Introductions
“Goddamnit,” Sam yelled, holding his cut hand steady as the man of the scrapyard cleaned it with an alcohol-wipe.
“You need to hold still,” the man said, keeping ahold of the back of Sam’s wounded hand, “I won’t be able to do anything if you keep squirming.”
“It hurts, okay!”
“This type of thing tends to do that,” the man said in reply, his eyebrows furrowed and eyes looking at Sam as though he were an annoying child. Eventually, he turned his attention back to Sam’s cut, which had been more ragged than Sam remembered, “Here, try talking. It might take your mind off of the pain. How did you hurt your hand?”
“Okay, sure, I’ll just…talk,” Sam said as he cautiously watched the alcohol-wipe come closer to his cut. He couldn’t keep his eyes on it for long, however, as once it came close to the wound, he was forced to look away. He still couldn’t look at the jagged laceration, “I forgot exactly how I got cut, it was all a bit of a blur. I guess I got distracted by something and wasn’t looking at what I was doing or where I was going. Next thing I know, my hand is—ah!”
Sam hissed as the cloth touched skin, stifling his breath.
“Do you know what you cut it on?”
“Yes,” Sam managed to say between the fits of pain from cleaning the wound. Once the man stopped and turned back to his first aid kit, Sam continued, “A piece of bent sheet metal. The kind you’d see on a roof, I think.”
The man turned back, gauze in hand, “Do you have your Tetanus shots?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good.”
The man began to wrap the gauze around Sam’s hand, occasionally pausing and asking if it was too tight. After a few wraps around, he pulled out a pair of scissors from the old, rusty box with chipping white and red paint and cut the gauze. After, he placed the gauze back into the box, pulled out some medical tape, taped the gauze in place, then placed all of the materials back into the first aid kit. Once he was assured that the new bandages would remain in place, he stood, taking the first aid kit and placing it back on a shelf he had retrieved it from.
As he left Sam, Sam was able to look at his surroundings in the shed to a fuller extent. Presently, he was sat upon what looked like an army cot, its pillow and blankets perfectly made and untouched—perhaps even a little dusty. On the ceiling spun a fan with one lightbulb dangling down from its center, occasionally flickering. Aside from a corner room on the opposite side of the shed, there were no separating walls. The whole of the building was open and organized like an apartment. To the right of a small corner room—which was likely a bathroom—was a kitchen equipped with a minifridge, sink, cabinets, and a hotplate. Along the wall across from Sam were large windows which looked out onto the Medusa’s garden of scrap statues. There was a table next to the left window and a planter lining the right. Besides a desk littered with papers and bits of scrap at the foot of the cot, the only other furnishings in the building was a few bookshelves of various sizes—all of them filled with books, miniature sculptures, and boxes.
“This is amazing,” Sam said under his breath.
“Did you say something?”
Sam turned to see the man standing in front of him, his arms crossed.
“Um, nothing,” Sam said, stammering slightly, “But…what is this place?”
“First things first,” the man said, moving to grab one of the chairs at the table, “Who are you?”
“I’m Sam.”
“Sam who?”
“Uh, Reynolds—Sam Reynolds.”
“Okay, Sam,” the man sat down in the chair and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, “Why are you here, exactly?”
Sam explained his situation, describing his curiosity over the past few years during his travel from the city and back. He described his trip through the scrapyard—leaving out the embarrassing mental-breakdown moments—and eventually told the whole of his tale. Once he finished talking, he noticed the man staring in his direction. His gaze, however, seemed somewhat distant.
“What is your name,” Sam asked, now leaning forward himself, “And what is this place?”
The question seemed to take the man by the surprise, almost as though it brought him out of a daze. He looked Sam in the eyes, this time seeming aware and in-the-moment.
“I’m Foster Candella…This is—or was—a little project of my grandfather’s,” a smile crept onto his face as he gestured to the space around him. He leaned back in his chair and sighed, “I guess he would have appreciated that someone had noticed this place. It was a part of his pride,” he paused, “Would you like a drink?”
Sam was somewhat taken aback. “What? Um, sure,” he managed to say before Foster stood, walking over to the minifridge.
“Sorry, I’m…not very good with people. At least, not here,” Foster said sheepishly as he removed from the fridge two bottles of water. He walked back to Sam, handing over one of the two bottles and sitting back down, “I’ve never had visitors down here, but considering the fact that you managed to make your way through the scrapyard on your own? I guess I may as well act the part of host. I think it’s what the old man would’ve wanted, too.”
He took a drink then sighed as his eyes glanced towards the desk to Sam’s left.
“So,” Sam said, the bottle of water sitting in his hands, unopened, “What was this place to your grandfather? And what are those statues?”
“This was his workshop—the statues are what he worked on,” Foster stood, walking over to the window, looking out onto the statues. Sam stood to join him, “This was a sort of…art exhibit. At least in his mind,” he moved and reached for a thick book from one of the bookshelves. It had various papers sticking from it; its leather cover was worn and stretched out at the seams, “This is a binder of his various sketches and artworks. Most of them were made,” he opened the binder and showed various artworks, pointing towards their real-life counterparts in the space in front of the shed, “A few of them were too ambitious for even him to build,” he turned the page to an intricate sculpture that, according to the sketches, would transform and move by various mechanisms and controls, “And only one was never finished,” he pointed finally to the center sculpture Sam had noticed earlier, “It’s the last one he made. I’ve considered finishing it…but I think it fits better as is.”
There was a pause—a brief beat—where neither of them did anything. There was almost a silent appreciation observed by both of them, a non-verbal agreement of homage.
“Anyway,” Foster said, breaking the silence. He closed the old, leather binder and placed it back on the shelf. He rubbed the back of his neck as he turned to Sam, “I had planned to stay here for a bit, but with you here it… gets,” he paused, trying to gather the right words, “What I am trying to say is that I can guide you back through the yard so that you don’t get hurt again or lost, but I don’t want to make the trip all the way down there only to turn back.”
“I could leave by myself,” Sam started to say but was cut off by Foster.
“No, no. It’s fine. I know the yard like the back of my hand. I’ll show you the way out, it’s no problem. I’m also fine with you being here if that’s a concern. As I said, the old man probably would have liked it. What I mean is,” Foster’s eyes widened and looked quickly away from Sam, blushing. Neither of the two had seemed to notice, but—up until that moment—Foster had been staring into Sam’s eyes at an intensity he hadn’t expected of himself. Sam, taking notice of Foster’s reaction, looked away in kind, “I was wondering if you would like to stay here until I finished what I meant to do, or until you absolutely needed to leave.”
Sam turned his head back to look at Foster and found him looking right back. As their eyes met again, however, they both turned to avoid the other’s gaze.
“Um…sure,” Sam said, his uninjured hand clasped onto his forearm nervously, “That would be nice.”
“Good. Well,” Foster moved from the window and walked towards the desk. He picked something up from its surface, folded and placed it into his pocket, and moved towards the door, “I need to go out into the scrap heaps for a moment. You…” he paused, turning to look at Sam, “You’re free to look around or to help yourself to anything in the fridge. Just… be careful not to break anything, okay?”
“Understood.”
“Thanks,” Foster said, a toothy smile spreading across his face as he left the shed.
Sam looked out the window and watched as Foster departed and made his way into the distance, disappearing down one of the various pathways of the scrapyard. Once he was out of view, Sam exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Moving to the table, he sat down and took a drink from his—until then—unopened bottle of water.
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