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.