Manhole

Flash Fiction

The crack already had its hands on Harry’s throat when he won the slip and fall lawsuit. It was a local do-it-yourself car wash, couldn’t afford the insurance to go up, guy settled outta court for twelve grand.

Harry was hearing voices. Couldn’t quiet ‘em, didn’t know where they were coming from. 

One day he found an open manhole by the old roller rink where all the Puerto Rican girls used to hang out. 

Those girls never talked to him, so it couldn’t be their voices.

He climbed down into that manhole. Couldn’t hear voices anymore.

Got his rocks, took his stem down in the manhole.

It was dark, quiet, no voices. Just a hollow quiet. 

He adopted it. Smoked there, slept there, shit behind the railroad utility shed by McGraw.

He didn’t hate it.

First voice he heard in his manhole belonged to a real person. Took him about forty minutes to believe it. Nice kid. Harry didn’t remember what the kid said, just remembered the kid saying he would see him soon and Harry waking up in detox.

The voices there were loud and angry.

But he made it through. 

Saw the counselor, got new clothes, a hoodie from a Christian college and some Donald Duck socks. He heard Donald’s voice for a few days after that, but that went away too.

He didn’t hate it.

Six months in that place, started to feel human again.

Kid came back to visit him. Ethan. Nice kid. Told Harry about all the lessons he could take for completing the program.

Swimming sounded fun, he chose swimming. They got in a little van and went to the fancy YMCA downtown.

He wasn’t afraid of the water like some of the guys.

After a few weeks they let him go off the diving board.

It was just a short one, few feet above the water, and he went feet first.

It was fun. He did it again.

On the third time, he bounced a little bit, went deeper under the water.

It was a hollow quiet. He loved that quiet.

Harry went to a sober house off Grand Blvd. 

He kinda hated it.

Swimming was over. No more free lessons, no more diving board.

On Thursday, Harry would take the bus over to McGraw, and climb down into his manhole.

He loved the hollow quiet.

He was stone sober.

He didn’t hate it. 

***

Photo by Mostafa Ashraf Mostafa on Unsplash