Bruce Blake - Yardwork

Bruce Blake

SmashwordsEdition

Copyright 2010Bruce Blake

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Another Man'sShoes

Walk onWater

WaveSongs

Boulder

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Tim made aspecial trip to buy the shovel he used to bury the nameless man. Itwas easy: an older lady in a blue vest directed him to the properaisle without a second thought. A fifteen-year-old buying a spadedoesnt raise concern in anyone; its not like purchasing a gun ora hunting knife, though a shovel could be as deadly. But the shoveldidnt kill the man, Tim merely used it to dig holes to put bitsand pieces of him in, a task for which it was made.

In the end, hisfathers garden shears finally killed the nameless man.

The manprobably had a name, everyone did, but Tim didnt care to know it,didnt ask or wonder about it. The moment he found the man sleepingin the shed, recovering from the abuse of whatever substance hedimbibed to put him in that state, Tim decided the less he knewabout the man, the better. If the need to call him anything arose,maybe it would be opportunity.

When Tim openedthe shed door, it creaked on its rusted hinges like it always did.Autumn sun streamed in, splashing across the rough surface of thepoorly-laid cement floor. Dust motes stirred and spider websshimmered. In the rafters, the remnants of a nest poked out overthe edge of an unpainted beam, but no birds lived in it anymore,hed taken care of them in the spring, their tiny, brittle boneslong since carried away by neighbourhood cats. The rake hungbetween two spikes Tims father drove into the wall a couple ofyears ago in an attempt to keep things tidy. The man lay curled onthe floor below it.

Hello? Timstood in the doorway, his shadow falling across the floor, touchingthe prone man. Mister?

No answer. Hetook a step closer and the smell hit. Besides the sheds usualsmell of must and fertilizer, he caught a whiff of the acidicstench of fresh puke, and beneath it, shit. Tim put his hand overhis nose and mouth, blocking the smell.

Are you allright, mister?

The man didntso much as twitch. Tim held his breath, listening. Yes, there itwas: the slow rhythm of his breathing. Alive -- not in good shape,probably, but alive. Two more steps brought the boy halfway acrossthe shed, his eyes adjusting to the poor light. The man lay on hisside, facing the wall, a tattered overcoat on his shoulders. Thefeet protruding from beneath the long coat wore boots wrapped withduct tape to hold them together.

A shiver ofexcitement stirred in Tims chest.

Tim, are yougoing to rake those friggin leaves or what?

A lawn chair onthe deck provided Tims father an ideal spot to situate himself --beer in hand -- to watch his favorite sport: his oldest son doingyard work. Tim poked his head out of the doorway to make sure hisold man hadnt gotten up to see about the hold up. He hadnt, ofcourse. It would take a lot more than impatience for him to putdown his beer and remove his ass from the plastic cushion of therecliner-chair.

Sorry, Dad. Iknocked over the recycling. Just got to clean it up and Ill beright out.

His fathergrunted, took another swig of MGD, and grabbed the newspaper fromwhere it lay on the deck beside him, using the delay to browse itspages for fodder for tonights dinner table diatribe. Tim went backinto the shed and crossed to the rusted steel shelves his fatherinstalled as part of the clean up job. On the first three shelves,a variety of gardening tools and implements -- many of them unused-- lay arrayed in orderly rows awaiting their opportunity to shinewhile his fathers worn spank mags stuffed the bottom shelf full.He easily found the length of rope and roll of duct tape for whichhe searched. Finally, his fathers fastidious nature -- adisposition only displayed in the interior of the shed -- came inhandy.

The man waspassed out and unlikely to awaken for a while. Tim knew thisbecause hed seen his father in a similar state enough times, buthe crept toward the man anyway, taking no chances. He crouched athis side, pulled out a strip of tape and used his teeth to tear itoff the roll, then spit the gluey taste out of his mouth. The smellof the man threatened to overpower him as he leaned in to press thepiece of tape over his mouth: puke and shit and booze. His fingerbrushed the stubble of the mans cheek; it scratched against hishand. He jerked away.

Still nomovement.

Tim unwound theloop of rope as he wondered what would happen if the man heavedagain with his mouth taped closed. Would it kill him? Or did onlyrock stars die choking on their own vomit? This man was clearly nota rock star, so maybe hed be okay. Itd be better if it didntplay out that way, but what the hell. He knotted the rope aroundthe mans ankles, using two fingers to grip the ragged hem of hispants and lift his leg as he wound it around then tied it off. Theother end of the rope he snaked behind an exposed stud and fastenedthe mans wrists, effectively hog tying him to the wall. The manlet out a snort while Tim wound the rope around his wrists, haltingthe teens breath and stopping his fingers mid-knot, but it turnedout to be no more than a snore.

Tim finishedthe job, stood and took a step back to admire his work. Hedlearned a lot in the two months hed stuck in boy scouts beforethey kicked him out for lighting things on fire. The man wouldntbe able to free himself of those knots. He didnt remember whichwas which -- sheepshank, square knot, fishermans knot -- it didntmatter, as long as they held.

Tim, what thefuck are you doing in there? These leaves arent going to rakethemselves.

Coming, heshouted back trying to sound like the enthusiastic, helpful son --an act he always put on though not always convincingly. He staredat the man for a few seconds, excitement and anticipation swirlingin his stomach, tingling his limbs. His dick stirred in his pantsthe way it did when he broke the twittering birds into pieces, theway no female ever made it stir.

Do I have tocome in and drag you out?

A dose ofscalding rage doused Tims arousal. The man shifted a little andfarted: a long wet sound making Tim grimace. He grabbed the rakefrom its place on the wall before the odor found his nostrils, thenplanted a solid kick in the mans lower back, imagining his fatherlying bound on the floor instead of some homeless man.

The man stilldidnt move.

***

Tim purposelyabandoned the rake in the middle of the lawn so hed have an excuseto go back into the shed after dinner. His father wouldnt let oneof his precious implements -- precious, though he never used themhimself -- remain outside overnight. Rust belonged on shelves andhinges but deserved no place on a mans tools.

Whats goingon with you?

He raised hiseyes from his half-eaten dinner where hed been log-rolling limpasparagus from one side of the plate to the other and looked at hismother. The corners of her mouth tugged up into the sad half-smile:the closest she managed these days to an expression ofhappiness.

Nothing, Timsaid fidgeting to the other corner of his chair for the hundredthtime. Just enjoying dinner, Ma.

To punctuatehis statement, he popped a chunk of over-cooked roast into hismouth, chewed it with visible effort, then followed it up with afork full of lumpy mashed potatoes.

Dontpatronize your mother, his father grumbled behind the sportssection. Eat your fucking dinner.

Tim fought tokeep from fidgeting right off his chair, occupying himself withthoughts of what it would be like for the man to wake and findhimself bound. He played it over and over in his mind, a differentscenario each time as he struggled to finish the almost-inediblemeal. First, he pictured the man terrified, eyes wide and staring,screams bulging the duct tape sticking his lips together. Then heimagined him angry, thrashing against the ropes, banging his headon the wall in an effort to get free. Finally, Tim pictured the mandelighted, happy the boy had played right into his trap.