Illustrate

This piece is an autofictional seed for the Autofiction x Worldbuilding submissions call. It inspired this other piece.

Cyclones and periodicals. I’m listening to Radiohead. In Rainbows. And I’m at Waste Management. And I’m running the red, fifty-two inch mower with the greased selkie and the bungie holding the shifter up to five. And I run over a Metro Times and it blows up into a million scattered pieces of letters and words in print. And I’d just leave it, because, look around me, there’s garbage everywhere. Paper plates and winter gloves. But we’d already been yelled at by Gerald, the manager, some son of a brother. And he’s like why the fuck would you do that? That’s so unprofessional. And we’re like, You’re the garbage people, don’t you think maybe you’re the ones who are unprofessional? But the Boss is like, Fuck it sorry guys I know these guys are assholes but let’s just get through this season and I can revisit the contract. You’re killing it, you know that right? And I probably do know it but I try not to think about it, try not to think about anything to get through the day. You are all I want. You are all I need. And yeah I wasn’t thinking which is why I left the Metro Times right there like a mosaic of cracked sidewalk shards, green grass underneath outlining everything. That’s when Gerald comes out with his mustache and his pink nose and his cheeks all tire rubbery. He scares me. Cuz of my muffs and the music and all of a sudden there’s a human being behind me. Mouths, Turn off the Mower, fucking kid.

I do that. Unclip the bungie. Turn the rabbit lever down. Parking brake. Switch the key to the left.

I say, Sir, what’s the problem?

There’s wind now, and distant honking, and the perpetual churning of something from inside of the facility.

He says, When I talked to Marianne on the phone she assured me that you would stop making such a mess. That you’d be more careful. I can see now that she was just pulling my chain. Is that right? Do you not give a shit about anything?

I laughed, not realizing I did so aloud. Because who the fuck says Pulling my chain like a fuckhead like that. Where would a chain even be?

He clenched his fist. Held them tight against his waist. He walked over to the mower and kicked it. He looked stupid as hell. His stupid shoe running into the old rusty mower and doing nothing. He pointed a fat finger at me and he said, Go Fuck Yourself.

And then he walked away.

I wasn’t sure what to do for a minute. But the sun came out. And the sky was bright blue. And I put my music back on and kept cutting. Cutting the shards into smaller and then smaller shards. Smaller and then smaller pieces of news, and advertisements, and music write-ups, all across the lawn.