The white Chevy pickup truck rumbled through the wealthy suburban neighborhood. It wasn’t clean, but it wasn’t dirty enough to break the comfort bubble of onlooking joggers, whose sleek sunglasses shimmered and stole attention from pricey running shoes and headbands that boasted colors even a Native American would consider too holy. The hefty driver tried not to look at the mansions surrounding him—envy was becoming far too easy to come across, and envy happened to be forbidden in the Ten Commandments. And an electrician descending toward bankruptcy with an accidental child on the way needs any reward God can spare.

Sinning does not yield rewards, not even from the devil.

So the electrician looked forward, his focus on the glistening street before him. He had never seen a nicer paved road. This one was pure. But while most cars would glide over this road, the electrician’s bounced and trembled for no apparent reason. He was sometimes ashamed of his beat-up truck, but what he didn’t realize was that it was a dog baying before an earthquake.

He had scribbled the address on a sticky note which was hanging from the top rim of his steering wheel. He slowed the truck to a halt as he pulled up to the home of his next customers: a large red brick house with a wooden patio and a well-kept lawn scattered with fountains and fancy lampposts—this house was no different from any of the others.

After silencing the engine, the electrician grabbed his toolbox and walked wearily toward the house, taking care to stay on the rock path instead of the perfectly fluffed grass that was, without a doubt, tended to by hired help—expensive hired help.

He rang the doorbell and refrained from peeking in through the glass windows beside the door: experience had taught him that that was rude. He brushed his hand over his gray uniform to erase its wrinkles. His wife hadn’t been ironing clothes lately. In fact she hadn’t been doing much of anything lately, and because he was a good husband, she never once noticed his suffocated exasperation.

When the blonde woman answered the door, he snapped to attention and put on his well-practiced smile to hide his fatigue.

“Hello there!” The woman said with a smile on her face that was probably as equally staged as the electrician’s.

“Hi!” The electrician set his toolbox down and reached out to shake the stunning lady’s hand. She seemed to be about his age, in the early twenties, but had taken much better care of her body. She had exquisite green eyes, but they weren’t exuding the friendliness they once had been—frustration was seeping out. She was looking at his toolbox, which was sitting on top of her blossoming petunias.

By the time the electrician realized his blunder, her grimace had transformed into a whirlpool of rage, and before he could utter an apology, she was already stomping with loud, daunting steps into the ocean of darkness that lay within the house. The electrician was unsure of what to do next. Experience had also taught him that when it came to rich people, it was not better to ask forgiveness than permission, so he remained meekly on the doormat, his dangling toolbox resembling a kindergartener’s precious lunchbox holding love notes from mommy and fruit rollups, which, to little tots, are more potent than Cupid’s arrows.

It didn’t take long for the old man to arrive at the door, pointless apologies gushing from his gaping mouth—the electrician was a professional, and he had been trained not to let rudeness, even justifiable rudeness, hurt him.

“I am so sorry about that.” The man had the whitest hair the electrician had ever seen. Perhaps this was the woman’s father.

“No, it’s my fault. I didn’t see the flowers there. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” The man exhaled calmly, his cheeks losing their pink complexion, and took one last wistful glance at the corpses of the valiant petunias. “Well come on in!” The act was back on.

When the electrician entered the home, he was surprised by the interior. It had a sort of passion that the typical elegance of the exterior had failed to warn him of. There was much unexpected light, but not too much. It was as if the house invited sunlight in, fed it, gave it a nice shower and a room for the day, and then kicked it out, robbing it of rays as it made its way out.

The door opened up to a short, narrow hallway which curved outward on both sides to reveal a circular living room. There was some kind of smog suspended in the air, and a massive chandelier hung from the tall ceiling, penetrating into the haze which reminded the electrician of the incense they used to burn at his church when he was a boy. Sprawled about the entire room was a gigantic rug that had an African sensation to it. A circular couch encompassed a grand piano. Steinway and Sons. Extraordinary.

The electrician paid extremely close attention to the piano. Its brown, tender keys. Its soft, smooth wooden frame. Pianos really do age better than wine, he remembered hearing once. His mouth widened with a rare, genuine smile. His body ached to play the piano and see the full prowess of his thirteen years of diligent practice displayed, but he knew he would probably never have the opportunity to play such a gorgeous piano in his life. That was the way some things worked.

“You wanna take her for a spin?” The old man asked, chuckling.

The electrician snapped out of his lustful daze. “Oh, sorry, I was just admiring.”

“Well all right. Try not to admire my wife like you were admiring my piano, and we’ll be just fine.” The old man was joking, but the electrician didn’t notice: he was still beating himself up for missing the opportunity to play the man’s piano.

“Do you play?” The electrician asked.

“Me? No, not at all. I haven’t had the time. We hire people to come in and play occasionally. You know, when we have parties and whatnot.”

They ascended the extravagant staircase that spiraled up and lined the walls of the lavish living room. The electrician didn’t bother to inquire which type of wood made up the smooth handrail. The answer always went something like this: Oh, this wood? I picked it up back in Thailand. It’s a type of wood that you’ve never heard of and will never be able to afford! Enjoy!

The electrician was self-taught, so he could never get paid what some of the other electricians were paid. When people asked why he didn’t go to college, he told them the truth: he did go to college, but there’s a reason you’re not supposed to major in Philosophy.

As the two men reached the third floor, the woman who had answered the door approached them.

“I just wanted to apologize for going off like that,” she stared at the floor like a child waiting to be punished, “I just—it’s just that those flowers are special to me.”

“Yeah,” the old man nodded, “they were some of the last things her mother gave life to here on Earth before she passed.”

“Oh, I-I’m sorry.” Now the electrician looked childish as he too could no longer keep eye contact with the young lady. “When did your wife pass?” He asked the older man.

The man unexpectedly cackled. The electrician was taken aback. Is there some kind of joke that I’m not getting? He had never wanted to finish a job as desperately as he did then. He didn’t know what was going on, but there was something unsettling about the house and the man and everything that was happening.

“She wasn’t my wife,” the man’s laughter now gave way to some speech; “she was my mother-in-law.” And when he saw that the electrician still did not understand, “Jennifer here is my wife.”

The electrician cringed as the old man tugged the young lady over and slapped a wet kiss on her mouth.

“See?” The old man had his arms outspread, as if to invite praise of some kind.

“Can you show me the problem with your attic?” The electrician held his breath as if to avoid inhaling some kind of pungent stench.

“Right this way,” the man said as he led the way again.

They finally approached a wooden structure—which seemed too small to be considered a set of stairs yet too large to be labeled as a ladder—that, in its pragmatic simplicity and lack of intricate ornamentation, was much more plain than anything else in the house.

“Now up here is the attic,” the old man took each step slowly, grasping and leaning on his left knee as he did so. “We’ve been having trouble with the upstairs bathrooms. The hot water won’t work.”

The electrician had fixed this problem hundreds of times. It was actually fairly simple.

They were now reaching a trapdoor in the ceiling at the top of the steps. The old man opened it and peeked his head inside.

“Now I think that over there is the water heater.” The old man pointed, but when he tried to climb into the attic, he burst into a fit of heavy coughing. The electrician grasped him from behind and lowered him from the trap door. “I think it has something to do with all the dust particles in the air up there. That’s why I called you,” the old man was breathing heavily and had to pause for a moment between every few words to catch his breath.

“Okay, well I understand what I need to do, so you and your wife can just wait down here.”

The old man nodded and proceeded to climb down the creaking steps.

The electrician climbed into the dimly lit attic.

“Is there a light up here?” He called down.

“Yeah, to the right,” the scratchy voice of the old man responded.

The electrician found the cord and pulled it down, illuminating the attic from an antique-looking lightbulb. It needed to be changed, but that wasn’t the electrician’s job, and he was eager to get out of the house.

He made his way over to the water heater, and it didn’t take long to discover the problem: the pilot light was out. This would be nice and quick. As he was working on replacing the thermocouple, his flip-phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it—he was a professional and would not let his personal life hinder his work. But the phone buzzed. And buzzed. So eventually, the electrician had to check his phone. When he flipped it open, the first thing he saw was the latest message from his wife in all caps: ‘BABY ON THE WAY.’ He closed the phone and stared blankly in front of him for a few moments as the news finally began to register. He was having a baby. A child.

He rushed to finish the job now, not caring if the work he did was sloppy. He paused only when he thought he heard a baby crying. He peeked out of the trap door and saw the peculiar couple bent over a small baby, soothing it. The electrician didn’t know whether to be disgusted or delighted. But babies were babies, no matter how uncanny the parents.

The electrician finally fixed the water heater and packed his things back into his toolbox. He started down the ladder so abruptly that he almost went sprawling headfirst—he couldn’t contain his eagerness. But after he shut the trapdoor he was filled with an ominous feeling. There was something wrong with the attic when he left it. Had there been smoke rising from that lightbulb? He couldn’t remember. He did remember, though, that he had left the lightbulb on. But he was already at the bottom of the steps, and he was late enough as it was.

“Fixed!” He announced.

“Excellent!” The old man reciprocated the excitement. “Oh, have you gotten a chance to meet our son?” He gestured at the baby.

“Ah, he’s adorable!” This was not the time to start a conversation, so the electrician tried not to show much interest.

“Yes, come take a look. His name is Joshua and he’s eight months old and he’s—”

“I’m sorry, but I’m in a bit of a rush.” Any act to please his customers was now abandoned.

“Oh,” the old man seemed hurt. “Well here’s your money.” He handed the electrician a fancy beige envelope with a cursive ‘S’ seal.

The electrician took the envelope without saying thanks and made his way downstairs without stopping to count the money as he usually did. He heard the old man return to the baby as the high-pitched coos echoed throughout the castle.

He drooled over the grand piano as he neared the front door, but he didn’t slow down. He couldn’t miss the birth of his first child. He scampered out into the stinging sunlight, past the dead petunias and boring fountains and neon green grass. This replicated life failed to please him. Now he sought the new life—his new life—that would soon be complete.

He hopped in his truck and rested for a moment. He closed his eyes and laid his head back. He focused on slowing his heartbeat. Take it easy buddy, he said to himself, you’re a father now. You gotta be responsible. He succeeded in slowing his heartbeat, and before he knew it, he was snoring comfortably. And as he dozed, the sun began to set, taking color away from everything except the weak headlights of his truck.

What made him open his eyes again was not some form of fatherly duty that had retaken control of him. It was the screaming. The dreadful screaming. He yawned as he looked back across the street at the house of his latest customers. There was smoke rising from it, telling the story of the fire that blazed within.

First he saw the young wife scamper out from the front door. She darted through the flower bed, trampling what remained of her petunias, and collapsed on the front lawn with her cell phone pressed against her ear.

Moments later the old man hobbled into sight as he came from the backyard.

“What happened?!” He called to his wife, whose eyes said that she knew nothing.
However, the electrician knew. It was that lightbulb. That damned lightbulb.

After finishing her call with the 911 operator, the wife calmly inquired, “Where’s the baby?”

The old man’s eyes suddenly widened, “I thought the baby was with you.”

“I thought you had it!” She became defensive. “Go in and get it!”

“I’d never make it there and back alive, you know that!”

“Well I can’t get it!”

“Fine! Then we’ll wait for the firemen. It’ll be all right. They’ll know what to do.”

They wouldn’t arrive soon enough, though, and the electrician knew this. Suddenly, he realized how cheap life really was in the universe—life that could be trampled and forgotten and misplaced. Now it wasn’t the dying baby he was thinking about as he began to drive off. It wasn’t even his own baby whose birth he would probably miss. It was what would age but not grow weary, what would hold its youth forever, what could live forever, because music is the only thing that is truly immune to the flames of life and death. Yes, he thought of the grand piano. Steinway and Sons. Extraordinary.