Wednesday, May 9, 2007

New Turf - Part Two


Listen to this.

Not surprisingly, there’s plenty of information on the web about how to create the perfect lawn, but very little on how to transform your neighbor’s lawn into something out of a Boris Karloff film. I thought about what mike said regarding ‘renegades’, and started looking into grass seeds. Turns out that the cheaper the grass seed, the higher the ‘other crop’ content per square foot of lawn. ‘Other crop’, as it turns out, means orchard grass or weeds, or anything else that grows by means of water and sunlight, but ISN’T grass. Also turns out that Home Depot was having a blow-out on the cheapest grass seed they sold. This stuff had such high ‘other crop’ content that they hid that label on the bottom, back of the bag. I bought three bags, and headed home with my seeds of destruction.

I placed the bags next to the garage door, and covered them with a towel. They were ready to go at the next night time rain. The cloak of darkness combined with the sound of the rain would provide the perfect cover for this operation. Turns out that the rain came about two weeks from the day of the last cat-kicking which was fine, and allowed Mike to calm down a little, and stop looking over his shoulder. At about 11:30pm it started raining, and I took the grass seed bags out and began throwing handfuls on Mike’s lawn. I tried distributing them as evenly as I could, but the front half of the yard facing the sidewalk received the bulk of them. Five minutes after I started, my work was done. I walked, soaking wet, into the garage, bagged up all the seed sacks so I could throw them away in a dumpster somewhere – hide the evidence, you know – and went to bed.

Mike and I didn’t have much interaction for a week or so. I glanced at the lawn daily, waiting to see the first sign of the renegade sprouts peaking up from his secret recipe soil. It took about seven days, but when it started sprouting, it came up really fast. Mike was bewildered, he roamed around the sidewalk that surrounded his lawn with a bottle of RoundUp in one hand and the funnel in the other. He didn’t know where to start! He was mumbling to himself, and pacing. The aggressive weeds sprouted first and tallest, they stood out like redwoods against the Technicolor green carpet Mike was so proud of, their delicate yellow flowers dotted his lawn and sprung up faster than he could spray the herbicide. Next, the off-color, lighter green, cheap grass sprouts took hold. They crawled up between the Kentucky Bluegrass and put a stranglehold on the Dwarf Samoan Fescue. Within a week, mike’s lawn looked like – well, to be honest, it looked like every other lawn along our street – a somewhat uneven plot of mixed grass types with the occasional weed. To mike though – well, he was ready to call in a priest. “Ever seen anything like this?” Mike said – wiping sweat from his brow, motioning to his new lawn. “What’s that, Mike? Looks fine to me.” “I didn’t pay $20,000 to a landscape architect to make my lawn look fine! Now look, I know we’ve had our differences, but I’d like to ask you a favor.” I’d never seen Mike like this. He was nervous, unsure of himself, vulnerable. . . “Veronica and I have to go up to Washington State – visit with her parents for a week. We’re leaving tomorrow. Can you kind of keep an eye on things for me?” He nodded toward his lawn, and I took that to mean that his house could burn to the ground, just as long as I made sure his lawn doesn’t get any worse. “You bet.” “Thanks neighbor. Just water the lawn on Wednesday and Friday if you could. Shouldn’t be any trouble to keep this mess alive.” He gave a half grin, then held out his hand – a kind gesture from this man was so rare, that I actually hesitated for a moment, making sure this was truly a handshake offering and not a karate jab to my ribs. We shook hands, and then Mike said “I know I can trust you.” Did he say water his lawn? Well this was a fine pickle. Now I was forced to tend to my garden of terror I had planted. I never was a strong believer in Karma, but at the moment of the handshake, somewhere out there the powers of the universe were having a grand old time at my expense.

With each passing day, mike’s lawn looked less like his old, perfect lawn, and more like mine, . . .and Steve’s on the other side, and . . .Dana’s across the street. I had a lot of time to reflect on the situation as I stood watering the ankle-high jungle I created. Why did I even bother watering? Half of me felt bad for Mike, I mean I did my best to quiet that voice, but, after all, I destroyed the one thing that Mike seemed to care about most in this world – jerk or not, that’s a fairly heavy burden to bare. But. . .The other half of me wanted the renegade grass and weeds to grow as fast and robust as they could before he came home. So to say I had an internal conflict would be a bit of an understatement. Don’t get me wrong, I felt justice was served – and I had no regrets about how I served it, I guess I was fighting with the fact that I wasn’t planning on having a week to ponder the outcome of the operation while tending to the one thing I was trying to destroy.

When Mike and Veronica returned, they were quiet for a few days and we didn’t see much of either of them. About a week later, I was working in the garage when I heard hammering coming from Mike’s yard. He was standing with a well-dressed man, planting a For Sale sign into the grass. Mike saw me, and walked over to the fence. “Well neighbor – looks like I won’t get to call you neighbor for too long.” “This is a surprise, Mike – I had no idea you were moving.” “Been thinking about it for a while, but our trip up to Veronica’s parents sealed the deal. Her dad isn’t doing well, and they’ve got a huge place up there in Tumwater – great trout fishing, clean air – heck I can’t wait to vacate these virons and motor north. Give me a chance to return to my real passion in life – fly fishing.” Those words reverberated in my head like balls in a pachinko machine. Mike continued “Ya see, the secret to catching a steelhead is to match the size and color of the corkies to the size and color of salmon eggs. Now, Salmon and Trout are fierce competitors who battle each other for the same spawning grounds. Salmon overrun rivers with the amount of eggs they lay and trout eat as many of the eggs as possible, so. . .” Mike kept talking, and I kept nodding, but my mind was drifting. I pictured him in his garage in Tumwater, sitting at his workbench late at night and tying flies under the fluorescent light built into a magnifying glass, content, secure, at peace with himself, and not a single cat in sight.

Back at the donut shop my reverie was broken by a familiar voice. “Hey neighbor – mind if I borrow the home and garden section?” I lowered the newspaper to see Mike smiling at me, his tiny eyes squinting into slits. “Mike – how’s it going man? What brings you to our neck of the woods?” We shook hands, “Veronica and I are moving back next door! . . .Just kiddin’ -came into town for my sisters wedding this weekend. How did the new neighbor work out?” Fine, fine. . .older couple – have their grandkids over on the weekends – pretty much keep to themselves. How’s the fly fishing?” “Caught 116 steelhead last season – go out practically every day it’s not raining, and some even when it is – absolutely love it! Well, I better get scootin’ – gotta get fit for a monkey suit this morning for the wedding. Nice talkin’ to ya neighbor!” “Me too, Mike – you take care now and say hi to Veronica.” That was the best conversation I had ever had with old Mike Glick – and a great way to start the day.

The following Monday I got a call from the vp of Human Resources with Dionelle Software in Irvine, and arranged an interview for the next day. Dionelle occupies the top six floors of a 26 floor office tower in the ever-expanding techno-industrial complex known as Irvine Ranch. Thirty years ago, the whole area was bean fields and orange groves, twenty years ago, a couple of ten story buildings took hold, they built a world-class shopping mall and people started migrating south from Los Angeles, filling in all the pockets of livable space in this new, quieter, cleaner alternative to what’s known as the greater Los Angeles metropolitan area. Now, although still cleaner, it’s nearly as packed with people and businesses as any other point north.

The receptionist told me it would just be a few minutes, and I sat down, folded my arms on top of my portfolio, and waited. A few minutes passed, then a few minutes more and the thought occurred to me that finding a restroom might not be a bad idea. The restroom was at the end of a marble corridor lined with the kind of framed art you find mostly at swap meets – New England Seashores, lighthouses – a sculpture, a cross section of a giant conch shell sat in a lighted alcove at the end of the hall. I was beginning to pick up on a sea theme.

I entered the bathroom, and the lights flickered on, now this is the part of the Podcast where I talk about being in a bathroom stall, so if you’re embarrassed by that, or you’ve never been in a bathroom stall, and don’t want me to ruin the surprise for you, then please fast forward a minute or so. I sat down and a couple of minutes passed (see that wasn’t too bad), and then, all of the sudden, the lights went out. I was sitting in complete darkness – I mean, blackness – the cliché about not being able to see your hand in front of your face – well, I’m forced to use that here. I didn’t panic, just sat there thinking for a moment. Was this a stroke? I was a little nervous in light of the interview, did this stress dislodge a blood clot that shut down my visual cortex? I doubted that. Then I remembered that the lights were off when I entered, so that means they’re on a timer and they’re setup to a motion sensor. I started waving my arms around wildly, hoping that the sensor was high enough to cover the insides of the stalls – no luck. I calmed myself down, stopped flapping my arms and went into survival mode. I was certain that my interviewer was looking for me by this point, and knew that being late for an interview – even if I’m sixty feet away from the lobby and have the most legitimate excuse in the world – wasn’t going to leave a good first impression. I thought about my resources – what do I have that creates light – and remembered my cell phone. The backlight from that thing could warn ships away from rocky shores! I grappled for the phone, staring straight ahead into the blackness. I pulled the phone from my pocket, flipped it open, caught the momentary brilliant green luminance from the screen and then felt it slip from my hands. There was a split second where it spun as it fell, and the lighted screen created a dazzling light show on the stall walls, then I heard the sound of plastic hitting tile, and watched the phone scoot well out of reach, beyond the stall door. The light stayed on for a moment then the show was over. A few seconds later I heard the bathroom door open. All I could think was – this can’t look good. I was sitting, alone in a bathroom stall – in the dark – in the company to which I’m about to sell my services and a good chunk of my life in return for the ability feed my family and pay my mortgage. In my nearly 41 years on this planet, I’ve found my self in a few such compromising positions, but this one- well, if nothing else, this one was the most recent. The thought occurred to me to pull my feet up, stay quiet and wait for the person to leave, but then I remembered my cell phone sitting on the tile just outside the stall door. I watched the shadow of the person approach my door, and saw the cuff of a suit sleeve as he leaned down to pick up the phone. “Anyone in here?” I took a breath ... “Yup – got caught in the dark when the lights went out.” There was a bit of sympathetic laughter. “Ya know – that’s the third time that’s happened this month – gotta get maintenance to fix that timer. I put your phone on the sink here. I’ll see ya in the lobby.” Oh God – that was the VP of human resources! I recognized his voice. Well, it’s been nice workin’ for ya. I thought.

Turns out that the interview went fine, in fact, three weeks from the day of my layoff, I was offered the job, and started the following Monday. I beat my goal of finding a new job within one month - by two days. The Friday before I started, I had the whole day to myself. No job hunting, no frantic portfolio shuffling or resume rewriting – just a free day to do whatever I liked. So I did the only thing I really wanted to do. I put on my sneakers and started walking. Forty minutes later, I sat down at my little sunlit table, laid out the comics, and raised the glazed old-fashioned, ever so slowly, to my mouth.

1 comment:

Drew said...

This is a fantastic story. My wife and I still discuss it, whenever the topic of "strange neighbors" comes up (and it comes up... a lot).

Nice work!