Concrete

by George Guthridge

About the Author: George Guthridge is a National Finalist, Benjamin Franklin Award, Year’s Best Book about Education (creative nonfiction). Grand prize winner, Las Vegas International Screenplay Competition. His fiction includes 40 pro sales, including 22 to Amazing, Analog, Asimov’s, F&S. Twice Nebula finalist and once Hugo finalist. Co-winner of 1997 Bram Stoker for best horror novel.

Excerpt

I started drinking after my wife left me. Okay, I started drinking harder after she left me.

The beginning of the end was at the Springfields’ patio party. Gregory Springfield was 48, six years older than me. His wife, Sandra, was 47, a quarter-century older than Arielle. They lived in the ranch-style next to our Cape Cod. The two houses were typical middle-class homes, separated from the rest of the neighborhood by three vacant lots where henbit and purple deadnettle ran savage until I’d get fed up and mow and play Rambo with my weed sprayer.

Arielle and I had moved in six months earlier. A chance backyard meeting with Gregory led to my ripping up their dry-rotted deck and replacing it with a concrete patio that included intricate patterns I’d set into the wet cement. I owned a small concrete business and gave the Springfields a great price.

There were the four of us at the party. Gregory rocked some T-bones on the barbeque, I tossed the salad and brought out the condiments, and Sandra and Arielle finished with the squash and roasted asparagus. Gregory and Sandra were knocking back scotch and sodas, I had too many Coors, and Arielle had polished off a large can of Foster’s and was on another. She often said Foster’s made her horny. She was beautiful and had a hard body toned by daily Pilates. Startlingly inventive in bed. I kept our fridge stocked with Foster’s.

Gregory proposed a toast. “To the patio!”

“The patio!” we all chimed in.

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