Published March/April 2006 in The Collective Consciousness
Bill Robertson brooded in his favorite rocking chair on the veranda. The chair creaked as he moved back and forth, creak, creak, back and forth, creak, creak. Even it was getting old, no longer able to do things the way it used to.
He was still incensed after seeing the doctor. They'd taken his driver's license away because of bad eyesight. Damn them, he could see as well as he ever could, almost, anyway.
As he glared out at the dusty gravel street in front of his house, he was spitting mad. He had to calm down or he'd have a heart attack. He closed his eyes and tried to think of something peaceful. He envisioned the wild ducks and Canada geese returning to their nesting grounds at Pickle Lake. The frogs croaked in the marshes around the lake and the cries of newly arrived birds filled the air. The water from the melting snow gurgled down the ditches toward the lake.
He opened his eyes and the images disappeared. All he could see now was the gravel street and rows of houses like boxes with minuscule yards. He was even more upset when he realized he couldn't go out to Pickle Lake now, because he couldn't drive his truck. How he longed for the days when he lived on his farm. But that was use useless self-pity.
Bill turned his head and looked toward the driveway next door. It was the source of a deafening noise. He grimaced and muttered, "Blasted kid."
Young Barry Skinner had just turned sixteen and since that moment there was no solitude. Every moment the young fool had off from school was spent roaring the motor of the old wreck his parents had bought him. He was always tinkering with it or trying to prove how fast he could squeal the tires in the driveway.
When Bill complained about the noise to the kid's parents, they just muttered something about boys being boys. They promised that they would make sure Barry didn't disturb anyone during the night. A lot of good that did. It wasn't his sleep he was worried about but being able to enjoy the tranquility of a spring day without a motor roaring in his ears.
Barry's younger brother, Michael, a scrawny, freckled-faced kid of about twelve, was always hanging around Bill, asking questions.
Here he was again. "Mr. Robertson, are you going sell your truck, now that you can't drive it?"
"How do you know I can't drive it?"
"My mom works at the clinic."
"Tell her she has a big mouth."
"I can't. She'd get mad and ground me."
He'd had enough of the Skinners, the whole damn family. So he retreated to the backyard. He had no sooner started raking the soil in the garden to smooth it out for planting when Michael appeared on the other side of the fence.
"Isn't it too early to plant the garden?" he asked.
"It's never too early to plant onions and lettuce as long as you can work the soil. Now leave me alone; I've got lots to do."
Bill created a row with his hoe in the soft newly worked earth. It was getting harder for him every year. When he bent down he didn't know if he could get up again. He was just starting to plant the first seeds when he heard Michael ask, "Can I help?"
"What could you do?"
"I could put the seeds in," Michael said, as he sprang over the fence into Bill's yard.
"Well, very well then, I'll show you how to do it."
Bill stood up and got the kink out of his back.
"Don't you have a garden of your own to plant?"
"No, we never have a garden," the boy answered as he carefully placed the onion bulbs in the row."
The weeks passed and the onions and lettuce peaked through the ground in neatly planted rows. The more tender vegetables were planted too. All Bill had to do was weed, until the plants were fully grown. He was bored. He felt like he lived in a beehive with the neighbors swarming around him and he, that one drone with nothing to do. If only he could go for a drive in the country, to Pickle Lake, where he always felt at peace. Phooey, there was that kid again.
"Mr. Robertson, are you interested in selling your truck?"
"No."
"But if you can't drive it?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Well that old wreck that Dad bought Barry isn't working out. It's more of a wreck than they thought it was. Barry said he would like to try your truck out and if he liked it maybe buy it from you."
The thought of Barry Skinner sitting in his truck, roaring the motor was sacrilegious. He replied, "No," in a screeching voice.
Michael stepped back for a moment but then quietly said, "But if you can't drive it, why not sell it?"
"What are you? Some kind of agent for your brother?"
"What does that mean?"
"You're doing his business for him."
"That's just because he's scared of you."
That was a reassuring thought. Scared of him, really. Too bad Michael wasn't scared of him. The kid and he were going steady. In a moment of weakness Bill had given him a strip of land at the back of his lot to plant a few vegetables.
"Where would Barry get the money to pay me?"
"He has an after-school job."
"Where?"
"At Central Motors."
"Does he fix cars?"
"No, they won't let him but he operates the gas pumps."
"You mean he's a gas jockey?"
"I guess."
Bill thought for a moment. He didn't know what to do. It did make sense to sell the truck. Just looking at it made him mad. But would seeing it parked next door be any better?
He looked at Michael. "Tell your brother that he can drive my truck but I have to be there too. We could go out to Pickle Lake and I'll see what I think of the idea of selling it. Tell him he can't drive like a fool, like he does with that wreck."
"The wreck's never made it past the driveway."
"What does he drive then?"
"The station wagon, but he hates it because it's not cool to drive your mom's big old car. He likes the look of your truck."
"Well, you tell him, no roaring."
Michael took off with a big smile on his face. He was back in seconds.
"Barry said 'sure'. Do you want to go now?"
"After lunch is soon enough."
"Do you like picnics?" Michael asked.
"I do. When my wife was alive we went for a lot of picnics."
"My Grandma liked picnics too. Every time we went to Pickle Lake with her, we took a lunch: sandwiches, cookies, fruit, and cans of pop."
Bill replied, "I don't like pop but I could make coffee and put it in a thermos. Come inside and we'll see if I have anything to make sandwiches with."
"Peanut butter and jelly are good. I can bring cookies because I made chocolate chip ones yesterday," Michael said.
"You made them?"
"I bake all the time."
"Really?"
He must have misjudged the kid. For the first time in months, Bill felt a surge of excitement. It would be great to see Pickle Lake again.
"You did warn Barry about the driving?"
"I told him and as I said, he's scared of you."
Then there was nothing to worry about, just make the lunch and go.
An idea started to form in Bill's head. Maybe he could make some kind of leasing arrangement with Barry to drive him where he needed to go and let the kid use the truck as payment. He had to see how Barry drove first.