Handle with Care
A short story about an air conditioner that might just be alive.
The superheated air of the Colombian jungle wafted into the dimly lit post, consuming all the space within the walls. Cabo Primero Diego Guzman leaned back in the square wooden chair, balancing the front legs a few inches off the ground. Waving a fan poorly fashioned from last week’s newspaper, Diego looks up at the air conditioner duct on the wall. Just below the ceiling, a small vent, roughly 8 inches wide, sits idle. A few inches beneath, a round clock adorns the powder blue wall of the guard post. The hands point out a time of 2:43. AM.
The air conditioner vent on the wall is oddly quiet. Save for the occasional groan of effort, the unit refuses to be consistent in its tasking. “About once every hour, sometimes twice.” Diego figures. He had been keeping track of how many times the temperamental vent had blessed his body with blasts of cold air. When the machine worked, it would be accompanied by a terrifying groan of metal parts grinding together.
Sighing, the Cabo primero leans forward, reconnecting the chair legs to the floor. He scoots forward to the desk in front of him and pulls a note from the top of a security camera monitor. The old boxy screen had heated the page, adding even more warmth to Diego’s already sweaty hand. On the note are the general tasks for his newly appointed position of night shift security supervisor. Everything is as you might expect: ensure gates are locked, do rounds every hour on the hour, monitor the cameras for anything suspicious, and raise the alarm if ever necessary. The hand-scribbled note at the bottom of the page, however, is what piques Diego’s curiosity.
The scribbles at the bottom of the task list explain that the last night shift supervisor was excused after “An incident with the air conditioning system.” “Strange,” Diego thinks, “And it doesn’t seem like it was even worth it.” He turns his pointed gaze to the lifeless streamers attached to the air conditioner vent, still unmoving. This heat is only going to get worse as the shift goes on. Diego scowls. His partner on the night shift, Soldado Victor Nunez, is fast asleep in the chair beside him. Diego reaches for Victor’s boots, firmly planted on the desk, and he yanks them off and onto the floor. With a jolt, Nunez slams his feet to the ground and springs from the seat. “What?! Who’s there?! I’m awake!” Diego only waits, watching as the realization lands on Victor’s face. “You were, in fact, not awake, Soldado.” Victor stammers, returning to his seat. “You’re right, Cabo primero, I-” Diego cuts him off, “Don’t bother. I need you awake right now. I’m going to see if I can fix this AC.” Victor cocks his head, frowning. “You know what happened to the last one that tried that, right?” “I do,” Guzman answers, “And I think whatever fate he suffered has to be better than sitting in this heat. Keep your radio on.” Diego stands, heading to the equipment rack beside the door that leaves the post. “And Soldado,” He says, zipping up his tactical vest and clipping his helmet, “Don’t fall asleep on me.”
Diego retrieves his INDUMIL Galil rifle from the rack, inserts a magazine, cocks the bolt back and lets it fly forward. After a press check, he flips the weapon to safe and pushes the door out of the post open. The darkness replacing where the closed door was is like a portal to a much bleaker world. The sound of cicadas, owls, and other creatures of the night is a deafening contrast to the bumbling radio of the guard post. Gruzman takes a step outside, closing the door behind him, then reaches for the flashlight on his belt. He pushes the on button, then slides it between the rubber bands on his rifle’s front grip. Weapon raised, Diego moves to round the corner of the guard post towards the air conditioner on the south side of the building. The light from his weapon illuminates the ground, the dusty terracotta terrain crunching below his feet as he steps.
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Diego shines his light on the washed grey metal walls of the air conditioner. The unit is certainly not in its prime. Rust coloured blemishes cake the bottom of the metal. The fan is unmoving, and the air conditioner is completely silent. Too silent. For reasons he can’t quite discern, Diego starts to feel nervous in the presence of this machine. He takes an unsteady step forward, unsure and feeling as though the air conditioner could attack at any moment. Getting closer, however, the unit remains unmoving as it did before.
Shining the light from his rifle through the top grates of the air conditioner, Diego makes a very startling discovery. The blades of the fan inside the unit look rusty, but the rust appears just a bit too crimson to really be rust. Fuck. Diego thinks, The last guy obviously cut himself good trying to fix this. He studies the rest of the unit, but nothing else stands out. Some parts of the grey paint are chipped and reveal a ghostly white underneath, but nothing to be concerned about.
It’s at this moment that Diego realizes that he is really not sure how to fix an air conditioner. He’s done it before, sure, but this model seems different, more complex and a bit more dated than the ones he had set up before. Naturally, the best place to start when fixing machinery is a bit of percussive maintenance. Diego winds up his leg and slams his combat boot forward into the base of the air conditioner. Unexpectedly, the kick hurts Diego. A lot. “Fuck!” He yelps, holding his foot and trying to massage the wound through the steel toe of the combat boot. Kicking inanimate objects usually hurts, but this? It’s like the air conditioner was fighting back.
For a second, Diego considers if this was even worth it anymore. He couldn’t pinpoint what, but something seemed so odd about all this. Maybe it’s curiosity, or maybe it's the heat, but with a huff, Diego decides he’s committed to fixing this damn machine at 3:00 in the morning. He reaches for his radio, palming it and activating the thumb switch. “Soldado, this is the supervisor. I’m going to spend a few minutes trying to figure this out. Are you awake? Over.” He releases the switch, waiting for a response. Instead, Diego is only met with crackling and static. No signal? But they are literally one wall apart? Diego thumbs the switch again and repeats his message. Again, only static as a response. Strange. Diego’s eyes wander to the air conditioner, wondering if it could be responsible for this jamming. He chuckles and shakes his head, dismissing the ridiculous notion, and sets his rifle against the wall. Diego gets on one knee, retrieves his flashlight from his weapon, and peers even closer into the machine.
The air conditioner groans with effort, pushing a small blast of cool air forward. The sound is a painful one, like the machine can give out at any second. As the AC makes the sound, Diego notices the fans inside struggling to spin. Looking closer, he notices a buildup of debris into a small, muddy clay ball, right on the track of the fan blades. Removing that may do the trick.
Diego retrieves his standard-issue multitool, looking for a blade or metal bar that would fit the screws on the fan grate. He places his first blade into the screw and turns: no luck. However, the unit itself heats up a small amount, as if it were reacting to the blade. Odd. Diego moves to the next blade and tries again: same story. Again, the air conditioner responds, and it heats again in the way that a cut on skin creates a stinging heat. Okay, this is fucking weird. Diego thinks, and decides he will try to be more careful and see if the heat rushes through the metal again. Switching to his smallest blade, Diego very gently attempts to turn the screw, slowly making contact and applying small but ramping pressure. The screw does not turn, but the air conditioner does not react this time. Moving to his fourth and final blade, Diego gently turns again, and despite his worries, the screw budges. He continues to gently twist and remove the first screw, and the machine seems okay with the soft touch Diego is now using. He repeats this pressure on the other screws and very carefully lifts off the grate, exposing the innards and fan of the air conditioner.
Carefully, Diego swipes his fingers over the fan, removing any remnants of dust and clay covering the blades. He wipes his right hand on his camouflage pants, then reaches back into the belly of the beast. Curling his fingers around the lump of clay, Diego gently tugs and wriggles the obstruction free. After tossing the clay lump behind him, he carefully replaces the grate on top of the air conditioner, softly fixing the screws back into place. With everything secured, Diego places a hand on the air conditioner. As if sensing his affection, the machine whirrs triumphantly back to life, fans spinning at a constant full speed. The ear-piercing groan is gone. Smiling, Diego slings his rifle again and stands up. He reaches onto his chest, thumbing the switch on his radio. This time, it crackles to life.”Soldato, I lost you for a bit. Is the air working again? Over.” Silence. Diego thumbs the switch again. “Soldato, come in, over.” Nothing again. Fucker probably fell asleep again. With a sigh and a final look at the air conditioner, Diego smiles and heads back to the door of the post.
Pushing the door open, Diego unslings his rifle and plunges it back into the weapon rack. He unbuckles his helmet, then unzips his vest, the weight of the bulletproof plates thumping against the hard floor. Diego moves across the small room, passing the very much asleep Victor and settling back into his own chair. He leans back, looking at the vent on the wall and feeling it’s wonderfully cold breeze against his sweat-beaded skin. Diego smiles, and the joyous cool air continues to flow, like a spirit roaming a new space untethered.
