“Mow” - A Satirical, Short Story
Taking a last look up the dirt road, Ike felt satisfied and untangled his arms from the rusted metal gate. After an hour of watching, only a single car drove by the farmhouse.
Southwest Indiana. The far south of it. It was his summer break when Ike found himself in the middle of nowhere; and truly, the isolation was starting to get to him. Living out in the country was like living in a different time. There was no internet to use, the water tasted funny, and it was hard to get accustomed to the lifestyle; though in the end, Ike only embraced what this middle of nowhere offered him - work.
The work, perceived as dumb and tedious at first soon became routine, and Ike got used to what was expected of him.
Ike stood up from the gate and walked back up the driveway of his Grandmother’s house.
Ike was asked to stay at her house until his Uncle Keith returned from his ‘wilderness expedition’ in Panama. It took years and years to plan the event, but finally, Keith and a bunch of guys from the local VA headed out ‘somewhere’ to supposedly sight-see the splendors of Central America (they were taking up camp along the deserted coastal regions). Their activities aside from that remain unknown.
Back at the farm, year-round Uncle Keith is the one who normally looks after Grandma - only God knows how.
“Not that I need lookin’ after!” Madge said from her bed, a lumpy-looking thing taking up most of the room they were in.
Ike was in the middle of taking the dirty dishes from her room back to the sink in the kitchen. Madge knew how to pile ‘em up, boy did she. Not only did she have a steak knife tucked under her pillow (for safekeeping), but an entire set of silverware stashed there as well. Soup spoons, ice cream spoons, forks, sporks, and even a pork skewer. You never knew when or what and that was most important.
It was a summer where Ike was doing it all. He fed her three times a day, attended to her needs, attended to all the farm chores, turned off the lights, turned them on, made sure to dust the mantel… got that window open…closed it shut - Ike did everything.
Since the dry spout, his Grandmother had fallen severely sick and was only getting older along with it. The sickness aged with her like cheese does, stinky and acquiring a sour flavor. She was as stubborn as a doorstop. Even though she had her wit, she wasn’t leaving her bed anymore because she was sick. She hadn’t gotten up from the bed in years; not for the time Uncle Keith got married, or the second time a year later, and not even for last year's celebration of the birth of the baby Jesus.
Ike got there mid June to take over the work. It was something like early July, and without a calendar, Ike had no idea what day of the month it was. To him, there was no telling what day of the week it was anymore, or how many days it had been. If he wasn’t keeping track after the weekend, that was that. All that was real and true was that it was summertime at the farm. The time spent was getting to Ike. It was making him a bit screwy.
“Grandma…” Ike mumbled. She was ‘forgetting’ where the dishes went. She was hiding them.
“A woman my age can look after herself. Put that down!” Madge quipped.
Ike set the foggy mug back down on her dresser. The dresser was dusted with a heavy coat of lint. Inside the thing were stacks of untouched clothes, folded neatly, not worn in years. Ike proceeded to the next cup.
“Am I gonna see this in the sink later?” Ike asked.
Madge rolled her eyes and fanned it off. It was too much effort to be bothered anymore, even though she was someone who rather stay bothered if it suited her.
“I’ll get around to it, I’ll get around to it! A boy your age shouldn’t be hasslin’ with me anyway. A boy your age should be out in the field or at the least helping in the barnhouse. You take up time. That's all you do.”
It was ordinary of Madge to belt Ike. She loved him like all Grandma’s love their grandchildren but Ike was driving her nuts. It wasn’t anything he was doing, in fact, he was doing everything he could to help her - he just simply took up her time. That’s what she said and that’s how it was.
“The work!” Ike laughed. “I do all that and more! You say I waste time! You sound like you’re sick of me, sick of your Grandson!”
It was no more than some teasing, no matter how it sounded coming from her snappy tone. Ike knew that, but dang after weeks did it piss him off. Madge believed she had everything under control despite being bedridden, and her little Grandson Ike was there, dropped off for the summer break, whose job was to look for cookies and make muddy messes. Ike, the sixteen-year-old who played high school baseball and drove a yellow Honda S2000 back home.
Madge huffed and pulled her gigantic quilt over her head. She was nearing ninety-nine years old and still had the attitude of a child. She was a grump, not a terrible one, but a finicky one with many controlling qualities, particularly over the farm and how she thinks things should be.
She gave Ike a hard time knowing damn well of it. There was a lot that needed to be fixed, watched over, fed, watered, shut on, and shut off. Ike was there and took care of all these things. He had been doing so for a while, and his summer break had turned into his new life, but boy, never did he hear the end of it from her.
“I could be in town or the park, but no, I have ‘ta slave around here all day - and you ain’t happy about it either. So what do I do? I do what I do and I do it anyway so you’re gonna appreciate it whether you like to or not!” Ike said. He collected the several, barely-sippin’ Dr. Peppers from her nightstand.
“I’m gonna sleep. Quit yappin’.” Madge said. The TV set by the dresser was loud. With his arms full of pepper bottles, Ike walked over to the set and tapped the volume button down a couple of notches using his elbow. Madge turned over and hid herself underneath the blankets.
He walked to the kitchen and Ike dropped the load of bottles into the recycling bin; since it was almost full, he took the bin full of glass bottles out back to the work shed and tossed the bottles into the junk heap that had been accumulating for decades. All the bottles smashed on impact against a tough spot of dirt. He walked back and stuffed a hand into his jeans pocket to see what was there. He felt sand, a rubber band, a handle to the corn feeder that snapped off, nails he picked up from the front porch, and a peanut he planned on putting in front of the tree out front, a squirrel lives in there.
He returned to her room. Madge was asleep. She had a strange knack for sleeping whenever she pleased. It wasn't any sort of narcolepsy, it was something called ‘lazy’. She could be up well into the night watching game show reruns, shouting from her room when she knew the answer to Jeopardy or when she’d need to talk to TV commercials. It was at times like this that Ike knew the sickness was actually losing its fight with her. She had some spirit, the ol’ finicky woman.
So it seemed during those times. Other times she slept all day. Not saying a word to Ike, not touching a thing around her. Sometimes her bedpan was empty, which was a good thing for Ike, the one who cleaned it; but sometimes it would be days empty. She’d go days comatose. Ike realized the severity of this after a bit of time being there, and that he had a responsibility to take care of her.
Ike picked up the foggy glass and left her room. He ran the dirty glass underneath the faucet in the kitchen. The water ran brown, then red, then a steady clear. He tossed the cup around in the water and looked out the front window. It was a perfect sunny day. Ike thought about all the chores he had left to complete around the farm. It was well past breakfast, and he already fed the chickens and swept their coop, refilled the water tins, fed the hog, changed the bird bowls, fed the dog, left a peanut for the squirrel, and…shoot - he forgot to feed the cows.
“Everyone’s eaten but them.” Ike thought as he sprang for the field on the far end of the farmyard. How unfair for Ike to eat steak and eggs for breakfast. How unfair for the chickens and cows. Meanwhile that morning, Madge had ignored the yogurt that the doctors were forcing her to eat.
The old screen door creaked as Ike jumped off the back porch and ran across the yard. A beautiful hop as if the wooden floorboards of the porch are trampolines, landing in a dusty sprint. The dirt coated his white sneakers, a pair of shoes surely to be ruined by the end of his time here.
Spitwad, the Russell-terrier, came speeding around the side of the house to see what Ike was up to. He eagerly greeted Ike by doing some circles. Yip-yip-yip. The two walked along briefly when Ike picked up a muddy tennis ball that was sitting bored in the jungle of the backyard and hucked it down by the work shead scrap heap. Spitwad took after the ball like his little life depended on it.
Conveniently parked by the cow fence, Ike pulled down a lunk of hay from the tractor stack. Nearby the bale cart was a big, yellow combine harvest, sitting patiently, waiting for the autumn harvest. The dry spout wasn’t giving that any hope.
Several nights ago, Ike had a dream of a vivid Indian Summer, where instead of a great harvest of crops, he’s asked to tear up all the dead scum and trash with the combine. Tear ass! The air, like a wool sweater, was hugging yet dotted a ticklish chill upon his ears and nose. A big mean yellow machine, puffing fumes and fogging the crisp, steady air. All day spent driving around, and then to retire inside to eat pot roast and apple pie cooked by Grandma.
This would all happen well after his summer stay at the farm. By then, he’d be home, back in school, wrapping up the ball season, and definitely not on the farm. Ike wondered if it was healthy to be thinking like this especially that far down the line. He woke up from the dream and there was a simple explanation to it all: Uncle Keith would take care of it and have all the fun.
When Ike was first asked to take care of the farm and Grandma Madge, Uncle Keith promised he’d pay him. If Ike promised to stay the whole summer, from half of June to early August, Uncle Keith said he’d pay him $1000 for his time. A thousand big ones. Without a question or really thinking it over, Ike agreed and packed his bags that very night.
Ike flew out from Pennsylvania and Uncle Keith greeted him at the IIA.
“I got a mission I gotta go on,” Keith said, he spat out the window something black. The spit stuck to the window and the wind stretched it into a sticky smear.
“A mission? Is it for your work?” Ike asked, adjusting the pickup’s seat belt.
“My work is takin’ care of the farm and takin’ care of your Granny. She’s sick, you know that.”
At this time, Ike had only been told little. It wasn’t just knowing only a little about farmwork, but it had been a long time since he had seen his Grandma or even heard from her. Occasionally Madge was around for family Christmases or holiday gatherings, but that was back when he was just a boy. Ike had never been to the farm or even knew she lived on one.
There wasn’t a whole lot of small talk for the rest of the ride. Uncle Keith was very strange and reserved. He kept things left unanswered and Ike assumed he liked it that way. He hesitated asking his Uncle where they were going again, and in the back of his mind, he wondered what he was in for. It was a very sudden opportunity. He would be taking on all that his Uncle does the entire summer. A thousand bucks was a lot of money and he was dealt a big dish of responsibility.
Ike’s question was finally answered as if the words presented to him each took a respected minute to process:
“I’ll be in Panama.” Keith said.
After that, and only after an hour or so of driving through cornfields and craggy backroads, Uncle Keith dropped Ike off at the farmhouse. That was it. Uncle Keith showed him absolutely nothing else; not how to do, not how to work, but only told him of a torn-out sheet of notebook paper stuck on the fridge with a wad of gum.
A hearty list of 20-30 chores and when to do them, every day, every week. Uncle Keith’s handwriting was horrible but it wasn’t until after he left that Ike pissed off his Grandmother by telling her he couldn't read the paper. It was her handwriting after all. It was at this point Ike realized she was the true boss - bedridden or not she was in charge.
Uncle Keith didn’t even leave his truck to say goodbye or nothin’. He backed out of the driveway, gave Ike a confident look, and went straight down to Panama for whatever he was doing.
The cows flocked to the side of their fencing. Ike yanked the hay bale over and ripped it up with his hands. The cows inhaled the delicious hay. It was a great treat for them indeed. They continued to swarm the fence until all the tossed stringy goodness was gone.
Like that, the cows were fed.
Thinking over it, Ike wondered if there was anything else he had forgotten to do, anything that should’ve been done according to the list. That morning he got up at his usual hour, five, an early hour he once forbade himself to ever wake up at, especially during his summer break. By now things were routine for Ike. When he first got to the farm it was hard to get used to the early hours, but eventually he stopped complaining. Maybe it was yesterday.
The cows ate and Ike watched them munch. There was nothing else he was certain to do besides cut the grass out front.
It was a job that needed to be done once a weekend around the farm and the task was valued highly. Luckily it was just the front yard (as most of the backyard was acres and acres of ruined soybean fields). A simple, flat rectangle of green yet a reflection of everything the homeowner stood for and represented. Nothing tops a well-cut lawn. The house half a mile down the road had the same mindset with the same priorities for theirs, and the same could be said for the house down on the opposite end. Everyone cherished their front lawns in these parts.
Before he arrived on the farm, and before Madge got real sick, she’d be the one out there mowing. Ninety-something years old and still cutting grass like it was nobody’s business. Even when Uncle Keith was around, she’d still be the one doing it. It was, if not, her last contribution to the farmwork.
In the past weeks, and though only being asked twice, both times Ike butchered the job. Madge couldn't physically see the yard from her bed, and could only take Ike’s word for it that it looked good as well as being mowed properly. It was evident that the four local cars that passed by the house turned their heads in shame, avoiding the horrible handiwork, and though it appeared unseen, their disapproval was there, their disappointment existed, whether locals yelled it in Ike’s face or not. He did a terrible, terrible job both those times.
As proud as he could be of his previous efforts, and reluctantly not scolded before thanks to a bluff of an inflated string of words he convincing told Madge, it is true, Ike actively tries to do better because he’s a go-getter. The farmwork posed a challenge for him and dammit if he goes home without feeling satisfied or his work ethic improved, Ike will never forgive himself. Weeks on the farm have done a number on his character.
“Grammy! I’m gonna do a mow!” Ike called, rounding back around the house and heading near her bedroom window.
The farmhouse had three windows. One in the front room for lookin’, a small one by the kitchen sink for lookin’ in the backyard, and one in the back of Grammy’s room for listenin’. That one was always to be open. Whether it was in heavy rain, snow, hail, or whatever, it stayed open and it stayed open no matter what. A muffled voice erupted from inside.
“Check the bags. I don’t want yew leavin’ grass all over the place. You check those bags!” Madge beckoned. She wasn’t sleeping after all. She was awake wasting time, Ike thought
“Right! The bags! The bags! I hear ya Grammy.” Ike responded, leaning against the side of the sill.
A barking Spitwad came running up to Ike with a field mouse in his mouth. It was alive, the dog was just showing it off like a cool prize. It hopped out from its mouth and the dog began barking excitedly as it scuttled on the ground.
“Hey! ‘Git the dog outta here! Go on it’s buggin’ me! Get the dog Ikey! Get goin’!” Madge yelled.
Quick to please, Ike ushered the dog away. The field mouse ran into a hole leading inside the farmhouse. A cozy discovery for the creature.
There it was again - the nagging. Of course, Ike was going to use the mower bags. That is an unspoken rule of mowing. Ike had to learn that. Today, Ike swore that not a stray clip remained. He was to cut the grass, bag the grass, and toss the bags in the woods when he finished.
It only took him a week to decipher the illegitimate scribbling on the note that was his Granny’s rules for the mow. His first time around he screwed it up badly, forgetting the bags completely. He realized this mistake himself, and like anything, he learned the hard way - with a rake and a worked-up sweat. There were rows of ugly clippings for the better half of that week but he was learning. This was one of those things he had to teach himself, otherwise it was his Grandmother’s constant nagging. There was no choice in the “bag matter”, and anyway, he wasn’t going to risk a bad job even when she couldn't look outside the damn window.
That was all that was left for today’s chores. Ike was pretty sure at least. After that, he planned to go into town and do anything but farmwork. Distract his mind for a while, and come back later to this tragic reality he was used to. There were baseball games at the park and the YMCA pool was open.
The lawnmower was right where he left it. The thing constantly sat out in the front yard, collecting dirt, leaves, and rain. The only times he had booted it up was for the mowing. It was small, electric, a piece of crap really but it got the job done. Ike hopped in the driver's seat and turned the machine on. It chugged. It was neat, the radio worked too. Ike hummed his way over to the furthest edge of the grass to start the mow. He was going to ace the job this time.
Not that he’d been thinking about it or anything, and it was certainly not because of all the time spent on the farm, but today Ike had a strange hankerin’ to crush the mow. Madge’s nagging had been driving him crazy and he wanted to really show her. A banger job, whether she cared or not. Whether she believed him or not. The mow was a chore that meant more than tearing up the field scum or feeding the chickens, the mow defined the farmer and the farm. The little patch of grass on the front lawn really did mean everything.
Ike aligned the tractor to the side of the house. He revved the engine, making sure to cue his Grandma of what he was doing. The bedroom window was wide open and the tractor engine chugged as he trod the grass. It inched along, neat and straight. Ike listened for her but nothing but silence came from the bedroom. Was she asleep now?
“‘Imma mowin’!” Ike yelled. The tractor tattered along its straight path. Ike reached the other side of the yard and swiveled around. The radio was playing some distorted country jam. Ike began making his way back across the grass plot. “Looking really good to me!”
After several more laps back and forth the front lawn, Ike finished the mow. Before you ask, yes, he bagged the grass clippings, two bags worth, and tossed them in the woods. That was that. This time around the job was executed beautifully. Ike managed to stay in the lines, kept the length of the grass not too short, and even trimmed up the edges by the gate.
It was only mid-afternoon by the time he finished, and the mow took far less time than he thought. The town was only a couple miles away (a dozen different cornfields). So far, Ike’s luck for entertainment had been very rarely finding pickup games to play and grocery shopping when need be.
Out here, indeed things had gotten to him.
Unlike his yellow Honda back home, the car in the garage was a vintage. Madge rarely drove it around during the later years of her life. If she had to go somewhere, it was Uncle Keith doing the driving with his truck. Sitting idly in the garage, parked and decorated with a generous amount of cobwebs and dust was a car.
There aren’t too many words to describe the car other than crap. A possible station wagon design, yet the interior was that of a regular sedan. There was minimal space in the backseats and then where you’d think a spacious trunk would be, you’d be mistaken - the driver’s cab itself took up more space than half the vehicle. There was a small back seat and a tiny trunk. The manufacturer of the car is an unidentifiable brand and Ike spent a good time looking for anything to distinguish the hunk of junk. The steering wheel was falling apart and there was no music system, possibly torn out and stolen long ago. There was a functioning cigarette lighter and a catchy ashtray, containing butts from the golden years. The keys were socketed in the driver's side door.
Ike didn't bother telling his Grandmother. He had taken the car out several times already. The first time he drove it he had to fill it up with spare gas he found lying around by the barn. It wasn't much but it was barely enough to drive him into town, where then he took it to the gas station and filled the whole thing up with his own money.
As he backed out of the driveway he admired his job on the front lawn. It was absolutely perfect. There were no jagged patterns or splotchy spots, and the trim was as straight as could be. It made up for every other time Ike mowed, no doubt. Even though he would receive zero credit for it, not from the cars passing by, not from the dog, not from Grandma Madge - Ike was damn proud of his work. Damn proud of himself. He continued backing out into the street, taking a good look at the yard again, and then rattled away up the dirt road.
The dry spout really jacked up the local crops. The corn fields were all brown and dried instead of fresh and green. They weren’t supposed to look like this in the summertime, it wasn't right. They had no rain, no proper hydration and the sun beat down. The harvest was wasted. It wasn’t only the corn fields though. The soybean fields were a bunch of dead plots too.
The drive into town was very depressing. Ike, who didn't come from the farmland nor had a serious appreciation for any of the liking. He didn’t think much of it. The sorrow and broken nature the town showed him “was what it was”. He just figured this is how things were. Sucky. It was almost a shared association with his Grandmother. Sick and dying, her and the town.
The chores were a bore and the town was a bore. It was getting to the point where the $1000 was all he thought about. One thousand glorious big ones and a wasted summer. The farm duties were once interesting, validating, God, at least new. The farm duties now only kept him awake at night.
For the rest of the day, Ike went to watch movies at the town’s movie theater. There was enough time for two shows, but halfway through the second movie the picture was cut short due to projector overheating issues. It was even hotter later in the day, where it tended to be at the peak of the afternoon. The theater was sweltering but nobody was complaining. Not at this point. People were tired of complaining, the six people in the theater that is. The summer heat was an overstayed friend. A friend and vicious killer.
It was just before sunset and Ike bought frozen pizza for dinner at the market. On the way home, Ike was driving past his neighbor’s house. Their lawn was freshly cut too, a coincidence perhaps. It was a remarkable cut, a real, fine job. It was done by some farmer Ike had spotted many times working out front. The neighbor must’ve heard him cutting earlier and must’ve seen Madge’s freshly cut yard driving by. Ike wasn’t sure there was ever a planned mowing day or anything. There was a part of him that was oddly interested in his fellow farmers' work. There was a need for comparison.
Driving by, Ike almost stopped the car right then and there in front of the neighbor's house to get out to look at his yard. Just as figured.
His neighbor's lawn, everything about it, the way it was cut, patterned - copied; it was identical work to his own. This lawn was a weak imitation of Ike’s own lawn-cutting ability. There was even a square trim around the guy’s tree just like how Ike cut a square trim around his gate post. There was the tasteful crosshatch where the guy cut diagonally across the lawn and wrapped back around to do it again. It was all the same. He wanted to take a picture, hold it up to his yard, and study the two.
How observant. Their farmhouse was still a half mile away. There were loads and loads of dead cornfields between the houses to separate them. It’s not like the guy was posted outside the farm or anything, studying the yard, carefully noting every detail as Ike mowed. Ike didn’t know if he was to feel irritated or honored. As the busted car passed by, at the last moment, he spotted the neighbor closing the door to his workshed.
From all that distance away, their eyes met in a flash, only to be lost by dead cornfields a second later. Even though it was only a second of their eyes meeting, it felt like it lasted forever. The neighboring farmer knew what Ike was thinking, but Ike was wondering if the man felt a strange humiliation about it. Ike was just a kid after all and he might’ve cut the world’s best lawn, a feat most farmers try to pull off their whole lives. The last remaining dream for most in a dead-end town.
Not paying much more thought of the matter, he made it back to the farm and Ike was instantly reminded of the little green square in front of the house. It still looked incredible. It was indisputably an outlier among the dying, depressing happenings all around them.
Most everyone in South Indy suffered hard during the drought. People who relied on their crops were ruined. As for Madge, she cashed out and retired a long time ago. She didn’t grow crops. Neither did Uncle Keith, as he “didn’t care for all that”. All the farm required was tending to animals and making the place look ‘pretty’ as Madge said. However, there was a man who bought the family fields surrounding the farmhouse. He was growing something and got hit hard by the drought; not that Madge said anything about it to Ike, but Ike grew to assume something happened based on all the abandoned property.
There was a lot of darkness around the town. People weren't happy. Not at all. It was hot. Ike assumed the town was down in the dumps naturally, but Ike had a naive understanding that people were down, very down. Morbidly down.
Though Ike’s lawn was incredible.
He parked the car in the garage and unloaded the pizza and a few other groceries from the back in the icebox He covered the car with a tarp and closed the garage door by yanking a shutter down. He went around the front to get inside, that way he could take one last time to look at the front yard. He couldn’t help himself. It was one of those things you couldn't stop yourself from looking at. It felt good to look at. He wondered if his Grandmother had looked outside yet. Likely not. After taking it in long enough, Ike grasped the groceries and walked them inside.
After prepping the oven for the pizza, Ike went to go check on his Grandma, it had been a while since he had last checked on her, which wasn’t too unusual for him, but he wanted to see her, but honestly, he wanted to tell her about the lawn. He was gonna sell it to her real good.
Ike popped the pie in the oven and went to her bedroom. Madge was still sleeping underneath her bed covers.
“Granny, I'm home,” Ike said. There was no response. As much as she slept, it was never all day, and today she practically slept through the whole thing. There was an apparent lump in the middle of the mattress. As old as she was, she wasn’t that fragile. She could wrap herself up in blankets and contort herself into a pretzel under her sheets. Ike didn’t wanna touch her. “The lawns cut. Did you see?” Ike said.
The TV set was still on, playing episodes of the same vintage programming. The volume was unchanged from earlier, and it told Ike that Madge never bothered to watch her shows the entire day. This was a clear sign she had never gotten up, slept all day long, and most definitely didn’t see the front yard. Ike felt bad for leaving earlier and watching movies as he could have woken her and spent some time with her. He didn’t even cook her dinner when it was time to. It was nighttime, but still, he wondered if she’d want any pizza.
As hot as it was today, the second the sun set it became strangely cold on the farm. The window in Madge’s room was wide open, casting a chilly breeze into the space. There were signs of weathering along on the stool and a heavy layer of soot accumulated along the sill. It was never to be closed. It was possible that she would wake enraged if he closed it, but a nasty cold on top of whatever currently took her by was something Ike didn’t want to chance. He would close the window for her own good. If it was so important, he’ll open it again tomorrow when it gets scorching hot again. There's a reason there.
As his Grandma slept soundly, Ike walked past her bed, barely squeezing by with the little foot room he had. After shimmying along her bookcase of scrapbooks and trinkets, Ike made it across. Not a peep. He approached the window and pulled it down, to which it took a little more effort than he anticipated. There was a cracking of something and then a release as the window came down to shut.
There. He wiped his hands and tiptoed back around the cramped room.
He wasn’t looking that close nor looking out at all. Outside it was simply nighttime on the farm.
Ike will admit when he first got there he was a little creeped out by the atmosphere the farm presented at night. When all the lights go out. When all the animals go to sleep, you expect them to be quiet and usually they are. There are also large, mysterious dark shapes of shrouded vehicles and junk boxes all over the place. They’ll play with your brain. You can’t see, but a mouse will run and knock over a paint bucket. Stand outside in the yard and look around underneath the night sky, look at the cornfields, and listen to the wind rustle the stalks. It can only make you wonder.
It was just like meeting eyes with his neighbor, Ike caught flashes of white again through the glass of the window. It was very brief and he spotted it from the peripherals of his eyes. In the moment he wasn’t even bothering to look, but he saw them.
A person was standing outside by the gate, watching from a distance or maybe looking at him or maybe looking over him or maybe just standing there ominously, all on his own. Ike hadn’t processed the exchange of eyes until right before the bedroom door.
Ike thought he was imagining things. His throat tightened. He had worked hard today, maybe it made him delusional; not to mention he went to watch half of a slasher flick. He wanted to run back to the window to double-check, but he couldn’t without startling his Grandmother. Instead, he quickly crept out of the room and dashed downstairs to look outside the kitchen window.
The figure at the end of the lawn was still there.
“What’s he doing?” Ike whispered.
It was abnormal for anyone to be lurking around this hour, especially way out in farmer’s land. This was the first time Ike had ever been in any situation like this. It took him days to get used to nighttime on the farm and now he was dealing with trespassers. This was more than abnormal.
Underneath the sink and tucked behind a pipe was the gun Uncle Keith told him about. He mentioned where it was located but refrained from any proper instructions on how to use it. Ike bent down and reached for it. It was tucked in the far back. He snatched it and pulled it from the cabinet.
Gripped in his hand was Uncle Keith’s sawed off - for when “troubles a foot”. Ike looked in the chamber and looked at the shells. There was a sticky note on the grip: “Go buck wild.” Everything was in order and necessary for dealing with intruders.
Slowly raising his head by the window, Ike caught a glance of the figure once more. The trespasser was still standing in the same spot as before. Ike dropped to the floor and crawled for the front door. He dove out the door and rolled into the freshly cut lawn like a combat specialist. Aggressively approaching the seemingly ‘lost’ man, Ike raised the short-barreled cannon to the strange trespasser.
“Freeze! Who are you and what are you doing on this property?” Ike yelled.
It was an older man, maybe in his late fifties or early sixties. Up close, Ike noticed he looked more tired and displaced than threatening. It was freezing out, but the man didn’t appear to be shivering or even fazed by the cold. Even with the gun, pointed right up to his head, it had no effect on him and the man remained detached. Ike looked closer and saw that only his hands were trembling and shifting around as if they were looking for something out of reach. They looked like they were yearning, rubbing, like they were seeking some sensation.
“Hello? Answer me!” Ike demanded of the man.
Ike couldn't figure out what was going on. What was so tantalizing? He feared that the lonely feeling he'd felt during the entire summer’s stay had finally changed. This was a total stranger, not like Ike’s stranger neighbor, but a stranger with the same sick look in his eyes from who knows where. Where did this guy come from?
The man said nothing and didn’t bother to look at Ike or his gun. The stranger paid no regard and looked onward past the barrel, mesmerized by one thing: the lawn.
It became obvious to Ike that this was what the man was interested in. Even at night, the handiwork was remarkable. The moonlight shone overhead a blue cascade of colors across the lawn. His mowing abilities were outshining, so much so that an anomalous man was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Ike inched a bit closer, the trespasser was murmuring gibberish to himself and salivating over the grass. The cows enjoy the delicious hay.
Ike gripped the shotgun. He wanted to to look at his lawn but he couldn't take his eyes off the man. It wasn’t the copycat neighbor from earlier, this was a different man who was far delirious and possibly violent. Ike thought about that other neighbor nearby who copied his mowing style. It was his mowing style. He recalled earlier the strange look in his neighbor’s eyes as he drove past. Ike saw it in this guy’s eyes too, a look of bewildered disgust, yet…envy.
“Ya gonna ‘hafta get outta here.” Ike delivered. The man took no notice, almost like he was deaf and blind. “You gotta go! I’m gonna count!” Ike yelled.
Before he knew it, Ike was shoving the man backward with his hands. There was no counting. He almost dropped the gun, listening to an internal instinct that said he wouldn’t need it, yet Ike ignored the thought and tucked the piece into the front of his pants instead. Both of his hands gripped the stranger’s shoulders as he pushed the man back. The man wasn’t reacting much, only fighting against the resistance Ike offered. As they moved further back, closer to the edge of the lawn, the deranged man fought harder against the pushing and only became more aggressive the further they got. He pressed against the gravel, trying to stop from being moved back. Ike gave him a great shove and he toppled backward.
“LEAVE THIS PROPERTY MISTER OR I’LL SHOOT YOU!” Ike yelled. He took the gun out from his pants and aimed it down at the man lying in the dirt, he had to. He tried already the cooperative approach and maybe tried to work things out, but there was no more of that. Not with this crazed person.
In the heat of the moment Ike forgot this important fact - when you’re out in the boonies of Southern Indiana, where the fields outnumber the people living there, you can be as loud as you fucking want. There is nobody around you. You may have a couple of distant neighbors, some dead, dried-out corn stalks that do nothing, some animals that’ll occasionally chime in with you, but nobody gives a damn how loud you are being. Nobody gives a damn. Not even an old woman with an open window.
The stranger escalated to snapping, biting, clawing at Ike, and he begged to get closer. He was an animal. The front yard beckoned him. Having to distance himself, Ike kicked the man further into the road. The man collapsed on the ground like a limp fish but then he got right back up.
Ike was no longer a hidden helper among the corn, but he had become a town spectacle. Ike cut the greatest lawn anyone in the town had ever seen.
This feeling he felt, it was the word that got around to the locals, the families, it was all they had to talk about during the crap times. He could feel people talking about the lawn and it was crawling along his skin. Not a sneeze, but a sensation. Everyone and their mamas were talking about Madge’s lawn and it spread like crazy. There was ‘never nothin’ to talk about and boy was the town talkin’. All thirty-something of the town people.
Then the batshit man dove for Ike. The man pounced at him like a four-legged demon. He lost track of his thoughts for a second, and at that moment Ike stopped thinking, so he aimed the sawed-off shotgun at the man’s head, and in a primal moment, to which a gnawing mouth drew upon him, Ike pulled the trigger on the hand cannon.
From a far distance in the darkness, a flash of light could be seen and a loud pop could be heard. A brief snap, but before you know it, there’s no light in the countryside yet again.
By the time Ike ran inside to dial the police and explain to them what just happened, his had pizza burned away and a man’s head was gone, riddled among the clean-cut grass.
The lawn had to be covered up with a large tarp when the police officers came. It took a long time for them to drive all the way out into the country.
An officer sat down with Ike outside the farmhouse to talk with him about what happened. First, he confiscated the family’s modified sawed-off shotgun, to which Ike hesitated because his Uncle would be mad. The officer handed it off to another who put it in the police cruiser.
“What happened tonight son.” The officer said.
“I blew a man’s brains out.”
The officer paused to collect his words.
“Did that man threaten you? I assume this was in self-defense?”
“Yes.” Ike said.
“Are you here by yourself?”
“No. My Granny is inside sleeping.” Ike said.
There was a lot more talking and afterwards, they took the body away.
Nobody bothered Granny and Ike was willing to be left alone for the night. He was told there would be a phone call and an officer would be in touch in a few days to follow up with the case. By the kitchen window, Ike stared outside, almost waiting for someone else to come. The front lawn was covered up with the police tarp. There was tape surrounding it too, and even though there wasn’t a body lying underneath - there was plenty of blood left over. For the rest of the night, Ike waited by the window.
In the morning, just as Ike began dozing off in the sink, he was alerted by the best thing he could’ve asked for. It was Madge yappin’ and she was cranky as ever. Whether it was because of his temporary morning daze or just because he was happy to hear her, for a short while he forgot about everything that had happened last night.
Bursting through her bedroom door, without any effort in trying to be quiet, Ike ran over to her bedside.
“What is it Grammy?” Ike asked.
“Quit all that ‘what is it gweemy’ bullhonk and make me some damn eggs to eat!” She sneered.
There was no doubt about it, Grandma was okay. She tumbled around in her bed in an uncomfortable fit. Sometimes old folk just need a whole day's rest.
Back in the kitchen, Ike was cracking eggs for her breakfast when he thought clearly about what had happened last night. It could slip his mind all it wants, but there were sure to be consequences coming his way as well as a mental scare for the rest of his life. Despite everything, Ike’s Grandma did sleep through it all, which he thought may work to his benefit.
The $1000 Uncle Keith promised him was a complete joke now. There was no price that could pay off this summer. Instead of worrying about it, Ike reevaluated his situation. The lawn. He couldn’t be chewed out because Granny couldn’t even get up from the bed to see it. She can’t see the crime scene on the front lawn, so she doesn't know what she can’t see. He dodged a bullet this time - no nagging, good lawn.
He rushed back to his Grandma’s room to deliver her breakfast. She hadn’t eaten for an entire day and was probably starving. When he opened her door he was met with a great surprise. This time he was more shocked than happy. Grandma Madge was up out of her bed, was walking around, and was standing looking by the window. She was looking at the lawn and the bloody crime scene that dressed it. Frozen in his place, Ike almost dropped the plate of eggs but instead set it down gently on the dusty dresser. The TV set was for once turned off.
Dammit, Ike almost got away with it too! He almost proved her wrong, Ike could cut a lawn!
“You did a crap job on the lawn kid.’’ Madge groaned looking over the yard and looking outside for the first time in many, many years. It was perfect, except for the bloody mess.
Ike was shocked and didn’t know what to say. There was no question now as he would have to explain everything to her. Explain how he cut the lawn and popped some guy’s head over the top of it like strawberry sauce. She hobbled over to Ike, picked up her plate of eggs, stuffed a couple of scrambles in her mouth with her bare hand, and then said, “You did a really, really crap job.”
She left the room. Ike stood there, still shocked that she was walking around; and it hit him as he then questioned his duties and obligations for the rest of the summer. There was nothing he recalled from Uncle Keith about her getting up on her own and doing her things by herself. To make things worse, the first thing she did was start up the lawn mower and begin to redo the lawn. She drove around the tarp and police tape like it was fencing or some flowers. The grass was stained purple. Her finesse was remarkable.
Ike ate a piece of burnt pizza from the front porch and watched her whip the tractor around and around. Then he went and fed the cows.
