The world was Papa’s idea. He spent months in the basement toiling under floodlights, working small paintbrushes and screwdrivers with his fingers, molding clay, gluing lichen and moss to trees. After a few months of hard work limp streams of water poured from lion fountains into kidney-shaped pools, rolling lawn dipped and rose, wrought-iron lanterns hung between Greek pillars. When he was all finished he bent over the model, cupped his ears forward with his hands to listen for the squawk of jays.
From the living room I listened to them talking in the office.
“Were not you friends?” asked Mom.
“Some time ago.”
“First your perpetual motion machine and now this.”
“Edith.”
“Gismo-it.”
“Please,” Papa said.
“So you really don’t?”
“Like I said...”
“Anyway, Karl...”
Behind me was parked our Coupe de Ville. It was hitched to the little trailer we used to haul trash to the dump. And there was this hill scattered with dandelions. It shot straight up and landed at the neighbor’s drive.
“What’s this?” said Papa.
“Thought I’d mow.”
“Mow?”
“Mow.”
“Well, let me show you.”
“Ok, Ok!”
Papa wiggled the spark plug. “It’s got to be tight. It ignites the gas. The gas explodes. The explosion moves the shaft and the shaft turns the cutter.” He turned the mower upside down and ran a finger along the blade. “Blade cuts the grass.” He flipped the mower upright. “To start the mower, pull the rope.” Papa pulled the rope. One of his legs left the ground. One arm flew past his right ear. The motor sputtered and gurgled. He yanked again, his eyebrows narrowing. The rope snapped back, coiled around the spring and the motor took, sending a gray cloud adrift through the dogwood tree.
Papa breathed heavy.
“Hey, kid, careful around your Mother’s daisies,” he said.
“Be careful,” Mom shouted from inside the Ville, “that’s how your Grand Papa lost his big left toe.”
So I started to mow, shaved the third row and the fourth row and the fifth row and a few more rows before Torbin squealed into the driveway. I had nearly finished the grass but there was our big big hill dotted with bright yellow flowers.
“Nice car.”
“Thanks, kid.”
“How fast?”
“Speedometer reads 900.”
“My ass.”
“Want’a sit at the wheel?”
“Sure.”
“Your Papa ever even go a hundred?”
“You crazy?”
“Want’a?”
“You want’a mow?”
“You’re aworkin’ too hard, kid.”
“You pickin’ up the contract or what?”
“Got it,” said Torbin.
Black leather seats. Three round meters. Dash stuck out like a giant chin. I met the mower, pulled the rope and the motor took.
“Hey, kid.”
“See this hill?”
“We fuckin’ go a hundred, then I’ll help.”
“Ah, a hundred?”
“Easy.” He tossed important papers onto the dash.
On the interstate the speedometer read sixty-five. I glanced at the road. I glanced to the meters. I glanced at Torbin, the financial backer. His red poodle hair, fat fingers bent around the wheel. His silver ring held a large, flat green rock. This-forever-stretching-highway between stalks of corn and trees of pine.
“Ever think you’d go this fast?”
The meter read seventy.
“Go ahead, touch the wheel,” he said.
“You crazy?”
Wind swept noisily through the cabin. The meter read eighty.
“Touch it, man. Touch it!”
We were pushin’ fuckin’ ninety.
“When you mow a hill, kid,” Torbin’s hair wild as a sunset, “you gotta turn it on its side, you gotta swing the hill this way and then that way. You gotta push at every little thing, even upside down.”
“Rush at it?”
“That’s what I do, kid. You gotta expand it into a macroscopic thing.” Torbin laughed as pages of the contract drifted out the window.
“Touch the wheel, kid. Just touch it!” yelled Torbin.
So I reached across the cabin. We drove up the hill. We drove until I felt horizontal. A stream of blue sky divided the moss on shingles and the wispy and plump clouds. A sparrow brooded upside down. Then we padded against the ether pushin’ the pedal until we gasped and felt pushed away from our bucket seats.
“Keep treading. Keep pushing. Even if you don’t believe it,” shouted Torbin.
---
As Torbin drove away I watched his car get smaller and smaller as if aiming for a break in the clouds. Then he disintegrated in an unbearable glow as he raced for the sun.
The mower didn‘t give me any problems. It started right up. Mom had told me how her family members had lost various body parts. Bobby’s sleeve tangled up in the power take-off of a potato digger; chewed off his left hand. Franklin fell off a tractor, right leg run over by the plow, doctor amputated his left foot. Carl Lee’s brown hair was eaten by the flat belly and pulley transmission of a water pump. So I pushed it and began to wonder where it might have landed, Grand Papa’s missing toe.
---
Papa drove the Coupe de Ville slowly. He did not want to be careless or reckless or any like that. When he looked back I gather he did not see a giant blue orb, but rather the details of his handy work watchfully packed and wagging within the trailer behind us. He took a right then a left then a right until we settled upon the industrial boulevard.
“You know, Karl, it could be art.”
“Art?! It’s not art! It’s real. Not just art!”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t real,” said Mom.
“Fine,” said Papa.
In the green light from the dash, Mom searched inside her purse. She stabbed the console lighter with her long pink fingernail. A few minutes later the cabin filled with smoke. The ends of their cigars moved across the windshield like comets. The sun sank behind the West Hills and the stars sparkled.
“Look, Mike,” Mom pointed, “there’s your skyscraper.”
I craned my neck to a place behind me. The columns slowly disappeared and we entered a neighborhood with swings and well-trimmed yards. A bed of maple tree branches scrubbed and scratched above us.
“Hey, Papa,” I said.
“So he tells me he believes in reincarnation!” said Papa.
“Hey, Papa?
“Hey, Papa?”
Mom took a deep breath, sighed. “We have never had anything against the idea of reincarnation.”
“Maybe he thinks we’ll come back as a tulips or beetles.”
“Or cows?”
“Whose side are you on anyway?”
“All sides. All sides. Would you stop, please?”
“I’m not yelling.”
“Fine. Ok. Fine.”
Papa parked in the circle drive. “Ok, ok,” he gasped.
We climbed out of the car, this time, and began to walk in different directions, a soupy fog lifted and fell - separating and bringing us back together again.
The leaves of poplar trembled. The jays were squawking.
Looking out as far as I could see, jetties of pine forest and cornfields cut through concentric pastures where goats chewed grass, blue herons stood like wooden statues inside the marsh of willow and alder trees. Inside a red barn, I climbed upon an old green tractor. I started it up. It sputtered and gurgled. I started it again. We jerked forward together and I grabbed the nervous wheel. We rattled past the iron lanterns that swayed between ancient pillars and I glanced back toward Papa’s rickety trailer. He mopped his face with his paisley handkerchief – a cloud of moisture, his stale breath as if a swift gust of wind kicked me back. The wrinkles in his brow and the tip of his narrow nose nudged me along.
As I started for the hill of dandelion flowers, he cupped his enormous ears in my direction.
“Hey, Papa,” I said.
I vibrated with the machine, this machinery.
Then I pushed down on the pedal a little.
“Hey, Papa …
“Hey, Papa …”
From the living room I listened to them talking in the office.
“Were not you friends?” asked Mom.
“Some time ago.”
“First your perpetual motion machine and now this.”
“Edith.”
“Gismo-it.”
“Please,” Papa said.
“So you really don’t?”
“Like I said...”
“Anyway, Karl...”
Behind me was parked our Coupe de Ville. It was hitched to the little trailer we used to haul trash to the dump. And there was this hill scattered with dandelions. It shot straight up and landed at the neighbor’s drive.
“What’s this?” said Papa.
“Thought I’d mow.”
“Mow?”
“Mow.”
“Well, let me show you.”
“Ok, Ok!”
Papa wiggled the spark plug. “It’s got to be tight. It ignites the gas. The gas explodes. The explosion moves the shaft and the shaft turns the cutter.” He turned the mower upside down and ran a finger along the blade. “Blade cuts the grass.” He flipped the mower upright. “To start the mower, pull the rope.” Papa pulled the rope. One of his legs left the ground. One arm flew past his right ear. The motor sputtered and gurgled. He yanked again, his eyebrows narrowing. The rope snapped back, coiled around the spring and the motor took, sending a gray cloud adrift through the dogwood tree.
Papa breathed heavy.
“Hey, kid, careful around your Mother’s daisies,” he said.
“Be careful,” Mom shouted from inside the Ville, “that’s how your Grand Papa lost his big left toe.”
So I started to mow, shaved the third row and the fourth row and the fifth row and a few more rows before Torbin squealed into the driveway. I had nearly finished the grass but there was our big big hill dotted with bright yellow flowers.
“Nice car.”
“Thanks, kid.”
“How fast?”
“Speedometer reads 900.”
“My ass.”
“Want’a sit at the wheel?”
“Sure.”
“Your Papa ever even go a hundred?”
“You crazy?”
“Want’a?”
“You want’a mow?”
“You’re aworkin’ too hard, kid.”
“You pickin’ up the contract or what?”
“Got it,” said Torbin.
Black leather seats. Three round meters. Dash stuck out like a giant chin. I met the mower, pulled the rope and the motor took.
“Hey, kid.”
“See this hill?”
“We fuckin’ go a hundred, then I’ll help.”
“Ah, a hundred?”
“Easy.” He tossed important papers onto the dash.
On the interstate the speedometer read sixty-five. I glanced at the road. I glanced to the meters. I glanced at Torbin, the financial backer. His red poodle hair, fat fingers bent around the wheel. His silver ring held a large, flat green rock. This-forever-stretching-highway between stalks of corn and trees of pine.
“Ever think you’d go this fast?”
The meter read seventy.
“Go ahead, touch the wheel,” he said.
“You crazy?”
Wind swept noisily through the cabin. The meter read eighty.
“Touch it, man. Touch it!”
We were pushin’ fuckin’ ninety.
“When you mow a hill, kid,” Torbin’s hair wild as a sunset, “you gotta turn it on its side, you gotta swing the hill this way and then that way. You gotta push at every little thing, even upside down.”
“Rush at it?”
“That’s what I do, kid. You gotta expand it into a macroscopic thing.” Torbin laughed as pages of the contract drifted out the window.
“Touch the wheel, kid. Just touch it!” yelled Torbin.
So I reached across the cabin. We drove up the hill. We drove until I felt horizontal. A stream of blue sky divided the moss on shingles and the wispy and plump clouds. A sparrow brooded upside down. Then we padded against the ether pushin’ the pedal until we gasped and felt pushed away from our bucket seats.
“Keep treading. Keep pushing. Even if you don’t believe it,” shouted Torbin.
---
As Torbin drove away I watched his car get smaller and smaller as if aiming for a break in the clouds. Then he disintegrated in an unbearable glow as he raced for the sun.
The mower didn‘t give me any problems. It started right up. Mom had told me how her family members had lost various body parts. Bobby’s sleeve tangled up in the power take-off of a potato digger; chewed off his left hand. Franklin fell off a tractor, right leg run over by the plow, doctor amputated his left foot. Carl Lee’s brown hair was eaten by the flat belly and pulley transmission of a water pump. So I pushed it and began to wonder where it might have landed, Grand Papa’s missing toe.
---
Papa drove the Coupe de Ville slowly. He did not want to be careless or reckless or any like that. When he looked back I gather he did not see a giant blue orb, but rather the details of his handy work watchfully packed and wagging within the trailer behind us. He took a right then a left then a right until we settled upon the industrial boulevard.
“You know, Karl, it could be art.”
“Art?! It’s not art! It’s real. Not just art!”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t real,” said Mom.
“Fine,” said Papa.
In the green light from the dash, Mom searched inside her purse. She stabbed the console lighter with her long pink fingernail. A few minutes later the cabin filled with smoke. The ends of their cigars moved across the windshield like comets. The sun sank behind the West Hills and the stars sparkled.
“Look, Mike,” Mom pointed, “there’s your skyscraper.”
I craned my neck to a place behind me. The columns slowly disappeared and we entered a neighborhood with swings and well-trimmed yards. A bed of maple tree branches scrubbed and scratched above us.
“Hey, Papa,” I said.
“So he tells me he believes in reincarnation!” said Papa.
“Hey, Papa?
“Hey, Papa?”
Mom took a deep breath, sighed. “We have never had anything against the idea of reincarnation.”
“Maybe he thinks we’ll come back as a tulips or beetles.”
“Or cows?”
“Whose side are you on anyway?”
“All sides. All sides. Would you stop, please?”
“I’m not yelling.”
“Fine. Ok. Fine.”
Papa parked in the circle drive. “Ok, ok,” he gasped.
We climbed out of the car, this time, and began to walk in different directions, a soupy fog lifted and fell - separating and bringing us back together again.
The leaves of poplar trembled. The jays were squawking.
Looking out as far as I could see, jetties of pine forest and cornfields cut through concentric pastures where goats chewed grass, blue herons stood like wooden statues inside the marsh of willow and alder trees. Inside a red barn, I climbed upon an old green tractor. I started it up. It sputtered and gurgled. I started it again. We jerked forward together and I grabbed the nervous wheel. We rattled past the iron lanterns that swayed between ancient pillars and I glanced back toward Papa’s rickety trailer. He mopped his face with his paisley handkerchief – a cloud of moisture, his stale breath as if a swift gust of wind kicked me back. The wrinkles in his brow and the tip of his narrow nose nudged me along.
As I started for the hill of dandelion flowers, he cupped his enormous ears in my direction.
“Hey, Papa,” I said.
I vibrated with the machine, this machinery.
Then I pushed down on the pedal a little.
“Hey, Papa …
“Hey, Papa …”
About the Author
