Into You (1)
Created | Updated Sep 27, 2020
After a decade of hiatus, Blue-Eyed BiPedal BookWorm from Betelgeuse (aka B4[insertpunhere]) has returned to skulk about in HooToo once again. During his previous stint, he shared with the Reading Public a number of his poems, a few short stories, and even generated an Edited Guide Entry for the game of Zonk. While he was away in RL, his daily work-a-day world took most of his time.
He did, however, manage to publish three books in the interim under the author pen name of Sam Westhoek. If you're curious about those, they can be found at Author Sam Westhoek. There you'll find a Fantasy Novel, a compilation of five Tales of Terror, and a slim book of Poetry (an acquired taste, so be aware what you're getting into). From that website, you can also link to his Author Blog for helpful hints on writing and marketing yourself as a Writer.
In an effort to give back to the marvelous community that has always been H2G2, he now offers up one of his most recent tales for your enjoyment…gratis. This will also serve as a way to get acquainted with his style, without having to buy anything. Just remember: "Only the first one's free." (Oh, who am I kidding? There will likely be more stuff I just want to share for the fun of it. Keep your eyes peeled on The Post for more…)
This is a story whose idea came from my wonderful lady, WilloBreeze.
Into You (Part 1 )
'Did you watch the asteroid shower last night? Quite a spectacle!'
'Hmm… What?' I break out of my reverie of horticultural renovation and notice Gerald is standing near the chain-link fence, attempting to engage me in conversation… again. The heat of June made him choose an unbuttoned collared shirt with broad mint vertical stripes, and a pair of tan baggy shorts with cargo pockets. Not a good look for him and his pasty white legs.
I'd been turning up the ground in a circle around the base of the weeping willow tree in my back yard, folding in a ten-pound bag of topsoil as nourishment. The reedy long thin leaves of the willow play a chiaroscuro pattern of shadow and light beneath the sheltering arms of the tree. It dapples my skin in warm and cool alternations. My flower-print sleeveless shirt and my capri pants allow me to feel it along my arms and the back of my legs. I sit back on the heels of my bare feet. They and my hands are gritty with dirt. My silence prompts him to try again.
'Asteroid shower. Last night. Did you see it?' He seems nonplussed, put out that I didn't listen the first time he spoke. Evidently it matters to Gerald. He's been ‘fishing' to get my attention ever since he moved in next door. When was it? November? December? Definitely early November. He'd asked me if I'd like to have a Thanksgiving meal with him, since he had no family to celebrate with. I told him that was a bit forward, to ask, without me really knowing him. My simple rebuff hadn't deterred him from chatting over the fence, or at the sidewalk while collecting mail, or if he saw me downtown while shopping. If nothing else, he was persistent.
'No, Gerald, I didn't. Most likely I was asleep… at night. Or I was cozied up with a good book. No asteroids in my evening's schedule of events.' I give a shrug and smile beatifically at him, then go back to turning over another spade-full of dirt and loam.
'So… Lynne… I guess you don't read science fiction?' His hands are fidgeting along the top pipe of the chain-link fence that separates our yards. 'What kind of books do you read? What genres?' He leans over, breaking the plane of the property boundary. It's as if he's anxious, eager, waiting for an invitation to cross over and join me for some in-depth conversation.
I glance up at him, blow a stray strand of hair out of my eyes, and continue digging.
'C'mon, Lynne. Throw me a bone here. I'm just trying to be neighborly.'
I jab the small spade shovel into the loosened soil, and push up with my left hand so I'm balanced on my knees. With the back of my right hand, I wipe a small trickle of sweat off my forehead, intervening so it doesn't get in my eyes. I stare at him.
Gerald is a bit older, late fifties, maybe already tipped into his sixties. His frame is sturdy, average height, and his years have left him with a small paunch; not overweight, but simply well-fed and lacking the exercise to keep trim. There's a tracing of gray along the sides of his neat dark hair, and I've never seen him not shaved. The thing I've noticed that's most prominent is his penchant to fidget. His stance is constantly in a state of flux. He shuffles from foot to foot, swings his arms, cranes from side-to-side as if trying to catch a better glimpse of things, and generally is in constant motion. There's a nervous energy suffusing him, all pent up and waiting for an outlet. I'm not sure if I like the look of it.
'Gerald.'
'Yes?' He leans even farther over the dividing line.
'Have you ever heard the idiom, ‘Good fences make good neighbors'?' I let my gaze lock onto his eyes, watching his reaction.
He squints for a moment, ruminating. A grimace plays across his mouth, then he replaces it with a sheepish grin. Slowly, he pulls back and stands upright, on his side of the fence. He's still coiled like a spring, and taps his palms atop the triangular junction of the fence links, considering how to respond.
'Yeah. Sure. I getcha.' He turns to look at his back door, then faces me again. He shuffles his feet and mumbles, 'I notice your grass is getting a bit shaggy. It's kinda encroaching on the fence line and starting to work its way into my yard. Think you could trim it a bit?' He casts several furtive glances my way.
'Gerald…'
'Hey, if you ever want any help, let me know. I've got a mower and I know how to use it.' He attempts a genuine smile, inviting me to swallow the jibe and kowtow to his offer to insinuate himself onto my property.
'Gerald!' I gather myself up, dust myself down, and stand with my hands on my hips. 'I'll take that under advisement. I have my own lawnmower and it's self-propelled. I likely won't need your services.' I wait. He shuffles. I wait some more.
'Yeah. Well then… You have a good day.' He hesitates, unsure how to disengage. He pushes away from the chain-link fence and trudges back into his house.
I kneel back down and continue to till the earth with my hand spade.
'The gall…!' I mutter under my breath. After a few minutes, though, the petty ire subsides, as I delve back into arranging a set of eight Jack Frost plants around the base of the willow. They should be a welcome accent, their broad nearly silver leaves with green tracings making the shade seem even cooler.
Satisfied that I've spaced them at the eight major compass points around the roots of the tree, I pick up the spade and bunch up the empty sod bag. I stand and look at my handiwork. Little chunks of the remaining topsoil tumble from the bag, landing atop my left foot, leaving bits of dark loam and small twig-like bits balanced there. I shake my foot and most of it joins its counterparts in the planting circle.
I head for the small prefab shed where all the lawn and gardening equipment are stored. My stride slides through the lush green grass. The cool and soft resilient blades cushion each footfall.
'Shaggy, indeed! This is how a lawn is supposed to look and feel. Natural. Not manicured to look like AstroTurf.'
I unlatch the double-door of the faux barn structure, with its white six-way cross embossed on the overall bright red paint. When I swing both doors open, the pent-up heat from within washes over me in waves. Evidently, the light gray shingle roof doesn't reflect much; rather, the whole shed seems to be a container for heat storage. I let it air out for a few moments before entering.
