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Sod
By
Paul A. Toth
____________________
Ralph did not drive into his new driveway. He parked a bicycle in the front
yard. Girl's bike. It had a headlight, and when he rode through the
neighborhood at night, his troubles and ours were illuminated.
One day, I saw him in the middle of the street throwing a spray paint can at the
pavement, shards of lid scattering like dragonflies. Larry -- the asshole
who mows his yard every other day -- swept the plastic. Ralph had
spraypainted strange symbols on his mailbox, probably copied them from heavy
metal records.
Another time, Ralph dug up his grass, leaving piles of dirt. I laughed for
a month. I drove relatives and friends by the house just to show them. But
then Ralph planted new sod. It looked good. Made me mad. Someone
threw chemicals on the lawn. Bet it was Larry.
I used to watch Ralph pedal to work. Nancy -- who sniffed the neighborhood
for bones of adultery -- followed Ralph, tracking him to Burger King. He
was sweeping the parking lot. Bill Finnegan, fast food addict, left a BK
crown in Ralph's doorway. Bill takes things too far. Bill orders
everything extra-large.
Ralph was on medication. Obviously. We wondered: Lithium, Prozac,
Thorazaine, which? We wouldn't see him for weeks. But sooner or later he
would appear in the driveway with a 40 ouncer of Budweiser. Next, we would
hear noise. Then the police would come and park in his driveway. After they
left, Ralph would disappear inside for a month. Shame, I suppose.
Too bad he never met the neighborhood drunk, Glen Phillips. Whenever
hungover, Glen plays country music, especially, "The whole neighborhood
knows I'm home drunk again." Yes, we know, but we have no sympathy. His
wife Gloria is a wonderful woman, beautiful gal. Annoying lisp but
beautiful.
One day we saw smoke at dawn. Most of us -- not Phil -- were on our way to
work. We ran to Ralph's driveway and watched the smoke and fire. We
watched that house burn for fifteen minutes. When the fire truck
arrived, the house was half gone. The fireman said,
"Nobody called?
We looked at each other. We never thought to call. No one had
mentioned it. No one had said anything. The fireman walked back to the
truck and with his fellow firefighters brought the hose toward the house. More
fire trucks arrived. Sundrops put the fire down.
Inside Ralph's bedroom remained the beer bottles and something of a corpse. They
say he was unconscious, but if someone had banged on the door or bedroom window,
he might have come to.
Now it's Sunday. Larry is mowing his lawn, Nancy is on her cell phone, Bill
Finnegan is eating Burger King, Glen Phillips is listening to George Jones, and
me, I'm drunk, too. I keep seeing dragonflies everywhere, but when I swat
them, they won't fly away. I'm wondering why, but I can barely think with
the sound of that goddamn lawnmower. Round and round. Yet I believe in
reincarnation. There's a spraypaint can beneath the wings of that
dragonfly. We are all about to be graffitied.
____________________
Paul
A. Toth lives in Michigan. His novel Fizz
is available from Bleak House Books. Toth's short fiction has appeared in
The Barcelona Review, Iowa Review Web, Mississippi Review Online and many
others. His short fiction has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and
Best American Mystery Stories. He will receive honorable mention in the
forthcoming Year's Best Fantasy & Horror 2003, ed. Ellen Datlow. See www.netpt.tv
for information on ordering Fizz, complete credits, audio stories and more.
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