The Lawn

A short story by August Toevs

In the middle of the sea, Owen pushed a lawn mower.
This sea was, in fact, a vast field, the bounds of which were undeterminable from where Owen trudged behind his machine. Of course, as anyone would, Owen developed an incredibly active imagination during the years spent behind the lawn mower. As he walked and walked and walked, the grass and hills turned into water and waves. Things were more interesting that way.

‘He’d never found the edge of the field, but he hoped one day he would. As he looked around, everything he saw was grass, stretching until emerald earth met blue sky, forming a solid line at their intersection.
To Owen’s right, the sea was bright green, the color of an old tennis ball, and uniform height. This was where he’d already been. To his left, it was a rougher, more unruly shade of hunter green, which was, of course, where he had yet to go. At the convergence of these two greens was Owen, plodding along. Owen wore a pair of faded work pants, a similarly faded gray t-shirt that was at least a size too big, and a pair of sneakers, the white outsoles of which were now stained because of the grass he walked upon. Atop his head was a conical straw hat, the type usually associated with rice paddy farmers. Someone would probably make fun of him for wearing it; if someone were around to do so.

Despite his singular life experience (his only memories involved mowing this very lawn), Owen sometimes felt he knew a fair bit about the world, and so he would feel proud. For instance, he knew what a cloud was. He could even identify them on the rare occasion one floated across the sky in front of him. He knew that clouds looked like a bunch of cotton balls squished together, despite the fact he’d never actually encountered a cotton ball before. He also understood that scientifically speaking, the cloud had nothing to do with cotton balls and more to do with condensation of some sort. He knew his name was Owen. He knew what the lawn mower was and how it worked. He knew that his oversized t-shirt and hat probably made him look a little strange, and so a creeping sense of embarrassment often nagged at the back of his mind.

Other times, Owen felt he knew very little. This made him feel quite silly, ashamed of his more prideful moments. For one, he didn’t know why he was cutting this lawn in the first place, or to what end. This mystery occupied his mind constantly as he shifted the greens from dark to light. Obviously, the grass had to be cut since it’d been allowed to grow. And so long as it had grown too tall, it must also have been cut before—maybe by him, or maybe somebody else. But since he never encountered a boundary he had no idea the progress he was making. Was he halfway done? Most of the way? Or worse, had he barely started? Most vexing of all, he had yet to figure out why he was the one who’d been selected to undergo such a ridiculous exercise. These gaps in his knowledge would frustrate him so much that sometimes he’d sit down where he was and protest, for the benefit of no one. These fits rarely lasted any longer than a few minutes, since he had no other activities to distract himself. After some time he would begrudgingly stand up, put his calloused hands back on the mower, and push.

There were other people out there. Owen knew this, of course, and it was part of why hebfelt like he was being cheated. He knew of other’s existence for sure because, every once in a while, he would kick the grass catcher attached to his lawn mower and find that it was full of clippings. When this happened, he would shut off the motor, sit down, and wait.

After gazing out at the horizon for some time, a run-down pickup truck would bumble over a hill, leaving black exhaust in its wake, and pull up beside Owen. This never failed to excite him, since the pickup truck was a deep purple; not a color he generally got to see. Out of that pickup truck would step Skip, the only other person Owen had ever met.

Skip was a little shorter than Owen, and clearly much older. His skin, a deep tan, was leathery and taut. He wore the same shirt and pants that Owen did, but for whatever reason—and this bothered Owen to no end—Skip’s t-shirt fit him perfectly. He also wore wrap-around sunglasses and a maroon bandana tied around his neck. The bandana was Owen’s favorite part of Skip’s outfit.

Skip was an easygoing man. Walking upright and never with urgency, he would step down from the truck, take the catcher off of Owen’s mower with a grin, and dump its contents in the pickup’s bed, all the while jabbering aimlessly. He spoke as if he couldn’t care less whether or not Owen was there to listen. Sometimes, he’d complain about the transmission in the truck, though to Owen’s knowledge it’d never actually failed. Or he would make fun of Owen and his ill-fitting shirt, likening it to a dress, which Owen had come to understand was not necessarily a good thing. Skip also made a point to compliment Owen’s progress, telling him he was making great headway on the lawn, much better than the last guy.

For his part, Owen rarely talked to Skip more than a “Hello”, “Thank you”, and a “Goodbye.” One time, in a peculiar instance in which some semblance of a conversation took place, Owen even asked a question. Just as Skip arrived to collect the grass clippings and was stepping out of the truck, frustration began to weigh so heavily on Owen’s mind that, before he could think better, he blurted out:

“Skip, why am I cutting this grass?”

The question came out much less casual than Owen intended it to. For all the time in-between Skip’s last visit and this one, Owen had been rehearsing how he might coolly inquire as to the nature of his labor. Unfortunately, there was no one to practice this sort of subtlety on and Owen found himself woefully underprepared.

“Because it got too long,” Skip answered, grinning.

Owen sighed. He knew that already. He looked back down. But just because the grass was there and needed to be mowed didn’t necessarily mean that Owen was the one who should be there to mow it.

“Well,” he started over, choosing his words more carefully this time, “I think... I mean, when will I be finished?”

Skip threw a quick glance at Owen with only his peripherals, and he smiled.

“You’re doing it now, my man. Doesn’t mean you always will be. There’s plenty to do, just wrap this up first.”

Owen spoke hastily while Skip handed him back the mower’s catcher. “Could I drive your car?”

Skip thought for a moment, opening his mouth as if to reply, then closing it.

“Ask me about it some other time,” said Skip, stepping into the truck and starting the engine. A rumble and a puff of exhaust later, the pickup disappeared.

...

Owen stared. His arms dangled. He couldn’t help but feel like Skip had plenty of answers for him. After he watched the last of the truck’s exhaust dissipate into the air completely, Owen slid his eyes back to the line where sky met sea, fired up the motor, and set off.

Skip sat in his living room, sipping from a mug of fresh coffee. He’d just burnt his tongue, but things could be worse.

He looked out the window onto a great field of grass, squinting through the golden-orange sunlight that dripped into his living room these days. The sun, for the first time in Skip’s long life, had only recently started to head towards the horizon. It was a welcome change, Skip thought. Certainly preferable to the interminable overhead sunlight he’d endured in his younger days.

Skip’s body was riddled with the consequences of hard labor. His face was dried out from lack of shade, the skin on his arms and legs did very little to conceal veins and sinew and his hands were irreparably calloused. None of this bothered Skip. Not much of anything bothered Skip. He was finally relaxed.

He only had one responsibility, and he was happy to perform it without complaint. Every once in a while, whenever it felt like the right time, Skip would climb into his old purple pickup truck and drive out into the field. After he drove far enough, back into the overhead sun, he’d see a figure on the horizon wearing a funny hat. Skip would pull up beside the boy called Owen. He’d slowly lower himself from the truck and look around, mulling over his memories of the field. They’d turned more sweet than bitter as they aged, he noted. Nostalgia can be a tricky thing, Skip would think as he greeted Owen, the poor kid.

“Hiya,” Skip would say. Owen would stare at his shoes. They were stained; same as Skip’s. Occasionally he’d mumble a response in Skip’s general direction. One time, he’d even blurted out a few questions that the older man knew all too well. More often, Owen would longingly, even hungrily, survey the truck. Skip knew exactly how Owen felt about the purple truck, he’d felt the same way, so many years ago: awestruck by the truck’s very arrival. This is why, with his excess free time, Skip made sure the truck was as clean and as shiny as possible. Skip understood Owen perfectly, Owen just didn’t know it. He felt, but couldn’t fully understand, the recognition in Skip’s eyes. Owen, like most young people, had a lot of questions, and Skip, like most older people, had the good sense to stop asking them a while ago. Or at least, he’d stopped expecting answers. Both of them appreciated that Skip knew a lot more about things than Owen did. However, only Skip understood that very little of his knowledge served any real purpose except to be known. How to properly clean and wax a pickup truck being an exception, of course.

For all the things that Skip knew and Owen had yet to figure out, the gulf between their respective intellects could be condensed into one thing. This was that Owen would, one day, get to be Skip. Tired, weathered and weary, yes. But at ease, too. And when that day eventually came, he wouldn’t have to ask questions like “Why me?” anymore. He wouldn’t need to.