Mr. Conroy lined up another redwood plank; little
soldiers straight and tall. He raised
his hammer, pounding steel against steel, driving the nail deep into the cross
rail.
No more
screaming kids running through his azaleas; no more dog droppings on his lawn…
He’d been at it since dawn. The metallic taste from the nails he held
between his teeth had begun to make him queasy, but he would wash away its
bitterness later.
No more
neighbors trying to sell him some damn thing for some damn cause or another
that he didn’t give a whit about; no more bible thumpers come to tell him that
their God was better than his…
He tugged on the freshly-secured board. It didn’t budge. He reached for another. Damn, it was hot and he ached all over but, determined
to finish today, he pushed through the discomfort.
No more pesty
campaign workers banging on his door.
How he’d come to hate elections.
Wasn’t nobody’s business who he was gonna vote for…
When he had finally nailed the last nail into the
last plank of the last side of the six-foot fence that now encased his yard he
took a rag from his overalls pocket and wiped the sweat from his neck and
face. Stepping back to view his work, he
nodded with satisfaction.
Yep. That would do it.
His thirst was mighty. The boys ought to be filling the bar stools
at Arnie’s right about now. He’d earned
himself a cold one. Couple of them, in
fact. He turned to walk out of his yard
and head down the block.
It was then that he discovered the one major flaw
in his efforts.
