Hose

You can’t force other people to live

the way you want them to.

Or rather, you can—but then you can’t

have a decent democracy.

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Only the stupid try to get over on others.

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Hose

Every evening he took his seat at the curb, near the flag he had planted on a stake near his mailbox. His folding chair sunk an inch into the dirt. Despite eight or nine years of washings, the cap on his head was still bright red. Next door, a sedan pulled up, same time each day. A Black man left the car and entered the house. Then, a few minutes later, a Black teenager came out with a bucket and a sponge, pulling a green hose along until all the loops straightened out. He bent to his work without a word.

The water ran down the car in silver sheets. Soap bloomed white and slid to the gutter, carrying away the grit. The teen’s hands moved in slow, patient circles, scrubbing each panel of metal until it gleamed. He did not glance across the street. His face was intent, like someone working out a difficult crossword.

The man shifted forward in his chair. His knees ached, but he leaned anyway. Foam licked the grass around his feet. “That’s enough now,” he muttered to himself. He ground his heel into the wet grass and felt it soak his sock.

Neighbors watched from the porches across the street. Men with beer cans in hand, women sipping lemonade in rockers, kids sitting on steps bounding balls. A screen door opened, then slammed shut again. Someone laughed as the old man lifted his heel, but cut it short.

The man rose, stepped into the street, and planted his boot on the hose. He gave the line a sharp tug with his foot. The boy looked up once—calm, expressionless—and simply opened his hand.

The nozzle whipped free. The hose bucked like something alive, swung in an arc, and spat a hard jet straight into the man’s chest. He reeled backward, slipped in the suds, and crashed into the curb. His cap tumbled into the gutter, filled at once with gray foam. As he fell, he snapped the stake holding the flag, which tumbled into the gutter.

On the porch directly across the street, one of the women put down her lemonade and said, “Hard heart takes a hard fall.” The screen door open and slammed shut again.

The teen reached down and folded the hose over until the flow stopped. Then he reeled it back to the nozzle, adjusted the brass fitting, and let the water fall in a steady sheet again. He rinsed the hood and trunk, never looking over at the old man on the ground.

The man sat in the runoff, shirt plastered to his ribs, chest heaving. He picked up the cap, shook it once, and jammed it back on, water streaking down his temple. His chair had fallen over. He righted it and used it to lift himself up. Then he sat back down. He stared across the street.

The teen finished his work, wrung out the sponge, coiled he hose, and disappeared into the house. By sunset the sedan was dry and gleaming in the last light. Everyone had gone in. Darkness fell quickly.

The stake jutted from the grass like a protruding bone. The flag lay in the gutter, colors streaked with mud. Behind the curtain, the man's shadow stood still.