Bob glared at the weeds choking the flowerbed as a wave of disgust rumbled in his guts. Only three weeks ago he had cleared the bed and planted the flowers to show Cindy he could do fine without her, and now the damn weeds were back in full force.
Right on time, his father's voice chimed in. If you had only mulched . . . "Yeah, yeah, if only," Bob mimicked. "If only I'd applied myself in college, I'd have a better job. If only I wasn't such a slob, I'd still be married. If only, if only . . . shit!"
The weeds seemed impenetrable, the little flowers, hardly worth the effort. "Screw it," he spat and turned to go back in the house. He'd taken a couple of steps, when his mother's voice stopped him in his tracks, only one word growled—Quitter. "Oh man," he whined as the mental pain contorted his body as if he were in physical agony. He shook it off and trudged to the garage to get the bucket.
Weed city, he thought, shaking his head, as he got down on his knees to begin his labors. At least the soil was still damp from the recent rains, so the roots should be loose enough.
Bob pulled a few weeds and stopped. He surveyed the rest of the bed and decided, parents and flowers be damned, he had better things to do with his Saturday morning. Like watching cartoons. He stood . . . then took another look at the flowerbed. Suddenly the weeds were not weeds at all. The biggest one in the middle was Cindy. "Yeah," he chuckled, "fat and prickly." The smaller ones were the other losers in his life. And all his cheap stuff. And the sad parts of his pathetic body. Everything that sucked about his life grew with mocking abandon in that flowerbed.
A wicked smile twitched on Bob's face. If he could pull them all . . . That's it! He'd start with the biggest one. Cindy, my dear ex, who cleaned out our checking account and split with that prick, Carlos. Mumbling curses, he grabbed her with both hands and yanked. She didn't budge. He yanked her again, this time with more force, and she broke off at the root. Stubborn bitch!
Bob rocked back on his haunches and surveyed the situation. Then, with a triumphant sneer, he attacked the root, gouging around it with his fingers until he could grab enough of it. He pulled and groaned . . . He dug some more . . . He pulled harder and groaned louder . . . and out it came, with a satisfying shulp!
Bob sat back down and held the root up, shaking it like a prize. He thought about keeping it, but decided it would pollute his bowling trophies and tossed it in the bucket. Don't give a damn about that stupid root any more than I do about her. He nodded for emphasis.
He went back to pulling, with even greater energy. This one was his job that sucked. This one, his boss who sucked even more. These would be his loser co-workers. Betsy, the ass-kisser. Harold, the snitch. Mildred, everybody's mother. John, the gossip. Nancy, the tease.
Here was his stupid car. These were his stupid clothes. This big one, his boring house. This one, his faltering computer. This one, his flickering TV. These, his failing kitchen appliances. These, his stained, worn furniture. This one, his lumpy, lonely bed.
Over here were his loser friends. Jim, the whiner. Bill, the manipulator. Freddy, the geek. Donald, the wimp. Mack, the bully.
Bob paused, wiping his brow with the front of his T-shirt. The mid-morning sun bore down, and he was hot and sweaty and dirty. But he'd only finished half of the bed. He turned on the hose and took a drink, let the cool water run over his head and face, and returned to the assault.
Time to start with the college crowd. Professor Hastings, who'd flunked him in International Marketing. Professor Brown, who'd given him a "C" in Recreational Studies. His roommate, Buster, who'd ripped off his stereo. Buster's girlfriend, Roxie, who'd left the grass in the room for the cops to find. Susie, who'd played him along and then given him the clap. Dean Williams, who wouldn't let him graduate.
Bob stopped and looked at his fingers, stained green and caked with dirt. He tried to flex the pain from them, but it still lingered. Sighing, he went back to work.
Now, for high school. Rebecca, who didn't want sex. Melissa, who wanted too much. Coach Davis, who'd kicked him off the football team. Coach Johnson, who wouldn't even put him on the basketball team. Vice-Principle Azaria, who suspended him for sleeping in class.
Bob had to stand. Pain shot up and down his legs from his creaking knees as he straightened up. He groaned and stretched. Wiping his hands on his shirt, he plopped himself down in a patio chair. He smiled proudly as he looked at the flowerbed. It was almost finished. When he put his mind to something, he could get it done. No, he wasn't a loser like everyone said he was. They were the losers, he thought as he looked down at the weeds wilting in the bucket. Maybe his life sucked, but he had promise. Yes, he did. The flowerbed was proof! He grinned and sprang back to work.
The closer Bob got to finishing, the faster he worked. Only a few more to go. His thinning hair. His pimply face. His pinched nose. His washed-out eyes. His lolling gut. His skinny legs. His crooked toes. His puny dick.
Bob hesitated before going after the next three. Oh, what the hell. The cigarettes, the booze, the pills, the coke.
And last but not least his parents. His dear mother, who pushed him. His wimpy father, who pulled him. These last two weeds he crushed in his hands before throwing them in the bucket.
There, he'd finished. Finished pulling the weeds from the bed. And all the crap from his life. Now the flowers really looked nice. Beautiful. His life, sweet and wonderful. The red one would be his new job. The yellow one, his new girlfriend. The purple, his new car. Over there, the pink one, the gym where he would work out and create his new body. And that cluster of orange ones, his new stuff. He smiled up at the bright azure sky and breathed in the warm summer air as he strode toward the trashcan to dump the bucket of weeds. He slammed the lid shut on the losers, pumping his arm up and down. "Yes!"
* * *
Three weeks later, Bob sauntered out the back door. He took a swig of beer and scratched his belly. His eyes wandered around the back yard and finally came to rest on the flowerbed. The weeds had returned, even taller and thicker than before, and not one flower was to be seen. He burped and flipped his cigarette butt into the bed. It disappeared with a sizzle into the green mass.
Through his alcoholic haze, Bob swore the weeds were taunting him. No way was he going to take that. The beer can thudded and spilled on the concrete as he stumbled off the steps. Bob lurched toward the enemy and bent down to yank out a handful. But his head began to swim, and he fell face-first into the weeds. He groaned and started to get up, but their coolness felt good on his hot body, and he was soon fast asleep.
* * *
Bob opened his eyes and wondered where in the hell he was. And what the hell was this in his mouth? He tried to spit it out, but it was still there. Tasted like weeds. Then he realized his face was buried in them. Pick up your head, stupid, he chided himself. He tried, but he couldn't. His arms and legs wouldn't move either. Panic rose like bile in the pit of his stomach as he realized what was wrong. Weeds had wrapped around his body and were holding him tight. He began to struggle, but the more he moved, the tighter they wrapped. He tried to scream, but all that came out was a croaking whimper.
After panting for a few seconds, Bob sighed happily as it occurred to him he must be dreaming. He blinked, hoping to wake up. But then he felt the weeds begin to move and realized he was already awake. A sound like a dying water buffalo might make briefly erupted into the night. Bob fought in vain as the weeds crawled up his nose, into his ears, down his throat, into his eyes. His heart leapt as he felt a prickly presence at his crotch.
Bob's last feeling was a rumbling in the ground as the weeds pulled him under. He vanished in a whisper stretched along by the wind—looserr.
George M. Scott teaches cultural anthropology at a university in the Los Angeles area, where he lives with his wife and daughter. He has turned to fiction writing to relieve the tedium of academe, and he has recently sold his first short story, "Emily's Revenge," to Futures Magazine (April-May 2000 Issue). He is currently putting the finishing touches on his first novel, A Fearful Symmetry, and continues to try his hand at short fiction. He is a member of the Los Angeles Chapters of Sisters-in-Crime and Mystery Writers of America.
E-mail: LAfictionwriter@aol.com
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