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Inches

Robert Brabham

    It took only one yank to get the lawn mower going. It’s got a damned 160 cc Honda engine, no shabby lawn equipment here, Jack. He wished he had double-checked the height of the deck to make sure he was razing a strict two inch cut on the verdant green fescue. There was some unofficial club out there somewhere whose members measured the height of freshly cut grass throughout the Good Neighborhoods of America, scuttling in the cover of night, Ben was sure. An assiduous fellowship to be sure, whose only matriculation is the ability to hoist a ruler.
    Ben stepped off the driveway and began mowing. He thought he had heard some other mowers running, their calls echoing across the neighborhood before he got started, maybe when he was checking the oil, noticing it was getting pretty dark, going to need to change it, gotta make sure the engine purrs. By the way Jack, you got a small dipstick. What the hell else were you supposed to do on a Saturday morning when you live in a Neighborhood?
    The first pass was fruitful and he could see the rear bag was already showing signs of weight. He had waited too long. But it wasn’t his fault, it was raining last weekend. So you mow one evening, you bastard. Why didn’t you, now? Gonna be comments. Ben was already sweating and he wiped his brow. Think of the money he saved by getting a little push mower with a fer God’s sake Honda 160 cc engine instead of a lawn tractor with a cutting radius of eighteen feet. He started his second pass, the left wheel crossing just over the line of the first pass. Ben didn’t care for making intricate patterns in the yard as though it were some golf course or checker board. Just mow it out and keep it trim and collect the cuttings in a garbage bag so it doesn’t choke the grass or something and get your hands stained green for about a day or so. He wiped more sweat.
    Look at the freaking crab grass. He had seen it for a while and had intended to pull it before cutting, but his back was aching from lifting patients all week at work so screw it Jack, a little crab grass was going to have to lay in wait. What the hell were those other weeds called? Is that a patch of mold in the low spot?
    Third pass was going quicker, the beastly green beard was shrinking, his turns requiring a little dip on the handlebar to make the sharp corner, use your hips, man! Don’t let go of the safety bail bar ‘cause it will drop forward and kill the engine and then you gotta stop in the middle of your yard like a putz and restart her. What the hell was he trying to remember at work? He had forgotten to document something on a chart. What the hell was it? Screw it, Jack, there’s grass to be cut.
    He was passing the small maple tree in the yard from which he had recently removed the stabilizing ropes. They had told him to leave them up a year and he had done so and it was long enough for the strap around the twine to have grown into the crotch of the limb where it joined the tree. Looked like it was going to heal okay. No one would see the scar in the branch bark.
    He made another pass by the tree and wondered why he wasn’t getting closer. Normally he was arching around it by now.
    Why the hell should he rush it? There was just more stuff to do after that, upkeep the house and yard after the cutting was done. Damn, he had meant to do the perimeter spray for fire ants last weekend after the rain. Don’t rush, try to enjoy the great outdoors with the scent of freshly cut grass and engine exhaust.
    It was downright strange he hadn’t gotten closer to the tree when he made another pass. Again, why rush? It never took more than maybe a half hour to cut the yard, the diligently manicured front and the sparse growth of the back yard, the main reason for fences and stone paths and rock gardens. Gotta focus on the front, gotta make it nice and nicer.
    On the next pass Ben stopped and looked at the tree, but held the bail bar tight against the handle bar of the mower.
    Why the hell was he no closer?
    Screw it, Jack, you’re just rushing. Don’t you remember, pleasure in your work? Make that yard look super pretty. The rear grass catcher bag looked weightier so it was collecting more clippings, ergo, it was still cutting.
    So what are you waiting for? With one hand he pulled the front of his t-shirt up to wipe the sweat off his face, could feel it catch on the beard he hadn’t shaved that Saturday morning because it was Saturday and an appointment with the yard didn’t necessitate too much in the way of morning ablutions. At least not in a middle-class Neighborhood.
    The next pass he found he was no nearer the tree and he cursed out loud. He scanned the yard and couldn’t find an explanation. He had been keeping the right wheel just over the cut line the whole time, no wheel marks of deviation. It wasn’t a brainy task to hack down the grass.
    Screw this a second.
    Ben released the bail bar which stopped the motor and he pushed the mower over to the open garage door. He was afraid to turn around for untold numbers of neighbors might be scrutinizing him, wondering what prompted this untimely siesta. He eyed the dried grass that had collected in the contours of the top of the mower deck and started to get the whisk broom, but hesitated. He pushed open the door to the foyer of the house. The air-conditioned air was at once too cold and dry and he shivered, feeling the sweat on his back and legs and everywhere.
    He advanced to the kitchen where Paula was working. Her head snapped up.
    “What’s wrong?” Petulance, stir fried with surprise and curiosity. Kiss kiss.
    “I just wanted to get a beer.” He opened the fridge and saw her glaring at the dirty hand with which he opened the door, the other dirty hand with which he retrieved the cold can.
    “I thought it was Miller time after the job was done. It’s still morning time.” She picked the rag back up and resumed polishing the silverware.
    “Gotta think outside the box sometimes. Don’t want to fall into the same routine, you know.” He opened the can and took a sip which nauseated him immediately. Why was his pulse accelerating?
    “Just so you get the job done,” she said and sighed.
    “What does that mean?”
    “Well, I’ve been breaking my back in here all morning and you’ve only been out there a few minutes. You said you were going to do the yard.”
    “I am. I just wanted something to drink. It’s no crisis.”
    “You just can’t seem to keep your word lately with the chores. I do more than half and I’m sick of it.” She was rubbing the bejesus out of a butter knife.
    “That’s not fair! I do my share around here. Why can’t I get something to drink?”
    She sighed and kept her eyes on her task at hand. She was braless in a loose tank which she usually wore on weekends and he could see her breasts jiggling with the movements of her cleaning. He burned with self-betrayal when he felt his body respond to the sight. The grimace on her face hastened his retreat to the garage.
    He drank half the can and swooned from it. The yard sat waiting. Who might be watching, waiting for his return? He/she/it would see the beer and understand why he stopped and speculate on his sobriety. Let ‘em wonder.
    He could see no breaks in the mow lines. He must have just wanted to finish too soon. Probably was running over the same path twice. Impatience. Now that will get you an ugly yard, dude. Gotta be vigilant, gotta take your time and not miss a blade. He looked around the garage and smiled when he saw a watering can. He strode across the lawn and placed the verdigris copper pot on the edge of the cut line. He returned to his mower, choked it, and gave the old engine a yank and it roared to life on the first try. Quality engine, that is.
    Ben maneuvered the mower just ahead of the water can and began mowing. He was sweating like hell as he maneuvered around the yard. He reached the pot and found he had indeed made a new cut pass. He could feel a smile break across his face. He took the water pot and tossed it back towards the garage where it landed on the concrete and the head of the spout broke off and clattered a few feet from the pot. Screw it. A small price to pay for the reassurance of sanity. Onward.
    He made a few more passes and realized he was making no progress. Wait, no, you’re just rushing again. Just rushing; just wanting to finish.
    He didn’t hate mowing the lawn that much. Hell, it was nice to look at it from a distance like some finished mural over which he had labored for months and view the beauty. He didn’t mind cutting the grass at all. What about that lovely smell? He made another pass and realized he should have definitely been making a semi-circle around the tree by now, had to. He wiped his eyes with the sleeves of his t-shirt and winced at the sweat that was stinging them. The mower droned on and he realized he was standing still. He looked at his blanched knuckles vibrating on the handle bar.

    He slowed his pace and watched the ground under him as he passed over it with the mower. What was there? Mowed grass of course. In front of the mower there was too-tall grass and behind him there was nice, pretty, moved grass. What’s the problem?
    Ben made three more passes and was no nearer the tree. He released the bail bar and let the engine die, but it protested and coughed and sputtered, stammering at the interruption.
    Ben entered the house again and shivered from the cold air-conditioned air.
    “Jesus Christ, what are you doing?”
    “Listen, you won’t bel –“
    “You’re right I don’t believe you. You said you were going to vacuum the living room carpet and sofa after you finished the yard.”
    “I am, but listen –”
    “And that’s going to be one more thing I’m going to have to do. Again, just like last weekend! Fuck!”
    “Goddammit I’m cutting the grass, I just...”
    “What?”
    “The engine’s cutting out and -”
    “Oh fucking great. We can’t afford to take it in for a repair. We just got those border stones for the flower garden in the back yard which you haven’t dug yet. Doesn’t the lawn mower have a warranty? Don’t you remember where you put the warranty? Forget it; I’ll look for it myself.” She stomped away to the front den where sat the computer at which he had masturbated after she fell asleep last night and next to which sat the black filing cabinet. “You have to do help more than this, you know! I work just as hard as you do all week...”
    “Listen, I’m getting it.” He wanted to boot her fat ass bursting in black spandex and felt nausea roll over him. She was bent over the last drawer of the filing cabinet and thumbing madly through the papers, stacks and piles of papers. “Christ, I’m going to have to put on a shirt and do it myself. Why don’t you just go to sleep or something.”
    This fury was not new, but the intensity was. A sharp pinpoint of pain stabbed the left side of his forehead. He trembled and felt tears welling. What the hell was he supposed to say? Why the hell couldn’t he say it?
    “I’m going to go finish,” he mumbled.
    “Fuck you are, you can’t fix anything.”
    “I’ll fucking fix it, dammit!” and he slammed the door behind him. She threw the door open and shrieked at him, “Don’t you fucking slam the door on me! I’ll leave!” and then she slammed the door.
    Look at all the objects in the garage, look at all the heavy objects that would sound so good as they were thrown against the fucking wall. Look at that sledge, a five pounder. How nice would it be to pound a hundred holes in the drywall?
    The mower was waiting on the driveway. Behind it was his little car with the small starburst crack that some road debris had left in it a couple of months ago, another task he failed to find the time for.
    He picked up the weedwacker. There was no way he could fail with this. He had wanted to start by trimming out the yard first anyway since it required the most energy. Logical. Who says you can’t start with the wacker? He had cut the yard enough to know what he couldn’t reach with the mower.
    Why not do the whole frigging yard with it? He could move in circles and watch every blade of grass around him at all times. He checked the gas and it was almost full. He checked the oil. Just fine. He put the strap over his shoulder and yanked on the cord. It whirred and chuckled. He pulled and produced a cough. He pulled and pulled.

    Fury is as fury does and he took a chair with both hands and was about to fling it into the yard.
    Stop!
    He listened to his rasping exhalations. The yard was out of focus.
    Stop. Just stop.
    Children rode by on their bikes, laughing; a smaller one scrabbled madly at the pedals, feet slipping off, trying to keep up with the older ones.
    Ben restacked the newspapers and placed the weedwacker upright against the wall. He finished the beer which was warm as urine and of the same palatability.
    The little mower growled to life on the first yank. Just before it woke, he though he heard something heavy inside the house. He wiped sweat from his forehead.
    He returned to the yard, the cut grass already dry from the hot sun and he moved ahead, slowly, very slowly. He looked at the broken leg of the English Garden armchair in the back yard and tried to look at the trees. He wiped his mouth and felt something. It was blood and he wondered when he had bitten his lip.
    At the back edge of the yard he turned the mower, dipping low the handle bar, bail bar tight and snug in his white hand. He wiped his eyes with his shirt sleeves. The tears kept the sweat from stinging. Ben wondered if he could make himself stop weeping before he faced traffic on the road.

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