The old man who lived across the street sometimes glared at Jeremy while he sat smoking, his lawn waiting very patiently for a trim. In the 8 years he had lived here, he had never learned the man's name. So long after moving to the neighborhood it would have been awkward to seek introductions.
Jeremy thought of him as a man with nothing else to do but dedicate himself to a nicely tended lawn and well maintained landscaping. This was in part due to the spotless emerald carpet that left no doubts as to property lines, but also due to the 8 plastic cans in varying hues that appeared on the curb every Monday morning on yard waste day. Without fail, Jeremy had never seen less than 3 bins out week after week. He sometimes wondered if the old man was slowly digging out an in ground pool in the backyard, or perhaps something more nefarious. No, there was the old woman, poking her head out to check on his progress. This was real life after all, not a Hitchcock film.
Jeremy's own lawn was in something of a different weight class. He had never been interested in spending all day trimming, pulling, cutting, and raking just to do it all over again the next week. He cut his grass using an old timey push mower, the kind with rotating blades that spun by gears in the wheels. It never ran out fuel, and always started on the first try. He loved his lawnmower, which he affectionately called Edwin. All of his tools had names after he'd received a weed whip with the brand name Seymour emblazoned on the handle for Father's Day. Seymour had provided polish to Edwin's chore, whistling through the tall heads of wild onions and tall blades of grass that the little mower had left intact. After Seymour and Edwin had come Vernon, Kurt and Tony (a saw, machete, and electric weed trimmer, respectively) The boys club met nearly once a week to maintain the lawn and fight the infestation of a rather pernicious tree called the Tree of Heaven. They grew too quickly among the ivy that lined the backyard chain link, and had necessitated Kurt's invitation to the old shed that served as the clubhouse.
In the fall, Jeremy would fill seemingly endless leaf bags, only to see twice their number across the street. What warranted such a relentless mass of outgoing vegetation he might never know.
Jeremy thought of him as a man with nothing else to do but dedicate himself to a nicely tended lawn and well maintained landscaping. This was in part due to the spotless emerald carpet that left no doubts as to property lines, but also due to the 8 plastic cans in varying hues that appeared on the curb every Monday morning on yard waste day. Without fail, Jeremy had never seen less than 3 bins out week after week. He sometimes wondered if the old man was slowly digging out an in ground pool in the backyard, or perhaps something more nefarious. No, there was the old woman, poking her head out to check on his progress. This was real life after all, not a Hitchcock film.
Jeremy's own lawn was in something of a different weight class. He had never been interested in spending all day trimming, pulling, cutting, and raking just to do it all over again the next week. He cut his grass using an old timey push mower, the kind with rotating blades that spun by gears in the wheels. It never ran out fuel, and always started on the first try. He loved his lawnmower, which he affectionately called Edwin. All of his tools had names after he'd received a weed whip with the brand name Seymour emblazoned on the handle for Father's Day. Seymour had provided polish to Edwin's chore, whistling through the tall heads of wild onions and tall blades of grass that the little mower had left intact. After Seymour and Edwin had come Vernon, Kurt and Tony (a saw, machete, and electric weed trimmer, respectively) The boys club met nearly once a week to maintain the lawn and fight the infestation of a rather pernicious tree called the Tree of Heaven. They grew too quickly among the ivy that lined the backyard chain link, and had necessitated Kurt's invitation to the old shed that served as the clubhouse.
In the fall, Jeremy would fill seemingly endless leaf bags, only to see twice their number across the street. What warranted such a relentless mass of outgoing vegetation he might never know.
He certainly wasn't going to ask.
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