Back to Issue 16.

PEMDAS

Thomas Mixon

“He reminded me of me. Or my father. Or my son, all grown up, with grandkids of his own, and me dead. I just dropped off my kid at school. So, you know—”

The man stares directly into the sun, doesn’t finish his sentence.

The claims adjuster continues taking pictures of the man’s car door, completely smashed in. They are just outside the insurance agency, which shares a building with a dog grooming business and a certified public accountant, who always has the blinds down and is open by appointment only.

“So the other vehicle was in reverse?” The claims adjuster has already read the report, only needs to press the little button on the little digital camera. But, something about the man’s story.

“That was later. First, it was the crossing guard.”

“And he was motioning for you to proceed?”

“He had both his arms out, stopping traffic. He was looking at me, moving his eyebrows. I wasn’t sure, then I was. Yes. I had the right of way.”

The man spreads his arms. He does not look like a bird, but he squawks. He laughs at himself.

It’s the driver’s side door. Wrecked. Barely hanging on the hinge. The claims adjuster gets on his knees, is tasked with documenting all the angles.

“The guy must be in shape, I mean, this is hard.” The man still has his arms extended.

“Anyway, he also had a vest, a blinking one. He looked like a god. With wings.”

One of the tires does not match. The claims adjuster presses it with his fingers. “You probably want to inflate this more.”

The man rolls his eyes. “Least of my worries. Or, it was the most, of my worries. Before the lady backed into me.”

“You were in the vehicle?”

“I was distracted. By the crossing guard. So I hit the curb. Shit, I thought, great, just what I need: a flat. Luckily the gas station was across the street.”

“From your son’s school.”

“Frederick.”

The claims adjuster writes down the boy’s name, for no reason. He thinks about erasing it, but doesn’t want to draw attention. He wrote it lightly, but it stands out, may as well be printed in boldface.

The man doesn’t seem to notice. “I pulled in, went to a legit space. They have two rows there, kind of like here, but tighter. I could see a woman in front of me, she had just gotten in, holding her, you know, I believe it was an iced drink, if that matters.”

The claims adjuster nods, pretends to write down something, but only crosses out the son’s name.

“She probably thought there was still no one behind her. I mean, there wasn’t, two seconds before I pulled in. It’s simple, really, she just didn’t look. It was either a large, or an extra-large, the drink, it was big. So, you know—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

“I believe that should do it.” The claims adjuster gives the man a list of auto body shops. “If you go through any of these, they’re pre-approved by us.”

The man squints at the paper. He holds it between thumb and forefinger, as if it were somebody’s used tissue. “She’ll pay though, right. Or you guys?”

“After I file this, there will be an additional review, and someone should call you within five to seven business days.”

“But, unofficially, I’m off the hook?”

The claims adjuster looks back at his office, though he is the only one working this morning. “I would think yes.”

The man looks up into the sun, again, while he shakes the claims adjuster’s hand. “I don’t know how some people do it. Such a big coffee, she probably needs to pee all the time.”

***

Later in the week, the claims adjuster takes a different way home, leaving work early. There’s been a lot of construction by the office. All hours, both commutes. Even overnight. He’s driven through at 3 AM before, battling insomnia, running on a sort of inverted fuel of unverbalized weariness he’s sure he can’t sustain.

He’s been surprised at how much the delays have enraged him. That anger reminds him of his father, or his fully-grown daughter, their online back and forth, the vitriol. He’s asked them to take the conversation, if that is even an appropriate word for what they’re doing, off the insurance company’s Facebook page, out of the comments, since their arguments have nothing to do with him, or insurance. But they both think it’s funny.

So today he skirts the commercial district. Only to find himself stopped behind a line of cars.

School is getting out. A crossing guard directs the flow of busses, cars, kids hand in hand with their mothers. The crossing guard is in the middle of the road, wearing a blinking vest. It’s true, he is distracting. He appears, from a distance, angelic, with his palms facing out, parallel to the ground. But, as the claims adjuster moves forward in the line, the yellow lights become more prominent, giving the crossing guard’s face a sickly appearance, sallow, like an unwell deity consigned, forever, to the pavement.

The claims adjuster did the right things when his daughter was growing up, picked her up from school. He promised to be different from his father. And he was. But she never held his hand the way these kids are, gripped by their mothers, smiling. She always wanted to walk in front of him, and he let her, thinking she would, eventually, understand. That she would recognize what he had given up, to give her space, to respect her wishes to lead.

But she hadn’t understood. The crossing guard is moving his arms wildly now, but the claims adjuster is hypnotized by the flashing light. The light is very close, and then it’s not. He’s moving, and then he’s stopped. There is a crunching sound.

***

The crossing guard is shaking the claims adjuster, who is awake, but not responding. He’s having to reach across the passenger seat to rouse the man, since the driver’s side door appears inoperable, big dent from where the claims adjuster rolled into the Smokey Bear fire danger sign. The man wasn’t going fast, he should be fine. The crossing guard really has to lean, though, stretch himself across the pleather seats. It’s exhausting, but it’s more unnerving to have a vehicle on the sidewalk, so he keeps at it.

The police arrive after a few minutes. Ernie, an officer the crossing guard has known since he was a baby, scolds him.

“You shouldn’t have touched him.”

“Look, he’s fine.”

The claims adjuster is coming to, apologizing. Other cops show up, call the towing company. One of the part-time officers takes over, directing traffic. Without asking.

Ernie leads the crossing guard over to the side. Officially, to take his statement. Unofficially, to yell at him some more.

“What were you thinking? What if that guy tries to claim injury?”

“From me? I didn’t send him into the sign, Nee.”

Ernie winces at the old nickname. “Maybe you should head home, call it a day.”

The crossing guard looks over at the part-timer. The guy isn’t making a complete mess of things. He nods his head.

Ernie grips the crossing guard by the shoulder, looks down at his chest. “Need new double A’s, big guy.”

The vest is no longer blinking. He just changed the batteries earlier this week. Something isn’t right.

***

And he calls me that night. Not me, specifically, the customer service number, which redirects to my cell phone. He tells me his whole story. He reminds me of my father, completely oblivious. I try to ask him, did you apply unreasonable force to the wiring, inside the vest? Because I know he did, I can tell, from the way he won’t answer me directly. But all he says is some gibberish about saving someone. He says he isn’t a hero, but acted on instinct. And I’m like, sure, but did you apply unreasonable force to the wiring? Because if you did, there’s really nothing I can do for you. I don’t say it like that, because I can’t tell who’s ever going to leave a review, or not. But I remind him that I’m just a reseller. Which is a less cumbersome way of telling him I bought five crates of the damn things at auction, for a killing, and I have no idea where they came from, so I just added a random country to the product description, and I’m not an electrician, and I don’t know much about currents, any of that stuff. But I do know that most everything is cheap, and that you shouldn’t press anything like that too hard.

***

After the reseller hangs up the phone, she brews coffee. She’s already in the kitchen. The kitchen table is her desk. She spills coffee, swears, cleans it off her computer. The computer still works, thank god. She’s so relieved by this that she forgets to clean up the liquid that made it onto the floor.

Her dog wags its tail as she passes by it, on the way to her bed. The dog is already in its bed, in the kitchen. Everything good happens in the kitchen. The dog knows this instinctively, and thinks maybe tonight the reseller will stay in the kitchen all night. It’s happened before. The reseller lingers by the bedroom door, looking at the dog and making kissy noises. She looks at the kitchen. The dog thinks, yes, this is it, she’s going to change her mind.

But she doesn’t. She closes the bedroom door. The dog puts its head down, goes to sleep. It wakes up after an hour, stretches, sniffs around the linoleum by the stove, just in case. It tests the cold coffee puddle, with its tongue. Not great, but it will do. The dog licks the whole spill up.

***

The sleep technician is on break. She only had two patients she needed to monitor, and by 3 AM had most of the data she needed. Roger agreed to keep an eye on them, in addition to his own patients, while she drove down the road to get coffee.

She’s getting coffee at the gas station, where she got into an accident, earlier this week. Not because the drip is good, but the lottery prize is now over a billion dollars, and of course it’s a long shot, but she has no idea how to pay for the idiot’s car, the guy who pulled in behind her when there were plenty of other spaces.

Parking far away from everyone, in an SUV she’s borrowed from her father, she places her order for a couple dark roasts on an app, so that she doesn’t have to wait inside and watch the creepy twenty something ogle her while he pours the cream.

The app tells her that her order will be ready in 15 minutes, which is crazy, because there’s no one else in the store. The front of the station is all glass windows. The creepy twenty something waves to her. She looks back down at her phone.

Luckily, she’s parked at an angle where she can avoid the weirdo’s gaze. She swipes aimlessly on her device, until she sees someone, wearing a blinking vest, walking on the side of the road. It looks like her dad, and she thinks, does he really not trust me to damage his stupid Honda CR-V? She opens the window, to ask him what the hell he is doing. The window makes a big creaking noise, as it rolls down. The person on the side of the road looks her way. It’s not her father.

***

Ernie’s working the graveyard shift when the phone rings.

“Winton PD.”

“Yeah hey, I’m working over at the bridge?”

Of course Ernie knows which one, the traffic by the construction site has been a nightmare for weeks. “OK.”

“Great, thing is, we have a crane, out of commission, and we weren’t supposed to get the replacement till next week. But, stranger things, it showed up an hour ago and we have no idea...”

The cop lets the foreman ramble. He still hasn’t gotten over the crossing guard, calling him Nee. Before the crossing guard was a crossing guard, he was a gym teacher. Ernie idolized him, liked him so much better than his own frumpy, out-of-shape father. Then one morning, the guy threw Ernie a basketball to warm up, and Ernie, without thinking, lifted his leg up to try and – who knows, catch it, with his knee? He was Nee, from then on. The man who had encouraged him, pushed him to run faster, longer, go harder, had suddenly turned against him. And all because he used his feet, instead of his hands? Once? Something else had to have been going on in that guy’s life. Within a year, the gym teacher had retired, but the nickname stuck.

“...At the gym?”

Ernie clears his throat. “Sorry, something with your connection. What was that last part?”

“Can we leave the old one in the school parking lot, by the gym?”

It was early Saturday, there’d be no classes. “Sure, bud. Have it out by Monday, though.”

***

The crossing guard is ecstatic. He fixed the vest himself. He is not the kind of person that can fix anything, so this is momentous. He has driven himself down to the school, at 3 AM, to make sure the glow is bright enough, in the street. Too many lights, where he lives, neighbors mistaking front porch illumination for security.

When the sleep technician rolls down her window, he thinks, Ari? Son? The sleep technician has short hair, a black SUV, just like Ari. The crossing guard begins to walk toward the vehicle, but stops when he sees the woman’s scared expression. No, not his son, a stranger. He pauses in the middle of the street. The vest stops blinking. He punches himself in the chest. No difference. He tries yanking it off himself, but he’s worn too many layers underneath.

The crossing guard is aware of the sound of heavy machinery approaching. He thinks about math, the order of operations. Ari is a high school algebra teacher; he would know how to fix this. Except his son says he needs space, and doesn’t want to speak to him.

Parentheses first, he recalls. He curves his arms into a narrow O, squeezes the vest. Whispers, “Please, please.” Then, he remembers more. “Please excuse my dear Aunt Sallie.” His brain, he thinks, is sharp. He’ll figure this out. Please excuse my dear Ari son. Please excuse my deficits, Ari, son. Please explain more, Dada, Ari said. Long ago.

The large forklift swerves, to avoid hitting the crossing guard. It is transporting a long telescopic boom, which brings down a stretch of electric lines as all the lights in the area go black.

In the darkness, the vest again begins to blink.

***

I was awake before I heard the loud crash. The dog had been whining. So I decided, fine, let’s get up, check email, see who else wants to complain about something. I used to deal in higher value items, grills, televisions, and thought moving to cheap stuff would be better. Like, don’t raise a stink if the three dollar watch doesn’t work, because, you know, it’s only three dollars. And it’s three dollars for a reason. But no, just as many angry emails, returns. More than before, even. I didn’t realize the power was out until I went to let the dog out, flipped the switch for the floodlight outside. Nothing. I put my foot out to block the dog. Nice try. The dog’s got a tendency to wander, mess around, and I’m like no, not when I can’t see a damn thing, thank you very much! Then it came to me, an idea. I lugged out the box of safety vests that I hadn’t put in storage yet, wrapped one over the dog. Then unwrapped it because the blinking feature didn’t work. But the second one did. Success! The dog probably didn’t like it, but I put on a look that implied go, you have a fine life here, you’re lucky I took you in, scoot. Those vests are actually very handy. I was able to see the dog with no issue at all. Who even knows what country it came from.

***

The dog is excited because it has a lot of caffeine flowing through its system. It badly wants to check out the Smokey Bear fire danger sign, which is still half knocked over from when the claims adjuster ran into it yesterday. But it’s across the street, and there’s shouting, people moving, a large object balancing precariously on a bunch of little objects in the sky. The dog looks to the reseller, who doesn’t seem concerned. She is tapping a glowing thing in her hands, by the door. This reminds the dog that it too is a glowing thing. It tries to bite the flashing bulbs off its back, but can’t reach.

Not a big deal. There are a lot of other things to take care of, first. For example, these geese feces, atop the grass. The dog checks its owner again, but she is still preoccupied, so it gobbles up the droppings quickly. An explosion of tastes, feelings. Memories? Maybe.

Like Ari, its former person. First, it was Ari, and the dog, as a puppy, playing in the sun. He didn’t care about the occasional snack. Didn’t he encourage the eating of ants, one time? Possibly. Then Ari, and the dog, and another big person. Then a little person. Then the dog had to go.

The dog doesn’t pretend to understand propositional logic, but remembers the textbook. Remembers the night that Ari and the other big person came to a decision. Couldn’t understand exactly what they were saying, but knew the look. The look between them, the big people, and then the look they gave the dog. Has an image of page 308 seared onto its mind. The textbook was on the table, between the two big people. The section was about associativity, how sometimes a problem can be rearranged, grouped differently, and still have the answer be the same in the end. The dog, when it saw that look between the two big people, ate the book. And now, after it’s done with the geese turds, it eats some dirt, coughs some up, runs laps around itself, spinning and spinning until it forgets why it started spinning. There is water inside. The reseller whistles. The sound is welcome. Perfect, actually.

Writer’s Notebook

Though this story is fiction, much of it comes from real life. During school pickup and drop off I find myself both distracted by and reliant on the crossing guard. I knew a girl in high school whose mother had a similar job, who helped me cross the road before I could drive, always late, always with too many books spilling out of my bag. I remember this girl's family didn't have much money, like mine, but unlike me she talked openly about it, declined friend group invitations, specifically citing cost. I would get out of expensive outings by sleeping in, staying up too late by myself. Now, as an adult, I've been to multiple sleep studies during billion dollar lottery crazes, the radio building up the moment to the drawing, the lucky winner out there, somewhere, unaware of their impending fate. As a kid I often thought about how I'd do things differently, than the adults I knew, when I was older. Even if I had the same numbers to work with, I wanted a different order of operations.

About the writer