jimmy was here wednesday night. mostly we’ve just been pulling apart the new house, across the lane from his house. patching some things. there’s so much renovating to do in there. almost half of it needs to be entirely re-built. in some foolish spasm of enthusiasm we put the kitchen cabinets up without consulting jimmy’s wife. so they’re in the wrong place. but can be moved easily enough. well, depending on jimmy’s mood.
i took some time out to mow the lawn around the garden. the pumpkin patch had been thrashed by the wind. easily sorted, there’s not much more you can do other than frown, shrug and stand there scratching your head. which i did. for quite some time. the corn had been bowled over too. so i stood them back up. there’s a big cabbage tree at the back of that section. near the corn. you can see a circular pattern in the growth of the corn where the roots from the cabbage tree have burgled the nutrient in the soil. i don’t know why i find it so fascinating. it’s too late to do anything about it though. so. another head scratcher.
peter’s concrete mixer was still at the old bugger’s house from when we re-made one of the fences up there. jimmy needed the mixer. so we went and got it. the old bugger had just bought a new fridge. oh, beauty. he was about to ring me. can i cart the fridge from his car to the kitchen? yeah, righto. jimmy, give us a hand? yep. righto. so we get the fridge out. cart it round the back. have it half way through a door. then jimmy decides this is when we need to take the cardboard cover off. i’m on the end that’s already through the door. jimmy and the old bugger are on the other end. wrestling with this cardboard.
oh, fuck. this isn’t going to end well.
these two are vibrating on the same magnetic frequency. deep down on the molecular level a dangerous amount of friction is building. i can hear a geiger counter blaring. we’re approaching nuclear fission. heavy science stuff. the smell of burning ozone. there’s going to be a catastrophic meltdown any second now. cataclysmic storm clouds. raining ash. scorched earth for miles. then we’re through the door. sunshine. birds chirping. a butterfly landing peaceably on a shoulder. serenity. but only temporarily. “righto, jimmy, let’s go get this mixer,” and get the fuck out the door while we still can.
on sunday morning jimmy’s plan was to pack up and go home early. he’s locking up the house. a car pulls up. this dude walks in. starts talking. and talking. and talking. fuck this dude can talk. there’s dismay on jimmy’s face. there goes his plans. this is going to take at least an hour. at every lull in the story jimmy’s trying to cut in, “ah, well, i’ve got to–” then the story picks up again. i can never concentrate through an entire story when talking to this guy. i zone out. my consciousness actually leaves my body, like a monk meditating in some mountain temple. floating about the ether. when it returns i’ll try to pick up on the story again. look over. oh, fuck. eye contact. was he talking to me? no, he can’t have been, he’s speaking swedish? yeah, that sounds like swedish. so he can’t have been talking me. i don’t speak swedish. wait, he’s not swedish either. concentrate, adam. oh, no. that’s english. and he’s still looking at me. what did he just say? what is he saying now? quick, say something. something smart. something that shows you’ve been following this riveting tale. there’s depth in there. nuance. time to add some of my own:
“haha, yeah–” cut off, the story continues.
if only i understood swedish…
not that it mattered, once again freed from these fleshly bonds.
floating.
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