Tom Perrotta
IN A LIGHT RAIN, AT A LITTLE AFTER THREE IN THE
morning, Gus Ketchell stood on his back stoop in slippers
and shorty pajamas, holding a bulky cardboard box and star-
ing uncertainly at his next-door neighbors' garage.
Come on, he told himself. You can do this.
No one would ever know. The Simmonses' house was dark,
the old air conditioner wheezing away in the second-floor
bedroom window. He pictured Peggy alone on the bed, snor-
ing heavily, nearly comatose from the industrial-strength
sleeping pills she'd been taking since Lonny's sudden death
a month ago. Gus could probably break down the front door
with a sledgehammer, turn on every light in the house, and
make himself a ham sandwich without disturbing her.
Gus's own wife, Martha, was also asleep, but even awake
she wouldn't have registered his absence at this ungodly hour;
aside from the occasional hotel room, they hadn't shared a
bed in years. There were no longer any dogs in the immediate
neighborhood to sound an alarm, either, not since Fred Di-
Mello had been forced to put down his ancient, slobbering
basset hound last October. Fred had buried Sadsack in his
backyard, and Gus often saw him staring forlornly at the cir-
cle of rocks he'd placed in the ground to mark the gravesite.
So the coast was clear. But still Gus hesitated.
He just didn't like the idea of trespassing---breaking and
entering, to be precise---even in a place so close to home,
where he'd once been welcome. It would have been so much
easier---so much more civilized---if he could have rung the
Simmonses' door bell in the morning and said, Hey , Peg, sorry
to bother you, but I need a favor. And Peggy would have said,
Sure, Gus, you name it. But why don't you sit down and have a
cup of coffee first?
Once upon a time, the Ketchells and the Simmonses had
been those kinds of neighbors, back when everyone was
young and their kids moved between the two yards as if they
were all part of one big family. Lonny Simmons sometimes
borrowed Gus's whellbarrow and extension ladder without
asking; Gus did the same with Lonny's ratchet set and Weed-
wacker. The Ketchells had an open invitation to swim in the
Simmonses' built-in pool, a bona fide luxury when it was in-
stalled in the early seventies, one of maybe a half dozen in the
whole town. The two families barbecued together, went on
camping trips, swapped babysitting, and took turns shoveling
each other's sidewalk when it snowed.
Somewhere along the way, though, it all went sour.
Please see Nine Inches: stories, by Tom Perrotta,
(St. Martin Press) for the rest of this story.
IN A LIGHT RAIN, AT A LITTLE AFTER THREE IN THE
morning, Gus Ketchell stood on his back stoop in slippers
and shorty pajamas, holding a bulky cardboard box and star-
ing uncertainly at his next-door neighbors' garage.
Come on, he told himself. You can do this.
No one would ever know. The Simmonses' house was dark,
the old air conditioner wheezing away in the second-floor
bedroom window. He pictured Peggy alone on the bed, snor-
ing heavily, nearly comatose from the industrial-strength
sleeping pills she'd been taking since Lonny's sudden death
a month ago. Gus could probably break down the front door
with a sledgehammer, turn on every light in the house, and
make himself a ham sandwich without disturbing her.
Gus's own wife, Martha, was also asleep, but even awake
she wouldn't have registered his absence at this ungodly hour;
aside from the occasional hotel room, they hadn't shared a
bed in years. There were no longer any dogs in the immediate
neighborhood to sound an alarm, either, not since Fred Di-
Mello had been forced to put down his ancient, slobbering
basset hound last October. Fred had buried Sadsack in his
backyard, and Gus often saw him staring forlornly at the cir-
cle of rocks he'd placed in the ground to mark the gravesite.
So the coast was clear. But still Gus hesitated.
He just didn't like the idea of trespassing---breaking and
entering, to be precise---even in a place so close to home,
where he'd once been welcome. It would have been so much
easier---so much more civilized---if he could have rung the
Simmonses' door bell in the morning and said, Hey , Peg, sorry
to bother you, but I need a favor. And Peggy would have said,
Sure, Gus, you name it. But why don't you sit down and have a
cup of coffee first?
Once upon a time, the Ketchells and the Simmonses had
been those kinds of neighbors, back when everyone was
young and their kids moved between the two yards as if they
were all part of one big family. Lonny Simmons sometimes
borrowed Gus's whellbarrow and extension ladder without
asking; Gus did the same with Lonny's ratchet set and Weed-
wacker. The Ketchells had an open invitation to swim in the
Simmonses' built-in pool, a bona fide luxury when it was in-
stalled in the early seventies, one of maybe a half dozen in the
whole town. The two families barbecued together, went on
camping trips, swapped babysitting, and took turns shoveling
each other's sidewalk when it snowed.
Somewhere along the way, though, it all went sour.
Please see Nine Inches: stories, by Tom Perrotta,
(St. Martin Press) for the rest of this story.