Free McMansion by Justin Scott

the banks calling in their loans. Development had been so hot so long it was easy to forget the bad times when the banks shut everybody down and then the Feds shut the banks down. There were years—a long way back—when there was not a single pickup truck at the General Store buying coffee in the morning.
    The repo man crawled out from under the front of the bus and moved a lever on the side of his truck. The boom groaned and the front of the bus began to rise from the driveway.
    â€œBesides, Billy knew you people on Main Street still looked down on him, no matter how much money he made.” Jimmy’s matter-of-fact observation of the tattered remnants of the old social order before the population doubled was delivered without rancor.
    â€œSo what did he have against you?”
    â€œNothing. I was handy. If somebody else was standing nearer he’d have asked him.”
    â€œWhat did the cops say when you said you were driving it for Billy?”
    â€œThey asked did I work for him. I said I used to. Not any more. So why would you be driving a truck for him? they asked. I said, ask Billy. They went to Billy and Billy and Eddie Edwards told them I asked if I could park the truck in Billy’s barn.”
    â€œTheir word against yours?”
    â€œI couldn’t prove I didn’t. The cops couldn’t prove I had actually stolen the truck, thank God. But the railroad and the parents were on my case, so they settled for taking away my license.”
    â€œSo everyone went home happy.”
    â€œExcept me. No license. I couldn’t drive the baseball teams last spring. Couldn’t drive for summer school. I couldn’t drive anything to make my payments.”
    â€œDid you confront Billy?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œHe laughed at me.”
    â€œThat must have pissed you off.”
    Jimmy watched his bus disappear around the corner. “When I heard that kid got him with the bulldozer I said to myself, ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’”
    I looked at him closely. “That was a pretty fancy job of bulldozer driving from what I saw.”
    â€œI could have done it easy. I’ve been running machines my whole life….All I can say is I hope the kid gets off.” He stared, blinking mournfully at the empty space in his driveway. “Couldn’t they get him time off for public service?”
    â€œI’ll suggest that to his lawyer.”
    Jimmy manufactured a smile.
    â€œSo what are you going to do?” I asked him.
    â€œSee if I can find a job. Before they take my house.”
    â€œYou behind?”
    â€œOnly five months.”
    â€œMaybe you can work something out.”
    â€œAre you kidding? The mortgage company wants this house for a tear down. They already foreclosed on my neighbor.” It finally registered on me that the empty house next door had no For Sale sign. “With all the building going on the land’s worth more than the houses. They’ll tear both down, make one big lot and stick a McMansion on it.”
    ***
    It looked like date night at Home Depot.
    Couples were streaming in for a do-it-yourself evening out, sparkling with hope. The women wore makeup and had done their hair. Their guys hadn’t gone to quite as much trouble in the looks department, but most had showered, recently, and slapped some mousse on their hair or covered it with a clean cap. Walking in alone and feeling suddenly out of it, I recalled a time when I was a kid before guys rubbed “hair product” in their hair, before they invented Home Depot—back when lumber yards existed for the express purposes of humiliating men who weren’t contractors and offering women an opportunity to be leered at indoors.
    Many women appeared to be test driving new guys. The guys looked happy to buy into Home Depot’s I-can-do-it-myself promise—build that deck, tile that bathroom, install that Jacuzzi,