Stepping in to the brisk morning, the cat follows Jerry in to the yard. It disappears through the brush instantly. Shrubs are etched with the grace of Edward Scissorhands. The lawn mowed like the tailored fringe of a putting green at Augusta. The even blanket of green carpet stretches around the entire house. Hand painted white stones trim the winding driveway down the hill. He is comfortable here having conversations with the lawnmower. Spreading shit on the grass. Diggin' the dirt for spring bulbs like a shroom pig. Strappin' on the weed whacker. Trees, nestled on the edge of the yard provide a welcome cloak separating him from the world. He takes in the view from his hill overlooking the valley. Breathing in the cleansing airs as he lights a Camel. The smoke and his breath dance in the breeze. Solitude is his.
He opens the garage doors to the house. The cars needed to breathe after being strangled for weeks on end. The new emerald Camaro gasps peeing transmission fluid on the concrete showing its displeasure for lack of attention. Funny the cat does the same thing once in a while. He crawls under to check the main seal. It’s ok. Just a small drip. Jerry reaches for the key hangin' on Trudy's hook next to the mud room door. He climbs in. The newness smells still intact.
The dome light a bit dim, but shining enough to show only 700 miles on the odometer. She turns over gingerly but proud. Screaming from under the hood, begging to feel the road flowing under her as she bolts down the winding valley road. Not today. He lets her purr for a few moments letting the battery fully charge, then switches her in to hibernation for a few more days.
He moves to the other car hidden under the tarp next to the Camaro.
Gently removing the cover, he takes care going around the chrome mirrors and keeps from snagging the perfectly polished bumpers. A '63 candy apple red convertible Impala. Mint, cherry, imaculata. Built with his hands down to the last detail for her. Money in the Bank. Some guy offered to trade 30 acres of prime real estate for this car. Jerry smirks at the thought.
"Fuck him!", he says to the car.
Nothing gets between them. Besides, Trudy would never forgive him.
He gingerly replaces the tarp and closes the garage.
Strolling to the back of the house he takes in the view.
Leavenworth prison clears the horizon from the ridge. Memories of hounds yelping by him as 12 gauge clad beer bellied guards stormed in to his yard lookin' for a convict, pointing the guns at him as one smiled with his front left tooth missing,
"You seen a boy in white coveralls come through here?"
"Hell No!
If I had, you'd be scrapin' up what's left of him.
Check the place out, but stop pointin' that double barreled piece a shit at me!"
They finally found the kid hangin' from a tree on the lower 2 acres.
He decided suicide was easier than doin' 10 more years for shivin' a skinhead.