Kentucky Bluegrass by Nathan Leslie

It’s 3:06 a.m. on Whistlestop Boulevard, which is the main drag through the Whistlestop Neighborhood proper, the best neighborhood in the best county in the best state of the entire country—and if you think I’m exaggerating come on down to Whistlestop Boulevard and you will be amazed. I was when I first arrived and I continue to be on a daily basis. 

I’m talking pristine.  

I’m talking men with scissors, on their hands and knees “finishing” their lawns. I’m talking children with spicy bottles of weed killer. “Play and spray,” the moms call it. Play, but if you see a weed, a dandelion, a sprout of crabgrass—spray.

At 3:06 in the morning the world is an inversion. The harried rush and tumble is not existent. The crammed roadway is empty. The light, jacked up with cars come 8:00 a.m., runs at green, occasionally changing to yellow, red. No cars. I can hear the click, click, click. Sprinkler systems. The buzz of street lamps. Every pebble under my New Balance walking shoes—more support.

I slap the aquamarine ruler against my thigh. I have the note pad and a dog-eared infraction folder in my rear pocket. Mostly it’s pro forma. 

We have owners who hope to appear as bastions of success and good standing. Most folk like to take care of their lawns, or if “like” is too strong of a word, “do” perhaps.

I’m looking for shaggy lawns, but also for the presence of weeds. Any lawn with grass blades averaging over eight inches receives a citation (first warning). Second citation, fine. Third citation, severe fine. Fourth citation, up for revocation of homeowner status vis-a-vis the home association. Extreme, but effective. As for weeds, we are not in favor. Weeds = neglect. Neglect = lack of caring. Lack of caring = disdain for the community. Disdain for the community = a person who does not represent our values, which does not entail weeds. Any more than 10% weeds, citation. If 20% or over, skip directly to trial. Extreme, but effective.  

What is a weed? You may ask. Are dandelions weeds? Yes. Clover? Yes. Wild onion. Oh, yes. Crabgrass. Obviously, yes. Anything other than the finest, purest Kentucky Bluegrass is a weed. Green is not good enough, we say. If it’s a weed, it has to go.

Now, frankly, I find these early morning strolls relaxing, maybe even a balm—most of the time. But at the end of the month when my citation ticker is low, I feel the pressure. They want a twenty citation minimum per month and thirty during the peak summer months. It is difficult to keep up. In a caring community.  

In Whistlestop. So I’m up and down Caboose Court and Boxcar Boulevard and Whistlestop Way and Locomotive Lane was once the sight of a prominent train station, but when the tracks were realigned, the powers-that-be dismantled the old station. The names are a kind of homage, you might think. We do not possess a massive train community, by any stretch. Perhaps a few wayward Lionel collectors, but otherwise the names are a mere nod to history long forgotten. All we have now is a commuter rail. This brings old timers like me some measure of comfort. The sounds of trains, the distant hoot. I never found that train call particularly lonesome—for me it was a reminder of a long lost era.

Despite the low-key rambling quality of my early morning walks there is some urgency to this one, being the 30th with my quota due to Mrs. Peppers tomorrow. She’s a stickler for detail and cuts me little slack—I feel as if I’m back in Mrs. Edward’s second grade class—the threat of a knuckle rap and detention during recess, if I didn’t behave.

Last week (my walks are weekly, usually summers) I warned the Clovingers, Easlers, Weavers, Kennedys, Groppers and Farrenhauts, among others, and my appointed duty was to see if they have heeded my advice.

The Easlers and Farrenhauts both live on Boxcar Boulevard, so I’m up Coal Station Drive and over to Conductor Road for the shortcut to Boxcar. It is amazingly silent, the street lamps highlighting the now-withered azalea blossoms and irises and warn garden gnomes and green electrical boxes tucked behind boxwoods. It has been a rainy late spring, lush, but also the blossoms have molded fast in the precip. For a moment I feel as if I’m onstage, a director marking the cues. It’s not exactly warm and the breeze kicks up fallen petals and grass clippings and leaves. I pull at my parka.

I walk past the colonial on the corner of Boxcar and Waystation to the Farrenhauts. They have vastly improved the yard of their split level since last week—grass shorn and trimmed and just by eyeballing it, very few weeds. We’re really only concerned with front yards—backyards can remained untamed within reason, as long as they are out of eyesight—short of vermin taking up residence.

That was easy, the only downside being that now I need a replacement write-up to appease the hungry maw of the HOA.

A few blocks down I find the Easlers, who by all appearances, haven’t done a thing. The contrast is striking. Farrenhauts—clean lines, grass a couple inches from dirt. Easlers—a weedy, thatchy mess with grass stems jutting over a foot in places and well over eight inches in others. Clover and dandelion everywhere. 

My ruler doesn’t lie and I snap a few pics to cement the evidence. I write out the citations carefully, making sure I don’t inadvertently miss any boxes—I’ve made that mistake before and it creates three times as much work and a tone of hassle for me. I don’t want hassle. 

So why three in the morning? Why not three in the afternoon, like a normal person? I’m not a confrontational sort and even before my wife’s injury I usually took the path of least resistance. If I could avoid static, I would. When I first began the lawn police slot I would go out at five in the evening, thinking that way I could speak to the homeowners, if needed. This was not a wise choice, I realized quickly. Nobody wants their home inspected, especially when it is a judgment on them, on their ability (or lack thereof) to manage their yard-work choices.

I’d get threats; I’d get excuses, promises, avoidances. Too messy. Too human.

“Can I do this at any time?” I asked Mrs. Peppers. She shrugged—as long as it was accomplished.

Very few confrontations happen at three or four in the morning, and I have a heavy flashlight that, in a snap, doubles as a club.  

There was the one time the Willows’ motion detector lights illuminated me. Mr. Willow stood eyeballing me as I slipped the ruler down into their hairy lawn—close to eight inches. The door snapped open. Mr. Willow stood in his sweatpants barking. Who are you? What are you doing in my yard? Do you know what time it is? What if I was in your yard at four ten in the morning? This is flippity absurd—I’m calling the police.

But I talked him down and decided not to issue a warning—context is everything.

That was bad luck—an insomniac with an unruly lawn.

I stroll past East Meadow Park on the little bridge that runs through it along Boxcar and the silence and darkness deepens. Here the trees and deep woods muffle the street lamps. The creek whispers and burbles underneath. For now it runs fast. In a month, the weather will spike hotter and the creek will slow and become infested with mosquitoes and gnats. Now the air is clear and the slight breeze ticks through the silver and green leaves and a loamy smell rises up from the woods.

The Clovingers live on the cul-de-sac on the far side of the park, off Railroad Circle, which is perhaps the most coveted street in the neighborhood—where the houses are larger with pools and bricked driveways and statues in the front yards. But the Clovingers have lived here since the 70s and don’t give a hot damn. In fact, their yard has declined even further since the warning last week. Citation, slip it in the mailbox. They may end up in neighborhood trial, though they likely won’t show for that either. They test us.  

A raccoon skulks along the side of their house, watching me but trying to sneak into their trash can, also. Bad omen. I whistle at him but he doesn’t budge an inch, back hunched. If he were a skunk, he would have already sprayed.

I have a long-ish walk back to the other side of the neighborhood. East, where I started and where the last three houses are located. I waited on these—since they are neighbors and if they do see me it won’t be as awkward of a confrontation.

The personalities? The Weavers are friendly with Christina, my wife, or were, before the accident. Since then, they have not called or dropped by—nothing. As if the accident was Christina’s fault, as if she was careless. Perhaps they are simply busy, but this seems unlikely and utterly unlike them. I suspect awkwardness itself—they don’t know what to say or do. As for the Groppers, who live eight or ten houses from us—Mr. Gropper still struggles with his knee and can’t physically mow (and his wife may not be comfortable subbing in). “Hire a company,” I told them. “Nothing wrong with that.” But Al looked at me as if I just revealed that I slept with his wife. Al was the go-getter. The I take-care-of-my-own kind. Stubborn. The Kennedys are our new gay neighbors—Chris and Bud. Christina and I have been anxious to make an impression on them (this won’t help, save for some cackling ironic laugh).

But I’m a coward, I know. I’d like to hand citations to all who deserve it. I don’t. I don’t because I can’t stomach the notion of face-to-face screaming battles. I can deal with a stranger, someone who is not really on a name basis—someone simply in the directory. But I let a few things pass for those who really know me—it’s not worth the hassle.

In my mind I cite the Weavers—big time. I write out the report that lists the many varieties of weeds and other infestations. I mention that their yard seems as if it might harbor vermin (I don’t mention rats, but easily could). I underscore emphatic words and list instructions—cut, mow, trim. And pronto! But I can’t actually do it—there is no way. I can’t face the ramifications. 

Frankly, the Weavers are uninteresting. They drive a mini-van and a quasi-SUV hybrid thing. They leave their Christmas tree up a tad too long (into the second week of January sometimes!). They lean towards the Laurel Canyon sound—I can’t blame them. They winter in Tampa for two weeks each February and they vote Republican.

My wife was not drunk, not even a little bit. She was driving home from work one night in the sleet and a tow truck slammed into the back of her car—spun her into a ditch. The irony, of course, is that a tow truck caused the accident—most likely in a hurry to reach another stranded car. However, what Ed McCall did not realize, could not have realized, is that he would also crumple my wife’s spine like a used straw. He could not have known that I’d spend the next three months in and out of the hospital, to hold her hand, to witness countless surgeries, to finally wheel her out of there, clinging to the chair with both hands. 

I never once looked at the grass. I had no idea that later I would. But there it is, slender and jagged. Like spears. Like weapons. 

Nathan Leslie won the 2019 Washington Writers' Publishing House prize for fiction for his satirical collection of short stories, Hurry Up and Relax. He is also the series editor for Best Small Fictions. He is the author of thirteen books including Invisible Hand, A Fly in the Ointment (2023), Sibs, and The Tall Tale of Tommy Twice. He is also the author of a collection of poems, Night Sweat. Nathan is currently the founder and organizer of the Reston Reading Series in Reston, Virginia, and the publisher and editor of the online journal Maryland Literary Review. His fiction has been published in hundreds of literary magazines such as Shenandoah, North American Review, Boulevard, Hotel Amerika, South Dakota Review, Lake Effect and Cimarron Review. Nathan’s nonfiction has been published in The Washington Post, Kansas City Star, and Orlando Sentinel. Nathan lives in Northern Virginia.