Crawl Space by F. Poj ©

Get the full version of Crawl Space on Amazon for FREE

"Crawl Space, Architectural Definition: a shallow, unfinished space with a dirt floor beneath the lowest level of a building.  Created especially for access to plumbing and wiring. This space is accessible by crawling, its clearance being less than human height."

It was just a job like many others; an old, abandoned public school near downtown Buffalo. Even only a couple of blocks away from City Hall, Buffalo could be a pretty desolate place in winter, almost a ghost town. The City was going to turn this old school into an office building and they needed updated floor plans.

'Everything,' said Laura on the e-mail. 'Plans of every floor, roofs, basements, attics, and crawl spaces.'

Frankie had been freelancing for Laura as a building surveyor for years now. After 9/11 many Architecture firms went down and Frankie had been laid off like thousands of young architects. He was fast and accurate with CAD though; so he scored this opportunity to do free lance building surveys for Laura. She charged handsome fees for these jobs, and paid her surveyors good money, and on time. Frankie enjoyed the freedom, the traveling, and the pay check. Flight to a city for three or four days, sketch and measure, flight back home to draw the whole thing on CAD, e-mail it, get paid.

As he got off the car, the frozen wind cut through his face. 'Nice fucking weather for a roof survey today,' he thought. He was getting older now and would often think that surveying was not the glamorous Architecture career he dreamed about during his senior year in college; but, the money was too good to reject in times like these. A job which could be done in two or three weeks provided comfortable income for a month and a half.

It was the fourth and, hopefully, last day on site. Frankie had to finish the roofs and then one last area at the basement. As he walked the long main corridor, to get to the back staircase, he had the feeling that there was someone else in this building, that he wasn't alone. But, this 250,000 sq. ft. abandoned public school had broken windows; the wind howled through the openings and, old hanging maps and charts fluttered with the draft. Not to mention cats, rats and birds. He eventually got used to all these noises and stopped paying attention to them. Besides, if there was someone else there, it wouldn't be the first time he found a homeless person living in a place like this. They would always stay away from him, hiding, out of fear of being "evicted".

To access the section of roof he needed to survey that morning, he had to walk out a window on the top floor. He then took two steps on the ledge and climbed an old exterior ladder. Once on top, he had to climb over a section of sloped copper roofing which was covered with ice. When he was about to grab the ridge, one of his pens fell off his jacket pocket and he slid down back to the ladder as he tried to catch it. His body was stopped by the old ladder, but he could see the pen falling into the abyss and finally hitting the ground four floors below in the inner courtyard. The whole thing lasted a few seconds, but he felt the sweat pour out throughout his body even in the cold.

He finally made it to the flat section up on top. The wind was strong, and ice was all over the roofing membrane, very tricky. After a few minutes, sketching became painful and difficult. He couldn't work well with the gloves on, so he took them off and the cold penetrated his fingers. Long dimensions were difficult to measure. It was becoming hard for him to see the laser mark across the distance with all the glare on the ice. 'You better get me a big fucking job down in Florida next month, Laura, or I'll kick that irresistible cute little ass of yours,' thought Frankie.

 Get the full version of Crawl Space on Amazon for FREE

Subsótano (Título original "Crawl Space")

Descarga la versión completa de Subsótano por $0.99 en Amazon

"Subsótano, Definición arquitectónica: un espacio poco profundo y sin terminar, con piso de tierra, por debajo del nivel habitable más bajo de un edificio. Construido especialmente para acceso a instalaciones eléctricas y sanitarias. Este espacio es accesible arrastrándose, ó de rodillas, siendo su altura menor que la humana."

Era sólo un trabajo como tantos otros; una vieja escuela pública abandonada cerca del centro de Buffalo. Incluso solo a un par de cuadras de la municipalidad, Buffalo suele ser un lugar bastante desolado en invierno, casi un pueblo fantasma. La Municipalidad iba a convertir esta vieja escuela en un edificio de oficinas, y necesitaban planos al día.

'Todo,' había dicho Laura en el e-mail. 'Planos de todos los niveles, techos, sótanos, áticos, y subsótanos.'

Frankie había estado trabajando como contratista independiente para Laura, haciendo relevamientos de edificios por años. Después del 9/11, muchas firmas de arquitectura quebraron y Frankie perdió su trabajo, como miles de arquitectos. El era rápido y prolijo con CAD (Diseño asistido por Computadora); así que consiguió la oportunidad para hacer mediciones de manera independiente para Laura. Ella cobraba honorarios muy altos por estos trabajos, y les pagaba a sus sub-contratados buen dinero y en fecha. A Frankie le caían bien la libertad, los viajes, y los cheques que recibía. Volar a una ciudad por tres o cuatro días, bosquejar y medir, volver a casa a dibujar todo en CAD, enviarlo por e-mail, cobrar.

Al bajar del auto, el viento helado le cortaba la cara. 'Que clima de mierda para andar midiendo techos hoy.' pensó. Ya no era tan joven, y más de una vez pensaba que hacer relevamientos no era la carrera prestigiosa de arquitecto con la que había soñado durante su último año de universidad; pero, el dinero era demasiado como para rechazarlo en tiempos de crisis. Un trabajo que podía realizarse en dos o tres semanas, representaba ingresos para vivir cómodamente un mes y medio.

Era el cuarto, y con suerte, último día en el edificio. Frankie debía terminar de medir los techos y luego una sección que le faltaba en los sótanos. Mientras transitaba el largo corredor principal para llegar a la escalera de atrás, tuvo la sensación que había alguien más en el edificio, que no estaba solo. Pero, esta escuela pública abandonada, de 25.000m², tenía muchas ventanas rotas; el viento soplaba por las aberturas y, viejos mapas e ilustraciones vibraban con la corriente de aire. Sin mencionar a los gatos, ratas, y pájaros que allí anidaban. Eventualmente se acostumbró a estos sonidos y ya no les prestaba más atención. Además, si hubiese alguien más por ahí, no sería la primera vez que se encontraba a un vagabundo viviendo en un lugar así. Siempre se apartaban de él, escondiéndose, por miedo a ser desalojados.

Descarga la versión completa de Subsótano por $0.99 en Amazon

Rambling About Manners

Everybody farts..the question is when and where. I'm not saying that refined and well mannered people never fart, this would simply go against nature. My concern is in regards to choosing poorly in terms of the circumstances in which the flatulence is released. A well mannered individual would never release in a quiet, silent situation like a lecture on 17th Century French Porcelain. I mean, the old lady who had way too much cucumber bisque for lunch that day, should think twice about getting into this lecture, throwing out a dry Rrrrrroberto and risking the destruction of the museum's finest Château de Vincennes vase through the release of such vibration. Should her hunger for knowledge be such, that she simply must attend this specific lecture, she should have the decency of holding the Rrrrrroberto in and, instead, releasing the pressure in a series of soft and warm Sssssussies.... IF she can sustain the agonizing pain of holding Rrrrroberto in until it merrily comes out of the closet as a Sssssussie.

Now, as much as this would avoid an embarrassment to our cucumber eating grandma, it would not preclude the radioactive toxic cloud from contaminating half of the museum's Eastern wing and possibly causing incalculable pigmentation damage to some 8th Century Islamic Period Persian Tapestries. Still, grandma's honor would be safe, as well as her bank account, since the origin of the toxic cloud is almost impossible to determine with no noticeable noise, and the museum could not take legal action. Such is the beauty of a Sssssussie, it allows nature to take its course while keeping the originator's honor and social status intact.

The slurping is a different matter. Don't tell me that there is any fucking natural process that requires you to slurp. The slurper is a motherfucker. These people will slurp a soup, a café latte, even a fucking tequila shot. Yes, they would slowly and painfully slurp even from a small little shot glass. And don't tell me it has to do with the temperature of the liquid being slurped, I've heard these fuckers slurp an ice cold glass of water. What the fuck is wrong with this people.

I feel no fucking mercy for the slurper. I will tell them to shut the fucking orchestra right to their face. Some of these fuckers even have the balls to ask for some red wine, as if their palate had such noble requirements. If you are one of this miserable fuckers, don't even dream about slurping my Angelica Zapata 2002 Malbec. I will give you some vinegar instead for your refined enjoyment. The only taste of my Malbec you will get will be the cork, which I will stick so deeply up your rectum, that you will need quite a strong Rrrrroberto to shoot it out of there. That might get your slurping disorder down while you come over for a nice quiet dinner next time. Some balls.....Malbec.

Regarding sneezing, this is obviously a natural process again. An unavoidable burst of energy which releases some of the worst a person has to offer. I have no political or moral position against sneezing. Now, some people just don't see the value in covering a sneeze, in protecting the environment from such disagreeable projection of mucosa. These people deserve all my despise, even more than the slurper.

In the late 90's I used to live on Queensberry Street in Boston. I used to take the Green Line near Fenway Park to go to work. Taking the T next to me, at the same stop, there was always this disgusting poorly bred specimen, some kind of an office clerk. He would always dress with these cheap sorry brown suits, a shirt which buttons could barely keep it together under the pressure of his enormous abdomen. His face was round, his cheeks so immense that his skin looked shiny, disgustingly so. As we got on the T every morning, there was this sweet looking beautiful girl. She looked like a thinker, maybe a grad student or a researcher. She was refined, fit, well mannered, properly dressed with just enough sexiness to show that she could still be quite a lover under that intellectual portrayal.

Now, my buddy Quasimodo, would get on the T and look for her, he would station himself close to this angel. He could not hide the fact that he was crazy for her. She would just be nice enough to say good morning with a short smile, but not too much so as not to give Quasimodo the wrong impression. This went on for a long time, weeks.

One day, Quasimodo was wearing a yellow tie with red polka dots, I remember this to this day. The tie could not reach all the way below his belly, so it simply lay almost horizontally on his enormous breasts. He gets on the train, and there were no seats available. The three of us, the angel, Quasimodo and myself were standing really close to each other. Quasimodo was facing her and I was on the side looking at both their opposing profiles. It was quite a contrast, I should add. We were all quiet, obviously.

The next scene, I remember it in slow motion, and I saw every single frame of it. Quasimodo starts getting this urge, this spasms which come all the way down from his cavernous chest. His protruding wobbly lips opened and his round shiny cheeks start to stretch. The innocent sexy researcher was at that particular moment distracted by some passing scene on the window. She was oblivious to the imminent burst of energy. Quasimodo took three involuntary short breaths and without covering his gigantic respiratory cavities just burst his whole head forward with a sneeze. He sneezed an uncovered quantity of nasal fluid and saliva to fill up a five gallon bucket. And he did this on our sweet angel's face and chest. Her eyes, her lips, her hair, her white shirt, and the beautiful upper skin of her breasts were all covered in this nauseating fluid that was shot out of Quasimodo's inner humanity.

I must confess that I did laugh, I laughed uncontrollably until I saw the way they were looking at each other. Quasimodo simply wanted to die, there was no other possible outcome for him. Underneath Quasimodo's mucus I could get a glimpse at her eyes, I have never seen so much quiet hate in a person's eyes. She could have ended his misery right there and kill him. After I saw that Quasimodo was totally out of reaction, I offered her my pack of Kleenex, which, if not enough to clean up this insulting mess, at least it gave her a little bit of hope in humanity and brought her back to reality.

Needless to say, the sexy little grad student never said hello to Quasimodo again, even more, she didn't look at him. For Quasimodo it was best this way, he would just hide on the opposite end of the train car. He deserved this vacuum, this self imposed solitude. The open sneezer deserves no love, no respect. He deserves to wear a brown cheap suit and a yellow tie for the rest of his life, and never get a chance at sex again. Fuck Quasimodo.

The list of these sorry poorly mannered fuckers can go on for pages and pages. I will continue my research and dissertation on these specimens in future papers. I will not forget them fuckers who eat with their mouth fully open to proudly show their partially masticated food. There are also these motherfuckers who make all sorts of disagreeable noises as they eat. The small penis assholes who will always run to walk through a door before a woman, even their own wife or mother. The ladies who will wipe their noses with a Kleenex and then put it in their bra, between their breasts to keep it for future use. And last but not least, the public nose picker. Find some privacy, MOTHERFUCKER!!!