The Castle’s Walk-In Wine Cooler

A short story by T.C. Barrera
from the on-going series yet-to-find-a-home,“Counting the Birds”

“Eli… Listen… Long as the vents blow cold and the wine stays colder, these motherfuckers don’t give a fuck, alright? How much are ya thinkin’?”

I told Mickey, the boss, an honest estimation. It was going to be around sixteen hundred dollars, (labor and parts included), to do the necessary repairs on these rich folks’ walk-in wine cooler, home AC units, and the units in their separate guest home.

“Tell her eight thousand. Tell her that you’ve looked at the cost of parts; and that because of the nature of the repair and the cost of the parts that you need, it’ll be eight thousand.” Mickey paused, waiting for my response… Before I could answer, he interjected, “No, you know what? Tell them nine thousand. It would be ten, but we’re discounting labor because of the cost of repair. Yep. That’ll be perfect.”

“You got it, Mickey.” I knew I’d get some side cash for keeping them happy; so, I obliged.

Their mansion was in the Hills and had a long driveway enveloped in tall trees that made it feel like you were entering a different world as you went through the gate at the bottom of the drive. You were entering their kingdom. The gate, the moat; the drive, the drawbridge. This was where royalty lived.

I won’t bother with names. In their world, names mattered, but not as much as accolades. He, King, was a three-time winner of blank; six-time winner of something else; and, most importantly; twelve-time winner of some golden statue. She, Queen, his wife; owned businesses. She owned several clothing brands, makeup brands, brands, brands, and more brands. She was a former model; and, most famously, was a reality TV star.

I fuckin’ hated when that TV crew was around. Job took twice as long as it had to when they milled about. It was stop and go, and stop and go, rephrased into, “rolling! cut! rolling! cut!” screamed by some kid with far too serious a look on his face that looked like he’d snap in half if you tripped and bumped into him. Usually, I didn’t mind if it took long. I’d laze around a bit, enjoy being in the castle, and maybe sneak a swig out of an open bottle of liquor if no one was looking, (I knew exactly where the cameras were pointed). The trouble was, I was beholden; every time I was at this damn house, to the wrath of the house manager I was going to tell the “discounted” price to now. Her name was Mrs. Laura. The trouble with Mrs. Laura was that it was always “Eli, can it be done today? It really must be done today. They really must have this done by today and no later,” as if King, Queen, and kingdom alike would crumble and fall if the house couldn’t get colder than sixty-eight for just one day longer.

Mrs. Laura was one of those who was left inside while the rest of us got to play. This happened too many times to Mrs. Laura over too many years, through adolescence and into adulthood; that the golden sunlight that brought joy to others was acid on skin to her. That joy was bacteria to her; foreign bacteria that would be rooted out by the white blood cells of misery and wrath inherent in her. She was a black woman from Jasper, Georgia. She went to school in the city, met a man who got a job here in Los Angeles after college, and moved here with him to start their life together. He died shortly after the birth of their son, who himself, at thirteen, was gunned down at a bus stop, caught in a crossfire during a gang shootout.

This was more directly the cause of her wrath.

I knew all this because one job, King and Queen were out of the house and she took it upon herself to keep an eye on me while I worked. I’m not sure if the sun was shining brighter that day; or, if her misery blood cells were slow to produce, but we got to talking and she told me all that history and all that sadness all at once. It was the only time I’ve ever seen her smile. She smiled when she talked about her son. I tried my best to be nice to her, even though she was rarely nice to anyone.

She was not nice today.

“How much, Eli?” she asked; her voice cutting through air like a blunt butter knife. “Nine thousand dollars, Mrs. Laura.” She huffed. “Get to it. It can be done today, right?”

“I—”

“It simply must be done today, Eli. They’ve got important guests coming tomorrow, they told me themselves.” She pressed, and pressed, and pressed. “And the amount is approved? The cost is due to—” She interrupted. “I approve.”

“Then it’ll get done today.”

And that was that. The funny thing about house managers and Mrs. Laura particularly is that they don’t much care about the cost. They know King and Queen are good for it. We all knew they were good for it. They all knew… Mickey, Mrs. Laura, King, and Queen; that I was good for the work they were overpaying for too. We all had a part to play to keep the castle running.

It took a while, but I finished as the warm and happy sun set. I packed my tools, climbed down my ladder, and said a “good evening,” to Mrs. Laura. She snarled in response, but I could see in her eyes the sadness she tried to hide. She must have noticed, because, for once, she said good evening back. I was down the long drive and through the gate shortly after that. The company’s pockets were lined, the kingdom chugged along, King and Queen enjoyed their cold wine and cool air, and Mrs. Laura was still sad all the while.

That’s how it goes.

T C Barrera

Image by Juraj Varga from Pixabay – a collection of workman’s tools – pliers, wire, tweezers, scissors.