Horace Afoot Read Online Free Page B

adjusts it back on his head with military cockiness.
    “My neighbor must have called you. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
    “That’s none of my business, sir, if you and your neighbor got problems. And I don’t ask for ID when someone calls me up. I just do lawns. It’s how I earn my living.”
    I rock a little and watch him. A board squeaks. I don’t want to talk to him, but he doesn’t get the message and stands there, gazing out into the yard. “Just taking a mower to it would be a big improvement. ’Course it’s only mowing weeds.”
    I don’t respond, just rock. Finally he gives me a business card. “Just in case you change your mind,” he says.
    As he turns to leave, I change my mind. “I’ll hire you on one condition.”
    “What’s that?”
    “That you do everything by hand. No power mowers. Nothing that has a motor.”
    The man looks at me, removes his baseball cap, and slaps it back on again. “What’s your point here, Mr. Horace?”
    “No point. Those are my conditions.”
    “But I don’t see why?”
    “Because I hate the noise, for one.”
    The man looks at the ground and thinks for a moment. “Well, now, if it’s noise you want to get away from I could drop you off someplace and come and get you when I’m finished. The library over on Main Street is nice and quiet inside.”
    “I’m also against them.”
    “Lawn mowers?”
    “No, motors. Internal combustion engines.”
    “Well, now, I just happen to have an electric mower. It’s quieter than most, don’t hardly make any noise.”
    I shake my head. “No motors. Period.”
    The man stands in the middle of the walkway and surveys the yard again. “Mind if I take a look around?”
    “Help yourself.”
    I rock while he rustles around in the rear of the house. A few minutes later he returns. “It’s a big job, Mr. Horace. You got four-year saplings this big growing back there.” He holds his palm to his chest.
    “I forgot to mention. The trees stay.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Those saplings. Leave them.”
    “I hate to tell you this, Mr. Horace. They’re killing the grass.”
    “That’s fine with me.”
    The man shakes his head and removes his baseball cap and slaps it back on again. “Well, I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Horace. I guess you’re not interested.”
    “I told you my conditions. Take it or leave it.”
    “I think I’ll just leave it, sir. You got troubles with your neighbor ain’t any business of mine.” He returns to his pickup truck, which is pulling a trailer with a small tractor on it. He pauses for a moment to look at his equipment. Cranking the steering wheel with the heel of his hand, he drives off in a mild huff.
    Shortly before sundown I go for a walk and find myself at the airport. The usual pickup trucks and kissing couples are parked along thefence. I follow the fence all the way around and end up in the terminal. I’ve never been inside before. Lines are forming at the ticket counter for the early evening flight out. It is cold inside the terminal. An old man pushes a dust mop along the polished floor, eyes half closed. The cashier at the newsstand watches him as he shuffles past, her head propped on the heel of one hand.
    I look at the departure schedule. Everyone in the airport is destined for Chicago. There are two flights later in the evening, each an hour apart. The first is to St. Louis, the second to Minneapolis. I find a seat among the departees. A young woman sits across from me holding a child in her lap. The child takes in the cavernous atmosphere, wide eyed. An elderly couple sits one row back, hands in their laps. A young man in a rumpled suit sips coffee from a Styrofoam cup and reads a sports magazine. I suddenly notice the Muzak playing softly throughout the terminal. It begins to roar in my ears. I can’t swallow the lump at the back of my throat. The woman and her child are looking at me. I stare back. The woman averts her eyes, but the child holds my