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Stories
So, I’m sitting in bed late one night, tired and dirty, grass stained and mud streaked. It’s been another long day mowing lawns and I find myself staring at my hands. At first I’m not sure why. Its not like I’m a musician or a surgeon or something. They’re not even my favorite body part. And yet there I am staring, lost in their twists and turns and scars.
As I continue to stare I begin to fixate on the scars. I once read somewhere how Stephen King had said that you always know a writer because they can tell you stories about every scar on their body. I don’t know about the writer part, but I sure know all the stories written across my hands. There is the long gash across my palm, induced by the furious tumble I took when fossil hunting at summer camp. And the snaking scar on my ring finger, left after the finger dislocated and sliced through the skin like a shark in low waters. Your hands I realize, and particularly their scars, come to define who you are in many ways because they reflect everywhere you’ve ever been, good, bad, and otherwise.
I also realize that my hands have come to define me in ways I never expected, and this is really why I find myself so lost in them in the first place. My daily existence, you see, has become one of dread and confusion, and this dread, not only dominates my thoughts, but smothers and imprisons me as well. I know I want out, no, need out of the life I find myself living, yet I don’t know how to do it. And so instead I just stare at my hands, my scarred lawn mowing hands, the tools of my trade.
The Trap
A friend knew I needed to earn some money. He also knew that Jack was looking for some workers to join his landscaping crew. So, he introduced us. From jump Jack seemed to offer something different, something enticing, a gingerbread house if you will. He would buy us lunch and offer to get us stoned. He listened to the Grateful Dead and regaled us with stories about the local girls he was banging. We could come and go as we pleased just like he did. On top of all that, he offered to pay us top dollar just to mow lawns.
And so, just like that the trap was set. I mean visions of freedom and money, and the chance, maybe, somehow, for pussy. What else is there? And how many chances does a fifteen-year old have to obtain any of that?
But you see that was just the vision, or projection, or whatever the psychologists call it. The reality is long days, with lunch in the truck as you rush from one site to the next. And banal stories about young girls and sex that scares you with their excessive depravity.
“So I grabbed her right there between the front door and the entrance to the bar. You know, the fucking foyer or whatever they call it. Anyway, I grabbed her and shoved my hands down her pants,” he says.
“Then I’m fingering her right there in the fucking foyer thing, can you believe it?”
“Yeah, and then when I pulled my finger out there was a piece of skin on it or something. It was fucking crazy.”
You may never finger someone now.
The reality is also a stoned, angry boss screaming and crying at you daily about your slowness, technique, and the short length of the grass. Short grass you see leads to less mowing. Less mowing of course leads to less drug money.
“Are you trying to fucking put me out of business? Are you trying kill me? I mean Jesus Christ, raise the wheels. Raise the fucking wheels,” he screams for the millionth time.
You just nod. You’ve already raised the wheels.
“And why the fuck is it taking you so long. I can mow twice as fucking fast as you guys.”
He then proceeds to push one mower in front of him while he pulls another behind him.
“Now how hard is that. Jesus. My dad would have fucking killed me if I mowed as slow as you fucking guys. Are you even trying?”
You just nod. You know you’re busting your ass. You also know you can never bust it fast enough, or mow straight enough. It’s really kind of pointless to try.
You see the reality is, this job is not cool or fun. And you wonder what happened to that vision. Soon all you have is the money to think about and the feeling that there really isn’t anywhere else to get it. I mean it’s not like anyone else is offering you work. And it’s not like you have any connections.
Ultimately you wonder if you should just quit. Just run off. The problem though is that lately Jack hasn’t been paying you all that regularly. Check that, he has never paid you regularly, but now it’s added up to a fairly substantial amount. You see he can’t pay his workers all that often because he’s too busy spending it on the drugs and the girls. So, what are you supposed to do, quit with him owing you money? Then what? You’ll never get paid.
And so the trap draws tighter. Now it’s not just that you’ve been sucked in, but you can’t even fight for your freedom because that freedom comes with a cost. And with such a cost, does it even qualify as freedom? Such questions come to dominate your days and nights. There are no answers or end in sight.
Closure
And then one day the grass is real high and wet and the wheels too low. And the mower blade is getting blocked with all the jagged, soggy clippings. I begin to picture the screaming and the crying that is soon to come, and I wonder yet again what the hell I’m even doing here. I mean is this how I want to spend my days? Is this how I want to live my life? How did I ever get here? At this point I don’t know what to do or what to think. It’s all just too confusing.
So, I flip the mower over, and I’m sure I turned it off, well I’m sure I think I did. But who knows at this point, I’m fucking spinning. And then there’s the blade and its still rotating. And for just a moment I am mesmerized by it, lost in its motion. And a moment’s distraction is all it really takes you know, because my fingers are right there in the way, and then there’s blood, and it’s everywhere. Then it all fades to black.
And then I’m sitting up again in bed late one night and I’m staring at my hands. One fully formed and whole, the other mangled and covered with bandages. And as I stare at them, and the stories they will tell, one thought comes through over and over again, I’m free, and that’s how they will define me now.
That’s my story.
