Free Savage by Nathaniel G. Moore

simple loop of track was set up as a surprise for Christmas morning. The board now served a larger purpose: outer space. It took several more laborious swishes to completely nullify the textured grey particleboard into solid black.
    I picked up the spray paint bottle and shook it vigorously, taking a deep breath as a jet of black mist blew across the basement onto the board.
    Again. Ventilation .
    But which window? The one in my room or one in the workshop basement? Or maybe the side door? Either way there would be questions from above: Nate, what are you doing down there? YOU BETTER NOT BE GETTING PAINT ALL —
    I propped open two basement windows letting in cold winter air that disrupted sawdust. It covered most of my sleeve before settling on the floor.
    In my highly choreographed basement lair, in which I pantomimed the grand creator role, I hammered, painted and affixed. My after-school ritual of transforming the unkempt space into something fantastic occupied my every spare minute.
    Over the past few months, plastic models, makeshift spaceship gears and mechanical innards were accumulating over the basement awaiting a mission, exaggerating my galactic fantasy camp.
    I had the school camera booked for the upcoming weekend when, in addition to a class project for English, I would shoot segments of my VHS sci-fi films, all part of my fictional escape plan.
    Dad was fettered to the kitchen phone, his head craned down, knocking back coffee and saying "I see," in an ongoing imitation of reality, furiously crossing out phone numbers and adding new ones, cribbing impossible notes. He was trying to locate any type of insurance job, the sector he’d worked in for nearly fifteen years—I can start immediately...
    All I had left to add were the stars, which I did with white spray paint and liquid paper.
    With a woooshhhhhhhhh from the can, a light white mist hit the black space void. I coughed, my eyes tearing up. I put my nose under my T-shirt collar and moved the basement door back and forth to move the fumes, trying to avoid the chemical daze.
    "Looking good!" I said to myself, as if addressing a film crew of sixty.
    Now I was hungry and dizzy. I came up from the basement as quietly as I could, still not completely used to him being home so early.
    At the top of the stairs, I watched the backs of Dad’s legs: his brown socks gaining a film of dust along his pivoting heel, his pant cuffs dipping into the surface of Sadie’s wet food.
    As I crossed the threshold of our off-yellow kitchen (its sour orb of egg-yellow a constant theme, running from wallpaper to tile to fridge colour), my eyes towered up along Dad’s form. He began rubbing his moustache as if it caused him great agitation; his index finger furiously moved through the orange and brown hairs, perhaps to extract a genie wish. I grabbed a plate and glass from the cupboard.
    When Dad spoke into the phone, his voice sounded as if his throat was swallowing him, each word barely breaking from within a vacuumed tone as he nervously pinpointed his vocational purpose. "Environmental risk and insurance, yes for twelve years...the complexities of pollution risk explained thoroughly to clients, yes, to make...exactly...informed decisions. I streamlined the underwriting process...four years or so...Environmental liabilities consulting...sure...on site...well, virtually any aspect of a manufacturing and distribution, especially those companies which may find...what was that? Yes, I worked on policy terms and premiums for almost fifteen years. Cleanup coverage? Yes, I was a specialist on those for I would say...the last four years or so. Yes, you may...I see...if nothing comes up, sure, yes. As soon as possible, that would be appreciated. Yes, 7355. Yes, the only phone number...that’s correct."
    I had my head inside the refrigerator, unscrewed a jar of kosher dill pickles, snagged one, let it drip out all wriggling wet, grabbed a cheese slice, unwrapped it,