The Existential Yard

    When Ezekiel Klingenstein woke that morning he had no idea his life would be changed forever. He slipped from the warmth of his bed, put on his robe, searched in vain with his foot for his slippers, headed down the stairs into the hall and out the front door, where his morning paper was expected to be. It was not on the porch, and not in the bushes by the porch. He stepped down the two steps to the ground, turned, looking into the morning sun he squinted as he surveyed the roof for his newspaper.

    Jon Kitsap lived next door. His son, although claimed by no one but his father Jon to be an extraordinary talent, of what he never mentioned, took the remaining papers from his basket, and deposited them in the burn barrel. It was obvious Jon was proud of his son regardless of his lack of…reliability.

    Ezekiel had been raised in a house where punctuality, your word, and honesty were encouraged as essentials for success. Roby Kitsap, his next-door paper boy exhibited none of the attributes Jon considered necessary for success. Jon believed life to be a series of small wars that tested not only your creativity and character, but taught one when to be silent and keep your head down.

    He had retrieved his morning paper on several occasions from the porches’ roof. The last time he’d slipped from the ladders rung, landing on the concrete walk, spending several painful days on his porch, after returning from the emergency ward. He sat quietly observing Roby’s oblivious attack on his own lawn. The wheel marks were not aligned, the blade height was unforgiveable, and the sidewalk had not been swept; the mangled residue lay in similar fashion to that of Gettysburg battlefield photos he’d observed.

    He’d attempted to speak to Jon Kitsap about his sons, lack of duty, not to mention his aim regarding his newspaper. But he had attempted previously to point out the inadequacies in Roby’s performance, despite the obvious disinterest on the part of Jon, and found no positive change in Roby’s attitude or routine, nor his fathers. 

    Ezekiel had attempted to show by example, that mowing of the lawn, as he referred to his process of yard maintenance, required an attention to detail. He mowed the lawn in an irregular but planned fashion, which left the wheel marks and grass height a preened example of visual congruity as well as esthetic compatibility. Saying Ezekiel was proud of his yard would be an understatement, as it not only showed the world how important appearance was, but that the mundane chore most looked upon as necessary but drudgery, could become a work of art if one paid the least attention to the process.

   Being temporarily disabled, Ezekiel watched as his manicured lawn, a reflection of not only himself but his family, begin to look like the setting a for world war III documentary. As much as he hated to invest in yet another encounter with his neighbor Jon and his unfocused son Roby, he felt he had no choice if he was to maintain the image he had portrayed as an example of the man he was.

    Ezekiel had contemplated asking his son William Hawthorn, to come to his aid, but after careful reflection decided against it. William Hawthorn had refused to use the name Klingenstein after an incident in the first grade that he refused to relay the details of. He was now thirty-six and lived in the basement, an environment that was as dark and unassuming as he was. He declared his independence from a decadent world concerned only with the destruction of the planet by its exploitive consumption of the earth’s resources, that benefited only the large corporations and their generals. He had not left the confines of the concrete walls and exposed floor joist, wiring, and plumbing for several years, and had let it be known he intended to die a free man, even if it meant remaining in his fallout shelter for the remainder of his life.

   Ezekiel had little choice but to disregard his first inclination, and when Jon brought over a tuna casserole dish, he inquired as to the availability of Roby. Jon, reluctant to make commitments for his son, said he would broch the subject with Roby and if he had the inclination or time, he would be over in the morning to talk about what would be required of him, and the amount of compensation he was to receive. Ezekiel spent a restless night visualizing the results of Roby’s attempt to maintain his domains image, and the good name of the Klingenstein’s.

    Roby arrived early, having completed his paper route in record breaking time, and having skipped those subscribers whom he believed intended to not pay on time, or were considering canceling the paper outright. 

    Ezekiel described what and how he wanted Roby to perform the maintenance required on his lawn, to keep it in the pristine condition it had been in before his untimely accident. Ezekiel failed to bring up the paper incident as he believe Roby incapable of assuming responsibility for his actions and he also did not want a disgruntled neighbor mowing his lawn. The outcome could be disastrous.

    Roby pulled the mower from the garage, managed to start it on the fifth pull, and within seconds managed to strike the painted rocks that delineated the drive from the lawn. The rocks an effort to discourage anyone from driving on his lawn. Ezekiel had had a bad experience with tire tracks in the past when Roby was learning to drive, and had mistakenly it was claimed, backed across the alley onto his lawn. Ezekiel had spent the entire summer attempting to eradicate the wheel depressions, and hoped never to have to endure another similar experience.

    When the blade struck the first rock it woke Ezekiel, who had succumbed to his restless sleepless night, and had fallen asleep in his wicker rocking chair. He heard the piece of steel as it dislodged from the blade, screamed past his head, and punched a hole in the picture window which overlooked his normally photogenic lawn and flower garden. A black plume of smoke followed as the mowers engine ceased, belching its last attachment to life into the still morning air.

    “There seems to be something wrong with this piece of junk mower of yours,” Roby’s words floating towards him, passing over the aging newspaper lodged in the hedge, and exploding behind the sun glassed eyes of Ezekiel. 

   He watched as Roby threw the mowers handle towards the ground in disgust, and marched towards his house saying nothing further, and not waiting to demand immediate compensation for all his hard work as was his custom.  Ezekiel could only shake his head in disappointment, as his sons words crept through the basement window to remind him that in his fragile state he needed his rest, and the noise was not conducive to his regaining the vigor needed to continue his fight against corporate America.

   Ezekiel in his struggle to maintain his dignity, in spite of the incompetence and delusional ramblings, had failed to see the mail person crossing the un-mowed lawn. A hand holding a single envelope entered the periphery of his vision. Although somewhat startled, he took the single piece of mail in his trembling hand, and stared at it for several minutes before throwing it over the porch railing. The envelope informing him he could be the next winner of the Good Housekeeping Sweepstakes, landed next to the missing newspaper.

   The mail person, no longer surprised by the antics of the residents of 101 Adams Street, jumped the flower bed on his way to 103, chased by the words of Ezekiel Klingenstein, “What a day.”