Summer of ‘94
It was one pm. A blue third-generation Ford E-150 utility van with a landscaping trailer rests in the shade of a large oak tree. Front windows rolled down — the humid Midwest air cooked by the summer sun.
Dave slowly inhales his rancid smelling cigarette in the driver’s seat. A slight breeze guides the foul smoke past the dozing nose of Cub, his landscaping assistant.
“You ready?” is exhaled with Dave’s last draw while simultaneously extinguishing the butt crushed into the ashtray. Weekend plans intertwined with daydreams momentarily paused by Cub’s, “yep.”
“I’m going to buy the ’85 Chevette,” Dave said, opening the door. “Yeah?” replied Cub, rolling out of his seat.
Dave buys and sells new-to-him cars like Cub buys burritos. It wasn’t even 4th-of-July, and Cub had already lost count of how many different vehicles Dave had backed into his preferred parking spot at Day-Flower Funeral Homes.
“It’s in good condition,” went on Dave, “not much rust, only 600 bucks. I think I can get it for five-fifty.”
Cub pulled the edging lawnmower off the trailer and bent down to pull the cord after priming the pump. The “for sure” drowned out by two lawnmowers roaring to life.
The two figures walk in opposite directions in the broken stillness of the early afternoon. The trace of their progress zigzags over the turf, preparing the funeral home lawn for weekend services.
The reverberation of the small engines melt-away to the clanging gate and van doors closing.
Cub takes a swig of luke-warm pop from lunch and absentmindedly says, “five-fifty, sounds like a deal,” as he stares across the freshly cut grass with a fleeting thought, “Manicured lawns are for the living.”
