Nine Inches by Tom Perrotta

wave, the worst of the summer. Knowing how hard it was to entertain three-year-olds in the best of circumstances, he had purchased an in fl atable kiddie pool from Costco, the biggest one they had. It came with something called a “high-volume hand pump,” which Gus had been assured was “extremely e ffi cient.”
    With an air of grandfatherly self-assurance, he removed the heavy vinyl liner from the box and spread it out on the grass. Squatting in the merciless sun, he pumped without making any visible headway, until his right hand was too raw to continue, then switched to his le ft . When that gave out — the pool still lay as fl at as a rug on the parched grass, billowing slightly at its edges — he had no choice but to continue blowing up the damn thing with his mouth, while two whiny, pink-cheeked girls in swim diapers and bikini tops looked on with increasing impatience, criticizing his technique and questioning his competence.
    At some point in the midst of this fi asco, Gus became aware of Lonny watching him from his own backyard. Th e cocky bastard was reclining shirtless on a lounge chair in the shade of a dogwood — unlike Gus, Lonny had retained a lean, youthful physique well into his golden years, and he liked showing it o ff — sipping a cold beer and casting sly glances in the direction of his garage, where he kept an air compressor that could have in fl ated the pool in seconds. Gus had used it numerous times in the past, e ff ortlessly pumping up basketballs, bike tires, air mattresses, whatever. But he was damned if he was going to ask Lonny for help, and Lonny was damned if he was going to o ff er it. So Gus just kept on hu ffi ng and pu ffi ng and sweating, mentally cursing his neighbor the whole time. Finally, more than two hours a ft er he’d begun, he turned on the hose and began fi lling the pool with water.
    Well, Lonny was dead now, and the grandkids were coming for another visit. And that compressor was still just gathering dust in the garage, not doing a damn bit of good for anyone.
    •••
    BALANCING THE pool box on his hip, Gus li ft ed the latch on the gate and slipped into his neighbors’ yard. A misty drizzle dri ft ed across his face as he circled around the gas grill, onto the carpet of AstroTurf Lonny had laid on top of what used to be the swimming pool.
    Th e Simmonses’ garage was detached from the house, set way back at the rear of the property. Th e original structure had barely been big enough to accommodate a car and a lawn mower, but Lonny had expanded it in the mid-eighties, turning the squat little box into an attractive and comfortable cottage, complete with a wood-burning stove, a stereo system, and a half bathroom.
    He had conceived of the refurbished garage as a sort of clubhouse for his teenaged sons, and for a couple of years they’d actually used it that way, hanging out with their buddies, blasting heavy metal on the stereo, and turning themselves into expert Ping-Pong players. But it didn’t last; the boys got driver’s licenses, and their attention shi ft ed to the world beyond their backyard. A ft er his sons le ft , Lonny began spending more and more time in the garage himself, drinking beer and watching ball games, playing epic eight-ball tournaments against himself on the pool table he’d bought for a song when the Limelighter Café went belly-up. In recent years, Gus had o ft en noticed the light on late at night and wondered what Lonny was up to. A couple of times this spring, he’d seen his former friend emerging from the garage at daybreak, looking rumpled and bewildered as he shu ffl ed across the turf to his house.
    Gus heard the branches of the oak groaning ominously in the breeze and couldn’t help looking up into the dark canopy of leaves that hovered over the garage like an enormous fi st. Lonny had been deeply alarmed by the symphony of creaks and squeals produced by the massive limbs; he’d insisted to Gus that the whole tree was ready