half-dozen deer plotting a takeover. The buck-eye trees are in full bloom and the breeze carries their noxious odor right into the shed.
Another rancid smell awaits me deep within the shed, where a quick inventory illustrates the need for a varmint excavation. Apparently a squirrel decided to take his leave of us inside the leaf blower and has been going to heaven just an ounce at a time since at least the middle of winter.
A further accounting reveals that we’re out of everything from mower gas and oil to weed killer and trash bags. Likewise, Bernard hasn’t bought
one
plant or started any seedlings in the greenhouse. What have these people been doing all spring? It’s already June and everything at the nursery is going to be picked over, if not gone entirely.
Buying the actual plants and flowers will have to wait until the weekend. I make a list of the basics—whatever’s necessary to get the mower going and start a general cleanup. Before heading to town I stop in the kitchen to grab a sandwich and check the message pad by the phone. Nothing from Auggie. Maybe he changed his mind. And nothing from Ray, though we have a definite date for next Friday. At least I
think
we do. And no word from Craig, either. We were in the habit of talking on the phone once a week during the school year, usually on Sunday night, and it has been his turn to call for the past three weeks.
And to think I’d actually been considering getting a cell phone. Why bother if no one is going to call me except Bernard? Anytime a good late-night movie was on he called my apartment, told me the channel, and we watched it together over the phone, complete with Bernard doing his favorite parts along with critiquing the costumes. The good thing about this situation was that even though my roommates knew I wasn’t having real sex, between the overheard snippets of dialogue and our discussions about what everyone was wearing, they at least thought I was having phone sex.
When I try to start my car the engine groans and then there’s a
thud
that sounds as if it dropped onto the driveway. Mr. Shultze, the new neighbor, and owner of Lulu the Great Dane, has been watching this automotive drama unfold from the adjacent front lawn, where he’s pruning a tree with one of those poles that have a small saw at the top. He’s your typical male Ohio retiree—baseball cap with whatever branch of the service he was in emblazoned on the front, big American flag hanging out front, and tons of tools, parts, and paint cans neatly organized in the garage.
I climb out of the driver’s seat, open the hood, and start by checking the oil. Voilà! That’s the problem. It’s completely dry. Only how did that happen? I’m almost positive the gauge says it’s supposed to be full. Is there a leak? I check underneath the car but nothing appears to be dripping and there aren’t any stains on the gravel.
There’s no oil left in the shed and so I wander over to Mr. Shultze, introduce myself, and ask if I can borrow just enough to get to the gas station. Fortunately he seems thrilled to be able to assist a neighbor in need. When he returns with a brand-new can of motor oil I explain how the gauge says that it’s almost full. I don’t want him to think I’m an irresponsible car owner.
“Uh-oh,” says Mr. Shultze. “Sounds as if your gauge may be broken.” He bends down close over the place where the oil goes and studies the engine. Then come noises from the back of his throat indicating that all is not well in Cabrioletland. “This has been dry for a while. I’m no professional mechanic but it’s safe to say you’re going to need a new engine.”
Judging by the number of shiny tools in Mr. Shultze’s garage it’s safe to say that he probably could have been a professional mechanic and that he’s undoubtedly correct.
“A new engine! That’s going to cost like $2,000.”
He nods in agreement and says, “Maybe $2,500, depending on where you
Another rancid smell awaits me deep within the shed, where a quick inventory illustrates the need for a varmint excavation. Apparently a squirrel decided to take his leave of us inside the leaf blower and has been going to heaven just an ounce at a time since at least the middle of winter.
A further accounting reveals that we’re out of everything from mower gas and oil to weed killer and trash bags. Likewise, Bernard hasn’t bought
one
plant or started any seedlings in the greenhouse. What have these people been doing all spring? It’s already June and everything at the nursery is going to be picked over, if not gone entirely.
Buying the actual plants and flowers will have to wait until the weekend. I make a list of the basics—whatever’s necessary to get the mower going and start a general cleanup. Before heading to town I stop in the kitchen to grab a sandwich and check the message pad by the phone. Nothing from Auggie. Maybe he changed his mind. And nothing from Ray, though we have a definite date for next Friday. At least I
think
we do. And no word from Craig, either. We were in the habit of talking on the phone once a week during the school year, usually on Sunday night, and it has been his turn to call for the past three weeks.
And to think I’d actually been considering getting a cell phone. Why bother if no one is going to call me except Bernard? Anytime a good late-night movie was on he called my apartment, told me the channel, and we watched it together over the phone, complete with Bernard doing his favorite parts along with critiquing the costumes. The good thing about this situation was that even though my roommates knew I wasn’t having real sex, between the overheard snippets of dialogue and our discussions about what everyone was wearing, they at least thought I was having phone sex.
When I try to start my car the engine groans and then there’s a
thud
that sounds as if it dropped onto the driveway. Mr. Shultze, the new neighbor, and owner of Lulu the Great Dane, has been watching this automotive drama unfold from the adjacent front lawn, where he’s pruning a tree with one of those poles that have a small saw at the top. He’s your typical male Ohio retiree—baseball cap with whatever branch of the service he was in emblazoned on the front, big American flag hanging out front, and tons of tools, parts, and paint cans neatly organized in the garage.
I climb out of the driver’s seat, open the hood, and start by checking the oil. Voilà! That’s the problem. It’s completely dry. Only how did that happen? I’m almost positive the gauge says it’s supposed to be full. Is there a leak? I check underneath the car but nothing appears to be dripping and there aren’t any stains on the gravel.
There’s no oil left in the shed and so I wander over to Mr. Shultze, introduce myself, and ask if I can borrow just enough to get to the gas station. Fortunately he seems thrilled to be able to assist a neighbor in need. When he returns with a brand-new can of motor oil I explain how the gauge says that it’s almost full. I don’t want him to think I’m an irresponsible car owner.
“Uh-oh,” says Mr. Shultze. “Sounds as if your gauge may be broken.” He bends down close over the place where the oil goes and studies the engine. Then come noises from the back of his throat indicating that all is not well in Cabrioletland. “This has been dry for a while. I’m no professional mechanic but it’s safe to say you’re going to need a new engine.”
Judging by the number of shiny tools in Mr. Shultze’s garage it’s safe to say that he probably could have been a professional mechanic and that he’s undoubtedly correct.
“A new engine! That’s going to cost like $2,000.”
He nods in agreement and says, “Maybe $2,500, depending on where you
Similar Books
