by Brett McBean
Outside, the morning was humid, sticky from a night of on-again, off-again rain. The lawn looked like a lush sea of green, just begging to be cut.
I followed Dad up to the Victa mower, which was sitting on the garden path beside the back lawn like an obedient dog waiting for instruction.
My belly tingled with excitement and anticipation.
For as long as I could remember, I had wanted to help Dad with the mowing. When I was little I would sit by the back kitchen window, gazing out at Dad pushing the lawnmower, chopped grass and pulverised twigs and leaves spewing out from the underbelly of the beast, wishing I could be out there, helping. When I was a bit older and allowed to go outside (“But don’t stand too close, or you’ll get hit by a flying twig,” Mum would caution), I would stand on the path watching Dad, sun blasting down, the earthy aroma of freshly cut grass – the best smell in the world. Sometimes, I would pretend to help Dad by pushing my toy lawnmower over the soon-to-be-cut grass.
But I was always too young to use the real lawnmower. “When you’re older,” Dad would say. “The lawnmower’s not a toy, you know.”
As if I needed to be told that. I knew the lawnmower wasn’t a toy. I knew the difference between the blunt plastic blades on my beloved (and now gone, long ago given away to charity) toy mower and the very real and very sharp blades on Dad’s Victa.
The day I turned thirteen and Dad said, ruffling my hair in a gesture of fatherly affection, “You’re growing up, Son. Soon you’ll be chasing after girls,” I knew it wouldn’t be long before I was allowed to help him mow the lawn – for real this time.
Because I wasn’t a child any more. I was growing up and deserved to be treated as such. Long gone were the hours spent playing cowboys and Indians in the backyard (me playing both sides), or playing with my toy dinosaurs in my own version of The Land That Time Forgot among the gum trees and hydrangea bushes. And I no longer believed that the narrow stretch of untamed wilderness between the neighbour’s fence and our garage, with its towering weeds, was a dark forest fortress, home to razor-toothed dragons and mean, smelly trolls.
I had moved beyond such childhood games and fears. I was ready to tackle grown-up things.
“Okay kiddo, grab some goggles and a pair of gloves.”
I noticed two sets of goggles on the ground next to the mower, along with two pairs of gloves, and Dad’s old petrol-powered Whipper Snipper.
I reached down and picked up the goggles and gloves, and once they were on, I waited for further instruction.
“Good, now grab the Whipper Snipper and follow me.”
I hesitated. Frowning, I said, “What about the lawnmower?”
“Later. First, I want you to cut some weeds. It’ll help you get used to handling a bladed tool. Then, you can help me with the mower.”
My shoulders slumped as my excitement deflated.
The Whipper Snipper, while it looked cool enough, was a poor substitute for the lawnmower. It was a growling pussycat, whereas the mower was a roaring tiger.
I was growing into a young man, and young men mowed lawns, not snipped weeds.
Still, I picked up the Whipper Snipper, which was heavy and cumbersome to hold, and shuffled behind Dad, down to the back of the garden.
I didn’t know where he was taking me, until he turned and led me to the back of the garage.
“I want you to cut the weeds down this side area.”
I stared down the narrow stretch of wilderness between the fence and the garage. The weeds were so tall they almost concealed the timber panelling and the metal wall, and the high brick divider at the far end was no longer visible.
“Now, this Whipper Snipper is no toy, so there are rules and safety precautions. You’re to wear the goggles and gloves at all times, and never, and I mean never, stick your hands into the end of the Whipper Snipper while it’s still turned on. That goes with the mower, too. The blades on both machines will slice your hand until all you’re left with is a bloody stump. Understand?”
I nodded, pretending to listen, but in truth my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of trolls and dragons.
“If something gets caught in the blades, always turn off the power first, wait until the blades have stopped spinning, and then, with gloves on, pull out whatever it is that’s obstructing the blades.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I muttered.
“So that’s the safety taken care of. Now, I’ll show you how to use this baby.”
Dad spent the next ten minutes teaching me how to get the engine started, about using the primer and the throttle, how to handle the tool properly, the best way to cut down weeds; he even reiterated the warning about not putting my hands into the blades while they were still spinning, and he made damn sure I knew where the on/off switch was located.
“Okay, that about does it. She’s all fuelled up and ready to go. Come and get me when you’ve finished. And be careful.”
I opened my mouth to speak, to protest, but Dad turned and left before I found my voice. I stood watching with my goggle-eyes as Dad vanished behind a tall spruce.
Soon I heard the mower start up. It took Dad three pulls of the cord to get the Victa going, each time the engine farting, then spluttering out, but finally the engine grumbled to life and my heart sank some more.
I felt abandoned, betrayed. How could he do this?
I wanted to be out there mowing the lawn, where it was wide and sunny, not about to set forth into the alley of weeds, which seemed darker, and was probably colder, too.
But I had a job to do. I had to be mature about this, had to be brave and do the job as best I could.
I turned towards the scary place of my childhood.
The area had always been thick with weeds, a jungle in my young eyes. It scared me back then, and as I stood facing the corridor of weeds I realised I still retained some of those childhood fears.
The first and only time I ventured into that forbidding wasteland was three years ago. I made it about a third of the way down, when I felt something slimy brush against my leg, heard something growl. I bolted out of that narrow alcove and didn’t stop until I was in my room, cowering in bed under the covers.
But I was older now, and armed with a formidable weapon, so I had nothing to be afraid of. All I would find down there would be a long forgotten tennis ball, maybe a dead possum or bird. Nothing slimy. And certainly nothing that growled…
I hunkered down, laid the Whipper Snipper on the ground and, just like Dad had demonstrated, pressed the primer button about ten times, then gripped the cord and pulled. The engine kicked into gear on the second go. The blades started spinning, whirring like an angry tabby. I got to my feet, licked my lips and, pushing down on the throttle for extra power, stepped into the forest of weeds.
There wasn’t much room in the narrow alcove. The high wooden fence to my left and the metal garage wall to my right restricted my movements.
I cut the grass as best I could, and as I worked, exhaust fumes spewing out of the engine, the pungent smell of petrol clogging up my nose, I thought of all the stray cats I had seen wander into this grassy area. I used to think that the reason I never saw them again was that they had been gobbled up by the trolls and dragons. Sometimes, when I was feeling particularly imaginative (or was that particularly scared?), I would wonder if the cats were really the trolls in disguise, having magically transformed themselves into seemingly harmless animals in an effort to lure me into their lair.
But that was just silly kid’s stuff. There was nothing in here but weeds and dirt. Only a kid would be scared of make-believe monsters, and I was no kid.
What about real monsters? I wondered.
Spiders and other creepy crawlies never bothered me, but now, as I plunged deeper into the wall of weeds, I had to wonder about redback spiders, wasp nests, even snakes lurking in the grass.
I swallowed, glad I was wearing pants and not shorts, grateful for the Whipper Snipper gripped tightly in my sweaty gloved hands.
I cont
inued to mow down the weeds, giving the Whipper Snipper more gas whenever I hit a particularly think clump. It was tough going, but soon I was a third of the way down the corridor of weeds. I stopped, drew in some deep breaths, the thick blend of petrol and cut grass lingering in the air. I glanced back at the small area I had just cleared. Chopped weeds littered the ground. The ones I had missed stood arrogantly upright, but I would get them on the way back.
I thought of the two-thirds I still had to go, an area I had yet to step foot in. An area, as far as I knew, unexplored by anyone currently living in my house. I was heading into uncharted territory, and the prospect made me just a tad uneasy.
But I continued.
I was beyond the halfway point when I heard something slithering among the weeds.
I froze mid-chop, released my grip on the throttle, then switched off the power.
I heard the slithering again, saw the weeds up ahead shake, like something was moving fast through the undergrowth. I feared I would wet my pants.
It’s a dragon, a small voice said. Or a troll.
Don’t be silly, I thought. Dragons aren’t real. Trolls aren’t real.
It was probably just a cat, or a snake – hopefully a non-venomous one.
Again the small voice spoke: Maybe it’s a troll pretending to be a snake.
I looked beyond the alcove, to safety, only a few metres away.
I was tempted to make a run for it.
No, I told myself. You’re not giving up. You’ve come this far, just keep going and soon it’ll all be over.
I thought of Dad over on the other side of the garage and how disappointed he would be if I came running back, cheeks wet, telling him I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t complete the job because I was too scared.
Dad now thought of me as a young man, had entrusted me to do a man’s job, and I couldn’t let him down.
I couldn’t let myself down.
I eased out my breath and with all the thirteen-year-old courage I could muster, I ploughed on ahead. I wasn’t going to let some unseen monster scare me away.
Not this time.
Still, I made sure to sweep the Whipper Snipper extra low, just in case there was a snake slithering nearby. I moved swiftly, my desire to finish the job at an all-time high, knowing that with every step I took, every weed I chopped, I was getting closer to the end, closer to being able to leave the scary place.
I had almost reached the brick wall when I heard the laughter.
It was a low, mean chuckle.
A cruel, taunting giggle.
“No, you’re not real,” I said, though I was beginning to wonder if that was the case. The sensible part of my brain knew the laughter had to be my imagination, just a product of my fear; the lingering part of my childhood told me there really were trolls hiding somewhere within this forest of weeds.
Instead of turning back, screaming, like I had done that day three years ago, I kept going, slicing through the weeds with purpose. If there were trolls and dragons hiding, laughing at me, I hoped I would lop off their heads with my fearless Whipper Snipper.
“You’re not going to scare me!” I cried, the Whipper Snipper’s throttle on full, the blades spinning wildly.
Chop!
“I’m not a kid any more!”
Slice, whack!
“You can’t frighten me!”
Soon I was face-to-face with the brick wall, panting, sweat pouring down my pale, freckled face. I took my hand off the throttle, then killed the Whipper Snipper’s engine.
I turned around and surveyed my work. Aside from a few missed weeds, I had successfully turned the forest into a bed of lifeless grass.
I nodded. Smiled.
I had done it. Not only had I completed the job, I had conquered my chief childhood fear.
There were no trolls or dragons after all.
I started forward, eager to tell Dad about my accomplishment.
Something on the ground caught my eye.
Something old and plastic, sprinkled with dirt, grass, and a few snails.
I set the Whipper Snipper on the ground, crouched, tossed away clumps of weeds and gazed upon what I had unearthed.
My smile broadened, my heart twinged with a nostalgic ache – part joy, part sadness.
“What are you doing here?” I said, feeling foolish talking to a toy, but there was no one around to hear me. Dad was still busy mowing and there lived a deaf old lady next door. “I thought Dad gave you away to charity?”
Apparently not. I guess he couldn’t be bothered driving to the charity bin that day, instead deciding to toss my toy lawnmower down the narrow stretch of untamed wilderness between the fence and the garage.
My once prized possession now lay half buried under the bottom of the garage. Only its orange handle and some of its blue plastic blades were visible.
I pulled off my right glove, reached down and gripped the grimy plastic handle. I didn’t know what I hoped to do with the toy once I had it out: clean it up and keep it for my son when (if) I had one? Give it a proper send off, one I felt it deserved? Whatever the reason, I started working the toy out of the tight spot that it had called home for the past seven or eight years. Centipedes scurried away at my rude intrusion.
It was harder than I expected; the damn thing wouldn’t budge. I dropped to my knees, whipped off the second glove and, with my other hand, took hold of the plastic blades and tried again.
I pulled hard at the toy lawnmower, my arms straining. I wondered how on earth the toy could be so tightly wedged under. It was like somebody had deliberately tried to hide the thing. I was about to give up trying to pull the toy out and begin digging in the dirt, hoping that would do the trick, when I heard a hissing sound and suddenly the handle began curling around my wrist, like a plastic orange snake.
“What the…” I gasped, at first not believing what I was seeing.
But when I felt the cold, dirt-encrusted handle start to tighten, I knew my eyes weren’t playing tricks.
I screamed, terror and pain gripping me in equal measures.
“Dad!” I cried. “Dad, help!”
I clawed desperately at the handle, tried prying the plastic off my wrist, but the handle was wound too tightly. I felt around for the Whipper Snipper, but my hand touched only dirt and chopped weeds.
The ground began to fall away around the toy.
“Dad,” I cried again, only this time the cry was more like a squeak.
Where is he? I wondered. Why isn’t he coming to the rescue? Isn’t that what dads were supposed to do?
He’s not going to save you; nobody’s going to save you, the small voice said.
I started weeping then, as the soil continued to be sucked down into an ever-widening hole. The toy lawnmower started pulling me forward as it, too, was drawn into the black void.
I fought uselessly against it, hot tears streaming down my face making small mud puddles in the dirt. I was only thirteen years old and didn’t have the strength.
I was dragged head-first towards the gaping hole under the garage, my right arm disappearing into the darkness. I was smacked in the face by the smell of wet dirt, old grass, petrol fumes and something else, something foul like a million gassy farts that had been trapped inside the hole for a thousand years.
I heard a noise within the darkness; a deep swishing, like something slicing the air, over and over again.
It sounded horribly similar to the whirring of mower blades.
Or a dragon gnashing its teeth.
I tried stopping myself from being pulled into the hole by gripping the bottom of the garage with my one free hand. But the force dragging me forward was too powerful.
I let go before my left arm was snapped in half.
My arm was plunged into the darkness and I groped around, hoping for something, anything, to grab onto.
My hand touched something slimy. I yanked back my arm, not realising until my arm was out that I had something in my grasp.
I stared
in horror at the souvenir I had brought back from the inky depths, at the Collingwood Magpies football hat clenched in my tiny hand.
“Daaaa-dddeee!” I cried one last time, as my toy lawnmower vanished into the blackness, followed by my head.
The rotten stench of bad eggs and petrol grew more pungent, the blackness was as deep and thick as a night-time desert sky. The whirring noise grew louder and I felt wind whooshing against my face.
I heard dirt pattering on metal, like rain against the garage roof, and rocks being carved up and turned into a thousand tiny pebbles.
Then a voice, ancient, cold, full of dirt and grit said: “I told you to be careful. I told you not to stick your hands into the blades. The lawnmower’s not a toy, you know.”
“We’ve missed you,” said another voice, this one higher-pitched and giggly. “You thought you were too old to play with us. But we tricked you. You’re still just a kid. You’ll see, you’re never too old to play with us…”
Still holding onto the hat, and with legs kicking, I was dragged fully into the darkness.
And play we did.
* * *
“Hey kiddo, wanna help me…?”
Darrin Thornton frowned at the sight of his son’s empty room. Usually on weekends Ben spent the entire day in his bedroom, reading, watching DVDs, or surfing the ‘net.
“Wonder where he could be?” Darrin muttered. He left his son’s room and headed into the kitchen, where his wife was busy unpacking the shopping from the green environmentally friendly bags.
“There are more bags out in the car,” his wife said in her typically playful, almost girlish voice.
“Ben’s not in his room,” Darrin said. “I was going to ask him if he wanted to help me with the mowing today.”
His wife paused, a packet of pasta in her hand. “I think I hear him outside. He must be playing.”
Darrin listened, heard the distant sounds of playful shouting.
“He’s too old to be playing,” Darrin huffed.
“He is not,” his wife said as she put away the pasta. “He’s only thirteen. He’s still just a baby.”
