Last month, I couldn’t stop ruminating on my neighbor’s bush. One afternoon, Dickie and I were enjoying a Bloody Mary. He was in the study, engrossed in an online, men’s-only Bible class, so I was entertaining myself. I had been casually flipping through a picture book of historical knobs when I took a break and looked out the bay window in my living room. I sat in the window seat and commenced praying for my neighbors. As you know from my previous posts, they are fine people, in general, other than that unseemly, rumpy sow, Double D.
Strangely, this particular bush was not in her yard. You would think that something so unwholesome would take root in Double D’s cursed soil, but it was in Fannie’s yard who lives next door to her. Fannie is a fine Christian woman with excellent taste in all matters. Although her black eyes are close-set and she is aberrantly small, with tiny feet the size of spatulas, she is always modestly dressed in very expensive clothes. Because of this, I like Fannie very much. However, something about her bush disturbed me. It was not wild; it was always well-groomed, trimmed and maintained, but it seemed responsive— animated and aroused by movement. Perhaps, it unnerved me that such a Lilliputian woman would have such a dominant and dynamic bush.
When it stormed, as it frequently does in Beavers Hole, it twitched and convulsed under the powerful domination of the muscular winds. In the morning, dewy moisture glistened on its tender leaves. When it was hot, it seemed to pant when the warm air stirred it. It was not just me who was under the spell of Fannie’s ensorcelled bush. No, I spotted Dickie, unaware of my presence, gazing at the bush and stroking himself on the chin. Clearly, the devil had penetrated this bush in order to torment Dickie and me.
That is why one midnight, I crept like an assassin right up to the bad bush with a can of gasoline and a big box of matches. As the King James Version of the Bible says, “Every tree [or bush] that bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire." That bad bush has borne no fruit, so I knew I must act before it destroyed us.
Just as the bush became inflamed, the Lord appeared in the midst of it. He was dressed as a fireman with a red coat and hat, but I was concerned that his long hair would ignite. Before I could warn him, he shouted, “Gladys what the fuck is wrong with you? You’re committing arson!”
“Okay, Lord,” I said. “Your hair, will it catch fire?” The bush immediately stopped burning, and the Lord stepped towards me.
“You can’t go around setting people’s bushes on fire.” The Lord waggled his fingers, and the bush was restored to its former state. It seemed to pulse with gratitude.
“But it was a bad bush,” I countered. “What about that business in the Bible about burning bad plants? I was still holding the gasoline can. It was getting heavy, so I put it down by my house shoes.
“Jesus Christ, Gladys, that was a metaphor. You do not burn shit down. Unacceptable.”
“Yes, Lord,” I said and looked at my feet. “I guess, I made a mistake. How can I fix it?”
“That’s better, Gladys,” he said and took my hand. “Apologize to this bush. Promise you won’t hurt it ever again.”
I nodded in agreement. “Bush, I’m really sorry I hurt you. I’ll never do it again.”
“And you need to take Fannie a casserole tomorrow. She got some bad news today. She’s going to need a friend.”
“Okay, Lord,” I said. I did as he told me, and things have been much better. I’m not bothered by poor Fannie’s big bush any longer. In fact, I’m so busy helping her drive her husband to his cancer treatments, I haven’t noticed the bush at all. I just wish the Lord would be clearer about things in the Bible, but he’s such a card. He really keeps me on my toes.
