11-015
The Old Man and the Leaf Blower
An imitation of Benchley imitating his
friend, Old Ernie.
He was an old man who had gone
eighty-four days without blowing the leaves from his lawn.
“Why don’t you blow away those leaves,
old man!” someone would scream from across the street.
“Why don’t you shut your face! I will sue you!” he would scream back.
A boy stood quietly behind him. “Old man.”
Irreverent words rang from the old man’s
mouth and he turned. “You scared the
hell out of me!”
“I want to help.”
“You are not yet a man. Tomorrow I will go far into the lawn and
blow many leaves—maybe a thousand. Well…at least more than three.”
“Are you strong enough?”
The old man stared at the crinkled
leaves. Some fluttered in the
breeze. The old man’s face was crinkled
but did not flutter. Only his left ear
when excitement came.
“I will blow them,” he said calmly. “I know many tricks.”
“I am riding my bike to the convenience
store. Do you want something?”
“Bring me a beer. Better yet, bring three.”
“I cannot buy beer.”
“Tell that man at the store I know his
immigration secrets. He will sell
them.”
The boy left. The old man gazed skyward.
“Tomorrow will be lucky for leaf blowing."
The boy returned with beer, and many
pastries and sandwiches.
“How did you get all this?”
“I told him you know his secrets.”
“That is very kind. I will give him a bushel of leaves. They make good mulch.”
At dawn the old man’s blower was
droning. By late afternoon there were
many leaves in the street.
“You are supposed to bag those leaves!”
yelled a neighbor.
“This is a free country and I will sue
you!” he shrieked back.
Eventually his hand became cramped.
“That’s what you think, Mr.
Hand." And with duct tape, he
lashed the blower to his forearm.
Toward evening he felt dizzy. He leaned against a tree and pulled a leaf
from a branch. With his pocketknife he
cut it into strips and chewed each slowly.
“I need lime or salt,” he thought.
He stopped chewing. “Why am I
eating leaves?”
“A thunderstorm is coming! Come inside!” It was his wife.
“Go back into your kitchen, old woman or
I will sue you!”
“Crazy bastard,” she muttered, and
slammed the door.
The wind swirled leaves back into his
yard, even into his neighbors’ yards.
Cold raindrops pelted his skin.
Then he breathed a word beginning with “sh.” Perhaps it is the best word for these moments.
Into the stormy night, under the street
lights, he blew and blew. Then he
staggered inside.
At daybreak there were heaps of damp
leaves in the street, but many more on his lawn. Some had been blown there by the wind, but most had been angrily
dumped by his neighbors.
The boy went into the old man’s
bedroom. The old man slowly opened one
eye. “Go to the store,” he
mumbled. “Bring back as many beers as
you can carry.”
<end>