Timothy Gager |
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Timothy Gager is the author of eight
books of fiction and poetry. He was recently nominated for three Pushcart Awards. He lives on www.timothygager.com Channeling And then I catch a glimpse of her eyes, sunken into purple
rings and I know she’s been beaten. Grubs The sidewalk outside my apartment is worn and flakey,
perfect to extinguish the cigarettes of building’s smokers, but disrepair is not my problem. Neither is the cracked
window of the street level apartment. It is sealed by three strips of yellowed tape, better used to seal boxes sent
by the US Post Office. The tape has been there longer than I but based on its color it’s hard to tell. A few blocks down my car is still there. The tires are
visibly marked on their sidewalls from parallel parking too close to the curbs. One of these times, everything will pop. Pete is outside kicking at the dirt. We used to be friends.
“Hey,” he says. “Hey,” and he digs his boots into the mulch.
“I don’t know how to make it work,” he states. The lawn is weedy, with large brown areas of dead grass and
rustled soil. “I tried to stay on top of it.” He kicks the dirt. “Look at it. What the fuck!” I don’t
know how to respond so I look off at some far away trees.
“Here. Let me show you something.” I walk to the closest patch of brown and pull up a clump, lifting it off like
a cheap toupee. “Look, right there,” I push at the bleached C-shaped critters burrowing into the ground. “Lawn
grubs. They eat the roots, turn the lawn to shit,” I say. “Get some Lawn X, then water the whole lawn with
at least 1 inch of water. Don't count on rainfall to do the job, sometimes rainfall is never hard enough to push the granules
down to the roots where these grubs live.” There are gunshots from the complex. The dope bag wiggles
between my fingers in my pocket. Pete’s face is blue then pale, blue then pale. |
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