I Rake At Night

The leaves at this house are the last to fall. When Autumn arrives, all the other trees on this block obey: they turn red, orange, brown and fall into crispy little pieces. But no, no, not the leaves at 613. They hang on and hold out, waiting for the touch of winter before deciding to succumb to their annual fate. Out of my bedroom window, I watch. They hang on and hang on, teasing me with the role I must play in the mess they become.

So it happens.

They spew.

All over a green yard, the trees shit no-longer-green junk. Junk for me to clean. Junk for me to hustle over. The fall of leaves itself is no simple turn. It takes time. It is a gradual bomb. A few leaves here, a few leaves there. Oh how I wish these dead things would drop all it once instead of the weeks it drips like a leaky faucet. Weeks. Yes, weeks. Out of my bedroom window, I watch. They hang on and hang on, teasing me with the role I must play in the mess they become.

So it happens.

They spew.

Fucking slooowly.

The typical routine involves a raking of the yard every week. More tree filth piles on (effectively maintaining the same mess I've just swept) and out again I go the next week. This year I decide to clean it up all in one go. One big boom to rid of the fallen dead doom. A few days before Christmas, I decide. That's when I'll get those suckers. They fall, no longer teasing me. Let them tumble as they please. They're on MY time now, not the other way around.

My misery must have missed me. It caught up with me in the most heinous way.

It is Friday night. I am standing in the driveway with a friend who is about to leave. A tubby, white-haired caucasian woman rounds the sidewalk corner, dressed in all her Christmas glory. Green sweatshirt, red pants, white scarf - this is the uniform of her yuletide stroll. The smirk on her face is as trying as the silver glitter on her scarf.

She walks up and asks, in the voice of one who believes to know better, "Excuse me, do you live here?"

"Yes" I say, reluctantly.

"Can you sweep up the sidewalk? I know the sidewalk has bumps, you can't do anything with thaat but I can't see them with all these leaves. I don't want to trip. Can you rake them? Oh no, not right nooow. Ohhh noo. But sometime soon? I'll be walking through here tomorrow night."

I am stunned, weak and a complete pussy."Uh, I was gonna clean it up before Christmas."

"Oh that'd be great."

"Have a nice night." I reply.

She is already 15 yards away. Her back towards me, walking, I hear, "Happy holidays."

I am silent. Defeated. With the woman out of earshot (maybe not) I start to bitch about the situation to my buddy. I find it be far too hostile for someone to tell another person to clean up their property. Granted, the sidewalk is public property, but the bitch could just as easily step out and walk on the street corner or maybe just LIFT HER FUCKING FEET. You see, the corner she traversed is in the dark because the trees block out the streetlight. The trees have also grown to such a degree that the sidewalk is uprooted at certain points and of course, there are leaves. Many, many leaves.

So what the fuck do I care should she trip over? Bitch, take precaution instead of enforcing perfection. Wear your glasses. Use a flashlight. Bring night vision goggles. Though you walk through the ruin that is this corner, remember, you could walk elsewhere. Or walk in the daytime. Or clean it up yourself.

With all my vocalized frustration, my friend's sympathy quickly turns into annoyance. At one point he tells me to "just shut up and grow a pair."

As soon as he leaves, I pick up the rake and vent my "sad/angry feeling combo" on the yard, unable to do anything else.

Outside my window the leaves still fall. Should you pass by this house, you'll see gathered leaf piles. They are the monuments to my humiliation. The pharaohs of Egypt get pyramids and I've got this. They remind me of my weakness and of a wish to be more assertive. Instead of being stunned, I should have shouted. I wouldn't get points for civility but at least I wouldn't be pushed around. All I can do is write and hope that brings some relief. But those leaves are still out there. The leaves still fall.

A Dear Friend Has Died Today

A death unexpected is indeed the worst kind. There stands no flashing neon sign to mark what is to come, to warn what doom is to befall the heedless passerby. In its place is a void, a knife in the dark that hungers to sink sleep into those most awake. This is the fate that a cherished friend has met this day. Gone. No longer winding. A silent shell of what once was vibrant now lies extinct in the limbo of nowhere.

I miss my friend.

My iPod died today.