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Old Man Jenkins stared at me cryptically through the screen door of my home. “What do you want?” I growled, not inviting him into the house. Over the years, we had found a way to communicate; indeed, one could say that we ‘felt a certain sentiment towards each other.’
“Now listen, Evans. I agreed to mow your lawn for a fair price, but I didn’t count on no human shit getting caught in my blades. This John Deere here has lasted me for 23 years, and I aim to hold on to her for another 20 at least, God willun’.”
Damn it. I had to recover fast. “Jenkins,” I barked, “I told you to shelf all those hackneyed Judeo-Christian slogans when you come around my property!...” I tried to continue but faltered, and he knew I was cornered.
“Don’t you try to lead me astray, Evans. And I’ll praise the Lord any time I see fit.” He leaned closer, with his head almost against the screen, and opened his eyes wide for effect. “What in the hell are you doin’ takin’ a shit on your lawn, you sick bastard?” There was the hint of a smile.
I tried another approach, caring less somehow. “I’ll take a shit anywhere I please, Jenkins,” I said, with a tone of ironic authority.
The next moment was sublime. Jenkins sensed the mocking tone in my last statement. But who would I be mocking – myself? Was I implicitly admitting to him that I was really just a sick bastard who shat on his own lawn now and then for the fuck of it? Yes! But the argumentative tone of my words threw him off, suggesting I was ready to spar with him some more. What would he get me on, though, if I had essentially pre-empted him by acknowledging my own depravity? He was confused; I had stolen his thunder.
“Damned if I understand you city folk. Just keep your shit off my tractor, you hear?” He skulked away like a wounded animal.
It was another stalemate for my neighbor Old Man Jenkins and I.
Date Written: June 02, 2004
Author: Phony Millions
Average Vote: 4.58333
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