Tyler felt ill equipped for the task set before him, he was wearing a tented, sleeveless shirt that was already sticking to his back with sweat, basketball shorts and his squat, fat low tops. The itch of the long grass was already crawling up his legs like a creeping vine, midges of pollen nested in his ears and frizzed his lank hair. When he turned 14 yard work became his domain, a responsibility he found as hideous as a gorgon. He fought his mother fiercely and bravely, dragging his heels with divine levels of procrastination. When her face was as red as it was going to get and Tyler was finally ready to concede, the deluge began. A steady April rain began falling, with brief but balmy respite before carrying on merrily again all the way to May. When the strong sun ran ashore on the beach of spring the yard had grown thick and wild, lurking with buzzing things and furry creatures like a miniature Madagascar.
The lawn mower could not surmount those odds and his mother pointed her wicked finger at the hateful, spitting weed whacker. Tyler would go out and look at the yard with a hand on his hips, then go back to the garage and arrange his tools, his water bottle, before returning to the veld to remind himself. He fuddled with his ipod, finding the exact throbbing motivation that could set his stone rolling down hill, praying that the gods of momentum would place him firmly on their backs, and fly him mercifully through his efforts. When his song was right he set to work on his shoes, scrubbing the dew and dirt from them, fretting over the ecto green stains he would sure pick up juicing an acre of wheat grass like Jack Lelane's forgotten bastard.
Tyler took one last look at the house where his mother drew the curtain across the bay window, satisfied that her indolent son was now cornered and the only way out was through a pile of fresh cut. He cranked the rip chord and the weed whacker coughed a metallic, gasoline twang. He began chipping away, laboring like Hercules in the stables. His whole body lit up in a histamine crackle, and bits of snapping weed stung his bare shins. He wheezed and sweated the long afternoon away and glacially migrated across the yard. He looked at the parabolic shorn patch in his wake and to the rising tide of foliage before him, discouragingly deciding by the time he reached one end the other would have magically regenerated. In that moment he decided he had explicit knowledge of Sisyphus, not intellectually because he had never heard of him, but certainly in spirit.
The lawn mower could not surmount those odds and his mother pointed her wicked finger at the hateful, spitting weed whacker. Tyler would go out and look at the yard with a hand on his hips, then go back to the garage and arrange his tools, his water bottle, before returning to the veld to remind himself. He fuddled with his ipod, finding the exact throbbing motivation that could set his stone rolling down hill, praying that the gods of momentum would place him firmly on their backs, and fly him mercifully through his efforts. When his song was right he set to work on his shoes, scrubbing the dew and dirt from them, fretting over the ecto green stains he would sure pick up juicing an acre of wheat grass like Jack Lelane's forgotten bastard.
Tyler took one last look at the house where his mother drew the curtain across the bay window, satisfied that her indolent son was now cornered and the only way out was through a pile of fresh cut. He cranked the rip chord and the weed whacker coughed a metallic, gasoline twang. He began chipping away, laboring like Hercules in the stables. His whole body lit up in a histamine crackle, and bits of snapping weed stung his bare shins. He wheezed and sweated the long afternoon away and glacially migrated across the yard. He looked at the parabolic shorn patch in his wake and to the rising tide of foliage before him, discouragingly deciding by the time he reached one end the other would have magically regenerated. In that moment he decided he had explicit knowledge of Sisyphus, not intellectually because he had never heard of him, but certainly in spirit.
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