The Lawnmower

Every Wednesday, Miss Jameson next door gives me five dollars for mowing her lawn. When she first started paying me, she told me that she couldn’t do it anymore, that she was getting too old—her shoulder was in bad shape and she couldn’t handle the pain. She’s no older than fifty. I’m not sure if she has much of a family.

I walk through the wet grass—the thirty-five steps it takes to get there. I grab hold of her door handle and it’s locked. I knock. I knock again. She stumbles over, waves. Miss Jameson opens the door. “Oh, hi Skyler!

I forgot you come on Wednesdays!”

She gives me a big hug. I’ve been coming every Wednesday for three years.

“Good to see you,” I say.

Today, Miss Jameson is wearing her typical cheetah print—an old t-shirt from God knows what era. There’s an old, worn red headband on her, holding back her graying blonde hair. She dyes it sometimes. It’s just been awhile. She’s heavyset, but I can tell she once had her heyday. Miss Jameson is not wearing a bra. She never wears a bra and her boobs look like they sag down to her belly button. Her cheetah print’s got paint stains all over it. She’s been working on renovating the house since she moved in. She moved in nine years ago—when I was nine.

“Did you want a beer? Something to drink?”

“It’s early. I’m underage. My parents want me home for dinner tonight.” She starts to cackle, digs into her black leather purse from the eighties, fishing for the key to the shed. Miss Jameson fingers it out and hands it to me.

“Thank you.”

“No, Skyler. Thank you! I’ll tell you, I don’t know what I’d do without you coming over like this. I fell the other night on my bad shoulder. Almost thought I had to go to the ER. But I took some pain pills and slept for a good while and it felt better. I’m going to the doctor next week. I’m hoping he prescribes me something.” Miss Jameson takes a sip from the mug on the stovetop. It’s not water. Every day when she gets home from work, I know what her routine is. She’s been slurring her words ever since I was very young. She’s been walking in a way that’s painful to watch since I was nine.

I exit the house and move over to the shed that my dad helped her put up. He doesn’t like her much now, but, when he put it up, he didn’t have much of a problem. He called it a property dispute. She called it being an asshole.

I put the key in the door and pull out the old handheld mower. Him and I, the lawnmower and me, it seems, have become pretty close. Every Wednesday for nine years.

Mowing the lawn is kind of a soothing thing—a good way to keep my mind off of things after school. See, there was a time when I got bullied pretty bad. The guys at my middle school terrorized me, sent me home in tears every day. They called me “The Queer Kid.” I don’t know how many people get over something like that—I’m not even sure that I have. It’s just that, you know, I was never the athletic type. I remember my dad made me play baseball back in elementary school. And I hated it. Just hated it. He was my coach and even that helped nothing. I spent every inning in the outfield—the part where only the lefties hit. I was always last in line to bat. And I feared it. I feared that ripping, roaring ball. To me, it meant death. It meant embarrassment.

And my mom got it. One time, I was daydreaming during some stupid game and some lefty hit the ball out in the outfield and I looked up from staring at some sunshiny dandelions and all I heard was, “Sky! Sky! Sky!” And I was looking at the sky, spotting nothing in particular, but I heard the ball when it hit the ground. But I just couldn’t find it. I spun around in circles, the crowd of parents and brothers and sisters and other players were screaming at me. And the other player dude was just passing those bases like it was nobody’s business.

I couldn’t find the damn ball. Finally, I just looked to the stands and there was my mother laughing her ass off, because she knew how much I hated it. And, even at my young age, she understood that I knew that I just sucked the big one at sports.

We lost the game.

I finish mowing the lawn and rolling the mower back in its place. I enter the house and Miss Jameson is standing at the stovetop smoking a cigarette. I can tell she’s gotten drunker since I’ve been gone. I can tell she probably took one of those pills she always has so handy. She looks me in the eyes and her eyes are slanted, yellow, sad. She grins a little. “Got it all done?” she asks.

“Sure do, Miss Jameson.”

“Stop calling me that, dumbass. My name is Felicity to you!”

“Okay, sure do, Felicity.”

She shakes her head, cackles. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. You want a beer or something? I have a few different kinds.” “That’s okay,” I reply. I look around the house. It’s a disaster. She’s acquired so many things that she doesn’t even know what she has anymore. Her walls were painted once, but now she’s painted over them in places—little white splotches all over. I’d be real embarrassed if I were her, but I suppose she doesn’t have many people over.

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it, though, Skyler. I mean really. If you were a little older, I can tell you right now, I would date you.” I look down at my feet. “Thanks.”

“I mean, really!”

“Yep.”

“I mean, my shoulder is just so bad, so it’s so nice what you do for me here. I fell down yesterday morning before work and it was awful. I had to go to the ER and everything.”

“Well,” I tell her. “That’s not good, Felicity.”

“I know.”

I look down the hall at something she calls the den. It’s under construction. She’s got big panels of wood lined up against the wall. I look back over at her countertops, just filled with crap—all kinds of home improvement supplies. She’s got multiples of everything. I look to her— her sad, yellow eyes. I ask, “Do you ever get lonely?”

Miss Jameson lights another cigarette. “Oh, Sklyer,” she laughs. “I’ve got like three men. It’s just a sex thing, though. I could tell you about it…”

I nod, pressing my lips together. “That’s alright. Thanks.”

Miss Jameson digs into her purse and hands me a ten-dollar bill. I tell her that’s too much. And she says that if I was a little older, she’d date me.

She hugs me goodbye. I leave the house. I recall, tell myself that I’ll be graduating soon and heading off to college.

First published by The Rain, Party, & Disaster Society, June 5, 2015