Under the big top tonight

Back to table of contents.

[EDITOR'S NOTE: In the months following the murder of close friend Gustav Landauer, Spinke went into one of his characteristic periods of depression. Not publishing any work, losing nearly 15 pounds, and even joining an ascetic movement briefly at the end of 1919, these months were fraught with despondency and misadventure. Spinke even briefly disappears from any sort of historical records for a significant period in early 1920. Many scholars believe him to have traveled to India at this time under an assumed name. Others conjecture he had permanently appropriated his sometime drag persona, Joanna LeMuse, but the emergence of LeMuse as a celebrated cult figure in Berlin did not occur until the mid-1920s. Regardless, Spinke resurfaced in the summer of 1920 as he moved into a small Kreuzberg apartment on the Landwehrkanal. He began to carry a pistol around the clock to deter any agressive maneuvers by the Freikorps, the nationalist militia that murdered fellow socialists and close friends Rosa Luxemburg and Karl Liebknecht in January 1919. Spinke was said to be such a good shot and so careful to avoid compromising situations that the Freikrops never tried to touch the important but unofficial supporter of the KPD, even as Dolchstoßlegende sentiments ran high and hundreds of fellow party members were killed in response to the Spartakusbund. It was during this time that he published his untitled collection of short stories with the Volkspresse.]


Kempt

Amos J. Spinke


     “Jeanie, I already tried getting the mower started, okay? It’s not like I planned for it not to work so I could sit inside all day.”
     “Just give it one more try.”
     “I don’t feel like it.”
     “The Kemps mowed their yard today.”
     “Fine.”
     People say the grass is always greener on the other side, but in poor Mr. Lancaster’s case, this expression bore a sad reality. The Lancasters’ neighbors, the Kemps, certainly had one of the finest lawns in all of Hunter’s Ridge; no one could deny this. Its dark green grass was so luscious it radiated its rich color and moistness majestically to the eyes of passersby. The Lancaster lawn, on the other hand, was often pockmarked with dry spots and even dead spots that one ninety degree day after the next could not help but create. Sam Lancaster felt like a teenage boy with terrible acne next to the flawless lawn of Donald Kemp. And Sam Lancaster had never had a pimple in his entire life.
     “Honey! I told you it wouldn’t start!” Mr. Lancaster yelled inside to his wife, who pretended not to hear. Mr. Lancaster sighed, wheeled the old mower into the garage, and then stepped back out on the driveway, gazing at his lawn. It definitely needed cutting. But the long scraggly blades hardly made the yard look overgrown. It’ll be fine for another couple of days, he thought. He reached down and pulled a couple of weeds from the edge of the driveway. The automatic sprinklers were watering the Kemp’s lawn across the street. If only we didn’t live right by Don’s house, Mr. Lancaster thought, my yard wouldn’t seem so bad.
     When he walked back inside the Indians game was switched off and his daughter was laying on the couch reading a book.
     “You’re in my spot.”
     “You moved.”
     “I went to go mow the lawn. Do you want to mow the lawn, Debra?”
     “You shouldn’t mow the lawn in the middle of the day, Dad. It’s bad for the environment.”
     “What difference does it make when he mows the lawn!” Jeanie Lancaster was not in the room but she was certainly in the conversation.
     “Shut up, Mom! You don’t know anything about it.”
     “Why would it make any difference when!?”
     No one answered the shouting woman’s question.
     “Seriously, Dad. Today’s an ozone alert day. You shouldn’t mow.”
     “The Kemps mowed.”
     “Well the Kemps are causing climate change. Why do you think it’s so hot these last few summers? They even have a riding mower. Do you know how much gas those things use?”
     Mr. Lancaster flicked the TV back on.
     “Dad.” Debra looked up at him in disgust.
     “You can read in your room.”
     “This family is repulsive.” And she got up and pointedly walked away.

     ***

     The next weekend Donald Kemp had gone out of town and Mr. Lancaster watched Mrs. Kemp cutting the grass from his living room window while sitting on the couch. The Indians were playing again, but they were down seven nothing and Mr. Lancaster’s thoughts were wandering across the street with his gaze. Damn that’s a fine piece of equipment, he thought. Carmen Kemp wore tight athletic shorts and a white sleeveless shirt, and she sat on the rumbling mower with her toned, bronzed legs spread awkwardly over the seat. The mower ripped across the lawn with a guttural hum, Mrs. Kemp’s blonde bun bobbing with each bump in the earth. She mowed perfectly and evenly at two-and-a-half inches. She bagged, of course, so no ugly clumps of clippings cluttered the pristine expanse. A few tiny flecks of grass, however, wafted up from the mower’s undercarriage and sprinkled themselves about, clinging on Mrs. Kemp’s glistening arms and legs. Talk about a gorgeous body, Mr. Lancaster said to himself. The only thing as sensuous as the sleek green curves of the Toro were the feminine curves of its rider’s torso, and the only thing as voluptuous as Mrs. Kemp’s heaving breasts were the two warm, plump trash bags of grass clippings set neatly side by side on the Kemp’s curb.
     Mr. Lancaster’s mouth hung open. He may have been sitting in the air conditioning, but watching that lawn mower it felt like he was right out there in the hundred degree heat.
     “Well?” Mrs. Lancaster looked imploringly at her husband.
     “Well what?”
     “Are you going to mow this week?”
     “It’s bad for the environment.”
     Mrs. Lancaster walked away with a huff. “I just want you to mow the grass! Is that so much to ask!?”
     Within minutes Mr. Lancaster heard his wife outside struggling with the mower. He stood up and watched her. She had put on Sam’s grass stained mowing shoes, which were far too big for her, and she was jerking angrily at the cord, trying to get the thing started. After about thirty seconds with no success, she gave up, frustrated and exhausted. Then she stormed back inside, ripped off the shoes, threw them down in front of her husband, and marched away.
     When Sam went outside, two more shapely trash bags of grass clippings sat on the curb, and Mrs. Kemp was bent over tying them up. He addressed her backside.
     “Looking good.”
     “What?” She turned and brushed a loose stand of hair out of her face. “Oh, hey Sam.”
     “Your yard…it looks terrific.”
     “Well thanks. It’s the first time I ever mowed it myself. Don, you know, he’s obsessed. He’s gone two days and he’s got a whole list of instructions for me.” She laughed.
     “He loves to take care of his yard. Nothing wrong with that.”
     “Hey,” she turned to the trash bags. “Could you help me tie these? I got the other ones fine, but these’re just so full I can’t quite—” She kneeled down on one side of the bag and pulled a long handful of yellow plastic from the other side toward her chest.
     “Here, let me.” Mr. Lancaster tapped her shoulder and she backed away. “Sometimes first you gotta—” He stretched out his hand powerfully and pushed on the moist grass inside the bag until the lips of the bag opened loosely around his arm. “And then—” He tied up the sides with ease. “Viola.”
     “Thank you, Sam. That was really starting to bother me.” She smiled. “So do you want to come in and get a glass of water or something?”
     “No, that’s alright. I gotta get going with—” He pointed over his shoulder at his mower across the street. “It’s been too long. Jeanie’s about to kill me.”
     “Okay well don’t get too hot.”
     “I’ll do my best.”
     Carmen Kemp watched him walk away. That, she thought to herself, is a man. Donald is one thing, but that Sam Lancaster is something else. Something else entirely. Across the street, Mr. Lancaster yanked on his mower cord a few times. Such big arms, Mrs. Kemp thought. I wonder what he looks like naked. And as if on cue, Mr. Lancaster took off his shirt as he began pumping the mower cord with more vigor. And for the first time in nearly two weeks, a cloud of black smoke puffed out of the engine, and the motor revved. Mr. Lancaster wheeled the buzzing mower toward the first strip of grass to be cut and smiled at Mrs. Kemp as she came into view. Mrs. Kemp smiled back, then turned and walked slowly up her driveway.
     But shortly after Mrs. Kemp disappeared inside her house, Mr. Lancaster’s mower started to falter. The grass was simply too high for the old mulching mower, and the undercarriage kept getting clogged up with chopped grass. The engine would slow, and Mr. Lancaster would be forced to rock the mower onto its back two wheels to let the chucks of sod escape. After only two passes, Mr. Lancaster stopped the machine and raised the blade up from three to three-and-a-half inches. And he began cutting again. But this time, whenever he went over the many dry, thin patches of grass in his lawn, he couldn’t even tell where he had mowed and where he hadn’t.  He considered lowering the blade again, but figured that cutting the dry grass even shorter would potentially kill it, and so he decided not to. But at three-and-a-half inches, he felt like he was hardly doing anything, and suddenly the words of his high school aged daughter echoed in his head. ‘You’re just wasting gas and polluting the environment,’ he heard her saying. ‘Are you trying to put another hole in the ozone?’ And after only fifteen minutes, he gave up cutting the grass entirely.
     He came inside and got a glass of water.
     “Oh, oh, okay. Well that’s just great.” Mrs. Lancaster watched her husband chug the glass down.
     “Ah.” Mr. Lancaster smacked his lips. “Man it’s hot out there.”
     “So you quit. You’re not gonna mow.” He looked at her. “That was a question.”
     “Well, Jeanie, I started to mow…” And his words and his thoughts drifted off.
     “Honey what is wrong with you! Our grass is going to seed, the neighborhood committee called me yesterday to ask when we were going to cut our grass it’s so long, I can’t start the mower myself, and now you just stop halfway through the job!”
     “Oh, I didn’t get halfway. Not even close.”
     
     ***

     That night, Carmen Kemp, her husband hundreds of miles away and alone in her bed, slid her hand inside her cotton pajama pants and teased herself for a few moments while contemplating the thought of Sam Lancaster holding her close. She thought of his powerful hands stroking the length of her body. She imagined him reaching inside of her clothes and then undressing her. She could practically feel his massive arms carrying her away. She had originally planned to go straight to sleep, but soon her imaginary lover was grasping her naked breasts, holding her legs wide apart, and she was forced to slide her pants all the way off and intensify her southerly meanderings. Soon she caught herself, much to her surprise, moaning aloud as she imagined Sam’s solid body weighing down against hers, his teeth nibbling her ears, and his hot breath steaming up her head. She crashed to sleep with the soft down comfortable balled up between her legs.

     ***

     On Monday morning, Mr. Lancaster nearly spilled his coffee in his lap as he pulled out of his driveway. Mrs. Kemp had run barefoot across the elegant turf wearing only a long t-shirt to pick up the morning paper, and Mr. Lancaster got distracted by the wonderfully supple stems. I bet it would feel like heaven to lay down in that, he thought. Nature’s most perfect handiwork. Absolutely gorgeous pigmentation. So soft. So smooth. So luscious.
     Tuesday the Lancaster yard did indeed go to seed, as Mrs. Lancaster had predicted, and that night Mr. Lancaster stood on his driveway watching the chiggers and grasshoppers leap from stalk to stalk. Mrs. Kemp watched him from her window. He held a beer and stared across the street, toward her and her home. I bet he’s a great lay, thought Mrs. Kemp. Mr. Lancaster was pondering the stillness of his neighbor’s property. I bet they use fertilizer, thought Mr. Lancaster.
     By Wednesday, Sam Lancaster had thought about it long enough. That day, he told everyone at the office he was going out for a long lunch. When he got back to his house, he was all alone, Jeanie at work, Debra at school. He went back to his closet and changed out of his suit and tie and into something much more comfortable and better suited for the potentially sweaty endeavor he was about to undertake.
     Then, cooly and calmly, Mr. Lancaster walked across the street. Not toward the front door, however, but through the gate and around the back. He peered into one of the tall windows along the back of the house. Looks empty, but you can never be sure, Mr. Lancaster thought. He crept up toward the back door and turned the knob slowly. It was unlocked, just as he had hoped. He quietly pushed open the door and glanced around the house. Nothing. So he tiptoed down the hallway and over to another large door. He let the door swing open and stood back.
     And there lay the object of his desire. Waiting for him. Looking sleeker and more seductive than he remembered. More powerful, more dangerous than she looked outside, in the sun. She beckoned to him. Climb on top me and mount me, she seemed to be saying. Get my motor running.
     And he did. Within minutes Mr. Lancaster had thrown caution to the wind, had flung open the garage door, and was now riding along on the Kemp’s Toro 5xi series garden tractor. Quickly and expertly, he trimmed every single blade of grass in the beautiful Kemp lawn to a neat two-and-a-quarter inches, just low enough to feel the satisfying swoop of the slicing blade without being too low that Donald Kemp would notice we he returned from work. It was ecstasy. After spending so many years with that beat up push mower on that scraggly dried out lawn, clipping row after row of thick, lustrous grass made him feel a new man.
     When he finished, he snuck back into his own house and grabbed several white trash bags from his kitchen and filled them with the cut grass from the mower’s large bag. Then, he quickly took a shower, changed his clothes, and drove back to the office, stopping at a dumpster behind the local grocery store on the way to dispose of the incriminating white plastic bags, loaded with millions of warm little stalks.

     ***

     “Carmen?”
     “Yeah honey?”
     “What…” Donald Kemp looked extremely pensive. “Were you at home today?”
     “Was I…what?”
     “Were you home. Today. During the day.”
     “No…”
     “Really?”
     “No. I went out with Amy and Allison. Remember?”
     “Yeah…”
     “What?”
     “You know what, it’s not important. Never mind.” But his tone of voice betrayed his apparent disinterest.
     “Honey, is something wrong?”
     “Nothing, it’s just…”
     “What?” Now Mrs. Kemp was starting to get worried. What could he be thinking of? Does he suspect something?
     “Did you mow the grass today?”
     “Did I what?” Mrs. Kemp had no idea what her husband meant.
     “Did you, you know, mow the grass?”
     “Honey, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
     “Today. While I was at work…did you…secretly…?”
     “Don, this is ridiculous. If I—mowed the grass or whatever—I’d tell you.”
     “Okay.”
     “And I didn’t. Mow the grass. If that’s what you mean.”
     The couple eyed each other hesitantly, with equal parts skepticism and bemusement.
     “Okay. Fine. It just looks a little shorter, that’s all.”

     ***

     The little tryst that Wednesday had satisfied an urge in Mr. Lancaster. Afterward, he felt a giant weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Mowing the Kemp’s lawn had been such a release. But by Friday morning, the urge had built up again. He knew it was wrong, sneaking around like that with the neighbors’ things when his attention was needed at home, but he couldn’t help himself.
     This time, just as he finished the backyard and was moving out to the front, into the driveway rolled Mrs. Kemp’s Volvo. She put her foot on the brake and rolled down the window.
     “Sam?” Mr. Lancaster looked up, stunned, and idled the mower. “Sam, what are you doing?”
     “I was mowing your grass.”
     “Okay.”
     “I thought maybe you guys would like it if I cut your grass for you.” Mr. Lancaster knew all along that Mrs. Kemp didn’t work and could have easily arrived home during either mowing session, but somehow he thought she might understand, or at least, not tell her husband or his wife. “I thought maybe it’d be a pleasant surprise.”
     “You’re using our mower.”
     “It’s a nice mower.”
     “Sam, have you done this before?”
     “What?”
     “Did you mow our lawn on Wednesday?”
     “On Wednesday?”
     “Sam, shouldn’t you really be mowing your own lawn? It’s so long.” The two of them sat there, looking at each other, the car engine and the mower engine humming in harmony. “You know what, Sam, I’ll just tell my husband that I mowed again. Okay? You can—finish up—if you want to. I don’t mind.” And she rolled her car into the garage.

     ***

     By Sunday afternoon, the Lancaster’s and the Kemp’s two lawns had drawn quite a bit of attention. The Lancaster yard, of course, after more than two full weeks without being mowed, looked like a jungle. The dry and dead spots that once spotted the lot now gave way to a thick tangle of overgrown grass. To Mr. Lancaster’s surprise, it looked greener than it ever had, and though it still sprouted the occasional weed, and though the neighborhood committee was threatening to suspend the Lancaster’s swimming pool privileges, he had to admit, his lawn had never looked, well, healthier. But who was he kidding? The Kemp yard, on the other hand, had been cut so short that the run of hot days had browned nearly the entire lot. It almost looked like it had been lit on fire. And the neighbors were talking.
     Debra Lancaster stood on the street between the two houses, taking pictures of each lawn.
     “Debra, what are you doing honey?”
     “I’m taking pictures of our grass. And the Kemp’s. For my biochem class.”
     “Oh, okay.”
     “See Dad: we let our grass grow, and now the long blades are shading the soil so that it doesn’t overheat. We also mulch. That’s why our grass looks so green. Although I hear the neighborhood committee is suspending our pool rights.”
     “Yeah, they want me to cut it.”
     “You should. I want to go swimming once summer starts.”
     “Oh.”
     “So look.” She showed her father some close-up images from her digital camera. “The Kemps cut their lawn so short, and they bag, so there’s practically no shade for the soil. I knew it would happen to them sooner or later. It doesn’t matter how many automatic sprinklers you have when you want you grass that short.”
     “Yeah, it’s pretty short, isn’t it.”
     “Plus they use fertilizers and so much gas with that tractor mower… Anyway, I’m doing our lawns as an environmental comparison for my final project.”
     “Boy, Debbie, you’re really interested in our lawn, aren’t you?”
     “I guess that makes one of us.”

     ***

     “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.” Mr. Kemp looked angrily out the window at his scorched lawn.
     “I’m sorry, Donnie, I thought mowing it for you would be a nice surprise.”
     “It’s a surprise all right. Do you have any idea how much money we put into our lawn?”
     “I must’ve cut it too short. By accident.”
     “You can say that again.”
     “I’m sorry.”
     “This sucks. You know we used to have the best lawn in Hunter’s Ridge?”
     “Did we?”
     “Heck yeah. And now this. I think it’s those goddamned Lancasters. Their grass is so frickin’ long it probably scared all of ours to death.”

     ***

     By the next Saturday, the Lancaster lawn had had three weeks of growth. Neighbors walking their dogs or taking their kids on a bike ride would stop in front of the house and speculate with their wives or jogging partners why the family had neglected to mow their lawn for so long. Was there a death in the family, some asked. Maybe their marriage is on the rocks. Have you seen the Lancasters at church recently? Maybe Sam has cancer. Maybe Jeanie’s too busy taking care of him to notice. Maybe their daughter’s pregnant. Or maybe they’re just angry at the neighborhood committee about something. It could be anything, really…
     Jeanie Lancaster had fallen asleep on the sun soaked couch while reading the Saturday paper. Mr. Lancaster peered out the window at Mrs. Kemp pulling out of the driveway. Now was his chance, he thought. Over the last week, the Kemp’s grass had rejuvenated enough that mowing was possible. And with Carmen gone and his wife asleep, he had to act quickly.
     Donald Kemp, however, had not fallen asleep while reading the Saturday paper, and when Mr. Lancaster strolled in through the back door and into the garage, Mr. Kemp paused in his reading to listen down the stairs. When he heard the garage door open, he assumed Carmen had come back home, but when no Carmen appeared in the house, he became suspicious. He stood up, and was about to walk down the stairs, when he was stopped by the sound of a lawn mower. His lawn mower, he thought. That forceful growling could be none other than his Toro lawn tractor. He turned away from the stairs and looked out his bedroom window.
     And there was Sam Lancaster, perched atop his machine, mowing his lawn! What on earth could he be doing, Mr. Kemp wondered, at first quite confused. But then, he started to put things together. This man, he thought angrily, has lost his goddamned mind. What a frickin’ jerk. Cutting my grass. Killing my grass. When he noticed that Jeanie’s minivan was parked in the Lancaster driveway, he decided to give their house a ring.
     “Hello?”
     “Jeanie, it’s Don.”
     “Hey Don.” She yawned as she tightened up her bathrobe.
     “Do you have any idea what your husband’s been up to?”
     “What? What’re you talking about?”
     “Why don’t you take a look outside.” Mrs. Lancaster was thrown a little off base by the stern tone in Mr. Kemp’s voice. But she glanced out their living room window just in time to see the lawn tractor zip behind the Kemp’s house. She looked at the phone, as if Don Kemp had somehow managed to teleport himself from the inside of the telephone speaker all the way to the seat of the Toro. She rushed out the front door and looked outside.
     “Do you see?”
     “Oh my God, it’s Sam.” Mrs. Lancaster dropped the phone and ran clumsily, shaken, through their jungle of a lawn and across the street.
     “Sam! Sam! Oh Sam, why are you doing this?”
     Mr. Lancaster slowed the mower’s engine to a dull hum and looked at his wife.
     “Sam this is not our yard. This is not your mower.”
     Mr. Lancaster opened his mouth, as if to speak, but no words came out. The mower continued to hum.
     “Oh Sam, please, please stop this. Stop this right now. You have no business mowing the Kemp’s lawn. Mr. Kemp can take care of that just fine himself. Okay? Okay, sweetie?”
     The mower kept buzzing away. Finally Mr. Lancaster spoke. “But I just—” And then he stopped. His wife looked at him pleadingly. “I’m almost finished,” he said softly.
     “Honey, honey, Don knows. Don saw you out here. He’s home. He’s home right now, probably watching you from his window. Do you understand? You can’t do this anymore. You have to stop. Look, look at our yard. Do you see?” She waved over at the jungle as the motor rumbled on. “You see that? You haven’t mowed our yard in weeks, honey. Weeks. You need to stop fooling around over here with the neighbors and mow our grass, okay? With our mower. Yeah? Does that sound alright?”
     Mr. Lancaster looked up at the Kemp’s bedroom window. Then back at his wife, who was crying. A big, wet tear rolled down her contorted face. She’s gotten so much older, he thought suddenly. It was like he hadn’t realized it before. His wife stood there before him in her bathrobe and clunky sandals, just woken up, her hair disheveled, exposing her silver gray roots. And then Mr. Lancaster cut the engine.