First one thing breaks, then another.

First the dryer goes cold. After a load of jeans and black t-shirts and thick wool socks had spun for 45 minutes, Ben unlatches the dryer door to check. He reaches down and drags out an armful. They're damp and chilly. He scoops the rest into the basket and hangs them around the house: on the radiators, chair backs, doorknobs. The house looks like a plane has exploded midair, scattering its contents.

Ben scrolls the web and finds Angelo's Appliance the next town over. They promise to come by in an hour. It's Saturday morning, there could be emergency charges, but he forgets to ask.

Next he gets a text from Chase telling him that his credit card payment has been refused. Wary of a scam, he calls them directly and hears himself shouting "Agent! Agent!" into the phone for ten minutes before he gives up.

He prints out the contact sheet for Chase to try later, but the Canon has run low on black. He can only make out faint yellow and magenta lines on the xerox paper, as if the text is in invisible ink.

"Useless!" he cries and slumps onto the sofa. He's not sure if he means the printer or his whole life. He feels stuck in his job at Oracle, living in the house his parents left him, having lost faith in things getting better.

He presses Power on the TV remote. The black mirror of the LED screen sparks to life. Thank goodness, he thinks. He chooses Guide. All the channels are TBA, a blue sea of indeterminacy. He doesn't have it in him to call Comcast tech right now. One thing at a time, he decides.

He punches off the TV and tosses the remote on the floor. The battery door pops open and two double A's spill out. He's too tired to reach down, it's not 10 in the morning yet. He leaves them scattered on the rug.

He feels his eyes grow heavy. His thigh feels damp, and he realizes a blue ink pen has leaked in his pocket, leaving a stain the shape of Australia.

***

Someone is shaking his shoulder. "Hey, wake up, buddy."

Ben squints his eyes open. A man in a white jumpsuit is leaning over him. The window light casts an aura around his shoulders.

"I let myself in the kitchen door. I'm Angelo, you called about your dryer."

Ben hauls himself up. "Right, right." He rubs his sore back.

Angelo is tall, about 6' and a little paunchy in his jumpsuit. He wears aviator sunglasses, and long black sideburns snake along his jaw. He looks like Vegas Elvis.

"Why don't you show me what the problem is?" he growls, his voice low and soothing.

"Sure, it's in the mudroom."

Ben leads him through the house.

Angelo takes note of the scattered clothes and mumbles, "This is bad, bad," he says with a whiff of disgust.

In the mudroom, the dryer's front door hangs open. Angelo twists the On knob, and it starts to rumble.

"Just cold air," says Ben.

Angelo holds up his palm for quiet. From his pocket he slides out what looks like a stethoscope and kneels in front the dryer, placing its rubber cup to the white enamel. He looks up at Ben and shakes his head sorrowfully. He turns off the dryer and tucks the device away.

"Kneel down beside me," Angelo says. Ben lowers himself to the cold tile floor.

Angelo places one hand on Ben's forehead and the other on top of the dryer. There's a long quiet moment while their breath congeals in the stale air of the small room.

"Ok." Angelo stands up, and Ben pulls himself up too, using the dryer as a brace.

"What's wrong?"

"It's not the dryer, it's you. Something has gone off balance in your life, affecting every aspect. You will continue to have the things around you break down—"

"But that doesn't make any—"

"It's not just the dryer though, is it?"

Ben runs back through the morning's calamities: Chase bank, printer, TV.  "No, it isn't."

"Here's what you need to do. You need to sacrifice your most prized possession in order to recalibrate, un-tilt the order of your universe. Only then will things go back to normal."

And before Ben knows it, Angelo has vanished out the back door, revving up his white van with a pair of golden wings emblazoned on the side panel.

*** 

Ben instantly knows the answer in his gut. His red Stratocaster in the bedroom closet, which he hasn't played since his rock band in high school. That was the last time he felt really happy, letting go of his mind while the roar of the amps washed over him.  He digs it out and carries it downstairs by the neck, the taut strings pressing into his fingers, barely able to look at its glossy finish and curvy white pickguard.

Out on the patio, he dumps some briquettes into the Weber grill and squirts some lighter fluid on them. He grabs a box of matches from the shed, scratches one along the side strip and tosses it on the charcoal. Flames leap up into the chilly autumn air. He feels the heat on his face and arms.

Once the grill is going good, he reaches for the Strat and holds it high over his head. He thinks of Hendrix at Woodstock burning his guitar at Monterey at the climax of "Wild Thing."  He lowers the Strat into the fire, the blaze licking at its sides. Quietly he mouths the words, "You make my heart sing. You make everything...groovy." At the last second he yanks his hands back, and the Strat drops down on the Weber with a puff of ash.

He can't bear to watch the inferno engulf the instrument. He turns his back and sinks into a lawn chair. Behind him he can hear crackling and popping like a bonfire. His throat tightens with grief.

Overhead a silvery plane slides through the thick gray clouds. He feels his thigh. The ink stain has dried up and disappeared. Inside he hears the dryer clunk to life, and he imagines its warm exhalation. It feels like a corner has been turned.

He thinks he hears Angelo gun the engine, he sees what looks like the white van streaking down the street under a conflagration of crimson and ochre leaves.