I relish a short-story where the closing sentences serve as the clincher, the ironic smack in the kisser, the unexpected move that catches a reader in checkmate. This Greg Boyd blaster is one such story. Here it is in its entirety. Bop, bop, bop, bop, pow!
THE LADDER
I go next door to borrow a step ladder. No big deal. But deal. It's gone, my neighbor says, stolen or borrowed by my son or my son-in-law or some cheap crook, loaned by me to a neighbor, i don't know, but gone either way. Sorry. Okay, I say. But I still need a ladder. I get on the phone, try the hardware store. All out of stock. Take a raincheck? No thanks. Next the rental place. They've got everything. Extension ladder? How big, 18 or 24 or 30 feet? A step ladder. No steps right now, except for a kitchen two-step for changing light bulbs and reaching the top shelf if you're short. Try tomorrow morning early. Need it now. I think of the swap meet. Drive out there. Pay for parking and admission. Everything's for sale; people's lives are spread out on blankets and card tables: clothes, furniture, car parts, junk, kitchen utensils, framed posters, tools, jewelry, hot dogs, knives, bird cages, bicycles, toys, books, plants and aquariums, everything except a step ladder. On the way back I pass a garage sale. Slam on the brakes. There it is. Old wooden one with paint dripping on the rungs. A little paper sign on it: NOT FOR SALE. How much will you take for the ladder? Not for sale. Give you more than it's worth new. Don't want to sell it. Fifty bucks? Ain't selling. Will you rent it to me for a day? Garage sale not rent, but I'll tell you where I got this one. Paint supply place downtown. Good deals. Below retail. Open Sundays? Don't know. Worth a try. I try. Out of business. But down the street I find another hardware store. And they've got a ladder. New aluminum job with ribbed steps and red warning stickers that say not to stand on the top step. Already sold, says the manager. Last one we got. Customers coming back for it any minute now. I'll give you twice what it cost, I say. Can't do that, says he, an old guy, poking his ear. Gray hair in the ear, and lots of wax. Split the difference with the customer, I offer. Nope. It's already paid for. Bad business, dishonest, poor service, and other similar stuff. How about a quick rental? I flash a fifty. His eyes light up a little. Before he can say anything, though, the ladder's new owner walks up. I talk to him. Big guy wearing blue jeans and a flannel shirt unbuttoned over a sleeveless undershirt. Offer to buy. Need the ladder, he says. For a job. Me too. How about a loan. I mean a rental? I'm in the trades, he says. You rent the ladder, you rent me with it. Also my truck plus mileage. Union wages, of course. Deal, I say. I pay up front and we shake on it. A pleasure to work for you, he says. we get back to my place, he, I, the ladder, the truck. He unloads and carries the ladder inside, and down the stairs to the basement. He climbs up the ladder and unties the rope that is anchored to the high beam that supports the basement roof. The rope falls noose-end to the floor. That it? he asks. I guess so.
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