The Lawn Ornament

Somewhere in a sprawling American suburb, there is a lawn. This lawn looks much like the lawns next to it. It is a healthy green color, it is uniformly cropped. On either side of the nondescript stucco house, which looks much like the houses on either side of it, there is a neat wooden fence. Bordering the front of the lawn is a short hedge, square and perfectly level. 

Every weekday after eight hours of office work and a cumulative hour of commute time, Guy pulls his midsize car into the driveway. When he returns from work, he admires his pristine lawn. The lawn does not admire him back.

In the house, Guy’s dutiful wife appears at the bottom of the stairs and kisses him on the cheek. She asks him about his day. He does not ask about hers.

After replacing his work shoes with his housework shoes, Guy finds himself in the front yard again, uncoiling the garden hose. Local government officials have asked homeowners to restrict watering to early mornings and late evenings. This will not do; he drinks his coffee in the early morning and the ballgame is always on in the late evening. Evening will suffice. Outside, the neighbors are wearing their baseball caps and watering their lawns. Guy waves politely at the neighbor across the street. The neighbor waves back. 

Guy strolls along the fence line to inspect his lawn more closely, but there are no dandelions to be found. No crabgrass, no dry patches, and certainly no dead spots. Just perfect, even grass.  

When he returns to the house, his wife informs him that dinner is ready. He watches the ballgame intently, sighing when the opposing team scores another run against the team he is rooting for. His team pulls a win after an anomalous solo home run breaks the tie. 

Guy wakes early to an empty bed and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. When he urinates he leaves the seat up. He washes his hands. He shaves his face. Downstairs, he pours himself a steaming cup of black coffee. He calls out a word of thanks to his wife. He does not hear a response.

In worn plaid pajama pants, Guy brings his coffee outside. He blows on the surface of the liquid, then takes a cautious slurp. As he lowers the mug from his lips, he spots something to his chagrin: an abnormality. A blemish on his lawn. Furrowing his brow, he sets his mug down on a table, sloshing an inconsequential amount of liquid over the side. It dries before it reaches the table. 

Upon closer inspection, Guy discovers that this blemish, this small yet glaring imperfection, is a dandelion. Its yellow face stares mockingly back at him, gloating in its evident prosperity. The hot asphalt bends the light as Guy quickly glances around at the surrounding lawns, which are still immaculate in appearance through the warp of light. 

The neighbor across the street opens his front door. Quickly, Guy crouches and grasps the intruder at its base, twists, then yanks. He feels a slight pinch in his lower back. The earth sputters a few small clumps of soil. Guy frantically pats the earth’s wound down. He strides purposefully to the green bin, where he discreetly discards the interloper. As he returns across the driveway, the neighbor across the street waves at him again, smiling. Guy narrows his eyes slightly but offers a brisk wave in return. Guy retreats inside. He leaves his coffee on the porch. 

Guy returns from work in the evening. Still sitting in the driver’s seat, he unbuttons the top button of his shirt. He clambers onto the driveway, grabs the abandoned mug from the porch, and enters the house. His wife greets him at the bottom of the stairs, pecks him swiftly on the cheek, then tells him the game is on. 

Guy waits until past nightfall to water his lawn. His team has lost, but the winning team has the best record in the league. Guy evenly, expertly showers the grass with water. Once thoroughly satisfied, he coils the garden hose. He walks to the end of the driveway and scans his neighbors’ lawns across the dimly lit street. His chest swells with determination. He adjusts his cap. He turns to squint at his own lawn. It looks like all the other lawns, but he has not forgotten the morning’s unwelcome aberration. 

When Guy reenters the house, his wife is sitting on the bottom step, fretting with her hands. Guy sits beside her a moment and asks about her day. At bedtime, he cannot recall what she had said to him. He sleeps soundly.

Guy wakes early again. The bed is empty, and the sheets on the other side of the mattress are bunched in ripples toward the middle. The smell of fresh coffee rouses him to his feet. He uses the toilet and puts the seat down. He washes his hands. He shaves his face. Downstairs, he shuffles across the linoleum kitchen floor, pours himself a cup of black coffee, then steps outside onto the front porch. He scrutinizes his lawn. There is no dandelion to cause him embarrassment. There is something, however, tucked beneath his manicured hedge, just visible beyond its tightly cropped leaves. A pop of primary colors clashing against the green grass and the green shrub. 

Guy takes a swig of coffee, twitching as it burns his tongue slightly, then sets the mug down on the table. He wonders if a child or dog’s toy has fallen victim to the shrubbery’s stubborn grasp. With a palm bracing his lower back, he kneels to inspect the object. He is puzzled to find a face gazing back at him; it is a garden gnome. The gnome is wearing a broad smile, eyes squinting cheerfully, cheeks splashed with rosy blush. His white beard is thick, hanging past his chest. He stands erect, as does his pointed red cap. His hands are clasped neatly behind his back. 

Guy hears the neighbor’s door open. He rises abruptly to his feet, wincing at the sciatica. The neighbor waves to him. Wary, Guy offers a polite smile, then a nod. The neighbor initiates light conversation, and they exchange compliments on their respective lawns. Hands on his hips, the neighbor grumbles about the drought. Guy affirms his mild discontent in agreement, then glances briefly to the gnome. Guy checks his watch then walks back up to the porch to retrieve his coffee mug. There is a ring of dried coffee on the table. Guy turns his head toward the street again. The neighbor smiles and waves. Guy lifts his free hand in a reciprocal gesture and enters the house.

Guy returns from work later than usual this evening; the home game had caused a traffic delay. He rushes past his spotless lawn and enters the house. He doesn’t notice that his wife is not waiting for him by the stairs. After whipping up a sandwich, Guy collapses into an armchair and flips the TV on. There is news about the weather. There is news about another celebrity evading fines for excessive water use. There is news about a wildfire on the far eastern side of the county. Guy slouches over his plate, watching the game and occasionally lifting the sandwich to his clean-shaven face. He is reminded of his scalded tastebuds. He is marginally aware of his wife’s faint, uniform footsteps in the bedroom above him. His team loses again.

While his wife paces the second story, Guy paces the lawn, hose in hand. When the lawn is adequately nourished, Guy shuts the hose off and neatly coils it. He finds his gardening gloves and his clippers in their place in the tool shed. As he clips the hedge from the edge of the lawn, he is agonizingly aware of the presence of the gnome. Inconspicuously, he makes his way to the sidewalk and begins clipping from there. To his relief, the gnome is not visible to the neighbors, who are all outside, watering their lawns and clipping their hedges. Guy will have to wait until it is safe to relocate the gnome. 

Past bedtime, Guy slips out of bed, careful not to wake his wife. He creeps down the stairs, which groan slightly under his weight. He turns the front door handle slowly, stepping into the warm night air. He faces his lawn, but he freezes. He blinks hard, then again, and squints at the scene before him. The lawn is riddled with dandelions and patches of crabgrass. Tall, spiked weeds have sprung from the crack between the driveway and the sharp, pristine edge of lawn. The grass appears to be a half inch too tall. In the darkness, Guy cannot see the gnome.

Dazed, Guy rummages through his tool shed. The garden gloves are nowhere to be found. He locates a spray bottle of potent weedkiller and walks swiftly back to the lawn. Sweat forms on his brow as he frantically plucks weed after weed. With their little arms reaching toward the sky, their roots are torn from the soil, flinging clumps of dirt, the earth’s blood clots. On his first trip to the green bin on the side of the house, Guy is halted by a familiar gaze. The garden gnome is peeking around the corner of the green bin, wearing that broad grin. The dull and distant streetlights cast dramatic shadows between the gnome’s wrinkles and folds, imbuing him with a lifelike quality that unsettles Guy. The gnome’s smile appears slightly menacing in this light. 

After dumping the weeds’ limp corpses into the bin, Guy stoops stiffly to lift the gnome with one hand. The gnome is ceramic and heavier than Guy anticipates. He considers tossing the gnome into the black bin but doesn’t want to disturb the peaceful suburban quiet with an uncharacteristic shatter. He does not want the neighbors to come out onto their perfect lawns, to put their hands on their hips. Guy stashes the gnome in the tool shed then returns to the house. As he crawls into bed, he extends an arm around his wife. She tells him that she doesn’t want him to touch her. In the dim light, Guy squints to examine the dirt underneath his fingernails. 

Guy oversleeps the next morning. He uses the toilet, leaves the seat up, and decides to skip shaving to save time. He forgets to wash his hands. He dresses hurriedly, then rushes downstairs past a pot of stale coffee, past his wife crying softly at the dining room table. 

Outside, Guy fumbles with the house keys. He turns to greet the perfectly blue sky and the perfect beige houses and the perfectly trimmed lawns. He scratches the stubble on his chin, then stares blankly at his own lawn. Rich, blue-purple morning glories, bugles bursting, snake along the hedge in thick vines. Up and down, in and out. It twists around itself, blanketing the shrubbery, softening its ninety-degree edges. Mortified, Guy spots the neighbor across the street. His hands are on his hips. Guy reluctantly offers a halfhearted wave. The neighbor briefly lifts his hand in return. Guy looks back to the hedge now sullied by nonconformity, a mess of haphazard vines and noisy flowers. Behind one of the blooms, Guy sees that the gnome has resumed its original position. It stands tall and still, smiling. 

It is nearly sunset when Guy is driving back down his street. As he passes each house, he watches the neighbors as they mow and water their lawns, trim their hedges. He will retrieve the lawnmower from the garage as soon as he gets home. There is no game tonight.

To his dismay, Guy notices a small gathering of neighbors on the sidewalk in front of the house. Many of them have their hands on their hips, and they appear to be murmuring to each other. Guy can tolerate chatting. Murmuring is a different story. As he passes his next-door neighbor’s house, his stomach sinks and he understands what has inspired such an irregular commotion. 

A forest has erupted where his lawn had been. A variety of fully grown trees, native bushes, and vibrant flowers now occupy space that was once open. Guy parks his car and stumbles into the driveway, stupefied. Thick vines have fully enveloped the fence. A sycamore towers over the roof, its roots tugging the ground upward. With their nauseating perfume, orange and yellow honeysuckle flowers draw sphinx moths. Hummingbirds and honeybees swarm an abundant manzanita. One of the neighbors swats a bee to the sidewalk. A second neighbor stamps it with his shoe. Instead of grass, there is now lush clover. Large white amanita mushrooms protrude from the earth in clusters of three, four, five. There are patches of naked soil. There are stones frosted with moss and tree branches caked in lichen. At what would have been the center of the lawn is the smug little garden gnome, still smiling, now winking. A sudden clatter from the kitchen stirs Guy from his stupor. He hurries into the house. The neighbors continue to murmur.

Guy’s wife is bent over the kitchen sink, sobbing, knees sinking. There is glass on the linoleum, flecks of blood on the linoleum. She shouts some words at Guy, pleadingly then angrily, and he nods feverishly, flashing the occasional sideways glance at the window until it’s all he can look at. Through the creeping vines, he catches fragmented images of the neighbors with their hands on their hips. After a while there is no longer glass on the linoleum. Guy’s wife continues to cry and scream, and the neighbors continue to murmur, and the vines are consuming the window, enclosing the house. 

Long after night has fallen, Guy lies on top of the uniformly made bedsheets. His wife is gone. He stares through the ceiling, haunted by the scene in his front yard. By that unremitting grin. He is tormented by speculation about how the Homeowners Association might address such a heinous infraction. Guy is so distraught that he struggles to remember the incident that had occurred just prior. Or what he does for a living. Restless, he stands and stares out the window at his garden. The gnome stares back at him. Guy becomes decidedly very frustrated with his routine, with baseball, with the neighbors and their hands on their hips. Guy does not go to work the following morning. He does not go to work the next day, nor the day after that. 

Guy wakes up in an empty bed, which is still made on the other side. Groggy, he stands and walks to the bathroom where he uses the toilet and leaves the seat up. He does not bother to wash his hands. He looks in the mirror, and a smiling, bearded face returns his drowsy gaze. He blinks hard, then walks downstairs.

Guy brews himself a pot of coffee. He drinks a first cup at the table, then a second. His back doesn’t hurt when he rises from the chair. He shuffles past a pair of work shoes, past a pair of housework shoes, past a baseball cap. He opens the front door, taking a moment to soak in the sunlight, to breathe the sweet scent of flowers carried to him on the breeze. A bright orange piece of paper flaps on the door as he shuts it behind him. He does not look at what is written on it.

Guy vaguely realizes that he is not wearing any shoes. It hadn’t occurred to him to put them on. He digs his pale, bare toes into the warm earth. A garter snake is coiled where the hose is supposed to be. Guy ducks under dense foliage and hanging vines. He delights in following the iridescent trail of a garden snail. He tips his nose into the cup of a large, fragrant trumpet flower and is reminded of his wife. All the neighbors are inside their houses. The gnome is nowhere to be found. 

Guy sits in his yard all day. Occasional cars pass by, noticeably slowing as they pass the house. The neighbors keep their distance now, but they are watching. Guy is either unaware of this or does not care. He admires the pollinators. He breathes the honeysuckle air. He sits. 

In the evening, stacks of cumulonimbus clouds clasp their swollen hands overhead. The sun drips into the horizon until it has emptied itself, and still Guy sits in his yard. 

By the time night is thoroughly fallen, the clouds heave a great sigh and a squeeze. Guy is undisturbed by the roar of thunder. The hammering rain keeps the neighbors inside their houses. It rains through the night, but Guy is persistent. Smiling, even. The soil opens its pores, beckoning relief. The fresh water lifts the rich smell of the earth to Guy’s whiskery nostrils. He sits and he smiles, all night, in the unceasing rain.

By morning, the rain has stopped and the garden is quiet. With his clothes soaked through and his toes buried in the spongy soil, Guy should feel cold. His back should be aching. But still he sits. Rigid, but not stiff. The neighbor from across the street emerges from his house and walks purposefully across the street. Guy does not wave, nor does he retreat to the house. The neighbor pauses before him, wearing a contorted expression on his clean-shaven face. Looming over him, the neighbor lifts his knee and prods Guy with the toe of his housework shoe. Guy topples over, shattering into thousands of pieces as the earth catches him. He litters the yard with uneven fragments reflecting faint images of mundane domesticity, of regret. Of an ugly beige house, of a boring green lawn, of a woman, neglected yet trapped. The neighbor frowns and puts his hands on his hips.

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