Man V. Nature: Stories Read Online Free Page A

about to tense themselves off his bones. His face is unshaven, neglected. He has the skinny corpse and fat face of a drunk, and when I pull the door open he attempts to keep hold of the knocker and falls in, face-plants on my entryway Oriental.
    â€œWhiskey,” he moans, reaching for some imaginary tumbler.
    I think about swiping his open palm with my blade, but there is something about him that I like. His request is original. At least he’s trying.
    Where my driveway used to curve into a grand circular turnaround, the waves are mincing: they hiss, churn up crud and fish parts. But the ones in the distance are large and smooth; they conceal the city I used to look out at. They roll long like bedsheets drying in the wind, and I can feel their break.
    I didn’t think I could tire of the sound of crashing waves, but it never ends. It holds your attention like someone who can’t stop coughing. It grates. It might be nice to listen to something else for a change. Plus, I’m tired of my music.
    I know I probably shouldn’t, but I kick his feet toward an ornamental umbrella stand, get him full-bodied into the house, and close and lock the door. He wants whiskey? I don’t care for it, and I have too much as it is. Besides, I’ve always liked having drinkers around. They often surprise.
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    The man—he grumbles that his name is Gary—doesn’t even take the stack of crackers I offer him. He flings them like dice and messily pours another glass.
    â€œIce,” he slurs.
    I shake my head. The fridge is dormant. My food is canned. And the kind of whiskey I keep should be enjoyed sans ice.
    He’s so at ease in his stupor. Though he arrived sopping, if he asked me what’s with all this water, I wouldn’t be the least surprised.
    Now he wears one of my bespoke suits, bespoken on a trip abroad, in fact. He wears it like he’s a metal hanger, but it’s a bit tight on me. I’m not ashamed. I live a good life.
    I make a list of chores for him, written out like a contract.
    â€œIf you’re going to live here, you’re going to work,” I say, and slide it over for him to sign. He does so without reading. Irresponsible.
    So I read it to him. “The contract states that in exchange for room and board, Gary will guard the house and take care of any beggars or intruders. He will refill the flush buckets with seawater so we can flush our toilets like civilized people. He will throw our empty cans, bottles, and uneaten food out the back door each night to avoid smells. He will help the owner with weekly cleanings of the house. He will perform all other duties the owner asks.”
    There are plenty of extra bedrooms for him to stay in, but it’s my house. So for the first night, I set him up on the study love seat with some fine sheets and a goose down pillow. He scrunches into it, keeping one eye open as he sleeps, one foot up on the coffee table and the other leg bent, perfectly right-angled, foot flat on the floor, ready. For what? To run? Though the water is creeping closer to the house, I’m not sure that’s it.
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    The far stand of houses is gone. Where there should be rickety multifamilies, I see water flat like a prairie, occasional whale spouts blurring the horizon line. The glare off all that water is like looking right at the sun.
    I see my neighbor padding around the sleeping bodies in his halfway home for derelicts. He is dressed in a tattered robe, his beard long and unkempt. I can practically smell him.
    I catch his eye across the moat and mime a drowned body, limbs, head, and tongue hung and bobbing, and then point to where the houses had stood. He looks, rubs his eyes, and drops to his knees. Some of the criminals he’s invited into his home take this opportunity to rob him. Their hands work him over, dig in his bathrobe pockets, his hair, while he shudders with grief. Something is yanked from under his arm, and they disperse so