My next-door neighbor Rick has mown my lawn for eleven years. He has done so for free –absolutely no charge, even with gas at nearly $4 a gallon–since the day I moved in. I offered, to which he’d take umbrage, pretending not to see me as we both fetched our newspapers until he’d recover from my ill manners.

I believe he also did this for Fred, the original owner of my home, a little old man who probably appreciated the chore being done for him–as did I. Being of a precise and practical nature (I’ve learned this of Fred over the years from living in his compact home), Fred probably also appreciated that Rick mowed the grass to within an inch of its life–shorter than an inch in length.

How terribly practical to scalp the lawn so you don’t have to cut it very often, Fred might have figured. Personally, this is where Fred and I would have parted.

I asked Rick once a year, at the beginning of each mowing season, to leave my grass four inches long.

Each year his look was one of shock and confusion, like: What is this stupid woman saying?

Then he would nod at me and say, by way of being neighborly, “Sure,” but his look said, “Just agree.”

Just agree and go back to cutting it short as a golf green at Augusta.

I didn’t help matters over the years. I have no need for grass and mowers–I don’t have children to use the yard for a soccer field or to pitch a tent. I love trees and shrubs and unkempt hedges, all of which require more time to mow around. Instead of a third of an acre in the shape of a racetrack, I plunked down a hedge of lilacs, a row of Green Giants, a bed of herbs and bulbs around a Japanese red maple.

Rick took these in stride, riding over the mulch and tearing up the thin plastic weed guards–and if he still couldn’t get close enough to the sprigs of grass growing up the tree trunks, he’d pull out the weed whacker and go to town–gouging the bark, whacking off flowers, even slicing into the siding of my house.

Grass was to be tamed, the little woman controlled, no matter the collateral damage, no matter if I asked him not to. The result, if not his intent, was always, “She gets it for free. I get to do it my way.”

But it wasn’t free. Every summer I wracked my brain trying to think what to give him by way of thanks: a case of good beer (turns out he only drinks scotch), a gift certificate to his favorite bar (turns out he doesn’t go there anymore), a gift certificate to his favorite new bar (that was the year he decided the amount was too much so he promptly delivered a bottle of wine the size of my leg, because he could not stand to be beholden).

And still my tree trunks were scarred and dangling tomato-plant limbs hacked off–and by August the grass was so short he was mowing dirt into dust storms and turning my yard into a mud hole with the first autumn rain.

Last week his wife Kathy called me to say she didn’t want Rick mowing my lawn anymore, because of the steep bank out front. She said, “I’m worried he’s going to slip and break a hip.”

Rick smokes like a chimney–he leaves a trail of cigarette butts across my yard–so my concern has been less about the steep bank and more about the impending heart attack.

“He is worried about one thing,” Kathy added.

“What’s that?”

“He hopes he likes how the next person does your yard.”

“Oh sure,” I said, being neighborly. I’m just glad the next person I hire will charge me, leaving me free to tell him to leave his weed whacker at home.

Long faces nod in the morning sun
Wide rumps lean against fence slats –
Horses run wild in their dreams.

If I were a strip of Scotch tape,
I would glue my bangs
to my forehead
and pretend I had straight hair.

If I had straight hair,
I would grow it long,
let it sway like a braless hippie
or sweep it up in an elegant chignon.

If I had a chignon,
I would wear a sleek evening gown
with plunging neckline
and a rope of dazzling diamonds.

If I were a rope,
I’d tie it to a horse
and ride giddy-up
all over town.

If I were a town,
I’d invite you to a block party
and serve you a meal
at my table.

If I were a table,
I would be surrounded by women,
curly and straight,
who wear blue jeans and cotton
instead of diamonds and gowns

who write and laugh
and share and love –
who don’t need a strip of
Scotch tape to bond.

–  Jane, WG

“Morning, Bim,” I greet my helper as I attach my BankBig name badge.

“Morning.”

“Be my mirror?” I ask, turning to face him.

He says, “It’s a little – crooked.”

I adjust the little plastic shield. He nods.

He puts on his name badge and looks at me.

“Perfect,” I tell him.

We swap big thumbs up and happy grins,

and say at the same time, “Mirrors.”

March 2013

“I like meaty spaghetti sauce,” I hear
you say, and I, your vegetarian friend,
happily brown two pounds
of ground round.

I’ll do anything
for my friend’s stay,
even if your visit
is only in my mind.

Tom appears at death’s door on Monday.

“Miss Jan,” he tells me, “I did not want to come to work today.”

“I understand, Tom,” I say.

Tuesday arrives with his long face. “Miss Jan, I did not want to get out of bed today.”

“I understand, Tom.”

A winter storm ushers in Wednesday with Tom’s greeting, “Jan – Jan, I might have to leave early today if the weather gets bad.” His voice is filled with hope.

With Thursday I see the first spark of positive energy on Tom’s cherubic face, though he still laments, “Miss Jan, I don’t think I can make it another day.”

“Give it a try, Tom,” I encourage him. “Give it a try.”

“Good morning, Sunshine!” Tom greets me as he bounds onto the floor, heralding Friday and the pending weekend as though Monday never existed nor will ever come again, continuing a thing reliable: “I did not want to come to work today.”

I arrive well after many of my coworkers and leave long ahead of them, though my average workday starts at 7:30 in the morning and ends around 6 or 7 p.m. I don’t have time for lunch.

Yesterday my boss told me that as an hourly employee I must take a break at least once a day. I said, “It’s hard for me to get everything done because of all there is to do.”

“Like what?” he asked.

Like his pulling me into his hour-long morning meeting to take minutes, when I could have just copied the hand-out he’d received at his boss’s meeting – but I didn’t mention that.

Like the 20 minutes I spent in the Ladies’ Room discussing the cause behind the many leaks. Miguel flushed a toilet and yelled over the rushing water, “See? No water. ¿Sí?” He pointed at the dry floor.

“No!” I yelled back as he flushed again – and again. I pointed at the water trickling from the pipe running into the wall.

Tom, Miguel’s cohort, said, “We could change out the washers, I guess.”

Miguel flushed again.

“Okay,” I agreed loudly.

Miguel offered, “The women. They stand on the plunger. Or the big ones – they lean. They break the pipe.” He shrugged.

“Not the pipe,” Tom explained. “They break the seals.”

“Seals. Sí. ¿No?” Miguel flushed again.

I’ve never spent so much time in a public restroom in my life, much less with two men.

None of this did I share with my boss as to why my day is not my own.

I did tell him our phones were down – no outbound calls. I’d spent the last hour talking on my personal cell phone (which under normal circumstances would earn me a Non-Performance Violation) to Harshit in I/T, trying to explain a) what was wrong with the phone system and b) why I couldn’t call him back from a landline.

My boss had been so busy he hadn’t even know the phones were down.

In the 42 seconds he gave himself for a break, he went to the building cafeteria, returning 20 seconds later to tell me, “It closed early. Go get me something. Chick-fil-A.”

“Is this your way of making me take a break?” I asked.

“Yes. You can stay late.”

I said, “I already do.”

“You can stay late.” Not a question. Not even a suggestion.

“Sure,” I said, remembering what he only ever wants to hear: No conversation. No humor. Just “Yes.”

Upon my return with a spicy chicken sandwich for him – and a large lemonade for me; I let him treat – I received a PING (because a phone call or email is no longer immediate enough in this work world, and I haven’t allowed the tech guys to implant a phone node in my head yet for TRUE instant messaging) – a PING from my boss’s boss’s admin. You know: God.

She typed: Is Tenika W there?

Me: I don’t know her. She’s not on our employee list.

She: Embassy Suites bus waiting for her.

Me: Visitor? Sitting with?

She: Don’t kno. Find her.

I locked down my desk and went in search of our floors for this mystery woman. Sixth floor, fifth floor, fourth floor, third…lobby, where I found no Tenika, and saw no Embassy Suites shuttle. Nor had the security guard. Back to my desk I hurried.

I pinged the admin: No Tenika.

She: Bus waiting.

Me: No bus here.

She: Oh wait. – Long pause. – She: Never mind.

As she had neither the time nor the manners to apologize for sending me on a wild Tenika chase, I was left to assume the shuttle was waiting for her at some other BankBig location. Poughkeepsie, perhaps. God doesn’t have to explain herself.

The greatest amount of my time this week has been spent training my new co-admin, Jen. She’s a nice young woman. Bright. A perfectionist. Just my boss’s kind of gal. In the midst of my teaching her systems and reports – and spending time in the leaky bathroom and on the phone with Harshit, Jen shared that she has a five-year-old son whom she adores and an ex-husband who has anger issues, one of many reasons she left Arizona and moved to Maryland for a fresh start.

Jen said, “I guess I should have figured out a long time ago my ex wasn’t going to get better.”

I said, “Women, especially perfectionists, often marry the wrong man. We think we can fix them.”

“I tried,” she admitted. “I guess – well, I guess I had to learn my lesson the hard way.” She sounded so hard on herself.

I stared keenly at her and said, “We all learn the lesson the hard way.”

She looked up and met my eyes.

That connection alone was worth staying late.