Beads of sweat collected at the ends of Mike’s shaggy hair as humid breath escaped in quick gasps from his red face. Although the day was young -after all, it was only 9 in the morning -the sun was beating down with a hot 89 degrees.
The vines on the fence behind Mike’s house had grown exponentially over the past month. After an abnormally long winter, the green parasites had celebrated the final arrival of spring with an explosion of conquest -entwining themselves all throughout the chain-link fence, on the tree, and even inside the shrubs that had resided docilely for the entire past year. Finally, the strangling encroachment had begun to bother even Mike, the sole occupant of the house, who normally took little notice or interest to the outside appearance of his property.
Chop.Clack.Snip.Chop. Slowly but surely, Mike’s clippers severed one tendril after another, leaving the once vivaciously rampant vines as a mass of severed stalks poking up from the dark rich soil. Behind him, the yard displayed a massive pile of leaves, thorns, and other signs of his conquest as a suburban agronomist.
Wiping sweaty palms on a stained and over-sized shirt, Mike looked on his handiwork with relish -he felt alive, the heat of the day and manual labor exciting his ‘manly’ instincts. This was a good day – “I could do this every day”, he thought to himself. Fantasies of maintaining the best lawn on his street quickly arose like epic stories before his imagination. With his newly found energy and inspiration, Mike began collecting the carnage caused by his work – vigorously raking and bagging the large quantities of green growth so recently cut in pieces.
After all the collecting was done, he began the laborious process of hauling every one of his black 30 gallon trash bags to the street. When the last bag of clippings sagged onto the curb, Mike sank down next to it. His already shaggy hair was now a solid wet mop, and his shirt and pants were three shades darker than whenever he had started. He was hot and uncomfortable -and even his earlier optimism and romanticism of ‘manliness’ could do little to counteract the headache that was coming on. Too much time had passed since he had walked the paths of his homeland: the air conditioned room and Doritos covered sofa called his name with the sweet siren song of careless ease. With a groan he stiffly arose off the curb and began trudging back around the house.
As he passed around his house on the way to the back door, the tiny stalks poking up from the ground along the fence caught his tired eye -they were the last roots of his adversary. Plucking these up would render him the final victor -the entangling and choking vines never to grow and thrive again in his lawn. For a long pause there was only the pounding of his head, the stickiness of his dirty and wet clothes, and the aches in his hands – “Ah, well,” he thought, “there is always tomorrow”, and he almost turned to walk into the dark cold door of his house. However, a nagging in his mind caused him to draw up short, he just felt wrong for not seeing what he had set out to do to completion -or as his favorite TV show character Ron Swanson had so eloquently quipped: “Never half-ass two things, whole-ass one thing”. In spite of the complaints of his sore body, Mike resolved to refresh himself with water and attack the rooted mess after a trip to the hardware store for more effective weapons.