Yard Work
Frank’s next-door neighbor’s toy spitz’s given name was Pepper, but he usually called him Peter. Because it drove him bat-shit crazy. Frank had just to yell “Peter!” and the dog’s lips would curl back unsheathing those nicotine-stained needles. Then came the menacing growl, and lift-off. Usually followed by a resounding yelp when the leash nearly snapped his neck.
Frank caught the familiar waddle of Selma Pilchard as she strutted down her driveway and headed in his direction on her morning walk, no doubt to complain about the noise from his A.M. labors. Beak always pointing to the North Star, all she needed was a monocle to be the incarnation of a late 1920s The New Yorker caricature. As Selma stalked up to Frank, Peter bared his teeth, snarled and leapt from her arms. Frank took a step to his right. He felt a cold shiver of guilt as the mutt sailed past him and into the hopper of his Uncle Phil’s woodchipper. Selma shrieked, then dropped to her knees.
Moments later, Frank was in his kitchen pouring a glass of ice water for her, thoughts racing on apologies and penance; especially to his wife Pammie, who actually liked the diminutive Pomeranian snotball. Peter would eat kibble right out of her hand.
Through the kitchen window, he could see Selma, now rocking side to side, keening, sun glistening off her diamond earrings. As he opened the screen door, she stood tall for a moment, then dove headlong into the woodchipper.
“Why didn’t I turn the damned thing off?”
When he got back to the chipper, all that was left of Selma that wasn’t mulch, was a single red shoe where she last stood. As Frank jammed his thumb into the “Off” button, electricity shot through him. Everything went black. He didn’t know how long it was before he could see again, but it seemed like hours before he could pull himself up enough to sit.
“Mister? You OK? Did you hurt yourself?” A teenage girl’s voice cooed from behind tousled blond locks. Frank managed an unintelligible guttural.
“Dude, what the hell happened here?” echoed tinny from the male-thing hovering next to her. School must have let out.
“Two bits, four bits, six bits, a dollar . . .” they chorused. Christ, she’s a fucking cheerleader. Man-boy laced his fingertips together and the girl stepped in his hands, placing her palms on his shoulders. “All for Southwest, stand up and holler!” She arced gracefully above the horizon–the diesel whined while the chipper blades gnashed dense bones and gristle, then returned to its steady hum. The boy then threw a leg over the hopper, cheerfully doffed his cap and said, “G’day, mate!” in a fake Aussie accent before he slid in after her. Frank puked until there was nothing left to hock up.
“This isn’t fucking happening,” he could hear himself snort. “Maybe the mutt, maybe Mrs. Pilchard . . . but nobody is going to believe this shit.”
When he could stand, Frank kicked the crap out of the chipper; he hopped around with a broken toe, while it chugged menacingly behind him.
Leaning against a tree, Frank frantically punched the keypad of his cell until Uncle Phil’s phone rang. Meanwhile, a fat squirrel scrambled up to the lip of the hopper, sniffed the air for a few seconds, then flopped in. Uncle Phil’s phone went to voice mail.
Back in his house, Frank hobbled around the kitchen nursing a cold brew. “Who can I call? The cops? The fire department? The Bureau of Haunted Woodchippers?” He heard the damned thing whine again and bolted back outside.
The letter-carrier’s mailbag, stuffed with bills and advertisements, sat on the sidewalk. No sign of balding Bob, who had delivered Frank’s mail for the past six years. No point in looking at the growing pile of gore behind the chipper.
Frank backed the Mini-Cooper out of the garage and used it to impede about half of the access to the chipper. A few minutes later, while rolling a wheelbarrow stuffed with bulky garage crap and yard gnomes out to block off the other side, he saw the Fatso’s Pizza delivery guy scramble up the Cooper and do a cannonball into the chopper hopper. The more obstacles Frank placed in its way, the more determined folks became—it averaged four people and a critter or two an hour, for the next three hours. He could have sold tickets.
Frank jammed his shovel into the spinning flails of the woodchipper, and all he got for his trouble was a dislocated shoulder, which he slammed against the garage door frame until bone popped back into socket.
Only when he had stopped screaming did he notice the shrapnel in his leg.
Frank used his belt as a makeshift tourniquet. He hobbled back to the chipper and watched with fascination as it gorged itself on an elderly man’s leg. The old man sat on the lip of the hopper, weeping and wobbling, looking at Frank with pleading eyes. Frank obliged, and gave the old fellow a helpful shove. Moments later, the crimson maw spat out a titanium knee. It clipped Frank on his left temple.
With the thud of metal to bone came searing pain–and epiphany. Prometheus. Odysseus. Kris Humphries. Frank realized he had joined the roster of those royally fucked by the gods.
Frank laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks. He pulled out his phone and flipped between numbers in the address book. Wilmer Gerhardt, his boss. Pammie’s mother. Floyd Bishop, who had debagged him in high school. Clive Wilson, whom Pammie promised she’d never see again ….
“Eeny, meeny, miny, moe . . . which of you has got to go?”
Frank thought for a long moment, then dialed the number.
