Mark Wagstaff

Welcome back. Kind blue light flushed the grey rags of morning. Strong, purposive light. Not a marketing tip, no service message. A customer reach, wedded to the a.m.

He examined his legs, slantways on the dull sheet. Essential to business, their definition assuring. He gripped the phone, terse in the stretch of his spine. He should fix that. Exercise. Warm-ups. It would take work.

A man wanted his windows clean. Fresh, to start the day. There was a chance of sun. Nothing said care, when the sun shone, like clean windows. The ladderman cooked bacon for breakfast. Folded in greased bread. He brewed coffee for now and enough for his jar. Store coffee dented the take. He wasn’t first or only at this. A hundred profiles drove a ladder. His username got recognition, his reviews – when people remembered – in the high points. But store coffee was slippage.

The vinyls on his truck promoted the app without suggesting a flesh connection. Task seekers were freelance. They owed the app. The app wasn’t liable. Their decals and materials should promote the app. But the app didn’t supervise nor guarantee. A self-regulating community. Reviews laid the pitch. His truck needed work. A rind of rust at the arches. A softness on the brake. A full overhaul cost more than pre-owned replacement. But then he’d need new vinyls. They stuck one time only. They couldn’t be lifted. A new truck meant a new plate, which went to verification. He might lose an hour’s work while it all went through. He idled each intersection, so drivers could scan the code. Sign ups from his code went to status. Medals stitched to his name.

Across four lanes they aimed their trucks at business. Plumbers, electricians, cleaners, helpers, surveyors, decorators, morticians. Hands to assemble flat-pack. Signatories for deliveries. Sitters for dogs and kids. Witnesses to occasions. Joined on the app. This work the factory joes and diner waitresses dreamed of. No more the same crew with the same complaints. No more one place the day through. No more that boss. This freewheeling future. A task here, a job there. Unpredictable routes. Unlimited distance. The choice to take or not take. Work as personal mission. Supple, not routine. Not coasting. No moments of slump. No backseat lawyering on corporate finagles. These were days of fulfilment.

Streets of okay, petty houses. This house a little worn in the boards, a little long in the lawn. The ladderman unhitched from the truck, the ladder’s stern, assuring weight at his shoulder. A good ladder. Flip to arch or clip to stretch. Aluminum grips and treads of black plastic. Still with its safety labels: stickman diagrams of right and wrong ways with a ladder. Green check marks and red kisses. Do and not do. A ladder’s not all fun, those labels said. Give ladders respect.

He showed his credentials to the door and waited. The ladderman was punctual; he liked when customers reciprocated. Some didn’t understand the time they bought was sliced from larger time. He had to assess task time, drive time, admin; he preferred not to wait. A slow start could infect the whole day.

The man at the door seemed unnaturally old. Older than decent. He stooped as though searching. His hair was smoke. One earlobe hung ragged from some life event the ladderman didn’t wish to share.

“Mr. Stevins?”

“Thank you for being prompt.” Stevins tried to make space and got in the way. “It’s a family matter.”

Fragile shelves of mementoes made fodder for a large ladder. The ladderman guided it in knee high, steering with his legs. He had to pay breakage. That was the deal. The app insisted task givers were always victims. A house so cluttered he couldn’t distinguish clothes from quilts from heaped today-only purchases, deals too hot to miss. That worked with old people. They wanted something to leave behind. Caught between walls, the ladderman waited for Stevins to navigate the hallway. “You booked a window clean, Mr. Stevins. Polish and shine.”

“Polish and shine.”

“How many windows?”

“All of ’em. They all need the treatment.”

“Maybe I start in here.” He rested the ladder’s feet.

“Not upstairs?” The old man’s screwy, pleated face held shock.

“Well, I’m in here.” The clock was ticking. The app beat time in his pocket.

“Don’t you clean a house head to heel?” Stevins’ tone suggested a lifetime habit upended.

Task givers held the cards. Tasks had to be done their way. Unable to turn in the heaped-up room, he reversed the ladder through the house, nearly back to the street. Then angled its nose for the heavy haul upstairs. Stairs narrowed by clumsy installation of a glider, its railed seat obstructive at the base of the climb. As he teased and twisted and tentatively crept by, its motor hummed to life, Stevins moving up like molasses at his ankles. Task givers had to be satisfied. Some liked to watch.

He began in the bedroom. The old man tried to make things okay. Pill boxes and brushes and junk on the shelves had been straightened. Knocked-about dust lay thickly curled at the rims. The smell of age clung against linens turned inside over, he guessed to hide stains. A pair of old suits slumped off a rail, wilted with disuse. He lined up the ladder and climbed to the top of the window. Here was the issue. These houses, built for light to counteract smallness, their windows touched the ceiling, out of reach for a regular guy. No job for a full-height ladder, but kick steps wouldn’t do it. In the bucket his cloths, his wiper and spray. No need for water. Water and windows was best avoided.

Stevins disentangled from the hoist. He clung at the door, expecting turbulence. “You do outside?”

“I’ll see what I manage from here. These flip right out.”

“It’s different from outside. Those corners are tricky.” Stevins walked to the bed – a flicker book, limbs jerked to move. He sat with earnest sadness that irked the ladderman. You didn’t show anger with task givers. The app was insistent.

“Fine little place you have.” It might be, with less junk.

“Does for me. Does well.” Stevins rummaged his phone, holding it close to his eyes though everything scaled. “It’s a family matter. Why I needed you early.”

The street was regular. Nothing to see. Old people. Young sharers. Little families: couples with their treasured addition. People with tenured jobs, corporate credentials. They could take a day sick and get paid. The ladderman didn’t care for family matters. “Nothing cheers a place like bright windows.”

“I want them to see that.” Slow fingers chumped the phone screen. “They’re here in two hours.”

In people’s homes, attending their tasks brought degrees of involvement. The ladderman liked practical chores. Paint a ceiling. Flush a roof. Any blend of altitude and attention. He didn’t need reasons. “This won’t be two hours.”

“I should tidy.” Stevins poked a bale of towels. They rose and settled. “Meant to, last night. I get tired.”

Tired people called the ladderman. Weary with everyday life, they wanted to buy what their bodies declined to manage. They said they were tired while they watched TV, eating candy. When infomercials for productivity aired, they remained, tossing sugar between slack lips. Their skin too coarse to feel the approaching hand. “You did your share.” That was the trick, with old people. Assure them no one expected more. “You can enjoy it.”

Stevins coughed untidily, spit across his chin. “They want this place. They think I don’t know their talk of helping me out means just that.”

The app provided resource against this risk. Tutorials and explainers, to mitigate and avoid. For tasks in domestic space, oversharing was heightened. A spill of personal information he wasn’t bonded to process. Step one was distract. “All clean here. I’ll do the bathroom, then downstairs. You don’t have another room up here?”

“For my wife’s things. She loved the sunlight.”

A second bedroom, fallow and undisturbed. A second bedroom those fertile couples might yearn for. No horror show. No shrine of splintered lace. Everything boxed and labelled. Stacked and ordered – clothes and accessories, make up and souvenirs. Objects that carried meaning to Stevins’ imaginings. The room’s residual furniture cowed with bygones. Slow and delicate to weave the ladder through. “This needs attention.” The window matted and filthy.

“That’s why I called you,” Stevins wheezed. “I want them to know I can manage.”

It would take more than clean windows. Stagnation filled the house. But prestige was no more than accumulated reviews, so he cut to it, scraping the glass to a mild vista of backyards. Bleaching the frames. Bringing the hinge its shine. And so with each window in that little house. When he took the ladder to the dusty backyard, to lay up against that dormant bedroom, Stevins was at the boxes, reading labels, smoothing packing tape, a gesture of cautious curation.

Credits transferred. The old man didn’t tip.

“Now the sun can get in.”

“I’ll show them.” Stevins shuffled aimlessly on the rug. “I can keep my windows clean. They don’t need to take me away.”

“No they don’t.”

“They’re grabby. But I’ll fix them.”

“You do.”

“They can’t take my home. Can they, huh? They can’t make me.”

Those neat stacked boxes. The guy who got that removal would need a spine.

Not late, not yet. He should hustle. Each day got late. An hour, could be, by time he was done. Status was a reward of punctuality. But that wasn’t always possible, not knowing the tasks. Even with an intelligent vehicle, the quickest route wasn’t always the slickest. Parking wasn’t assured. Especially at blocks like this: a foursquare concrete divot over retail. Cameras watched him cruise. More than twice around was suspect.

“Not there.” The super was a little guy with the tremendous delts of unquestioned authority. His stocky outrage from the lobby suggested pleasure no kindness could equal. “You can’t street park. You got to pay in the tower.”

The motor purred compliantly. “One of your residents booked a task.”

“They should have comped you a permit. No permit, pay in the tower.”

The elevators in these stack lots were often too short for the ladder. An elevator was non-earning space. The shafts were minimized. He found a spot on second and sledged the ladder down the fire stairs, feeling it run on the concrete treads, embroiled in its momentum. He clung tight. Better a sprained wrist than a busted ladder.

When the ladderman got there, the super had strength for fresh fun. “You don’t take that in the elevator.”

The ladderman ate a hard breath. “I not told you where I’m going.”

“I’m in charge.” The super gave a slow nod. “You don’t take that in the elevator unless you got sacks for the mirrors. You know the cost to fill a scratch? No sacks, you take the stairs.”

“I’m here for Ms. Kinsey.”

“Take the stairs.”

The hallways were plain and neat. It took a ladder to paint the ceiling, maintain the lights, check the integrity of cable trunking pinned above doors. Humans couldn’t live without climbing higher than they could reach. Some of these buildings were fancy. Some, basic but homey. All needed a ladder.

He was sorry Ms. Kinsey had a problem walking. Her ankle was bust. It slowed her. She might have said when she booked. It took her three minutes to reach the door. “I would offer coffee. I haven’t made a food order today.” Ms. Kinsey was around his age. Deceptively tall. Robust-looking. But her walk, down on one side, showed the extent of her collapse. She mountaineered around the apartment, lunging at any support. He rarely considered prospects, delivering tasks to women. The app beat time and, anyway, too much could be misunderstood. The app provided resource against this risk. Customer service was customer-friendly. Friendly had bounds.

“You booked home rearrangement.”

“I didn’t know how else to describe it.” She stood on one foot to relieve the weight, an oddly coy stance. “I need my suitcases down.”

More conscious of damage here than in the old man’s cluttered pit, he contrived a gentle, sailing gesture to persuade the ladder between shiny paint. He never thought, at any rich level, about being in someone’s bedroom. What a bedroom invitation might otherwise weigh. He worked till he stopped. He slept without effort. He welcomed each busy day. His truck purring around the city was credit earned. He didn’t question the task givers. The clock was ticking.

This bedroom was a light space. High enough for primary sun. Sympathetic reflections cut shapes in white paint. In white linen, corners tucked, edges smooth. The table glass shot light across grey carpet. Its cleanness astounding.

Ms. Kinsey, awkward at the dressing table, its sparse and sensible product all hygiene. She reached to rub her ankle, a creased look of annoyance. “I appreciate it’s not much of a job. I can’t trust myself on steps.” One wall of the room, floor to ceiling, side to side, was the closet. Glass-fronted below attic cupboards. The ladderman’s reflection held the ladder keenly, its feet truffled the carpet, its body tight to his side. Ms. Kinsey’s reflection was solemn as she picked around under her slippers, testing her feet, massaging persistent pain.

“In the top cupboards?”

“You move to a place. You unpack. What do you do?” She straightened, for the mirror. “You’re optimistic. You think you won’t need your cases a long time.”

The carpet by the closet spiked with heel points, between uncrushed fiber sprung like rye. “The ladder might draw some ruts. They should ease out.”

“It’s a rental. The last tenant had a dresser. See the archeology.”

Four cupped dents guarded an untrodden oblong.

“Suitcases up top?” He set the ladder’s feet, regretting how it humbled soft material.

“I’ll give a hand. I’m not wholly done.”

He waited halfway up while she got to her feet and a minute went, in sideways gait, crossing the room. No doubt she was in pain. No doubt it galled her. But she should have booked a longer slot. It was just stealing time.

The cupboard doors gave readily, against weight piled inside them. Spare pillows. Old umbrellas. Small linens – napkins and such. He passed down these objects. She stacked them around her.

“It’s a pity that super didn’t help.” Because he could have. The super had ladders no charge.

“I don’t want to involve him.” She spoke quiet. “He knows everyone.”

The ladderman stepped higher. Her luggage, crammed to the back of the cupboard, a respectable matching three. “You want them all?”

“I need them all.” She took to one foot, wobbling primly.

Customer service was customer-friendly. “You have vacation?”

“If you just fetch them down I’m obliged.”

The cases resisted a while. Lapped over each other, wedged to the corners, he had to gain height, reach deep. They came loose with a suck of pleather. “They need just a shine to revive them. I have spray.”

She stroked the cases like something overdue at the veterinarian. “Thought I’d dig roots. Much as one can. My contract here has two years.”

Conversation, that salaried privilege. The app had his next task. Three on the bounce earned a swill of coffee. “It’s good luggage. May as well use it. You want these other things back up top?” She didn’t seem ready to answer, so he moved the items cautiously, lofting them two-handed, where performance was all. He closed the cupboard doors, wiped his fingermarks, unwilling, as sometimes he was, to descend. To meet life at ground level.

Ms. Kinsey opened the cases. She flattened their sides, coaxing them to optimum capacity.

“Thank you for prompt payment.”

“It’s physical business, this, you do. I suppose you have a truck?”

He folded clever aluminum limbs. “These marks in the carpet. Really, they’ll fade.”

“You never take the subway?”

Some guys did. Some lofted all kinds of equipment. “Not with the ladder.”

“Not other times?”

“There’s no need. Really.” Did she want him to engrave it? Seekers were specialists. Part-substitutable. Reviews made status, not small talk. “Have a good vacation.”

“I always took the subway. To the job. No thought about it. Down underground each morning. Back to the surface at night. A job is a good thing. Gives the day purpose.”

They never grasped the time they bought was cut from bigger time. Non-earning time, moving the ladder place to place. Attending the ladder. Keeping it lucrative. He had the next task. He should be gone. “Be careful. With the ankle.” It wasn’t transgression. She told him.

“In your truck I guess it’s you. And devices. What you see is always far side of some material. But the subway is up close. Bodies. Looking to exit.”

“I hear it’s busy.” The ladder a friendly, authoritative weight. Nosing its way to the door.

“You know the moving stairs.” Her hands made a rising, step on step. Her wrists all rigidity. “Everyone jostles a little. I don’t mean I’m discourteous.” She quailed at this notion. “You don’t always see. There’s people, their luggage. And equipment. People with equipment.”

He set down the ladder to open the door. Its sudden absence like ice. “Yeah, I hear.”

“I got close of someone. We collided, I guess. The stairs, all the movement. I couldn’t stop.” Her voice the bright edge of grass. “I was moving. Those moving stairs don’t stop. I didn’t mean to offend her. My ankle collapsed. I nearly fell. They took me to hospital. She cursed me.”

He had the door open. He held the ladder. “I’ve a task. I must go.”

“Now I can’t walk. Nor climb. My ankle is gone. She cursed me.” Her eyes were all. “I must move from here. From her.”

He maneuvered to the hallway. “Enjoy your vacation.”

This third task brought a less familiar district. A commercial zone at the highway ribbon. He didn’t get commercial jobs. There were specialists. Big trucks. Expansive equipment. A short notice commercial job meant an error to correct. Some embarrassment that couldn’t be charged to the project. And what was a ladder for but getting out from holes.

A little chilly around his kidneys. An empty building. Buildings changed hands. Grew and, sometimes, receded. Retooling didn’t indicate a problem. But there was no scaffold, no tent wrap, no banners enticing with what would come next. No trucks. No guys in headgear. The wrong type of empty. Coarsened, wind blown, behind gates too bent to shut. No one challenged his arrival. No security dusted his device. No one gave him the site procedures, the safety talk. Barren, caged from big box neighbors, the building could scarce exist in such disrepair.

He left his truck in view of the road – he could activate its hazard strip if needed. There were always patrols by the big stores.

The door stayed shut. It didn’t slide back. Its sensors fuzzed with dirt. He messaged the giver. A statement of presence. The ladder caught air. It tilted against his shoulder. He was confident with the ladder.

The man at the door had old skin, though his hair was dark and shapeless. Dressed for business, too formal for construction. But that need not make a misgiving. The task was present. The task was paid.

The door creaked against its runners, unlocked at some grip in the wall. That was okay. Security guys might need that. In case of a glitch. The man seemed surprised at air on his skin. His lips took a second to form. “The ladder.”

“You are Mr. Luck?”

His limbs fetched around in his clothes. “You arrive at the opportune moment. The time as booked.”

“The task wasn’t explicit.” The device in his pocket. “You said ‘ceiling work’?”

“I did say that. Come forward. That thing must be heavy.”

“It’s light for its size.”

Mr. Luck’s eyes took a slow journey. “Ingenious.”

The ladderman worked in people’s homes. Nothing was certain with people. Despite apps and therapeutics, they might still be inattentive. Over-focused. Less than specific. But a home at least had other homes, with better citizens, round it. The big stores weren’t so far out but this building felt noxiously lonely. Buildings shouldn’t be left to decay. Ordinances precluded negligence. And no signs of construction. Just this man overdressed.

“We’ll take the stairs,” said Mr. Luck. “There are elevators, but I am abundantly cautious. I’ll help with your burden.”

Mr. Luck walked backward upstairs, gripping the head of the ladder. He addressed himself to it awkwardly – squared shoulders, canted chest – his muscles unenthused by manual labor. The ladderman, lofting the feet, felt improper hurry. In reverse Mr. Luck moved quickly – the ladderman’s arms drawn up, his charge dragged from his care. The ladder dipped and bobbed and threatened the walls at each mezzanine. The stairs crumbed with grit. The lights filthy. He squinted along the ladder. He counted its bolts. He had to, or meet Mr. Luck’s eyes. The man subsumed his distaste for this work in exceptional effort. His eyes bulged. His cheeks darkened. Faint, cellulose moisture lit his brow. Each knuckle set, as though hands could do nothing but grip the ladder. Meld the ladder to his clumsy structure. The ladderman pulled back, even as he climbed forward. One shove and Mr. Luck would fall.

Likely this floor was a piece with the rest. A torn out tip of cracked pasteboard and split tiles. Wires hung from gaping runs where sockets had been salvaged. Broken-armed brackets drooped from ceilings shedding glass fiber. Daylight reluctant to pass dust-iced windows. Lights on backup supply barely there.

Breath captured by exertion, Mr. Luck indicated to set the ladder beside a metal case, clear of debris. The clock was ticking. Time only stretched so far. “You said ‘ceiling work’?”

“I did.” Mr. Luck coughed himself straight. “I said that. Excuse me. The dust.”

“What is this place?”

“We work the same platform. I’m a surveyor.”

The place was due work. First call the surveyor.

“My assistant brings the equipment. The ladder.”

“Are they expected?” He didn’t like to task share. The app encouraged collabs but the cut was thin.

“They had an accident. Not serious. But I’m left with no elevation.”

“Unfortunate.”

“It is unfortunate. I’m glad you could attend at short notice.” Mr. Luck tried a brogue at the lowest rung.

The ladderman flinched. “If you don’t mind I’ll see to the height work. Liability.”

With arch impatience Mr. Luck moved his foot from the ladder to the metal case, toeing open its latch. He stooped to pick a plastic box, creases sparking his business attire. “Remember these? No. You wouldn’t.”

A plastic box, caved and bent. The clock was ticking. There was barely ever time.

“It’s a video cassette case. Old technology. I store articles in it.”

The ladderman gripped the ladder. It must be his hand on the ladder. “I need to deliver the task, Mr. Luck. I have other givers.”

“You have your equipment. Your ladder. I’m a surveyor. I have my equipment.” He held the box two-handed. A jagged card bulged from its plastic clips. A man with a look of surprise and satisfaction. A building on fire. Unreadable monochrome text. Red-block words: Die Hard. It looked like nothing. It had no reference to anything known.

To abandon a task, to abscond, raised a penalty on the app. A downrating. To climb back from a downrating might take a year. In his history. His feed. He had to see every task through.

Mr. Luck gained outsize pleasure from opening the box. He squeezed each plastic catch with a delicate finger. He drew the hinged lid with steady pressure, shielding its splintered spine. “Of course I don’t have the video cassette,” he murmured. “That would be absurd.”

The box hummed with ticking, circular forms. Metal discs with beveled sides, each inlaid on its upper face with a round black screen, fading red as it captured light. The discs agitated, drawn, apparently, to Mr. Luck’s hands.

“That’s your equipment?” The ladderman didn’t know why he said it. He had only general ideas of surveying.

“If you’d be so good as to activate the safety features of your ladder, I need to deliver my task.”

“The ladder?”

A sadness to Mr. Luck’s mouth. “You see the void? Where the ceiling is disassembled. I have to set these devices along that concrete channel. It is,” he nodded, “a surveyor’s task.”

“I have no liability for people on the ladder.”

“I have liability.” That hardened voice from tightened skin. “My work involves height ordinarily. I’m familiar.”

Not right. An imposition. This man on the ladder. His brogues on the rungs. His soft, office fingers at its grips. And the clock was ticking. No task. Not yet. But another might come. “We’re nearly at time.”

“Then we should get on.” Mr. Luck’s shoulders probed beyond the fractured ceiling. The animation of his torso emphatic through his arms. Each few seconds, his hand would descend to select from the box. Each device, as he chose it, moved smoothly through his fingers, stretching brief red light across his skin.

“You should keep hold, at least with one hand.”

The headless spine paused in its mechanics. “Your concern is admirable. I’ll mention it in my review.”

“Thank you.” He couldn’t dismiss it. There were others who did this. Bigger trucks. Longer ladders. “Is your task completing?”

Again, that freeze, like talk through nitrogen. “Precise completion is hard to determine.” Mr. Luck moved down. Enough to show wary eyes. “Full deployment may not be sufficient.”

“I’m concerned for my next task.”

“You have a next task?”

“I may soon.”

Mr. Luck descended the ladder, a little flighty with the last steps.

The ladderman winced to hear metal sing out.

“Why don’t you complete for me?” Mr. Luck offered the box. “If you’re concerned to do something.”

“It’s my ladder.”

“It is your ladder.”

He knew the void above the tiles was dirty. Buildings were cleaned. But this building looked untouched since, perhaps, the last business moved out. Even closed space drew dust. Tied wires and silent conduits, their informational codes unscannable, hung bleakly from silted bolts, awaiting disposal. A pipe had ruptured, its long body panting wide. And these tight orbits of metal and glass spun keen red light across inert channels. Chained in lines, they seemed to call to each other. The ladderman picked one and gave a cry, the device hot and slippy against his palm.

“Alright up there?”

“What are these, Mr. Luck?”

“They measure. They interrogate.”

“There’s heat.”

“No more than an orthodontic scan.” Unforgivably, Mr. Luck nudged the ladder. Perhaps in excitement, he jogged its frame. Pressure echoed through the ladderman’s spine. “Set loose the rest. I know you’re busy.”

It wasn’t that simple. He wanted to tell the voice below it wasn’t the cakewalk as planned. Of course Mr. Luck began at the length of his arm, to play his devices outward. And they slipped and slalomed. They moved away. When the ladderman tried to place one between others a polarity force resisted. When he tried to extend the line, it moved beyond his reach. “Do they have a sequence?”

“What you say?”

“Mr. Luck, do they follow some order?”

“There is an order.” The careful voice. “They acknowledge each other. Function adapts to position.”

“So I can put them anywhere?”

“Set them loose, as I told you.” The ladder trembled again. “A busy man is best methodical.”

The ladderman completed what he could. He encouraged the little discs along the channel, hesitant of their sanguine light, sensing their communication in his fingers. From this small box, it seemed a great many devices. Or perhaps their oscillation multiplied them. Shifting back to daylight, he thumbed the wounded card clipped to the box lid. Its grainy give, nothing to signify what it meant. No connection with anything served to his off-work moments. Perhaps it was a joke, of a kind. No building caught fire.

Mr. Luck displayed needless caution, taking hold of the box. The box was empty. The little machines doing no doubt valuable labor. “You wouldn’t remember.” With conviction. “You never saw a video cassette.”

No task in the app. Its vibration absent. “I have to go.” It seemed insufficient. “I’m sure you have tasks.”

“In what world would that concern you?” Mr. Luck watched the ladder fold down. “Do you think of the future?”

That wasn’t a question. “I like to help people. I’m grateful to the app.”

“Yes, they need help.” Mr. Luck looked to the broken ceiling, as though called by his machines.

A ring of sour flesh burned the ladderman’s neck. The task had run long. Off the clock. “Have a successful day.”

“I shall.”

The ladder clinked and shivered against his shoulder. Strong, with ready muscles, its weight should be easy. His chest shouldn’t sting. He shouldn’t watch his feet, for fear of falling.

The ladder stowed, the truck seat closed around him. The app stayed quiet. Perhaps he should eat. The ladderman let the truck take decisions. Each touch of the wheel brought heat. The feel of slippy, agitated metal.

The truck stopped for patrols. It was mandatory.

The young officer walked from his vehicle with smooth, perceptible pressure. Embodied rules, no need to lay out where his authority came from. He noted the ladderman’s license. His app credentials.

“I appreciate the truck’s a little old. I’m working to make a trade.”

“Got rust on the rims. It stopped a little sluggish. That’s not why we pulled you.”

Cops were always plural. “I hope there’s nothing wrong.” He wanted to go earnest. He sounded scared. Cops didn’t move from their vehicles without reason.

“You just came from this address.” The data he skimmed from the app.

“I had a task. Height work.”

The cop’s face lost mobility. “Says that on the truck. We got the feed. You drive in, drive out. What height work?”

Deep in monochrome text, terms and conditions said tasks were subject to conventional analytics. To gauge patterns of use. To improve the app. Anyhow, this task was commercial. “With a fellow specialist. A surveyor. Exploratory work. You saw me drive out.”

“We saw.”

However the cop might play it next got lost in a devastation of concrete. A blast so energetic it filled the street.

Instant, the cop acquired rapid, precise instructions. These rare events were prepped. Sirens swarmed the corner. Black tubes filled fireproof gloves, wrapped on hard hands.

The ladderman went five steps when the first blow took him. Sour-tasting blacktop scorched his face. Obedient, he let the kick come in, knowing soon they’d hoist him away. The truck burst open. The ladder broke on the ground. All the while, the cops said the same thing. The same thing.