Lift Up Your Hearts

“There lay the space suit, its sleeves and legs twisted unnaturally, like a victim of a fall from a great height.”

AUGUST 19, 2025

My dog died on Thursday. On Friday, I didn’t head home after work. Instead of coming down to the ground, I stayed up in the cabin. I should’ve buried him in a field or in the woods that Thursday night, but how to go about that was way past me. Whether to trek miles across town with the bag slung over my back, whether to get a cab or a late-night bus, to dodge questions or try to explain. I wouldn’t have been able to buy a shovel that late, anyway. I could’ve waited till Friday morning, taken the day off, but I wrapped him in a blanket and took him to the clinic. Forty-five pounds isn’t a lot — you’ve just got to get a comfy grip. I kept losing mine and having to readjust. At one point, I set him down on the sidewalk and repackaged him. It all turned out more expensive than a cab and shovel, and I worked up a sweat all the same. I didn’t know anyone to give the half-finished bag of dog food to.

I never counted the rungs on the way up to the crane’s operator cabin or measured the time it took to climb them. The only things I cared for were my feet not slipping, the firm grip in my hands and the level positioning of my head: an easy way to avoid vertigo. It’s a long way up and just as long a way down. Some taught themselves to hold out with a full bladder. To fast and to drink very little, so as to not come down during the day. Sometimes they used their special bottle. I took a break mid-shift. The construction site had one other crane. It was taller, newer, and had an elevator. Waldek operated it. “Once I’m gone, Boguś,” he’d say to me, “you’ll change seats.” He picked his words deliberately, so that I wouldn’t know what he had in mind—retirement or demise — since he’d had two heart attacks. So what? I was going to hang on till March, then resign.

I lived three stops away, at the end of the bus line. From the window, I could see the premises of the hangar-shaped sports wholesaler. There was an abandoned, four-story office building nearby, the ad on its wall bleached by the sun, its rooms not rented for years. In the evenings, I’d hear raised voices, laughter, occasionally a smashed bottle. I was used to it by now and could sleep through the noise, sooner pulled from sleep by flashing police lights. In the early mornings, the gravel would crunch under the wheels of the parking delivery trucks. The drivers would put out their cigarettes in energy drink cans and piss against the wall. A power line, loose, hung over their heads like a forced smile.

I limited my contact with colleagues almost entirely to signs, instructions, questions and answers related to the working of the crane. I came in last, did what I had to do, and was the first to leave. I wasn’t there to make friends.

When the dog was still alive, I’d take him on afternoon walks next to the construction site where I worked. The park stretched along a dry riverbed lined with stout, old houses behind a wall of graffiti commemorating a boy who’d been stabbed there. A name inscribed in Gothic-style lettering, the dates of birth and death, a promise, maybe a threat. Below, a footnote in a different scrawl: “Good riddance.”

On Friday morning, I’d changed my alarm. No point in getting up so early anymore. I thought of putting out an ad: “sixty percent meat, vegetables, minerals...” The buyer would enter the apartment, take a look around, inspect a handful of the dog food, ask further questions. They’d discreetly smell their fingers and wipe the crumbs on their pants. At least that’s what I would’ve done. I never tasted it. A non-perishable food — let it stay.

From above, the construction site vicinity looked like a model assembled from random materials. Such models are kept under lock and key in museums, in storerooms for cleaning products and portraits that have fallen off the walls. Movement was an optical illusion up here: the rotation of an impossible object. We got nice views. “As above, not so below,” Waldek would say. Come on, I’d seen worse places.

I was alone here, far from the others. I limited my contact with colleagues almost entirely to signs, instructions, questions and answers related to the working of the crane. I came in last, did what I had to do, and was the first to leave. I wasn’t there to make friends.

To my left, in the east: a new housing development. To my right, in the west, behind the garages and the fitness club: an office building and a long apartment block. It was rounded at one end, its lower half green, the top white, meanwhile the horizontally connected balconies with rusty, openwork balustrades resembled aviaries. On the fifth floor, a woman in a sweatsuit was performing swings and bends. She’d stop to glance down at the tennis court on the roof of the club, where some people were practicing with a trainer. Were it not for this, I would’ve thought she was sending an encrypted message and looking out for the answer.

I spent the whole night in the cabin. In the early hours, in a bright kitchen on the tenth floor, I saw a person wearing a space suit.

Left and right, east and west aren’t everything, but they’re enough for me. By the end of the day, I was sick of spinning. I let them know on the walkie-talkie I’d be going down soon. The wind tilted the crane. I was used to it, no longer dug my heels in. If anything happened, bracing your head would be the most you could do. I saw a clip once: a man trying to soften his landing, outstretching his arms, then disappearing out of frame. I replayed it a lot.

I was hungry with no idea what to do next. I planned to pass what would’ve been dog walking time in the cabin. I closed my eyes so as to not think about what I was seeing. Whatever it was, I’d instantly say its name in my head: street, car, bird, church, viaduct, billboard, station. I think I fell asleep. Not for long. When I came to, the halogen lamps below were on, and the thumbless security guy was walking the site’s perimeter. Once, twice, three times. He could’ve just listened to radio show reruns in his booth — he had the times of his rounds in his notebook — but once set in motion, he went round and round in his orbit.

I wanted to sneak out without explaining myself, but he stomped around like he knew I was hiding. The weather wasn’t cold enough to stop him patrolling. The dandelions were still shedding at the end of November, pigeons lounging in the puddles. December was dry and warm. I stopped minding the security guy. Bored, I stared into the windows opposite, the new housing blocks. In the past, people used curtains and blinds. Now, it was possible to peer into most of the apartments. Nothing worth remembering: kitchens, dinners, empty rooms, laptops, wall-mounted TVs, the silence and the lack of details, the entrances and the exits. The not-there, the here-it-is. It’s what I needed.

I spent the whole night in the cabin. In the early hours, in a bright kitchen on the tenth floor, I saw a person wearing a space suit. I couldn’t tell whether a woman or man — the suit disguised the silhouette, and the tinted helmet covered the face. The figure waddled slowly, catching its balance, grabbing onto the counters and the cupboards. At one point, they opened the window wide, leaned through it and looked around, as if trying to check if they’d reached the right planet. And then they hid and turned off the lights.

The guard was dozing with the radio on as I passed his booth. I caught the first bus. After a sleepless night, I was good for nothing. The dog bowl still had some water, and I wondered how long it would take for all of it to evaporate.

I made provisions for the whole day and the following night to watch the astronaut again. Maybe this time they’d jump out, gravity would play a trick, leaving the astronaut floating outside the windows, unable to return or fall. They sent me home before noon. Waldek’s crane broke down and the manager told him to take mine. Deadlines were on our heels and Waldek had more experience. I spent the rest of the day at the table in my apartment. There was a guy on top of a ladder in front of the sports wholesaler. He was holding a thin, long rod wrapped in string lights. He unrolled them bit by bit and arranged them over the entrance. He’d set the rod aside, descend to move the ladder, and climb up again. He did a good job of it, making the sign, still unlit. He’d check each letter from below, stepping back as far as the road. At one stage, he lost his balance and fell from the top. An ambulance came first, the police next. As he hurtled down, he held onto the rod and tore down the letter he was arranging, so all that remained was “Merr.” Someone later finished the job but without words — just a wavy line. The lights glimmered by sunset.

The day before Christmas, work finished early. The manager invited us for refreshments in our site trailer. I showed up near the end — we were supposed to get part of our pay under the table. Most had already left when Waldek got sick. He wouldn’t let us call the ambulance, saying it’s no big deal. He asked if someone could bring his pills, which he’d left in the crane cabin, and the task fell on me. I was quick. I glanced at the astronaut’s block, but it was still too light out to see anything through the windows. Anyway, I didn’t know this person’s habits. Maybe it had been a one-off escapade, or maybe they only did their space suit walks on set days, at set hours.

Waldek was pale and clammy. He wiped his face and neck with the paper napkins and threw them at his feet. He took off his Coke-bottle glasses. No clue how he’d convinced the doctor he was fit to operate a crane.

He was famished. I warned him: I only had bread and butter, I lived alone and didn’t host, and I wasn’t going to prepare supper.

Once he felt a bit better, I walked him to the bus stop. He dawdled along, huffing, and we didn’t make it in time — we missed the last one. He lived twenty-five miles away in a small town without train service. He made a bunch of calls, relating all the conversations to me and explaining his links to those people. I was waiting for a good time to say goodbye.

Everyone turned him down. His ex-wife had evening plans already and didn’t give a damn about his problems. His daughter and granddaughter had gone to the in-laws. His friends had already cracked one open or weren’t picking up. Waldek assured me he’d eventually find someone, so I wished him good luck and walked away.

“Boguś,” he called, and I pretended not to hear. The diminutive of my name used to annoy me, but I no longer cared. “Boguś, wait.”

I stopped.

“Unless, you know, I could wait at yours till they come get me?” he asked. “I’d go somewhere, but it’s all closed now,” he added, since I was silent.

He took a pill from his pocket and swallowed it dry.

He was famished. I warned him: I only had bread and butter, I lived alone and didn’t host, and I wasn’t going to prepare supper. Not far off, there was a twenty-four-hour snack bar. I ordered a wrap with double beef, so that Waldek would be quiet for longer, busy chewing. I hoped someone would pick him up in the end. He was encouraging me to try the wrap. He smeared his glasses with sauce, spread it with his scarf, insisting this was funny.

In the liquor store next door, he bought a fifth of Żołądkowa vodka. The best kind for stomach problems, he asserted, if only you added pepper to it. He’d paired it with orange soda and cigarettes. He was now sending texts, yelling that everyone has pepper at home, and complaining I live far. He was a slow walker, and I’d purposely chosen to go on foot — the bus would’ve taken five minutes. Everyone had stopped calling and texting back by now. The streets were empty. An artificial satellite slid across the sky. Waldek drank from the bottle, his head lifted high and his eyes closed.

As we entered the apartment, I felt as if I were the guest. The linoleum in the hallway bulged in several places, and there were useless pieces of junk around, left behind by the previous occupants. The landlady wouldn’t let anything be thrown away. She was old and made a show of it. I didn’t have much. It made moving home, which I hated, easier. If I could close my eyes and simply teleport somewhere new, maybe I’d decide on a change of scenery more often. I hadn’t properly aired the place out since the dog. The urine stains were unwiped, the dog hairs unswept. I sat on the pull-out couch in the main room, Waldek at the table. I closed the kitchen door to stop the stench from the clogged sink from spreading. I was in a similar state — I hadn’t had a real bath in a while. Every couple of days, I’d bend over it and sponge off from the waist up. Then I’d switch — from the waist down: sitting down facing the tub, then the other way. Sometimes I stopped at clipping my toenails, which made the entirety of my legs seem cleaner.

I had the sudden realization that I’d missed my time to commit a juvenile crime. Now, I would only be capable of something heinous, something which puts you off your food when you hear about it.

We drank from the glasses. Alcohol didn’t work on me: I thought and behaved the same as when sober. Sometimes I’d vomit the following day, no more than that. Waldek moved the table, since we were sitting too far from each other, and he couldn’t hear me well. He kept asking questions, mixing the tablets with vodka. I didn’t say anything. He was struggling to breathe.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “I’m all good. Just how my heart is.”

His phone died. He took mine and tried to remember the number for some relative. He’d dial by trial and error, calling strangers, arguing with them and cursing. At the same time, he’d tell me stories of the animals his colleagues used to drop from the cranes. Of the frogs, the pigeons with tied wings, the cats. He himself wouldn’t do this — he’d only watch. Of how he’d crushed the legs of his friend, the rigger, who’d incorrectly secured the load. That was the first heart attack.

He went out to take a leak, and that’s when I heard the landlady’s cough from behind the wall. She was drawing it out. I’d often lend her money, petty cash, since she didn’t like breaking big bills. She was meant to deduct it from the rent, but she never did. I never asked. The upstairs neighbors played songs with simple melodies and unintelligible lyrics. I guessed some of the words. I had the sudden realization that I’d missed my time to commit a juvenile crime. Now, I would only be capable of something heinous, something which puts you off your food when you hear about it.

Waldek struggled to find his way back into the room. He called after me, but I wasn’t responding. He reminded me of my dog: His memory failed him, so he’d get lost and bark until I came to collect him. He had been nearly blind and deaf. I’d rap my knuckles on the floor to get his attention. Old dogs usually sleep a lot, but he trotted around day and night, as if death were following him, step by step, equally clumsy, and if he stopped, it would finally catch him. One evening, I laid him out on his dog bed and made sure he stayed put.

I made the bed now, but Waldek didn’t want to get in. For myself, I spread the blankets out on the floor, but this didn’t matter. I wouldn’t be able to sleep with a stranger around, anyway. The alcohol was gone. Midnight approached, and the liquor store had closed.

“Let’s go back to the site,” Waldek proposed. “I stashed a bottle in the crane cabin.”

He argued he couldn’t stop drinking abruptly once he was in the flow.

“That’s risky business. I did that once and had my second heart attack.”

The security guy was so drowsy, he would’ve let us in even without some tale about a forgotten wallet. He instantly went back to his booth. I stopped Waldek from climbing up. His feet were sliding off the ladder and he was hanging on with his hands. I pulled him down by his clothes and went up myself. I didn’t expect the fear — as if I was doing it for the first time. The rungs were cold, and I couldn’t rid myself of the feeling I was looking at myself from below, climbing higher and higher, stiff, like a decommissioned robot. If I were to smash into the ground, I would’ve released cogwheels, springs, punched cards.

I was over halfway when Waldek started yelling. I glanced down. He stood there, illuminated by headlights, waving. The driver honked rhythmically. In the end, someone had come for him. I stopped looking and climbed further. When I reached the cabin, Waldek was gone.

I kept watch till dawn, my eyes fixed on the window, but I didn’t see anyone. The lights were off. I felt around for the bottle under the seat. Cheap red soda with vodka. Then a long way back down. The security guy was still sleeping, his head tilted back. Crisp frost — the first that winter — had set in. I wrapped myself and sped up. Something glimmered in the locked enclosure for storing trash outside the apartment block. On the concrete by the containers, there lay the space suit, its sleeves and legs twisted unnaturally, like a victim of a fall from a great height. The headpiece was nowhere to be seen. It seemed old-fashioned, something you’d wear for a journey no further than the Moon. I kneeled and tried to drag it closer with a stick. My nose was running. It worked, but the suit wouldn’t fit between the bars of the grating. I held the chunky boot connected to the leg for a moment. The sole smelled of warm soil. The suit must’ve been a costume, not a real one, anyway. Even so — I thought, looking at the black, green, yellow and blue containers — what do you want, you idiot? Everything’s in its place, isn’t it? Plastic, glass, metal, paper, general waste. As I moved the stick, remnants of dog food rolled out from under the grating. I chewed the dark pellet. Eventually someone would come with the keys.

✺ Published in “Issue 31: Fiction” of The Dial