The Barrel

THE WAREHOUSE rose out of the ground and reached into the sky as if to steal its blue. It engulfed the men within it, a smothering black sunless place. The crashings, the bangings, whirrs, the shouts of work fell out of its dark mass, assaulting the soft serenity of the countryside. The work site encroached upon a wooded area, part of the city’s spreading tentacles. A scream of metal sawn by metal ripped through the muggy air.

Below the warehouse a girl, probably twelve or so, played a restless game of dancing from stone to stone, leaping onto discarded girders and whirling about in a frenzy of delight in life. She sang. She shouted. She called out to the sun and loved its warm rays reaching down her bare upraised arms. She tried to kiss the air. She danced oblivious to the sweat and strain of the men who worked above her.

She lay down on the ground, half sand, half grass, and smiled at secret thoughts. She shared her secrets with the earth, rolling over, and cupping her hands to it, and whispering made-up words of gentleness, tenderness, and love. She rose again, standing with a brave shout of triumph.

She picked up a large stick and waved it at a narrow barrel not far away. The stick was heavy, not small, and still somewhat green, probably ripped from a tree in a storm and washed by the rain down the slope. She charged the barrel with a shout and a daring laugh.

The barrel rang as she pounded it, almost the sound of pain, its ceaseless vibrato voice rippling with overtones and flooding the air as she pummeled and pummeled it. She stopped. The barrel rang still, the sound dying in waves. When she could hear it no more, she put her head to the metal—it still hummed. She surveyed the damage she had done to her enemy. The orange paint that covered the barrel was unflecked, intact, unaltered. Bits of bark and fiber from the stick dotted the barrel all over. She brushed these away hoping to see dents, but there were none.

Angry, she kicked the barrel. It rang again. This time the sound was different, lower in tone, a mock and a laugh. She reached up, took hold of the rim (which was slightly above the level of her eyes), and tried to turn the barrel over. It did not budge.

Standing on tiptoes, she peered on top. The barrel was cut open and water, dark and in shadow, filled it halfway. She released her grip on the rim and noticed its sharp edge had cut her hand slightly. She spit on her hands and rubbed them together. She stooped and rubbed them in the warm sand.

Finding a small rock she tried to scratch her initials into the paint. The sandstone crumbled in her hands.

An ant wandered by. Burying her hand in the sand she tricked him into climbing on. She carefully let the sand fall through her fingers, spreading them slowly. The ant tickled her tender palm, then began to crawl up her arm. She giggled and danced about trying not to let the tickling bother her. Finally it fell off and she lost sight of it.

She picked up her stick once more. Again peering into the barrel, she banged it, watching the water. It rippled madly to be free but splashed back upon itself, almost in a froth.

Looking about her, she began to collect pebbles, sticks, and stones. She threw the pebbles into the barrel as hard as she could, but could not splash any water out.

She picked up a larger rock. It was so big she could hardly hold it, much less lift it. But she did lift it—up to the rim of the barrel. With a gritty scraping sound the rock slid into the water. The water splashed over the side, splashed her face and ran down her T-shirt and down her shorts, ran down her legs in dirty streaks. The rock clunked at the bottom.

She spat. Water had splashed into her mouth. Lifting her head, she spat into the barrel. Her spittle floated on the water’s dark surface. She picked up several of her gathered sticks, throwing them in. She peered over the rim to watch them float, plinking on the side of the barrel when they got near the water’s edge.

Tired from straining her neck to look over the side of the barrel, she stooped, hugging her knees. An ant struggled by her toes, carrying a burden, the carcass of another bug. She watched it for a while, then poked at it with a twig. The ant scurried, dropping the bug. First one way and then another the ant ran, but her twig was always quicker and struck up the dirt in its path, forcing it to turn.

A new idea lit the girl’s face. She tried to make the ant crawl onto the stick, but the ant was too panic stricken, always dodging whenever the twig approached. She slapped the ant with her palm, squashing it.

She found another ant, and this one climbed on willingly. She carried it to the barrel and, banging it against the rim, she knocked the ant off. She watched as it swam. Whenever it reached a side, she banged on the barrel and the ant was pushed away.

She found other ants and put them into the barrel. The first ant out would be the winner. But the sides of the barrel were slick and the ants, if they got out of the water at all, soon fell back. The girl shouted down at them loudly, “Boo! Boo!”

Finally one ant managed to get up the barrel’s side halfway.

“A winner, a winner! He’s going to make it! He’s going to make it!” she shouted. Her eyes shone with anticipation. She jumped with rejoicing. She whirled and danced. It was music and magic. She stopped for a moment.

She looked into the barrel. She did not see the ant.

Surely he couldn’t have gotten out already. But he was gone. Either he escaped and she missed it, or else he fell back in. She looked into the water. Ants are swimming all over. Some were drowned and floating aimlessly. Some had climbed onto the drifting sticks. She could not tell which ant was which.

Disappointed and perturbed, she grew bored with watching the ants. She walked toward the girders that lay above the barrel. As she walked she looked down. She saw a frog, sitting behind a clump of grass. “I see you—You can’t hide from me, Mr. Frog!” She bent down. The frog jumped. She opened her hands. The frog landed smack in her hands.

“Ha!” she said. “I’ll call you Mr. Luckyjumps, because you landed right in my hands.”

For a while she walked around, holding the cold frog.

She tried not to squeeze too tight. Finally she said, “You need a home, Mr. Luckyjumps. I’ll give you a home. Here,” she said taking him over to the barrel. “All this water and ANTS for you to eat!”

She lifted the frog over her head and let it fall plop into the barrel. A drop of water splashed her cheek.

Craning her neck, she watched the frog sink to the bottom and sit there, not moving. “You need air, Mr. Luckyjumps,” she said. “Better jump and get air!”

Finally the frog jumped. It jumped and landed with a soft plung against the side of the barrel and fell back in. Several times it jumped, always with the same result.

“Oh no, Mr. Luckyjumps, you’ll get tired and drown! I’ve killed you, my frog.”

There was a large rock nearby. She couldn’t lift it, but straining and sweating she was able to roll it over to the side of the barrel. She put a half-sawn log on top of the rock. She found a long stick, climbed up onto the pedestal she had made and reached down to the frog with the stick. “Grab on, Mr. Luckyjumps, grab on!”

But the frog couldn’t grab on, or couldn’t understand what the girl was doing, that she was trying to save it. It did not grab on. It hopped out of the water. It landed plung against the side of the barrel and plopped back in again.

“I don’t want to see you die,” she said and threw sand in the water so that the water would be muddy, but the sand sank to the bottom.

“Don’t worry, I’ll save you, froggy mine,” the girl said. She leaned down into the barrel, stretching out her arms, waiting for the frog to jump. “Make a lucky jump, Mr. Luckyjumps,” she said.

The frog jumped. She grabbed for it. She caught it.

Her feet slipped. The log beneath her rolled off the rock. She fell head first into the barrel. The water closed over her head and came up to her belly button. The sticks she had thrown into the barrel floated wildly about, scratching and tickling her.

Darkness surrounds her. She can’t see. Her eyes burn.

The sand and grit swoosh into her mouth. Standing on her hands, she raises herself as far as she can, but cannot raise her mouth above the water. She kicks and squirms and kicks but she cannot turn the barrel over. The frog jumps against her.

Bracing herself, she puts one hand on either side of the barrel and tries to push herself up. The sides are too slick: Whenever she raises herself, she loses her buoyancy, slips and falls back into the water. She tries to curl herself into a ball and get back on her feet, but the barrel is too narrow, she cannot bend her knees; she is stuck straight. She squirms and kicks again, then panics. She tries to scream, but bubbles are all that come, bursting to the surface of the water, her last breath. She falls unconscious.

A man, a worker on break, has been watching her from the warehouse, amused by her antics, delighting in her tomboy ways. “No!” he shouted as soon as he saw what was happening. He ran down the slope, shouting as he ran, “She can’t get out! She can’t get out!” He ran to the barrel, grabbed the girl’s legs and snatched her out of the water. As soon as she was lying on the ground he slapped her face, trying to revive her. Terror crept into his eyes. His face turned white. Tears brimmed in his eyes. He was blind with emotion. His heart pounded against his chest. His breathing was hoarse and heavy. He slapped her cheeks and rubbed her arms.

Suddenly the girl spurted out water and tried to sit up. She coughed and gasped. “Thank God, thank God,” the man said over and over. He cradled the girl in his arms.

He stood. Anger, rage, fear played over the man’s face. He gritted his teeth, his mouth open. He grabbed the barrel by the rim and turned it over. Sticks and debris gushed out with the water. The frog floated out. It hopped away, up a drive. The man kicked the barrel, angry that its steel walls should snatch at a girl’s life. The barrel rang dully. He muttered, “It has no right, no right!”

The girl is delighted by the man’s strength, worshipped it with glistening eyes. She touched his arm.

Another man, riding on a bulldozer, finally saw what was happening and, riding his machine down the roadway began to call out, “Harry! Is everything all right?”

The first man nodded, but the girl points. “My frog!” she said. The bulldozer ran over the frog in the drive.

“Forget the frog, forget the frog. Girl, you’re safe, forget the frog.” His arm reached around her wet shoulders in a hug, and he stroked her hair. She shivered. The other man jumped off the machine and joined the chorus. “Forget the frog,” he said.

Finally the girl, who was crying, sobbing, and shaking was calmed. She sat on the ground and looked about her, her eyes bright once more. She is alive. Another frog hops along the drive.

The men looked about them too. They noticed, a little farther below, ten or eleven barrels. A simultaneous gleam came into their eyes. “Let’s do it!” they said to each other.

They hopped on the bulldozer and taking it down the slope, knocked over every barrel, all at once. They ran the machine over all the barrels, crushing them. They whooped and hollered and danced around, delighting in the might of the machine, rejoicing in their ability. They shouted and slapped each other on the back. It was a grand thing they’d done and they knew it.

Harry thought it was his one grand thing, felt the power of giving life, thought himself almost a god.

The girl left while they were lost in their ecstasy, but Harry saw her again. She was a street urchin—her family, homeless. Although he often tried to give her money, she ran when she saw him. Her father met him with a bottle in his hand, took the money, and spent it on alcohol.

Several years went by. The girl became a prostitute then disappeared.

Harry hates his job. He comes home late, tired from work.

At night, in the dark, he sometimes lies stiff in bed, his fists clenched, his eyes locked onto the dark ceiling, his breathing shallow and quivering. His jaws clench and unclench. His eyes grow red and cry. The walls seem to press in upon him. In sleep, he sometimes calls out, “My girl, my girl!” Sometimes he is angry with his wife for no reason.

She suspects him. She tries to save him. She wakes him from sleep and yells at him and slaps his face. “I’m your wife, you hear?” she shouts. “I love you, me. Forget her. You have no right to love another woman. Even if you never touch her, you never have no right to love her!”

Harry turns to her, but never says a word.

The End