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Barry was on the crest of his fiftieth year when he had his first affair. She was a real beauty. Every Saturday afternoon, while his wife cleaned his house and bought his groceries, Barry would leave his family and spend his time rubbing his new love down and filling his new love up. Sometimes he would return, hot, sweaty, and his wife would serve his ice tea while he watched baseball and put his grass-stained shoes on the leather.
“Get those disgusting shoes off the leather,” his wife would say, so he would.
He’d take them off the leather and walk them out the door, right to his new obsession. Call it a mid-life crisis, call it time for a change, but at the beginning of Barry’s second half-century, he fell in love again—with his lawn tractor.
***
At Safeco field in Seattle, 106 square feet of manicured lawn greet baseball fans: four kinds of bluegrass and two kinds of ryegrass in perfect geometry. A crosshatch pattern decorates the infield, foul territory is a “V” of alternating diagonals, and the perfect spacing of a jailbird’s get-up fills deep right, left, and center. All are alternating, light-dark-light-dark, not one dark blade trespassing in light territory, not one light blade infiltrating the dark zone.
A middle-aged couple finds their seats, the woman wearing a sleeveless button-down with vertical stripes and a Mariners’ cap she got for her birthday from her husband. He wears a classic jersey, Griffey Jr., buttons stretched to capacity. He carries a plastic tray of nachos in one hand and a hot dog in the other; she holds a diet soda as they settle on the rough plastic chairs. The wife’s moderately high heels crunch a discarded peanut shell, still moist from the mouth of a beer guzzler in the seat behind her. Disgusting game, she thinks.
“Ahhh,” her husband sighs with content, then says loudly, “Now this is the American game.” She attempts to scrape a piece of gum off her shoe with her folded program. “Look at that field!” He leans over to his wife, “Now, if I could only get my lawn like that. How do ya think they do it, honey?”
Yes, I can give him that, she thinks. At least the lawn is nice.
***
Six or six-thirty, every night, Barry would walk through his front door into his living room, throw his tie and jacket on the leather, stroll past his cooking wife, and look out his picture window. He was surveying his land.
“I think I need to cut my grass tonight, hun,” he’d say. “She just grows so fast.”
“You gonna take out your mower, dad?” his son would ask.
“My tractor? Yeah, I am.”
“You sure do love that lawn mower,” his son would respond.
“My tractor, yeah, I think I may need to use it two times a week now, it just grows so damn fast. Wow, she sure is growing in nice. Don’t you think she’s growing in nice, hun?”
“Huh? Oh, yes honey, really nice,” his wife would say. Then she would set the meal—tonight it’s meatloaf, cheddar cheese potatoes, a salad with lite ranch and cherry tomatoes—on the trivets, on the table. The family would sit down and eat.
***
“Attention all our valued customers: Sears is proud to announce its summer Lawn and Garden sale, on now! To celebrate the season of sunny days and late nights, we’re offering our biggest clearances of the year on all your lawn and garden needs. This week only get the Craftsman 42” Precision Cut Lawn Tractor for just $1499.99—that’s a savings of over 30 percent! With 24 horsepower engine, six-speed manual steering and a three-gallon tank that lasts for even the biggest yards, this deal is one you can’t afford to miss. Complete with adjustable seats, six blade setting options, and cup holder, you can pick up yours today in classic red or special edition gold!
“But hurry in, because just like summer, this deal won’t last forever.”
***
The hillside development has 11 tracts, eight of which are built up on the side of the hill. On the level ground at the bottom of the hill stands the last three identical segments of land. An acre each, these three tracts are all adorned with the nice big houses people buy because they need more space for their growing families, growing incomes, or growing antique collections. Along the road, on the first third of the tracts are the front yards, bark-covered gardens and fledging shade trees edged by a sidewalk. Between the sidewalk and the road stands a sidewalk’s width of tall wild weeds indicative of recently developed countryside. The front lawns creep around and hug the houses on each side, melding slowing into the back two-thirds of the acres. Here is the bulk of the land, large plots with enough land to put a basketball hoop, a tennis court, a swimming pool, or a really big lawn. All three homeowners opted for a really big lawn.
Barry’s home was first, on the corner. Sean, a life insurance salesman who made clients easier than he made friends, lived on the third lot, the last one before the development ended in a green swamp fence and holding pond. In between them were the new neighbours. And the in front of the new neighbours’ house, past the yard and past the sidewalk, were the new neighbours’ weeds, which were not cut down.
It’s a long summer evening, 9:15, still slathered in hazy light, and Barry and Sean chat on Sean’s front lawn. Sean is showing Barry his new lawn tractor (a green and khaki John Deere, complete with tow hitch and a compass on the dash). They pause to observe the pattern—a hundred feet of cut weeds, a hundred feet of uncut weeds, a hundred more cut—and shake their heads.
“It’s a real shame,” says Barry. “It’s just a real shame.”
***
The Johnson twins have been running their own entrepreneurial lawn-mowing outfit for about two hours now. It’s really beginning to take off. They’ve already mowed one neighbour’s lawn, and piqued some real interest from that woman who wears flesh-coloured spandex when she gardens. Their mom won’t let them mow the lawn of the woman in the flesh-coloured spandex. Nevertheless, they’ve already earned five dollars each, which means all the candy they can buy for five dollars each is at their disposal, whenever mom decides to bring them along grocery shopping.
The Johnson twins’ entrepreneurial lawn-mowing outfit is really beginning to take off. They only have to mow 150 more lawns before they can afford a Craftsman 42” Precision Cut Lawn Tractor.
***
Every other Wednesday night, the Vista del Lago Homeowners’ Association meet to discuss (according to Barry), gossip (according to his wife), and hit on each other’s wives (according to his son).
This Wednesday night is special, because the new neighbours are making their first appearance. Though they were invited to the last meeting, they declined because they were still unpacking. This turned out to be a good thing for the rest of the homeowners, as it gave them a chance to properly speculate about the new neighbours before they actually attended a meeting.
“Lisa told me they’re very nice folks, ‘down-to-earth,’ she said,” Carmen, wife of the association’s president, had said. “Their cars sure seem…” she had paused, searching for the correct words to describe the new neighbours’ 1998 Ford Taurus. “…fuel-efficient enough.”
Carmen always made sure she never said anything mean at a meeting. It wouldn’t be proper for the wife of the homeowners’ association president. Carmen drove a new, dolphin-blue Toyota Prius.
The new neighbours arrive early to the meeting and are greeted with a round of welcomes from nine other couples, who have also arrived early so they would be there when the new neighbours arrived. All are accounted for, except the Chutes, who are late. The Chutes are always late. (“They’re just always so busy,” Carmen says, pursing her lips a little.)
The new neighbours, it turns out, are here this Wednesday for more than hellos. They’ve brought a folder with them, and in that folder are plans, and on those plans are the specs for a new garage.
“We’d like to build a new garage,” say the new neighbours, and they relate the plans to the association. “Everything is according to association standards, and it’ll lie on the back edge of our land, so we can still have a backyard. We need it so we don’t have to store our boat in the driveway.”
Barry and Sean look over the plans, consider them, and give their approval. They can’t imagine living next door to someone who parks their boat in the driveway.
***
Lakeview Weekend Gazette
Boy, 5, injured by lawn tractor
State police said 5-year-old Devon Carter was involved in an accident with a lawn tractor at 24 Crystal Spring Road on Tuesday evening. Stan Carter, the boy’s father, said Devon was playing football with his older brother on the lawn while his father was mowing, and caught his right hand under the tractor’s blades as he dove after a stray ball. The child was taken to Lakeview Hospital after the 5:30 p.m. incident.
Doctors said the boy’s hand will likely be amputated due to the severe injuries.
“We regret this incident ever happened,” said the elder Carter, tearfully. “I urge all parents to use extreme caution when operating their lawn tractors around children.”
“Hopefully [Devon’s incident] will help keep other boys safe in the future,” added Debra, Devon’s mother, through tears.
***
The new neighbours began constructing their garage the following month. It was late summer, and on weekend mornings the sounds of bigger machinery began to compete with the usual grumblings of lawn tractors getting an early start on yard work.
“That sure is bigger than I expected,” Barry said to his wife one weekend, observing the construction from his picture window.
“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” consoled his wife. The garage was, in fact, about four boats bigger than they had anticipated.
“I think it’s butting up against my property line,” said Barry. “That wasn’t in the plans.” He went out to measure. It was, indeed, a mere 12 inches from the property line.
“It’s not that big of a deal, dad,” said his son. “You can still mow.”
Every weekend, a new atrocity was discovered. Four walls, about two boats taller than the house they accompanied, were built. “My view!” lamented Barry, stationed by his picture window.
The A-line roof began to appear two weeks later. “My sunset!” Barry cried, hands against the double-pane glass.
“Get your fingers off the glass,” his wife said.
After the garage was finished, the new neighbours edged the entire edifice with a gravel path, meant to ease walking around the structure to the building’s back door. Barry watched from the window as the gravel was poured, small rocks skittering here and there, a few coming to rest comfortably between the thick blades of his lawn. “My…my lawn,” Barry faltered.
His wife knew a line had been crossed.
***
“Excuse me, sir – sir.” She has long fake fingernails painted coral for the summertime. “Sir, I need some help.” She has two sons; they are thumb-wrestling.
Bill Walthers has worked in the garden department at Wal-Mart for six years, taking the job after being phased out of his management position at a nondescript telecommunications firm at the age of 61.
“Sir, can you tell the difference between these two fertilizers?” She doesn’t look him in the eye. “I’m sorry, sir, my husband is re-seeding tomorrow, and he wanted me to pick up—boys, stop that!” She scolds her two sons; they are actually wrestling.
Bill Walthers lives in a retirement community with his wife of 41 years. Their second-floor balcony has two potted plants and lawn gnome named Sue his wife couldn’t leave behind when they moved.
“So sorry, sir, you were saying…” She looks up, ready to receive his blue-vested wisdom.
Bill Walthers sighs, decidedly. “I recommend the one on the left. I used to use it on my lawn, and she’d grow in real nice an—”
“Uh, yes, um, thank you sir, I appreciate it.” She is walking away, fertilizer in her cart. “Have a nice day.” She calls back to him; her two sons follow behind her.
***
It was a warm summer day, the day that it happened, the day that went on to become homeowners’ association lore, the day that was destined to be an impressive crazy neighbour story for years, the day that morphed and moulded into more extreme versions of itself whenever a word was said about it.
Yes, it was a warm day, and rather pleasant.
Carmen was walking her mini schnauzer with her husband, the president of the homeowners’ association, just beyond the green swamp fence. Barry’s wife sat on the porch facing the front yard with an iced tea and a novel, attending to neither. Sean stood in his kitchen, opening and closing the refrigerator door, looking for nothing in particular.
It was that day that Barry got on his lawn tractor, and the slight breeze rustled the new neighbours’ uncut weeds.
It was that day that Barry started his lawn tractor’s 24 horsepower engine, and the sun disappeared early behind the new neighbours’ garage.
It was that day that Barry faced his lawn tractor towards the new garage, revved its engine, and kicked it into gear.
***
People love to ask me what I do. They like to examine my grubby fingernails and mud-flecked boots; they wonder how my handshake became perpetually calloused and unclean, my face constantly smudged. So, they ask, taking in my stained t-shirt and streaked, fraying jeans, what do you do? Well, I tell them, what I do is sell dirt. Huge piles of it. You’ve probably seen it when you drive on the freeway, two acres of varying mounds just outside the edge of town: light brown, dark brown, earthy brown dirt in huge piles. My father used to sell dirt, and now I sell dirt, everyday to everyday people.
All people talk about these days is “green,” as though green were some magic colour that will make every good thing in life grow. I disagree; I believe in brown—that’s why I sell dirt. Because beneath every great lawn is a whole lot of dirt.
***
They all hear the crash; it echoes forward to the front yard and over past the green swamp fence. And soon, they all see the tire marks, then the single mowed path of grass that leads to the smoke, to the splintered wood, and finally to the dusty new concave in the new neighbours’ new garage. What they miss is how quickly a satisfied smile turns to shock, and then to confusion, before it finally becomes a discontented frown settling upon a scarred and smoking lawn tractor.
Barry’s wife runs up, while Barry dismounts his machine, looks at her, then looks down. “I think I may go back to mowing just once a week, honey,” he says. He leans down and out of the gravel picks up a dirt clod left over from grading the new foundation.
“Yep, once a week—that should do it,” he repeats, distractedly. He crumbles the dirt clod until it became dust, drifting softly through his fingers and down to the cushioned lawn. |
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