BY DAVID HOLLOWAY
Copyright is held by the author.
OH, HORRIBLE, vile, deceitful Henry! Why do I always think that this spring will be different, that this spring you will repay the attention I lavish on you? Why do I always think caring for you with tenderness and love will be rewarded? I pampered you through the long cold winter, in your favoured place next to the window.
?I gave you a new spark plug and a quart of high-test gasoline. I drained your oil and replaced it with fresh SAE30. I bought you a brand-name air filter, not the cheap generic one. I sharpened your blade with the same stone that I use for kitchen knives and wiped you down lovingly with a chamois cloth.
?As I wheeled you out onto the sidewalk the robins hopped out of our way, and a light breeze caressed us. And so, it began. I made sure that the sidewalk was level. I primed your gas supply and held the choke down tight to allow for maximum fuel-air mixture into the carburetor that I kept cleaner than a vegan’s arteries.
?“Henry,” I whispered. “Show me what you’ve got.”
?I yanked the starter cord with a smooth even motion. You coughed, you belched, you lurched. Oh, sweet victory your engine turned over and you started. Your motor ran rough — but it did run. You were ready, I was ready, and the grass was ready. I pushed you off the sidewalk into the lawn as you sputtered and died.
?Ah, poor baby.
?“No, Henry. No, I’m not mad at you.”
Well, perhaps the mildest of disappointments, but I understood. I know that you are the first in your family to have an internal combustion engine, so you didn’t understand your responsibility. Your father was a simple push mower, and your grandmother was a scythe. How can you be expected to power through all of my expectations and the green, green grass of spring on our first try?
?I knew it was a very hard winter. I ignored you. I walked past you to get to the stupid rakes (Wilbur and Clarissa) piled in the corner of the garage. Then later I gave all of my attention to my simpleton snow shovel, Lucille. You gathered dust, your bright red frame turning dull. Your inky black tires became grey and crumbly.
?In the fall you were forgiving, you understood. You knew that your time would come. But as the days grew shorter, and the garage became colder, your bitter heart froze, and you vowed revenge. And now, once again it is mower vs. man. On my side: millions of years of evolution, a highly developed frontal cortex, and the best tools and technology the 21st century has to offer. On your side: cunning, stubbornness, and a total disdain for my needs and desires. I haven’t got a chance.
I looked up and saw my neighbour Ken watching us. He raised his hand in a friendly way and then started across the street.
I reached down and grabbed your starter cord and gave it a few more desperate yanks praying that you would start up and your roar would send Ken scurrying back to his perfectly manicured House & Gardens lawn.
“Hey Bill,” Ken said, “I see you still don’t have an ‘lectric mower. I thought you were going to get rid of this old dinosaur.”
I didn’t look up, because I knew that Ken would be smiling, that he would have that indulgent I know what’s best look on his face. I also knew that it would take every ounce of my willpower to resist tackling him and rubbing his face into the dirt.
Our new neighbour Phuong pretends he doesn’t speak English when Ken talks to him, and last summer the police arrested Jim Miller for trying to set fire to Ken’s lawn after listening to his “kind neighbourly advice” about fertilizers and aeration Saturday after Saturday.
“I kind of like tinkering with the engine,” I said pasting a smile on my face that didn’t fool Ken for a minute, and certainly wasn’t fooling Henry either.
Bill did his signature gesture — his long-suffering if you’d only listen to me, his ‘God you kids don’t know shit gesture — where he looks up into the sky, then looks back down at you while running his right hand through his thinning grey hair.
“I’m just saying, with an ‘lectric you don’t have to worry about will it start. An ‘lectric is good for the environment. They ain’t that ‘spensive, maybe you can find one used at a yard sale.” When Bill said the word yard, he stretched it out and looked around at my fine crop of dandelions and crabgrass surrounded by patches of dirt and sighed.
I didn’t answer, instead, I said a quick silent prayer. “Jesus, if you love me, let this sonofabitch start so I can run Bill over with it. He’s so full of shit I can use the pulp as fertilizer.”
I pulled that frayed starter cord in one last desperate attempt, and Henry roared into life. Ken nodded and returned to his yard as I started pushing Henry along in that familiar back-and-forth pattern.
“Don’t worry H,” I said, “We don’t need no damn ‘lectric. It’s you and me, kid.” Henry’s engine smoothed out and purred as the breeze cooled us and a skeptical robin watched from a Maple branch.
***
David Holloway writes from Savannah, Georgia, which brags about its ghosts, but they’re pretty much the same as anywhere else. He has lived most of his life in the Southern United States, primarily Florida, but doesn’t pretend to understand it. His publications include stories published in Abandon Journal, The Mad River Review, The Antihumanist, TheOffbeat, Agnes and True, and Gargoyle, among others. Due to early traumatic experiences, he does his best to avoid bagpipes and parrots.
