Oblivious to the sun’s burning rays, the man sliced the top from the seed package, folding the surgically straight excised top into the pocket of his jeans. He directed his hand carefully inside the denim, ensuring the material didn’t rub against his genitals. "Only perverts do that," he mused. "Only perverts rubb their private parts."
Counting out 27 peas, he squatted to lay three seeds precisely at six-inch intervals along the fresh furrow. Standing to survey his work, he frowned, squatted again. His arm snaked out to realign a pea which had dared to spoil the triangular pattern by rolling down the row’s ridge.
Once again erect, the man stretched his back while he resurveyed the arrow-straight row. He had rehoed it four times to correct the row's alignment before realizing that it was not his hoeing, but his neighbour’s fence at fault. A single brown board, unattended and warped by long exposure to the elements, created the illusion that the row leading up to it was crooked.
The man glared at the fence, pondering how he could recoup his money if he replaced the offending board. He knew the City wouldn’t help. When he’d called the engineering department about the rundown fence, they said they could not help him since the structure was not visible from the street.
“The City - they obviously don’t understand the magnitude of this infraction,” the man mumbled through gritted teeth. "Bunch of low-life, pension-sucking idiots!"
They had the audacity to ask him to "explain again the exact nature" of the problem." So he demanded to speak to someone in charge. “Even then, I had to explain twice to that dork in charge," he muttered. "And like always, they copped out – not our problem, - same lame excuse.”
The man gritted his teeth. Not their problem! What a load of bull tweed. What did those bureaucratic blowhards do to earn their overstuffed pay envelopes anyway? Standing around, three on a shovel, letting another day go by. Well, he would take care of it himself then. Tomorrow. He’d take care of it tomorrow. He’d take care of it real good.
But for today he must plant his garden. “Monday of the May long weekend,” he mumbled. “You plant Monday of the long May weekend. Any fool knows that.” He eyed the neighbour's barren plot.
The sound of an opening door grabbed his attention. His heartbeat quickened. Acid squirted into his stomach as his neighbour emerged. Subconsciously willing his heart to slow, the man sucked in his stomach in case she looked his way. She probably wouldn’t though and even if she did, she wouldn’t know he had seen her. He was always careful to keep his head down, shifting only his eyes. He was a chameleon, an expert at fading into any background. He had learned that tactic as a four-year-old back on the farm, and honed it to perfection over the next twenty-three years.
The bitch was swinging that blue leather bag again. "Probably paid for by welfare," he muttered in disgust. "Sucking the public tit!" His eyes momentarily strayed to the woman’s full breasts, her tight jeans. He felt the wicked stirring in his own jeans. Breath caught in his throat, he pulled his eyes away, then refocused on the blue bag. What, he wondered, did it hold? And why didn’t she get a job and fix up that mess in her backyard. He had counted nineteen dandelions already this year and it being only May. And why didn't she get to planting her garden? His hoe stabbed at the earth, chipping edges off the perfectly sculpted furrow, crumbling black dirt into the miniature ravine. He stared in fury at the mess she had caused. Tomorrow, he reminded himself. Tomorrow he'd settle the score.
Author's Note: The above is an excerpt from a book written in reaction to a definitely-not-Mr.-Rogers neighbour. You see Louise, sometimes you can carefully choose the neighbourhood, but trouble moves in later. The solution? For a writer, the answer is obvious: kill him. But only metaphorically, of course. Writing can be as therapeutic as sticking pins in a voodoo doll. And as an added bonus, countless readers reap the reward of a tale well spun.