Free Upright Beasts by Lincoln Michel

I was king of if things had happened a little differently. And who knows, maybe I could have something like this someday still.
    I try Sarah yet again. “Hi, Sarah,” I say. “You’d never believe where I am right now!”
    I’d thought it was the voicemail again, but it was her actual voice.
    â€œWhat the fuck do you think you’re doing, Burt?” she screams. “I don’t have any goddamn number of any goddamn plumber. Call me one more time though, and I’ll use the number of the goddamn police!”
    â€œNow hold on,” I say, but she’s already hung up.
    I walk back to the kitchen, pour some more whiskey. I go to the couch and sit and stew. Then, I don’t know why, but I just start to cry.
    Petunia comes over, and I cover my eyes, pretend I’m laughing at something on TV .
    â€œI knew you were sad,” she says. She puts her little hand on my shoulder.
    â€œIt’s nothing.”
    â€œTell me about it,” she says. She gives me a serious look, like a cartoon psychologist.
    â€œIt’s just my ex,” I say. “She twisted my heart like a bendy straw.”
    â€œMy mommy always says you have to stand up for yourself,” she says. “That’s the only way people will respect you.”
    I take another gulp of whiskey, shrug my shoulders. She keeps asking me questions, and all I can say is that I don’t know how things ended up like this. I don’t know anything. I get a refill of whiskey and offer Petunia another juice box.
    â€œYou need to tell her how you feel, right now!” she says suddenly.
    â€œWe should wait here while the cement dries,” I say, waving my hand toward the window.
    â€œNo!” Petunia shouts. “Right now, mister.” She gives me this face that makes me think, Out of the mouths of babes, you know?
    I scribble a note for the mother on the door with the relevant details.
    â€œRoad trip!” Petunia says, her little hands filled with plastic-wrapped snacks.
    I check on the cement. I’d forgotten to take out the floaty duck, and its yellow butt is popping right out of the gunk.
    We peel out of the driveway in my truck. I turn on a little rock ’n’ roll on the radio.
    â€œThis okay? I don’t know what the Barney station is.”
    Petunia is opening a pack of Oreos. I can feel the whiskey working in me, and I roll down the windows, let the summer air in. I take a left at the light and then a right after the children-crossing sign.
    â€œHow much farther?” Petunia says.
    â€œNot much,” I say, but after we’ve been driving a while, I realize I can’t remember the way. I know Sarah now lives on a road named after a kind of tree. Is it Sycamore or Sugar Maple?
    We keep driving through the flat suburban grid. I try to sneak a look over the fences for possible clients.
    â€œI’m tired,” Petunia says.
    â€œDid we already pass that house?” I ask. I stick my head out the window, try to remember if I’ve seen those garden gnomesalready. The phone starts ringing in the loose change pit of my car.
    â€œSarah. Speak of the devil.”
    â€œSarah? This is Cynthia Hartman,” a female voice says. “Is this Burt the cement man?”
    â€œThe very same.”
    The voice gets louder. “Where the hell are you? And where is my daughter?”
    â€œDon’t worry, we’ll be back in a jiffy,” I say. “We’re just finishing a little errand. Can’t talk now.”
    I turn the wheel this way and that. We drive past dogs and children running around well-trimmed yards. Some of them try to wave at us as we pass.
    â€œI want to go back,” Petunia says. All her snack wrappers are empty and shining on her lap.
    â€œCome on, Petunia,” I say. “It’s right around the corner, I’m sure of it.”
    We turn on Spruce Street, take a left onto Sapling. I’m drumming on the steering wheel in