"Bruce Holland Rogers - Green Lawns" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rogers Bruce Holland)

Green Lawns
by Bruce Holland Rogers
This story copyright 1992 by Bruce Holland Rogers. This copy was created for Jean Hardy's personal
use. All other rights are reserved. Thank you for honoring the copyright.

Published by Seattle Book Company, www.seattlebook.com.

* * *


1.
One thing about being up here is that I can see how green the lawns really are. Waxman's. Evans's.
Taylor's. All clipped and manicured. All a rich, kelly green.
When I hear the sprinklers running, that's when it's hardest on me. What I wouldn't do, what I
wouldn't change, if only they'd give me a chance, if only they'd let me down and give me a taste of that
water. That's the hardest thing, or course, the lack of water. You stop feeling the hunger pretty soon,
because the thirst is so much bigger.
My throat feels like it's made of paper.
***


2.
The first time Waxman mentioned the lawn to me, it seemed innocent enough. We were standing at his
back yard barbecue, watching the burgers grill while his wife made a salad and Waxman's kids played on
the jungle gym and swings. Waxman had a huge yard-- two standard lots, he told me-- and the biggest
house on the block. The backyard play area was equipped like a small park.
"Well, Dick," he said, "I guess you're just about settled in enough to start giving some attention to that
lawn of yours. It sure could use some water and a trim."
I had introduced myself deliberately as Richard. I hated any shortened version of my name. For the
sake of amiability, though, I didn't bother to correct him, especially since, given the lush state of his lawn,
he wasn't going to like what I had to say about my own lawn.
"To tell the truth," I told him, "I'm planning on just letting the lawn go."
"Let it go?" Waxman looked up from flipping the burgers. He smiled an uncertain smile like he knew I
was joking, but he didn't get the joke. "What do you mean, let it go?"
"I mean just that. Not cut it. Let it grow as tall and ragged as it wants to in the spring, and then when
the summer heat comes, cut it once and let it turn brown."
"Brown?" Waxman forced a laugh. I had to be kidding. "Let your lawn turn brown? On purpose?"
"Lawns don't make any sense in this part of the country," I told him. "There's not enough water to go
around with the west growing like it is, so I thought I'd do my share for conservation. They need water
on the plains for farming more than we need it for watering lawns."
Waxman kept the smile, but it was starting to look pasted on. His face was sweaty. I noticed he was
wearing a white t-shirt under his short-sleeve dress shirt. That had to be hot. My grandfather was the
only person I knew who still wore an undershirt all the time, no matter how hot the season. "But surely,"
Waxman said, "the covenants..."
"This is an old neighborhood," I told him. "The covenants expired ten years ago. I checked. No
offense, John, but I wouldn't move into a neighborhood where I was required to have a perfectly green
lawn."
From the other side of the house came the faint jingling of bells, and Waxman's kids, two boys and a
girl, jumped out of their swings and sprinted toward him.
 "Father," said the eldest boy, "may we have money for ice cream?" Father? I thought. May we?