It Feels Like Home

Shane Steven Smith aug 2004

It was a sweet day, I remember that, and I could still hear the Zepplin tune ringing in my ears. The kind of day where you just want to kick back on a hammock with a Coors and get lit in the lazy sun. But there would be none of that here; I had work to do, afterall. And fucking Farmer Brown up there, on the hill, with his hack about --and there will be no trash left on the bus after you exit the veee-hick-kill, and should there BE, any trash left on the veee-hick-kill-- was not about to let me get it on. Break time, Farmer Brown had said, was at 10am, and not a second before.

He was drinking his gatorade and looking at me. I couldn't see him, but I could feel him, you know? Like I got eyes in the back of my head, or some shit. Of course, a fucking two-year old could have told you he was watching me; he'd been watching me all day. He hated me, that much I knew, cause you could tell he was thinking it--thinking something like I wanna beat your ass sooo bad, my cock is hard, but it didn't bother me in the least. Grown up momma's boys from Kentucky never much took a liking to city kids like me. It just wasn't in their nature. But it bothered me how he could chill up there, like that, while the rest of us had to sweat our asses off.

"Shawny-boy!" Sharp and suddenly came the voice, and without warning. And that scared me because usually I'm as ansy as a whore in church or a churchgirl in a whorehouse, or something like that, but I couldn't hear a thing over the fucking rumbling. I think I jumped, but I tried to hide it.

I turned behind me, keeping one hand on the guard to keep the push-mower running-- i don't wanna hear that mower stop until ten ohh one, hear me?-- and saw Farmer himself standing there. Stupid fucking cowboy hat on his head and the badge to match, he chomped nastily on spearamint gum--chomp, chomp-- with that shit-eating grin on his face. I could tell he'd seen me jump, and he was happy that he had scared me. What kind of fucking thought was that? Truth was, whenever he talked to me, he wore that same smirk. Patrol Pussy. That came into my head and I knewI was going to laugh. Back in the day of smashing car windows and stealing car stereos, we used to call Pigs that, but that was a when I was different. Even in just the last few months, I know I've changed. So what're you laughing at then, if it's so not funny? I don't know: familiarity?

"Break time." Chomp, Chomp. "Wrap it up." Farmer said and walked away. What was his name really, anyway? Deputy John? Deputy Joseph? Deputy something. It didn't matter, cause he had reminded me of a Farmer Brown, and so Farmer Brown had stuck.

"Should I wait until ten ohhh one?" I muttered, but he didn't hear me. The mower was loud and he was too far. Besides, he was busy. Farmer was already making his way over to Katie, this highschool girl he had a thing for. It was funny watching the deputy hit at that young piece of ass --and she was too., cute little thing with the shortest pink shorts I think I have ever seen-- because he was laying it out flat and she was all like, no, but you could tell she wanted it. Girl like that loves the attention, feeds on it like a fucking leech or something. I could see him, he was showing her his 38 revolver, telling her how to point it, how to shoot it, and she was eating it up and pretending to give a shit. I let the guard go and listened to the blades slow to a stop: chuggachuggachug, looked at myTimex--

10:01

a watch that did nothing, proudly, except told the fucking time. Smiling, knowing I was being a wiseass, I walked over to the cooler and grabbed a drink. Phil was sitting there, another of the serviees, drinking fruit punch. Red Number 40 dyed a nice little red line Phils lips that looked like he was getting it all over himself. Or maybe like he just bit the fucking head off a squirrell, or some shit, just plucked the cute, little thing scampering from the ground, and stuck in his mouth whole. I wonder how Emeral would cook squirrel?

"Will you look at that shit?" Phil said, watching the two of them. "Doesn't that piss you off? That girl's 'bout your age, and she wants to make it with that dude?" Phil was pretty nasty himself, bald and fat with Hooters written in orange on his wrinkled t-shirt. Mid to late thirties, Phil had over six hundred hours to do. What did you do Phil? I wonder what you did to get that many hours. I mean, let's face it: that's a fucking lot of hours. Today, it was just the three of us here, making our time up. Phil, myself and the girl. So Phil and I were alone on the rock wall where we sat.

"You don't know she wants to make it with him."

"I do."

"How?"

"Look at them. Might as well be fucking right there in the grass. Anybody can see that."

"I can't"

Phil took a swallow and laughed. " Well then, why don't you go over there and fucking ask them then. Jesus.." Another swallow, snorting and blowing air out his nose. Like he thought he knew something on the subject, or some shit. I glared at him for a moment; who do you think you are, you bald, stupid son of a bitch, do you know what I could do to you? What I'd fucking LIKE to do to you-- and then, "Alright, I will." I got up fast and stormed down the hill. It was like a light going off. Or maybe fireworks. I could hear humming. An old Zepplin tune, the one about the girl who stays out too late, the girl who stays drunk all the time, what was the name of that song? It took me longer to remember that i'd been humming it all morning.

"No, wait--" but it was too late. I'd been wanting to yank this guy's chain for a hundred and five hours; that's how many hours they gave me for community service, you know first offense and all that shit. Lawyer said I got lucky. Obviously he'd never pushed lawnmowers for a hundred and five hours. And where do they even come up with those numbers? A hundred and five? What kind of silliness is that?

He didn't see me coming and that was good because I wanted to sneek up on him like he'd done to me. His back was to me, and he was way too far into his hard-on to even notice anything else, let alone do his job. That was out of the question. But the girl saw me, and her darting eyes gave me away. You could tell even this bimbo knew something was up.

Oh yeah, something was up alright, and I'm gonna GET it up, oh yeah, i'm gonna get it WAY the fuck up.

I don't even know when I started to carry the adjustable Stanley in my back pocket, few weeks ago I guess. I saw it there, in it's packaging saying: I can adjust to any size, any size you like. I replace a hundred tools and can be used a thousand places, anywhere around the house, or in the shop, or even out in the fucking GARDEN. You can use me anywhere!!! And that was all it took. I rang it up with the cuty cashier-- naww, just a little work around the house, you know-- and put it in my pocket, and it felt okay. More than okay: A-Okay, actually, and damn near comforted.

And you'd be surprised how easy it was to bring it with you, even just to have. It was a habit, like smoking ciggerettes or some shit. Sometimes when I get pissed off and reach down and touch the cool steel and it feels like... well, i don't know, like HOME i guess. it cools me off. I guess that's why I like it. It fit so there the tool stayed. I never asked myself why I was carrying it; I mean, I never did anything with it, but I didn't need to know why to know that it felt good.

I could feel the heavy weight of the wrench now, almost like a pulsing and throbbing like a human heart, and I realized all at once that it was all over my body. You know the way you get when you run for a long time? It was like that; that's the only way I can explain it, only it was better and I didn't feel tired or anything. I felt exhiliarated.

Farmer turned when he realized he was no longer the star of the show, and grinned that same shit-eating grin cheerfully. : "What's up, Shawny-boy? Why aren't you over there gabbing it up with the old man?"

"He wanted me to ask you a question." I didn't even realize that I had reached backed to touch the wrench. I could feel the tools jagged teeth running over my fingertips.

"Oh yeah?" Chomp, chomp. Still with the gum. "What's that?"

Katie was watching me nervously. I could see it. It was amazing how much smarter, how much more aware a person can be then the next. I mean, a fucking school-girl picked up quicker than a fucking cop, and I think that's just about the funniest thing I think I have ever heard. "He wanted me to ask you "Do you really think your gonna get your dick wet in that, or are you just a fucking faggot?" Cause, it seems to us that a fucking faggot might've already gotten a piece of that," I said, nodding to the cheap bitch, "by now."

Chomp. And then it stopped, mid-chomp. It was like glue holding his gaping mouth open. The smile was gone from his eyes, the old one anyway, and it was replaced by a meaner one, a wider one, the one where the most teeth showed. Where the fangs showed? Really, it had there all along, just hadn't been allowed to show itself, but here it was now and it didn't look afraid at all.

"Is that right, Shawny-Bo--" he started to say, but by then it was too late. I could feel the swing of the metal, like a pendulum swinging, and I could here the whooosh as the wrench cut through the air. I couldn't feel my arm at all, like it was numb or something, but I could feel Stanley, like he was looking up at me: Hi! Old friend! He was one of the heavy ones too, not the cheep shit you get at Aubochauns, but one of the nice Sears models. A nice heftiness to it, you know.

I caught him right in the side of the face, and it hit home with the sound of splitting wood; a wet thunk I think, but I couldn't even tell you. I was far too charged at this point, and even when I could see him pointing the revolver and manipulating it towards me, I was already in mid-cycle of my second swing. The air felt like a million pounds against my pull.

"I gotta girl that stays out too late,"

Click, click. Nothing. And I could see briefly a flash of real panic wash over his face, replacing the confident smirk that had lived there for so long. God it was nice to see that watermelon wrind finally fucking gone!

"I gotta girl that gets drunk all the tiiiime,"

Don't you remember, you dumb fuck? You were playing tag the pussy with this little snatch here and what? You took all the shells out? Ha Ha, well of course you did! You wouldn't want to mess her up before you got her, would you? But really, honestly, what good is that going to do you now?

Thunk! the wrench came down again, and I think Katie started to scream, but I don't know. I still had that crazy Zepplin tune in my head, you know the one, and I couldn't hear anything over that. A big flap of his cheek had spit open about eight inches I'd say--

That outta wipe that fucking grin off your face you--

--and left all his teeth showing. Isn't that funny? He had a grin so wide, it was still there even though I tore all the skin off it. Are you telling me, he'll never stop grinning at me, cause if that's what you're telling me, then I need a bigger wrench. Blood, like from a fountine, was spraying all into the air and wetting the ground with the sound like a sprinkler in summer. We had one when I was a kid, the kind of one that went whoooooosh, shootshootshoot... whooooooosh, shootshootshoot, and I could remember running through it and getting wet.

"...get's drunk aaaalll the TIME!!!"

THUNK! and lines of blood cracked his face.

It was amazing he was still standing, if it was standing you could really call it. Maybe wobbling was a better word. Who gives a fuck? But there he was, Deputy John Malcom--that's what his name was!-- Farmer Brown to us, standing his last stand of LIFE. What an odd thing. I wonder what that must be like. His eyes weren't even looking at me any more, just sort of rolled back. With his hands he was reaching up towards his neck, and then carefully to his cheek.

"Oh, god, what did you do, what did you dowhatdidyoudo you fucker COME'ERE!!" And he made one last step towards me, through one arm at me, and then fell over. Tripped over actually. Over the fucking lawn mower. You had to admit, that was pretty excellent.

And then that was it. No big struggle. No big fight. It wasn't like on TV, where it could take hours for the villian to die. It was a lot quicker in real life. No great last moment, or even a last word, unless you count gurgling that was now coming from Farmer Brown's throut. Slumped on the ground, to someone far away it might even look like he was lying in the grass and catching some rays.

It took me a minute to realize Katie was still screaming. That wouldn't do. Not at all. I looked at her. "Shut up." And she did too, but kept on staring. I knew she thought I was going to rape her or something, but it was nothing like that. She was standing there shaking, but not really moving, like she was a afraid to move. He blond hair was matted with blood, and I could tell she was in shock. You see it sometimes, cause sometimes it takes others longer to get used to it. But that was just ducky, let her stand there. As long as she didn't run. I didn't want to have to hurt her, so, as if trying to show her that, I slowly slid the adjustable wrench in my pocket, back in his home Stanley went, and I smiled at her. Not a grin. "It's okay," I said.

Yeah it is, it's A-fucking-Okay today. And I can still smell that sweet smell. Not the blood, though. Blood smells coppery. This was the smell of freshly cut grass. And that reminded me: We had a lawn to cut, and Farmer here had been the only one not chip chopping along. Now, we could really make some head way. So,

"Where's Phil?" I asked, looking around, and then looking back at the girl. Man she was fucking smoking--those shorts. After all, she'd been letting Farmer here pick her up, and we could both see what ended up of grown up momma's boys from Kentucky who fucked with kids from the city; it lay there in a pile on the ground. His tongue, nice and pink, had fallen through the hole in his face. His eyes were white and his forehead had spider-webbed under the final blow.

"He ra-ra-ran inta ta ta" the girl stuttered.

"It's okay." I eased, and smiled a nice calming, refreshing smile at her. " He ran into the woods?" I asked as I was reaching in Farmer's pockets. Ahh! There they were, down in the left: six little nuggets; shiny little slugs. I put the bullets and the gun into my pocket and realized that I was still humming that Zepplin tune --what WAS that fucking tune anyway? I can't even remember the words really, just that melody.

She nodded. It was amazing what a smile could do. Well, that was just as well. She was a pretty girl, but she was a mess of tears and red eyes. Maybe in a minute I'd talk to her, try to get a number or something. And if she didn't, I could always show her my revolver, show her how to point and shoot it, and let's see how she eats that shit up. And I'm a way better teacher than The Farmer.

So I walked back over across the grass to my LawnBoy, but I took my time about it. I mean, it was a sweet day, no day for working hard. The kind of day you just want to kick back in a hammock with a Coors, and get lit in the lazy sun.