Our guest judge Terry Persun chose Cyndi Lloyd’s story “Recess” as the second place winner in Writing It Real’s Spring/Summer 2013 Writing Contest. He commented:

I like the way this writer was able to draw out several different personalities in such a small space. I felt as though I knew these men and the older woman by the end of the story. There were several places where this could have turned dark, and didn’t, which kept me curious until the end…a well written story about human nature.

Cyndi was pleased with Terry’s words but also felt the irony of his selecting her story in the revised form she’d entered. She explains:

I wrote Recess a few years ago while in college, and the professor provided me with changes to the story which cut out pertinent information, such as the main character’s financial situation with his wife, his thoughts on their spending habits and credit, and how the process of removal works. Against my better judgment, I made the advised changes, sacrificing the story in order to get the good grade (A-). Upon receiving Sheila’s feedback, I felt a sense of vindication because some of her comments pertained to those parts I had cut, even though I knew they were essential to the story. My lesson learned: not to give up because one person’s suggestions on my writing may not be best for the story, and like in health care, it’s beneficial to get a second opinion.

Recess
by Cyndi Lloyd

Welcome to another day of foreclosure paradise,” Nate says.

“Yeah, you’ve got that right. Someone else’s loss is our gain,” Anthony says. The two men bump fists. He flips the truck’s air conditioner to high.

Anthony Michaels turns the white work truck onto a suburban street in the eastside of Sacramento with Marshal and Tom behind in the other truck. Anthony and his team had already cleaned out quite a few houses in this neighborhood last week. “Bank owned” for sale signs dot the rundown landscapes. Day after day Anthony stares foreclosure in the face while he clears out the foreclosed houses of previous homeowners, houses he used to sell, but with real estate tanking, he took the first job he could find to bring in a paycheck. Three months after the recession hit, his wife, Lena, was laid off from the car dealership and has been unemployed for seven months. He fears seeing one of those “bank owned” signs in front of his home, so he uses their credit cards to help cover their $2,109 mortgage, and then he does what he can to make ends meet.

For Anthony, cleaning out houses is like an  archeological dig. Many of the houses contain perishables in the kitchen, along with dishes and small appliances, furniture of all sizes and shapes, window and wall coverings, clothes, computers, video games, papers, and pictures. He scrutinizes the objects in terms of value, determining which ones he’ll keep and those that can turn a quick buck. The rest gets hauled to the dump.

“Hey, what’d you decide to do with that computer system from that house last Friday? Anthony asks. He maneuvers the truck up to a yellow two-story house with a low-fenced yard in the middle of a cul-de-sac.

“No good. I hooked her up, and it didn’t have Windows Vista. So I took it down to Pawns and Pieces. Got twenty for that bulky monitor and thirty for the hard drive,” Nate answers.

“Fifty bucks you didn’t have,” Anthony says.

They’d already cleaned out nine houses today. Anthony grabs his clipboard and confirms the address of the house matches his list. “231 East Peach Street,” He says. He picks up the CB and radios Marshal and Tom, saying, “Green light.” All the men, in their late 20s, dressed in jeans and T-shirts that say “Cromwell Cleaners” across the back, descend from the trucks. Outside, Anthony feels the sun’s heat and hopes the house has electricity. They’d already been in seven houses today without electricity.

A vacate notice for the bank’s seizure remains on the door. Anthony opens the lockbox, and he and his team enter the house. They do a walk through first, assessing the contents.

Nate turns to Anthony and says, “Yeah! It’s fully loaded!”

Food fills cabinets and the running refrigerator. Clothes hang in the closets, toiletries lay in cabinets, furniture adorns each room, and plants thrive in their plastic pots. The place looks like it’s still occupied.

“Hey, check this out,” Marshal says and points to a hutch full of antique-looking china and crystal. “This should get a pretty penny.”

“Na, man. You need to take that to the Antiques Roadshow,” Nate says and laughs.

Anthony forces a laugh. Sometimes he sees himself in someone else’s home life – through their personal artifacts – and takes stock of the purchases he and his wife, Lena, have made using their credit cards. Sure, they shouldn’t have bought the gas grill, the Sony 57” plasma TV, the new bedroom set, and new computers. He knows with credit, that only one entity maintains power and it isn’t him, the borrower. Yet, it makes him angry that these large wealthy corporations have taken advantage of the real working people. No matter that people believe in the American dream – credit’s a part of it. He clears his throat. “Do you think their things are for our taking?”

“We might as well profit from this otherwise it just goes to the dump,” Marshal says.

“Just saving more fill for the landfill,” Nate says and chuckles.

“We’re doing nothing wrong. It’s not like anyone else can take this stuff. The charities are full,” Marshal adds.

Tom walks into the small dining room and says, “I got something for that show. Come look at this.”

The four men walk upstairs and into the last room on the left. “What do you think about this?” Tom asks.

The room is covered in Elvis memorabilia. Posters, plates, framed ticket stubs and stamps, autographed pictures, and record albums decorate the room. Marshal whistles and walks into the master bedroom across the way.

“We’ve gotta take this to some collector,” Tom says.

Anthony walks into the room and says, “I can’t believe everything in this house.”

“Anyone need some extra cash?” Marshal asks. “Man, this is the motherload! You guys won’t believe this!”

Popping his head around the doorframe, Anthony asks, “What ya got there?”

Marshal steps back from the queen-size bed. He had slid the top mattress to one side, exposing the box spring. On top lay four Ziploc baggies filled with bills.

“Hey, Nate, Tom, get in here,” Anthony says.

“You need some extra cash guys?” Marshal asks and scoops up the baggies and hands one to each of the guys.

They pull the money out – stacks of $100 bills – and count it. “Okay, that makes, what, $7,340?” Anthony asks.

Tom asks, “Why wouldn’t they have used this money to pay their mortgage?”

“Beats me,” Nate says. “I’m glad they didn’t, this is some good cash. Split four ways, we each get what? Just over $1,800.”

Tom brushes some lint off the front of his shirt. Uh, guys, maybe we shouldn’t take the money,” he says. “It’s one thing taking their stuff, but to actually take the cash. I’m not so sure ….”

Anthony slowly smiles, realizing how the cash will help him with some credit card bills. “Look, let’s not get –,” Anthony begins, but is interrupted by a frantic yelling voice, from outside.

“Wait! Wait!” a woman yells.

An old woman holds the hands of two small children, a boy and a girl. They enter the house. “Who’s in my house?” the woman calls out.

Anthony runs down the stairs, clipboard in hand. He walks to the woman, standing in the foyer. He thinks the woman must be in her seventies, with her short white hair, drawn on eyebrows, and the sagging skin of her gullet that reminds him of the wattles on a wild turkey.

“What are you doing?” she asks. “Didn’t you get the notice?”

Anthony looks at his clipboard. “Um, you Irene Hutchins?” he asks.

“Yes, I’m Mrs. Hutchins, but –.”

“I’m sorry, you can’t be here. The bank owns this property now.”

“No, there’s been a mistake. I’ve got the notice – ”

“Look, lady, we’ve got orders from the bank to clean out this house,” Anthony says.

Tom, Nate, and Marshal walk past them, arms filled with brown moving boxes. They exit out the open front door and to the trucks.

“Wait. Where are they going with my things?” Mrs. Hutchins asks.

Anthony sighs and says, “Listen lady, we’ve got a job to do. You really need to leave now.”

“No, these are my things, you can’t take them.” Tears swell in her eyes.

The small girl tugs on the old woman’s polyester pant leg. “Nana, I’m hungry.”

Mrs. Hutchins looks down at the girl. “Just a minute honey. Let Nana finish with the nice man.”

Anthony wonders how he’s going to get rid of the old woman, it’s already 3:30 p.m., and she’s keeping them from their work.

“Okay, lady –” he begins.

“Now listen, you don’t understand,” Mrs. Hutchins says and shoves a paper into Anthony’s hand.

He scans it. The document, a court order, grants her entrance to the property, but not to reside. He hands the paper back to her.

Mrs. Hutchins says, “My attorney is working on the matter. I just need – ”

“Just a minute,” Anthony says to the old woman.

He walks outside to the driveway. “Guys, I don’t know what’s going on. She’s got some kind of order allowing her to enter. Nate, call Rick and find out what he wants us to do.”

“You got it, Tony,” Nate says and pulls out his cell phone and calls their boss.

Back inside the house, Anthony discovers the old woman isn’t in the foyer. He hears the children in the kitchen and walks in that direction, but movement from upstairs catches his eye. He walks up to the master bedroom.

The old woman turns and faces him. “Where’s my money? You’re a thief!”

“Calm down. We found it. One of my guys has it,” Anthony says. “Don’t worry, it’s all there.”

Anthony walks back outside. “I need all the money guys.”

“Ah, man,” they say and hand him the money still in the Ziploc baggies.

“Tony, Rick put in a call to the bank. Apparently, the old woman has permission to get some things from the house, but we need to lock up after she’s done. They don’t know what’s happening yet, but we’re to continue the clean out first thing tomorrow,” Nate says.

Mrs. Hutchins walks around the corner. “Are we done? It’s been a long day, I really need – ”

“Yeah, we understand you’re to get what you need and leave. We’re going to lock up after you’re done, but we’ll be back here in the morning,” Anthony says. He lowers his eyes and hands her the Ziploc baggies. “Here’s your money.”

Mrs. Hutchins takes the baggies and eyes each of the men. “It better be all here,” she says and counts the money. Satisfied she walks back into the house.

Anthony follows her. “Listen, I need you to hurry and get what you need.”

“Just give me a minute. I need to get my husband’s ashes and my wedding book.” She walks into the front room and removes a brass, square-shaped urn with claw feet from an end table, and a cream-colored photo album from the bookcase. She walks into the kitchen where the children are eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at the table.

“Almost done?” she asks them and starts cleaning up.

After a few minutes, they all walk outside. A part of Anthony hopes he and his team won’t be back, hopes that Mrs. Hutchins and her grandchildren won’t lose their home. He locks up, and they go their separate ways.

*****

The next morning, Anthony and his team return to the old woman’s house to finish cleaning it out. They’re in separate rooms, operating under the motto: Conquer and divide. Anthony recalls that Nate was the one who came up with it, suggesting they each do a room. Nate had said, “Anything worth something, leave it in the room, and then later we’ll join for an appraisal and divide the loot.”

Anthony’s phone rings. “Hey Mom, I’m working. Can I call you tonight?”

“I need your help getting some family pictures onto discs,” she says. “Son, I don’t know how all that stuff works. Your father doesn’t want me paying someone to do it.”

“Yeah, sure Mom, but I don’t know when I’ll get to it.”

“The sooner the better. You won’t believe what happened to my friend Marge. Her house flooded! Her whole basement got flooded and all her pictures got ruined! I can’t imagine … I would just die if I lost my pictures! They’re my memories.”

“Okay, Mom, I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll call you tonight,” Anthony says and slides the phone back in his jeans pocket.

He begins working in the front room, boxing magazines and books. He doesn’t read their titles. He mechanically empties one bookcase and moves to the other that has a drawer and a cupboard at the bottom. He pulls out the drawer and pulls out a stack of white opened envelopes. He looks at the contents of the envelope on top. Anthony sees some kind of medical bill from Mercy General Hospital for $164,904.33. The rest are also medical bills for various doctors and Shriners. He looks at bills totaling various amounts: $15,063.91, $4,505, $34,001.46, $245. He pulls another stack from the drawer. This one contains credit card bills. He sifts through them and whistles, noting one bill showing a balance over $27,000 and another one just shy of $20,000. “Talk about debt central,” Anthony whispers.

“Man, slow down. You’re going to run me over,” Marshal says. He and Nate guide a dolly, carrying an armoire, down the stairs. They walk past Anthony out the front door.

Tom walks by carrying two boxes. “Anything good in there, Tony?” he asks.

Anthony tosses the envelopes into a green plastic bag, following protocol for the containment of personal documents that need to be shredded. “Nope, not yet anyway. How ’bout you guys?”

“Well, haven’t got to the Elvis room yet, but Nate’s taking home a pearl necklace to give to his mother,” Tom says and walks out the door.

Anthony sits on the floor and opens the cupboard. Inside are photo albums and loose pictures. He tosses an album into a black garbage bag. He pulls out a stack of photos. The one on top was taken in a hospital room. He recognizes the little boy from last night as the boy in the picture, but wearing a hospital gown, lying in bed. Something tugs at him. He looks at the one underneath. This picture captured the two children laughing as they poured sand from the beach on each other. He hears his mother’s words: They’re my memories.

Anthony grabs a green plastic bag and places Mrs. Hutchins’ pictures and photo albums inside. Later, he will put them in a box labeled with her name and address. He stares out the window, recalling a photo his mom took of him and his dad when he was eight. They had spent the afternoon at Point Reyes National Seashore, his first trip to the beach. The picture he remembers is of him and his dad running in and out of the tide. He remembers the feeling of wet sand squishing between his toes and the water spraying his legs.

Anthony smiles.