O’ Bophela – DH Reed
July 28, 2026
It’s always lunch break. The free hand is overcommitted to a wet, goopy cradle of cheese, bread, meat, and field lines of onion and pickle. A call comes just as the light changes. Her words buoy English syllables with an Australian accent.
“Hello, is this Mr. Buffalo?” she asks.
Bophela changes lanes to reach the turnaround on the feeder road.
“Yes. It’s BO-FELL-AH,” he says.
“Hi, Mr. Buffalo. It’s Lauren. I was calling to confirm you’d be able to repair the leaking ceiling today,” she asks.
“I’m on it. I just finished up an issue in the gym. I’ll give you a call once I’ve worked on it.” Bophela does his best to end the call.
“That’s perfect. I look forward to it. Thank you, Mr. Bophela,” she says, ending the call.
Bophela slows through the turnaround, rolling down his window to eject his goop-fist burger. It hits the concrete barrier with a splat, but the paper clings to his hand and covers him in meaty soup sauce. He whips his hand through the air, then dries it on his slacks.
His free hand grabs a fistful of fries and squeegees his face. His throat swallows hard around the mess.
Students peek through the small window in the door. They want to know what’s going on. It looks simple enough, so they walk away.
“Damn.”
Bophela fixes the pipe, but something else is dripping from the ceiling above.
The stairs to the roof are wet. The door opens onto a lake-sized puddle. A dirty, middle-aged man lies on his back on a skateboard, a big mane of hair dragging through the floodwater as he slowly scoots around with a long stick.
“Hey!” Bophela waves. “Yo.”
He gets no reply.
Every drain has a white ragged shirt stuffed into it. Someone made a reservoir.
“You can’t do this. You’re flooding the school, man.”
Each shirt he pulls free releases the eerie whine of water rushing through an empty drain. Bophela finishes removing the rags, then finds a branch speared through the roof. The weekend storm had driven it straight through.
The sun is out now. Bophela taps a piece of copper pipe against the edge of the white planetarium dome. They both ring—the dome low, the pipe high.
Security is taking its sweet time to arrive. Bophela watches the man disappear down the stairs before pushing himself away with his stick across the science courtyard.
It’s odd how the pipe and the dome always settle on the same notes. They’re glued to their harmonics.
The courtyard shows no sign of the homeless man. There are only students enjoying a moment to forget home. Bophela plumbs their roofs, and now he chases roof surfers away.
“I guess it’s fixed,” he says to himself.
He calls Lauren.
“Hi, Lauren. I finished the repair, but there’s quite a bit of damage to the ceiling from the storm.”
He leaves a brief voicemail and hangs up, not wanting to discuss the homeless man.
The copper glistens in the sun as he raises the copper bar to admire it. A bizarre doughnut-shaped shadow, ringed with concentric circles, falls across the roof.
The roof door opens.
“Sir, did you call about a homeless man on the roof?”
The young security guard looks just like the students peeking through the classroom window.
“Yes. He scooted away on his skateboard toward the geology building.” Bophela points toward the building.
The guard looks over the edge. Another security cart has just pulled up below.
He doesn’t ask many questions. He radios something quick, then heads back through the stairwell.
A few students unexpectedly push through the roof door.
“What happened?” they ask.
“Someone made a little lake up here to swim in,” Bophela says with a laugh.
“Did he attack the planetarium with a pipe?” one of them asks, walking over to the dome.
Bophela freezes.
“I don’t know.”
He bops the copper bar against the planetarium again. Both ring out together.
“Did you hear something like that?”
“Yes,” one student says. “It’s much creepier inside there, though. Very spooky.”
The student shivers.
Bophela shrugs, then disappears down the stairwell, leaving the students to investigate. He tosses the armfuls of wet shirts into a trash can.
As Bophela descends the stairwell, he wonders how they’re going to find the right guy. They didn’t even ask for a description. Maybe they already have it from his call.
He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirrored back of a cabinet filled with old computing relics.
Jerry steps out of the elevator, rolling a big blue dehumidifier in front of him.
“I heard you had a pool problem.”
“Did Monty tell you about it?” Bophela asks with a smile.
“No. Lauren expects us to fix the hole. She called about the damage.” Jerry laughs.
“What did you tell her?”
“I said it’ll be a week.” Jerry chokes back another laugh.
Bophela plugs in the big blue box, and they walk into the classroom. No one is left on the roof.
Jerry chips away at the edges of the puncture with his hammer.
They listen to the sound the roof makes. The hammer lands with a damp, squishy thud around the hole.
“Just a stopgap anyway.” Bophela cracks open the black five-gallon bucket of Wet Stick. Jerry trowels the roofing cement until the hole is filled.
“What’s this?” Bophela spots a stack of books near the edge of the roof.
He picks up the top one: The History of Karate in Texas. The back cover has a photo of a big-bellied man with long black hair in a ponytail drinking from a green beer bottle beside a cavern. The book is bound in calfskin parchment that feels ancient. The pages are a bit damp, but mostly intact.
He peels up a chalky white paperback held together with tape: Simple Tree Forts. Bophela looks up at Jerry, then over the side of the building. For a moment, he studies the trees below as Jerry wanders over.
“What’s that?” Jerry asks, picking up the karate book.
Bophela doesn’t know how to explain it.
“I wish security the best of luck capturing the roof ninja.”
They both laugh.
The next book simply says Gurbetçi in a language Bophela assumes is German.
Jerry picks it up.
“What’s that?”
He squints at the page.
“Bir ihtimal var daha mı?”
He pauses.
“Yeah… I got nothing.”
Bophela shrugs.
“I think it’s a tractor. Like a mech. Maybe it’s a sailboat?”
They both stare at the roof for a moment.
Jerry reaches for the last book, trying to make out the faded letters on its worn red-and-black cover. The gold lettering has almost completely vanished. All that remains is Volume 1. Many of the pages have been torn out or scribbled over.
“What’s it about?” Bophela asks.
Jerry shakes his head.
“It’s washed out. Just scribbles.”
Bophela studies the pages. The scribbles fill nearly every inch, and only the untouched paper reveals ghostly outlines of creatures and figures. Every other page has been torn away.
“Maybe it’s a book of Shakespeare,” Bophela suggests.
Then he flips to the back and finds a wad of wet toilet paper mashed into the pages.
The book drops to the ground.
Bophela wipes his hands on his jeans.
Jerry drops the rest of the books.
“Oh, hell nah.”
Jerry holds his hands away from him and disappears down the stairwell.
He lathers.
The faucet hisses while he rinses.
Again.
A third time.
BAMP!
He flinches.
Something rolls inside the last stall.
A skateboard.
Jerry looks up into his reflection.
Burrrt.
Wheels rub against the inside of the stall.
The stairwell door whips open.
Jerry comes wobbling quickly onto the roof.
“You touch a lot worse, Jerry.” Bophela shakes his head. His foot nudges the book cover on the ground.
“Grab the Wet Stick.”
Bophela tosses the trowel into the bucket, and they hide behind the planetarium.
A lion-like figure pushes the door open and rows across the flooded roof with a long stick. Bophela watches a large side satchel swing open—a satchel he hadn’t noticed before.
Jerry fumbles for his phone to call security.
Bophela stops him.
Someone else comes through the door.
They have a skateboard too.
The lion-like figure pulls a black clarinet from the satchel.
The other carries a guitar.
The guitar settles into a low rhythm.
The clarinet dances above it.
They are glued to their harmonics.
Their spirits ring against one another in jazz.
Bophela steps out.
Neither of them acknowledges him.
He isn’t surprised.
Jerry comes over too.
As they lean into the music and the stairwell, it becomes clear they aren’t men.
Their presence isn’t even human.