1981_12 The Daily Collegian December 1981

              7 ran away and the whole
thing exploded, and before
I knew it my house was on fire. [
Fiction
The
Mower
War
By Matthew Peters
empered by time, my imagination had tost much oflts vividness since
rp I the days of my youth. As a youngster I might have imagined the
I grating explosions from across the street to be coming from an old
JL     | World War I biplane faltering over the fields of the Rhine Valley, a
crippling bullet hole through the fuel line, myself at the controls.
But now, well past my mid-twenties, it was just a crotchety, old lawn mower
threatening to drive my hungover head nuts. It was a damned irritation, and I
felt like putting a bullet through its fuel line. Or maybe just putting one through
its owner—Albert Hertsmeg. The old fart, why did he insist on mowing his rotten
lawn so early on a Sunday morning? Didn 't he realize that not everybody went to
bed at 9:30 on Saturday night?
calls on other people's phones), and dialed Hertsmeg's number. 8-4-3-7-6-1-9.
The phone rang twice and Mrs. Hertsmeg answered.
'Hello?'
'Yes, hello. This is Fred Wilcox from the plumber's union calling for Mr.
Hertsmeg. Is he around?"
'Just a minute, Mr., Mr.,... what did you say your name was?*
*Uhh, Fred. Fred Simpson."
'Okay, Mr. Simpson. Just a minute, please.'
I dropped the receiver and ran up the stairs into the front bedroom. Out of the
closet came the old .22 caliber semi-automatic, and into her womb went a clip
holding twenty rounds. When I got to the window Hertsmeg was just getting out
is lawn—like him—was small in stature, full of manure, and dying. It could be     of his chair. It took both those old farts a long time to get anywhere. As Smeg dis-
mowed in ten swipes, but he'd been running the mower for nearly twenty
minutes. He could have mowed it twelve times by now. Lying in bed, rolling over
unrestfully, my brains were bursting. There was little I could do, though, except
to wait him out and then go for a little neighborly revenge.
This was not the first time his dilapidated mower had caused me pain. This
game had, in fact, become a weekly occurrence, unless postponed by rain. Al¬
though I dreaded being woken up by 110 decibels of internal combustion, I had
come to enjoy these Sunday wars, in the same way that a little kid takes joy from
pulling the wings off a fly. They never got too out of hand, at least none had yet,
and it was a good way for me, living alone as I was, to blow off a little steam left
over from Saturday night. I could vent my sexual frustrations on Hertsmeg and his
ugly little wife and his retarded cat.
Each week, as soon as Smeg turned off his little red lawn mower, I would turn
on my stereo and play hard-core rock-and-roll at a level which could be beard for
a city block, if there were any. Fortunately, there weren't any. The Poston resi¬
dence (my place) and Smeg' s primitive dwelling, sat opposite each other on Ferry
Lane, two miles from Hanksville. Why these homes had to be built so close about
together when there were miles of open land never failed to confirm my suspicions
of the insecurities inherent in mankind. On Sunday mornings it went beyond con¬
firming my suspicions and into arousing my aggressions.
My stereo was a real beauty. I guess I should have been grateful to the old fart
for that one, because it he had not insisted on firing up that bloody mower each
week, I would probably have been very satisfied with my old 'everything-you-
need-for-$150' edition. The speakers on my new set were about four feet high.
The sun was now beating me to death through the window. It had been a' half-
hour since Smeg started mowing his lawn. I decided to begin preparation of my
counter-attack, because he had to finish soon. I stumbled downstairs in my boxers
and moved the speakers behind the front room windows, which were concealed by
cotton drapes. He' d never even see what hit him.
ippeared in the front door I threw the window open, propped my elbow i
and drew down on the 5Vi horsepower Briggs and Stratton. Mrs. Hertsmeg
walked out into the front yard. She walked over to the small table next to the
chaise lounge. She had her back to me while she straightened things up.
Why not, I thought. I pulled over onto the gas can, figuring it would be less
obvious of a target—if it didn't explode. I squeezed the trigger on the automatic,
sweeping the bottom of the can through the sights. A trail of little holes followed
my path. Cas began flowing immediately. Gravity, beautiful gravity.
Mrs. Hertsmeg had now finished whatever she was doing and turned toward
the door. She paused for a minute and stared straight at the mower. The can was
on the far .side of the mower from her, but the gas was flowing pretty good, ad¬
vancing across the lawn like sea water in a Dutch flood. I had a better angle to see
this than she did, apparently, because she smiled and plodded in the doorway.
The lawn mower was still blapping like a truck without a muffler.
In the flick of an eyelid a little flame appeared on the mower casing, in another
flick the flame whooshed across the lawn as far as the gas had spread, which was
n feet. The was spread thinner than foil by now and the flames would soon
die out. Would have, that is, except that at that moment the gas can decided to
explode. It went up in a ball of flame and shrapnel, pieces of flaming metal
showering the area. Two or three of these firebombs landed on Hertsmeg's roof.
Five seconds later the dry, brittle shingles were burning like wood chips in a
I was watching all this with my chin resting on the stock of the gun, too stunned
to move. Hertsmeg came running out of the house like a three-legged frog, his
eyes open wide. He had started back in when he saw the flames on his roof. He
stopped for a second and then ran back in the house. He was out immediately with
his ugly wife in one arm and his retarded cat in the other. As he was running
toward me I had to feel kind of sorry for the poor old fart. Poor old fart? Running
toward me? It was at this point that I realized that'
night be partly responsible
> the kitchen and fixed the usual for a Sunday moming-three pieces    for this present holocaust. The gun was still poking out the window. I withdrew It
of peanut butter toast and a red beer. It had now been forty minutes since Smeg    in a snap. Hertsmeg looked up at the window while I was in the process. I couldn't
had fired up his mower, and it was still going   ^ —  te,| jf he,d sec the gun or not. I propped
the gun. in the corner and ran downstairs.
Hertsmeg was pounding on the door by the
strong. It should have run out of gas by
now. Some primitive warning sounded within
at this point, but failed to make itself clear
for all the haze within my head.
Preparing for the war, I put my 'America |
the Beautiful* tape —Jimi Hendrix's rendition'
— in the player, depressed the "pause"
button, and tumgd the volume to 24—two-
thirds of the set's potential. All that was
needed now was a flick of th
Smeg's lawn would probably tu
curl up from sonic repercussions.
Munching on the toast I could hear the n
street. It had been running for forty-five mi
going
and
I
was watching all this
with my chin resting on
the stock of the gun...
A	
still farting away across the
now. Something strange was
investigate. Cracking the Venetian slats on the front
looked through expecting to observe old Hertsmeg huffing and
puffing, red-faced, pushing his mower back and forth. Instead, I observed old
Hertsmeg reclining comfortably in a chaise lounge, sipping a tall glass of lemon¬
ade. He had a newspaper in his lap and a contented little smirk on his face. And
headphones on his head. Headphones? What the hell?
The lawn mower stood idling twenty feet away from him. Next to the mower
stood a red five-gallon gas can with a length of rubber hose siphoning into the
mower's tank. That scoundrel. That conniving, demented, defecating old fart.
That lawn mower could run all week with that set-up. I determined to take the of¬
fensive. I had to stop that lawn mower. I knew I could probably just walk across
the street and turn it off, but that wasn' t good enough. I resolved to put an end to
the racket with flourish and flair. Or by some deviant measure, at the least.
I pondered the situation for a moment before deciding>ipon a course of action
My plan might be a little extreme, but it was the only thing I could think of. I
walked over to the phone and deposited a dime (I had a pay phone installed
downstairs for pair guests who liked to make long-distance, directory assistance - MOWER continued
time I  got downstai
to a wild face yelling "FIRE!" hysterically.
It was like looking at someone's face through
a window in the side of a pool.
"I'll call the fire department,'  I yelled,
as  Hertsmeg  bowled by me going  for the
phone. A moment-later I heard him cuss.
'There's a dime  under the cookie jar,"  I
yelled.  I  heard him dial  and  start yelling
'Firel' to whoever was on the other end.
His ugly wife and his retarded cat were still sprawled in my front yard, right
where Smeg had dropped them. Across the street the two-story structure was
going up like gunpowder in a campfire. I turned my hose on full bore, looked
across the street at Smeg's domain, decided it was a lost cause, and sprayed down
my own roof instead.
Hertsmeg came out of the house, appearing calmer now. After he had con¬
tinued to stare from the porch at his home across the street for a long time,
though, I realized he wasn't any calmer at all—he was entering shock. The fire
trucks arrived about the time the flames began to die for lack of fuel. The firemen
unrolled the hoses and sprayed the charred remains as a gesture of good will. The
fire captain'Walked over to where Hertsmeg stood on the front porch.
'You Mr. Hertsmeg?" he asked.
Hertsmeg nodded slowly. I was a little uneasy. I didn't know if I was busted or
not. I sort of meandered into my house and stashed the gun in a closet. When I
came out on the porch again the captain was still talking to Hertsmeg. He was
pointing at the lawn mower, which sat on the lawn smoldering like a wrecked jet.
Poetry/Photography
Transformation
The New Life
My son was born with a bilateral hairtip and a cleft palate.
From the beginning, when he slid out, his upper lip was a horn.
He suckled on crosscut lambskin and grew big and fat.
The things that distort people at night
he already possessed in the daytime.
Since we were poor, the government paid
for the operations which failed at first
but which finally held on, leaving
a scar on his upper lip.
He is as happy as other children. I have an uncle
who is a hunchback and never speaks. Both are the toys
of the trickster spirits of life, or of the quirks of evolution
which may be the quirks of whatever God there is.
Each of us is possessed
and what possesses us will never leave us
till we lie shattered, perhaps in our house of light at last,
but who am I to say so? i
The prairies, the forest regions, are gone now
at least for those who remain poor.
Yet there is a life imbided by the strong asphalt,
by the broken car next to the aging pioe tree
in front of the new office building.
There is no promise that incongruity will disappear
. cm-that children beating on the drums of water,
memories of horses, or the calm arms of the old
can hold back the slow hegemony of the cities.
Our legs have stirred the street so long
it crumbles like dough from soft, heavy rollers.
There is a knife that makes the harsh noises
fall in our stomachs. If you look closely,
the light that rises
onto motorcycle and honking horn
palpably lights our faces.
By Dennie Farris
My Navel Palm
(Among the Ibos of Nigeria it is a custom to
bury the navel cord of infants underneath
a tree)
You are the landmark of my citizenship
The most loved palm tree
I watch your growth like I watch the dusty road
when mama should be home
I cut your branches to keep you slim       	
The fists of the enemy will be thwarted —.
You are'my shadow
When you are ripe I climb the steps of jrour
rains
and cut the clusters of your fruit -    "-
as carefully as my navel cord was cut
At home I marvel at your redness
Then roast your round kernels
Eyes closed I bite into your succulence
Uniting shadow and body By Ugo Egbuzlem
Night Cries
On the evening breeze
come the voices  of cavernous  valleys  and
rugged ocean cliffs.
Twisting around some wretched oak,
strangling its delicate limbs until they clutch
each other
for lonely comfort.
Whispering through long-forgotten barns,
disturbing settled dust motes that dance in the
darkness.
Across    trails    of    wandering     homestead
boundaries,
finding their way to jagged sea cliffs that fight
the
relentless pounding of the deep. _
Mourning the ghosts living only in abandoned
legends.
Crying with the dark watcher By Roberta C. Hans
until these night cries drown in the dismal fog.     Journaltsm major
Senior