Too Loud to Sleep

Too Loud

Zeke was sleeping.

His blanket was pulled up to his nose. His stuffed elephant was tucked under his arm. His room was quiet and dark and perfect.

Then —

BRRRRRRRRRR.

Zeke's eyes popped open.

BRRRRRRRRRR.

His bed was shaking. His window was buzzing. His stuffed elephant fell right off the pillow and landed — flump — on the floor.

"TOO LOUD," said Zeke.

He pulled the blanket over his head.

BRRRRRRRRRR.

He could still hear it.

He stuffed the pillow over his ears.

BRRRRRRRRRR.

He could STILL hear it.

He put the pillow on his head AND the blanket over the pillow AND the stuffed elephant on top of everything.

BRRRRRRRRRR.

"TOO. LOUD."

Zeke threw off the whole pile. He climbed out of bed. He was in his pajamas — the ones with the rockets on them. His hair was going seven directions. He marched to the window and pressed his nose flat against the glass.

Down on the street, a man in an orange vest was holding a big silver machine. The machine was jumping and shaking like it was alive. Every time it hit the ground, the sidewalk cracked into little chunks. Pieces flew up like popcorn.

BRRRRRRRRRR.

"What IS that thing?" said Zeke.

He had to find out.

He shoved his feet into his rain boots — the wrong feet, but he didn't care — and clomped down the hallway. His mom was in the kitchen with her hands over her ears and her coffee jumping in the mug.

"I'm going outside," said Zeke.

"Boots are on wrong," said Mom.

"I KNOW," said Zeke.

He pushed open the front door and walked right up to the fence. The man in the orange vest was close now. SO close. The machine was HUGE — taller than Zeke, silver and heavy, with a pointy end that went up-down-up-down-up-down so fast it was a blur.

BRRRRRRRRRR.

Zeke's teeth buzzed. His toes buzzed. His whole body buzzed.

The man looked up. He switched off the machine. And suddenly — quiet. Zeke's ears were ringing. Everything felt soft and fuzzy.

"Sorry, buddy," said the man. He pushed up his safety glasses. "Did I wake you?"

"YES," said Zeke. "What is that?"

"Jackhammer," said the man. He patted it like a pet. "We gotta break up this old sidewalk so we can put in a new one."

Zeke looked at the ground. Where there used to be a smooth, flat sidewalk, there was now a big mess of broken concrete — crumbly and rough, with dirt peeking through underneath. It looked like a puzzle somebody smashed.

"Can I watch?" said Zeke.

The man gave him a pair of big yellow earplugs. They were squishy. Zeke rolled them up and stuck them in his ears and the world went soft and quiet.

The man picked up the jackhammer. He pointed it at the next piece of sidewalk.

BRRRRRRRRRR.

But this time it wasn't TOO loud. It was just loud enough.

Zeke watched the concrete pop and crack. He watched the chunks tumble. He watched the dust rise up in little clouds that caught the morning sun and turned gold.

His mom came out with her coffee and a juice box. She had cotton balls in her ears. She handed Zeke the juice box and stood next to him and they both watched.

Chunk by chunk, the old sidewalk disappeared.

Zeke sipped his juice. His boots were still on the wrong feet. His hair was still going seven directions. His stuffed elephant was still on the bedroom floor.

But he didn't mind.

He had the best seat on the street, and the show was just getting started.