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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019t first or only at this. A hundred profiles drove a ladder. His username got recognition, his reviews \u2013 when people remembered \u2013 in the high points. But store coffee was slippage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The vinyls on his truck promoted the app without suggesting a flesh connection. Task seekers were freelance. They owed the app. The app wasn\u2019t liable. Their decals and materials should promote the app. But the app didn\u2019t 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\u2019d need new vinyls. They stuck one time only. They couldn\u2019t be lifted. A new truck meant a new plate, which went to verification. He might lose an hour\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019s 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\u2019s not all fun, those labels said. Give ladders respect.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He showed his credentials to the door and waited. The ladderman was punctual; he liked when customers reciprocated. Some didn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019t wish to share.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMr. Stevins?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThank you for being prompt.\u201d Stevins tried to make space and got in the way. \u201cIt\u2019s a family matter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019t 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. \u201cYou booked a window clean, Mr. Stevins. Polish and shine.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPolish and shine.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow many windows?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAll of \u2019em. They all need the treatment.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMaybe I start in here.\u201d He rested the ladder\u2019s feet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNot upstairs?\u201d The old man\u2019s screwy, pleated face held shock.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWell, I\u2019m in here.\u201d The clock was ticking. The app beat time in his pocket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon\u2019t you clean a house head to heel?\u201d Stevins\u2019 tone suggested a lifetime habit upended.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019t do it. In the bucket his cloths, his wiper and spray. No need for water. Water and windows was best avoided.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Stevins disentangled from the hoist. He clung at the door, expecting turbulence. \u201cYou do outside?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019ll see what I manage from here. These flip right out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s different from outside. Those corners are tricky.\u201d Stevins walked to the bed \u2013 a flicker book, limbs jerked to move. He sat with earnest sadness that irked the ladderman. You didn\u2019t show anger with task givers. The app was insistent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFine little place you have.\u201d It might be, with less junk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDoes for me. Does well.\u201d Stevins rummaged his phone, holding it close to his eyes though everything scaled. \u201cIt\u2019s a family matter. Why I needed you early.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019t care for family matters. \u201cNothing cheers a place like bright windows.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI want them to see that.\u201d Slow fingers chumped the phone screen. \u201cThey\u2019re here in two hours.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In people\u2019s 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\u2019t need reasons. \u201cThis won\u2019t be two hours.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI should tidy.\u201d Stevins poked a bale of towels. They rose and settled. \u201cMeant to, last night. I get tired.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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. \u201cYou did your share.\u201d That was the trick, with old people. Assure them no one expected more. \u201cYou can enjoy it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Stevins coughed untidily, spit across his chin. \u201cThey want this place. They think I don\u2019t know their talk of helping me out means just that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019t bonded to process. Step one was distract. \u201cAll clean here. I\u2019ll do the bathroom, then downstairs. You don\u2019t have another room up here?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFor my wife\u2019s things. She loved the sunlight.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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 \u2013 clothes and accessories, make up and souvenirs. Objects that carried meaning to Stevins\u2019 imaginings. The room\u2019s residual furniture cowed with bygones. Slow and delicate to weave the ladder through. \u201cThis needs attention.\u201d The window matted and filthy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s why I called you,\u201d Stevins wheezed. \u201cI want them to know I can manage.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Credits transferred. The old man didn\u2019t tip.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNow the sun can get in.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019ll show them.\u201d Stevins shuffled aimlessly on the rug. \u201cI can keep my windows clean. They don\u2019t need to take me away.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo they don\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThey\u2019re grabby. But I\u2019ll fix them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThey can\u2019t take my home. Can they, huh? They can\u2019t make me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Those neat stacked boxes. The guy who got that removal would need a spine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019t always possible, not knowing the tasks. Even with an intelligent vehicle, the quickest route wasn\u2019t always the slickest. Parking wasn\u2019t assured. Especially at blocks like this: a foursquare concrete divot over retail. Cameras watched him cruise. More than twice around was suspect.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNot there.\u201d 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. \u201cYou can\u2019t street park. You got to pay in the tower.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The motor purred compliantly. \u201cOne of your residents booked a task.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThey should have comped you a permit. No permit, pay in the tower.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When the ladderman got there, the super had strength for fresh fun. \u201cYou don\u2019t take that in the elevator.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The ladderman ate a hard breath. \u201cI not told you where I\u2019m going.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m in charge.\u201d The super gave a slow nod. \u201cYou don\u2019t 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.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m here for Ms. Kinsey.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTake the stairs.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019t live without climbing higher than they could reach. Some of these buildings were fancy. Some, basic but homey. All needed a ladder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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. \u201cI would offer coffee. I haven\u2019t made a food order today.\u201d 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou booked home rearrangement.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t know how else to describe it.\u201d She stood on one foot to relieve the weight, an oddly coy stance. \u201cI need my suitcases down.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
More conscious of damage here than in the old man\u2019s 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\u2019s 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\u2019t question the task givers. The clock was ticking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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. \u201cI appreciate it\u2019s not much of a job. I can\u2019t trust myself on steps.\u201d One wall of the room, floor to ceiling, side to side, was the closet. Glass-fronted below attic cupboards. The ladderman\u2019s reflection held the ladder keenly, its feet truffled the carpet, its body tight to his side. Ms. Kinsey\u2019s reflection was solemn as she picked around under her slippers, testing her feet, massaging persistent pain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIn the top cupboards?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou move to a place. You unpack. What do you do?\u201d She straightened, for the mirror. \u201cYou\u2019re optimistic. You think you won\u2019t need your cases a long time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The carpet by the closet spiked with heel points, between uncrushed fiber sprung like rye. \u201cThe ladder might draw some ruts. They should ease out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s a rental. The last tenant had a dresser. See the archeology.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Four cupped dents guarded an untrodden oblong.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSuitcases up top?\u201d He set the ladder\u2019s feet, regretting how it humbled soft material.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019ll give a hand. I\u2019m not wholly done.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The cupboard doors gave readily, against weight piled inside them. Spare pillows. Old umbrellas. Small linens \u2013 napkins and such. He passed down these objects. She stacked them around her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s a pity that super didn\u2019t help.\u201d Because he could have. The super had ladders no charge.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t want to involve him.\u201d She spoke quiet. \u201cHe knows everyone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The ladderman stepped higher. Her luggage, crammed to the back of the cupboard, a respectable matching three. \u201cYou want them all?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI need them all.\u201d She took to one foot, wobbling primly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Customer service was customer-friendly. \u201cYou have vacation?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIf you just fetch them down I\u2019m obliged.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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. \u201cThey need just a shine to revive them. I have spray.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She stroked the cases like something overdue at the veterinarian. \u201cThought I\u2019d dig roots. Much as one can. My contract here has two years.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Conversation, that salaried privilege. The app had his next task. Three on the bounce earned a swill of coffee. \u201cIt\u2019s good luggage. May as well use it. You want these other things back up top?\u201d She didn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ms. Kinsey opened the cases. She flattened their sides, coaxing them to optimum capacity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThank you for prompt payment.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s physical business, this, you do. I suppose you have a truck?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He folded clever aluminum limbs. \u201cThese marks in the carpet. Really, they\u2019ll fade.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou never take the subway?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Some guys did. Some lofted all kinds of equipment. \u201cNot with the ladder.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNot other times?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThere\u2019s no need. Really.\u201d Did she want him to engrave it? Seekers were specialists. Part-substitutable. Reviews made status, not small talk. \u201cHave a good vacation.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI 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.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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. \u201cBe careful. With the ankle.\u201d It wasn\u2019t transgression. She told him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIn your truck I guess it\u2019s you. And devices. What you see is always far side of some material. But the subway is up close. Bodies. Looking to exit.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI hear it\u2019s busy.\u201d The ladder a friendly, authoritative weight. Nosing its way to the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou know the moving stairs.\u201d Her hands made a rising, step on step. Her wrists all rigidity. \u201cEveryone jostles a little. I don\u2019t mean I\u2019m discourteous.\u201d She quailed at this notion. \u201cYou don\u2019t always see. There\u2019s people, their luggage. And equipment. People with equipment.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He set down the ladder to open the door. Its sudden absence like ice. \u201cYeah, I hear.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI got close of someone. We collided, I guess. The stairs, all the movement. I couldn\u2019t stop.\u201d Her voice the bright edge of grass. \u201cI was moving. Those moving stairs don\u2019t stop. I didn\u2019t mean to offend her. My ankle collapsed. I nearly fell. They took me to hospital. She cursed me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He had the door open. He held the ladder. \u201cI\u2019ve a task. I must go.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNow I can\u2019t walk. Nor climb. My ankle is gone. She cursed me.\u201d Her eyes were all. \u201cI must move from here. From her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He maneuvered to the hallway. \u201cEnjoy your vacation.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This third task brought a less familiar district. A commercial zone at the highway ribbon. He didn\u2019t get commercial jobs. There were specialists. Big trucks. Expansive equipment. A short notice commercial job meant an error to correct. Some embarrassment that couldn\u2019t be charged to the project. And what was a ladder for but getting out from holes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A little chilly around his kidneys. An empty building. Buildings changed hands. Grew and, sometimes, receded. Retooling didn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He left his truck in view of the road \u2013 he could activate its hazard strip if needed. There were always patrols by the big stores.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The door stayed shut. It didn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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. \u201cThe ladder.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou are Mr. Luck?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His limbs fetched around in his clothes. \u201cYou arrive at the opportune moment. The time as booked.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe task wasn\u2019t explicit.\u201d The device in his pocket. \u201cYou said \u2018ceiling work\u2019?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI did say that. Come forward. That thing must be heavy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s light for its size.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mr. Luck\u2019s eyes took a slow journey. \u201cIngenious.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The ladderman worked in people\u2019s 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\u2019t so far out but this building felt noxiously lonely. Buildings shouldn\u2019t be left to decay. Ordinances precluded negligence. And no signs of construction. Just this man overdressed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe\u2019ll take the stairs,\u201d said Mr. Luck. \u201cThere are elevators, but I am abundantly cautious. I\u2019ll help with your burden.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mr. Luck walked backward upstairs, gripping the head of the ladder. He addressed himself to it awkwardly \u2013 squared shoulders, canted chest \u2013 his muscles unenthused by manual labor. The ladderman, lofting the feet, felt improper hurry. In reverse Mr. Luck moved quickly \u2013 the ladderman\u2019s 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\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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. \u201cYou said \u2018ceiling work\u2019?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI did.\u201d Mr. Luck coughed himself straight. \u201cI said that. Excuse me. The dust.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat is this place?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe work the same platform. I\u2019m a surveyor.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The place was due work. First call the surveyor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMy assistant brings the equipment. The ladder.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAre they expected?\u201d He didn\u2019t like to task share. The app encouraged collabs but the cut was thin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThey had an accident. Not serious. But I\u2019m left with no elevation.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cUnfortunate.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt is unfortunate. I\u2019m glad you could attend at short notice.\u201d Mr. Luck tried a brogue at the lowest rung.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The ladderman flinched. \u201cIf you don\u2019t mind I\u2019ll see to the height work. Liability.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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. \u201cRemember these? No. You wouldn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A plastic box, caved and bent. The clock was ticking. There was barely ever time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s a video cassette case. Old technology. I store articles in it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The ladderman gripped the ladder. It must be his hand on the ladder. \u201cI need to deliver the task, Mr. Luck. I have other givers.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou have your equipment. Your ladder. I\u2019m a surveyor. I have my equipment.\u201d 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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. \u201cOf course I don\u2019t have the video cassette,\u201d he murmured. \u201cThat would be absurd.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019s hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s your equipment?\u201d The ladderman didn\u2019t know why he said it. He had only general ideas of surveying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIf you\u2019d be so good as to activate the safety features of your ladder, I need to deliver my task.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe ladder?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A sadness to Mr. Luck\u2019s mouth. \u201cYou see the void? Where the ceiling is disassembled. I have to set these devices along that concrete channel. It is,\u201d he nodded, \u201ca surveyor\u2019s task.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI have no liability for people on the ladder.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI have liability.\u201d That hardened voice from tightened skin. \u201cMy work involves height ordinarily. I\u2019m familiar.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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. \u201cWe\u2019re nearly at time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThen we should get on.\u201d Mr. Luck\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou should keep hold, at least with one hand.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The headless spine paused in its mechanics. \u201cYour concern is admirable. I\u2019ll mention it in my review.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThank you.\u201d He couldn\u2019t dismiss it. There were others who did this. Bigger trucks. Longer ladders. \u201cIs your task completing?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Again, that freeze, like talk through nitrogen. \u201cPrecise completion is hard to determine.\u201d Mr. Luck moved down. Enough to show wary eyes. \u201cFull deployment may not be sufficient.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m concerned for my next task.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou have a next task?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI may soon.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mr. Luck descended the ladder, a little flighty with the last steps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The ladderman winced to hear metal sing out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy don\u2019t you complete for me?\u201d Mr. Luck offered the box. \u201cIf you\u2019re concerned to do something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s my ladder.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt is your ladder.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAlright up there?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat are these, Mr. Luck?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThey measure. They interrogate.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThere\u2019s heat.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo more than an orthodontic scan.\u201d Unforgivably, Mr. Luck nudged the ladder. Perhaps in excitement, he jogged its frame. Pressure echoed through the ladderman\u2019s spine. \u201cSet loose the rest. I know you\u2019re busy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It wasn\u2019t that simple. He wanted to tell the voice below it wasn\u2019t 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. \u201cDo they have a sequence?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat you say?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMr. Luck, do they follow some order?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThere is an order.\u201d The careful voice. \u201cThey acknowledge each other. Function adapts to position.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSo I can put them anywhere?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSet them loose, as I told you.\u201d The ladder trembled again. \u201cA busy man is best methodical.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mr. Luck displayed needless caution, taking hold of the box. The box was empty. The little machines doing no doubt valuable labor. \u201cYou wouldn\u2019t remember.\u201d With conviction. \u201cYou never saw a video cassette.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No task in the app. Its vibration absent. \u201cI have to go.\u201d It seemed insufficient. \u201cI\u2019m sure you have tasks.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIn what world would that concern you?\u201d Mr. Luck watched the ladder fold down. \u201cDo you think of the future?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That wasn\u2019t a question. \u201cI like to help people. I\u2019m grateful to the app.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes, they need help.\u201d Mr. Luck looked to the broken ceiling, as though called by his machines.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A ring of sour flesh burned the ladderman\u2019s neck. The task had run long. Off the clock. \u201cHave a successful day.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI shall.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The ladder clinked and shivered against his shoulder. Strong, with ready muscles, its weight should be easy. His chest shouldn\u2019t sting. He shouldn\u2019t watch his feet, for fear of falling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The truck stopped for patrols. It was mandatory.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019s license. His app credentials.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI appreciate the truck\u2019s a little old. I\u2019m working to make a trade.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGot rust on the rims. It stopped a little sluggish. That\u2019s not why we pulled you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Cops were always plural. \u201cI hope there\u2019s nothing wrong.\u201d He wanted to go earnest. He sounded scared. Cops didn\u2019t move from their vehicles without reason.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou just came from this address.\u201d The data he skimmed from the app.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI had a task. Height work.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The cop\u2019s face lost mobility. \u201cSays that on the truck. We got the feed. You drive in, drive out. What height work?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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. \u201cWith a fellow specialist. A surveyor. Exploratory work. You saw me drive out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe saw.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
However the cop might play it next got lost in a devastation of concrete. A blast so energetic it filled the street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019d 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.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":43,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_editorskit_title_hidden":false,"_editorskit_reading_time":0,"_editorskit_is_block_options_detached":false,"_editorskit_block_options_position":"{}","_themeisle_gutenberg_block_has_review":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"art_contributors":[],"literary_contributors":[466],"class_list":["post-6034","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","literary_contributors-wagstaff-mark"],"acf":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6034","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/43"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=6034"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6034\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":6035,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6034\/revisions\/6035"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6034"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6034"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6034"},{"taxonomy":"art_contributors","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/art_contributors?post=6034"},{"taxonomy":"literary_contributors","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/novusliterary.com\/2025-archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/literary_contributors?post=6034"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}