So Close, So Very, Very Close

See, I can almost taste the beer I'll be drinking while I sit in a chair or swing in a hammock. Max'll come by, grunting and sweating, face red from effort. One finger will unwrap while the other three remain gripped around the neck of the bottle, beaded with condensation: "You missed a spot," gesturing generally towards some other end of the yard.

If he says anything it will be made clear to him, the city boy, with his little square of green that needs all of a fifteen minute shave, what it's like to spend hours behind the wheel of a John Deere, your sweat pooling into the yellow vinyl seat. Growing up in rural North Dakota had its benefits what with the fresh air and the square miles of dirt and trees and creeks I had as my own, personal playground. But, damn if they didn't go and turn a good bit of that into lawn that had to be mowed. So there I was, solving the world's problems to the endless zen-roar of the Briggs & Stratton, mowing just a little too well. Word of my surgical-like mowing spread across the land and soon I was mowing my Grandmother's lawns as well. What did any of these people ever do for me?!

So, Mr.Max, get me another beer and make another pass before I decide the garage needs cleaning. Besides, you think we're going to play catch on an unmanicured lawn? We're better than that!