to Mercy B. as it’s flattened in a metallic crunch.

As it goes into immediate replay, this time enlarged, with animated circles highlighting the red car’s burial, I remember closing my eyes to the horror of it all.

I may have said something predictable like “Oh. My. God.”

And then this big boy was unconscious.

I’m told Mom hurriedly placed a damp tea towel on my forehead while Kerr checked my tongue and Miss Sondra, who didn’t see me on the kitchen floor, offered pepperoni or veggie.

Puking, now passing out. Maybe I’m pregnant.