Pruning the Pink-Ones

Some grounded but personal fiction…

Prune the pink ones, that’s what she had said. Dumb bitch didn’t even know what they were called. If you can fix up everyone else’s house you can damn well fix ours, she certainly had a way about her.

Sometimes I wonder how in holy hell I’ve survived nearly seventeen years of marriage with that woman. Of course, it wasn’t supernatural, she was smokin’ back in the day. She was a track star, her long sturdy legs made mine weak. She had these eyes; I mean no shit right? But hers were this dark brown, made it so I couldn’t think straight. The way she’d glance at me, like she was looking past me. Damn that shit got me goin’ I still blame that look for our first son. Come to think of it, I blame our first son for why we got married in the first place. I knocked her up, it’s still pretty tense at all the family get-togethers. Her parents think she had potential; potential I stole from her or something. Sure. I don’t much care if they blame me, they’d never believe that their precious little girl was a stoner and a slut. If it wasn’t me, it would’ve been someone else. I didn’t work too hard at it, and she didn’t protest when I didn’t have a rubber.

Maybe I should take responsibility, but if you ask me, marriage is punishment enough. Cuz’ it wasn’t someone else who did it, it was me, I’m the one who got caught in that web. I was a stupid kid, and I haven’t learned much since. That’s how we first met, ya know. When we first lit up together and spilled our guts to each other, we realized we were both troubled teens. Not like we’d throw ourselves off any buildings or swallow a handful of pills, we had thick skin. We were troubled though; we knew that about each other. I know right, who wasn’t? She had too much expectation weighing her down, so she took to boys and joints. As long as her head was spinning, she could ignore the rest. I didn’t have any expectations; my family didn’t believe in em’. So, it seemed like I wasn’t harming anybody but myself if I boozed it up and smoked a joint or two.

Escapists, I think that’s the term.

  We were always looking for a new distraction, me and Grace. Then one day we found each other. We decided to make one giant mess of a life together instead of trekking through two smaller, lonelier ones. It was an accident of course, when Andrew came along. We never meant to get kids mixed up in all this shit. But she was raised Catholic and her parents already hated me too much, so we kept the kid. It’s more than that though, I think we both thought, or hoped, that a kid might change things. Sure, we couldn’t grow up, but maybe helping someone else do it might help us too. Selfish cunts, the both of us.

            So anyway, I’m already shoveling the mulch for her new garden, a garden I sure as shit don’t even use, when the misses walks out on our rickety porch and yells,

            “Don’t forget to prune the pink ones.”

The ‘pink-ones?’ She doesn’t even know what the fuck they’re called. So, I say fuck it, obviously, and just do that before finishing the mulch. I start pruning the fucking ‘pink-ones,’ when I realize she’s still standing on the porch watching me. I ain’t exactly the young stallion I was when we first met in high-school, I look fine though, a hell of a lot better than her after the third kid, but I find it hard to believe that she’s just checking me out. At this point, she just sees me as some personal landscaper who put three painful pregnancies in her. The last one was just a little too late into her life for her to recover, if natural beauty was the last thing she had, she had lost most of that to.

So now I’m a punching bag, a scratching post.

  Anyway, I feel her eyes on me and I know it’s coming. Seventeen years of the same bullshit, seventeen years of standing still. If I don’t force her to say something, she’s gonna sit there plotting all the ways we’re gonna fix this mess. She’s gonna walk me through her twelve-step plan to save this forest fire of a marriage. Maybe I should try and be receptive right? Try and find that sweet common ground all the counselors are always yipping about. But they don’t get it, it won’t be a conversation, she doesn’t have conversations. She’ll expect me to stand there, rod-still, and listen to her rip me for everything that ever went wrong in her life. She’ll mask it with Sweeties and I love yous but she’s really just blowing her gasket on me the way only bitter women can, with that eerie calm and faint love in their eyes that no supervillain in cinema has been able to match yet. She’ll say it’s my fault that we live in a mobile home park with shitty neighbors. She’ll blame me that the kids do whatever they can to avoid being home. Hell, she’ll blame me for why she hasn’t got off in weeks, then make me sleep on the couch that same night when I finally boil over and open my stupid mouth. We’ll tell the boys I’m snoring again, cuz they definitely didn’t stop buying that one years ago.

Three kids, all boys. Thank god for small miracles. Anyway, I decide I’m not going through that shit today, not while I’m tending to her goddamned garden, pruning her ‘pink-ones.’ I decide I’m gonna beat her to it, I’m gonna skip to the fight. No pecking, no clever play of emotions, just down and dirty.

“Can I help you, princess?”

It wasn’t charming, wasn’t funny, it was dry and mean, just plain mean. I looked and saw her arms folded across her chest. I saw the excess arm fat and loose skin hidden at her waist. Her once fit and trim body, taken. All her promise, stolen. I saw it in her eyes, she blamed herself, but she wanted to blame me.

“Don’t you start Chet, I’m really not in the mood.”

“Yeah, it must’ve been a hard day, sitting on your fat ass.”

“You’re such a fucking asshole. Cuz’ you work so hard, right Chet? That’s why this porch still doesn’t even have a fucking roof. ‘I’ll fix it. I’ll fix it.’ But typical Chet, never follows through.”

“Yeah sorry, I’ll get to it after I finish taking care of the garden you wanted so badly. Yet another thing that you just had to have, that then somehow became my fucking responsibility.”

“Never too late to start taking responsibility for something, sweetheart.”

“You’re one to talk, where the fuck is Andrew? You know, our son!? The one fucking thing I ask is for you to take care of the goddamn kids.”

“I’m working too, last I checked you don’t make shit, so we both needed to pitch in.”

“It’s a fucking Saturday, daycare isn’t open, so instead of sitting on your ass there your sitting on your ass here. Matter-o-fact, if you can take care of the kids there, you can damn well take care of them here.”

Turned that one over on her, nice.

“Too bad they’re never here Chet! Maybe they don’t like coming home to a house that leaks and that doesn’t even have a roof over the porch, Jesus the paint is even worn off.”

“You want a roof on there so badly do it yourself!”

“Do you think I know a damn thing about roofing?!”

“No, Grace, I’m sure you don’t know a fucking thing about it.”

“Oh, good one, guess that’s because I didn’t waste my life fixing roofs for a living.”

“No, you just wasted your life with a man who fixes roofs for a living.”

“Smart ass, you’re so fucking smart, right Chet? Too bad it never got you anywhere!”

She slammed the door and was back inside.

“It got me you…”

I spoke quietly, not even certain if I actually said it myself. I turned back to the ‘pink-ones’ and snipped away at the excess growth. Shouldn’t take too long. Especially with the peace and quiet. It didn’t take long, not at all. In fact, I was done in less than thirty minutes. So, I figure, screw it, right. I say, ‘might as well make this shit worth it.’ She’d need time to cool down as it is, trust me, that house may as well be quarantined for the next couple hours. Good thing the boys weren’t home. They’d make it worse, especially Austin. Austin likes to take sides. Anyway, I decided I’m gonna make this worth my time. I just go on pruning the rest. I clip away. Not just the ‘pink-ones’ but the ‘red-ones’ and ‘purple-ones’ too. Sure, the mulch is still sitting there, but it’ll be sitting there long after I finish this damn garden. I know what you’re thinking, go in and talk to your wife, don’t be the bad guy, be the bigger man. I’d laugh but the joke got old a long time ago. Like I said, she wouldn’t talk. She’d yell, scream, piss and moan until I leave for a drink or promise to fix the porch.

Of course, I wouldn’t, she’d have to pull something more serious than her usual bitching for me to take that promise seriously. Her usual tactic, once too much time had passed and I had grown too complacent, was to cry divorce. I’ll take your fuckin money! I’ll take the fuckin’ house! I’ll take the fuckin’ kids! Then I’d cave, at least long enough to get a contractor buddy of mine to give us a statement. That would cool things down. I get it, I get it, you don’t like me. It’s fine, really. I got used to people not liking me a while ago. I mean my own wife doesn’t like me; you think I give a shit what you think? I think she still loves me, can’t be sure, but I’m sure she hates me. I still love her, of course, wouldn’t be doing this whole fuckin’ garden if I didn’t. Pruning all the goddamned ‘pink-ones’ just so she can sit on her ass and calm down. I guess, I fear her more than I love her now. The kind of cautious fear a man should have toward the woman who could take everything from him. She could take my house, my money, even the kids. Then again, I have thick skin, I’d be fine.

Talk to her? Fuck you. She wants this garden then that’s exactly what she’ll get, exactly what I’ll do. Just come home to do more work. Gardening, Jesus, how the hell did I get here? Long legs and brown eyes, that’s all it took to ruin everything. Now we live in a mobile home park in the butt-fuck suburbs of central Mass. ‘The Estates’ it makes me wanna laugh right now, even after almost twenty years of living here. ‘Estates,’ sounds fancy right? Well, let me take you on a tour of our five-star amenities. Beautiful one-floor homes, with that sought-after ‘built in a day fresh out of an Ikea box’ look that all the socialites are on about. Don’t worry though ‘cuz the kids at least have a space of their own, a park down by the entrance to The Estates. That’s right, a whole park, complete with one basketball hoop and the community dump just on the other side of the fence. A park full of comradery, competition, and tetanus. Alright, fine, so the commodities aren’t the best, but never fear, your neighbors are here. The Estates only welcomes the very best that society has to offer. A fine community of sex offenders, unemployed convicts, and dying seniors without the proper familial ties to be cared for. Each of these people raising there-own delinquent children.

Speaking of delinquent children: okay fine, so I’m not the best husband, but at least I’m a pretty good father. Sure, I’m not perfect, but who is? I mean, I put a roof over their heads. Well, except for the porch. Like I said, I’m not perfect. C’mon though, we all used to think that Cosby was a great father, dude literally wrote the book on it. I gotta be better than him; at least I’m a positive role model. I guess I’d describe myself as a,much-neededd, masculine presence in the house. A hysterical woman with crushed dreams raising three boys on her own is an ugly sight, I supply a level of security. I guess at the very least I show the kids how to take shit in stride. She screams and pecks away at my pride, but I just keep on plugging away.

  I hold down three jobs, on top of contracting; but I still make it to some of their sporting events, not that any of them are all that gifted. I was something back in the day, I was looking at a potential scholarship as a running back. Oh sorry, did I forget to mention that? Sometimes I forget about it myself, seems everyone else has. Especially her, and her parents, she had so much potential. Not me though, I only ran for two thousand yards in eleven games, no big deal. I dug away at the weeds. I know she didn’t ask me to, but why stop now? I already pruned the ‘pink-ones,’ the mulch isn’t going anywhere, might as well just do it all. Anything to not walk back into that shit-show. I was pretty sure she was looking at me from the kitchen window, but if I look back, she might take that as an invitation to come outside. God forbid. At least I don’t need consent from the garden, no teamwork. I can just keep weeding, keep trimming, keep pruning; shit, maybe I am a gardener. I almost laugh and cry at the same time, but don’t worry, I’m thick-skinned. The worst part about living in the estates, yeah sorry I’m still on about that; the worst part is that there’s another Estates only a few miles from here and they actually earned the name. Nice suburban, white-fenced homes. So, every time people ask, I’m forced to explain the difference. Admitting, in not so many words, that I’m a shit-bag who can only afford the imitation of middle-class living.

I guess, you wanna know more about the kids, right? There aint much to tell if I’m honest. They aren’t athletes, like I said, not like I was, not like their mom was. They do good, not great, in school. No real direction, at least not for Andrew, the others are still too young to tell. Andrew, our oldest, he lacks direction, like I said. I mean, sure, he talks about building an internet presence, about writing, about lots of stuff. Course’ all he does is hang with his shit-for-brains friends. Andrew’s smart, lazy but smart. I’d be harder on him about it but, in truth, he’s kind of a pussy. Oh God, here we go! Did you just call your son a pussy? You all sound like her. Calm down. I don’t mean it in a bad way, I know that sounds dumb, but it’s true. He’s a good kid, couldn’t convince me otherwise. We don’t get along great, but that’s fine. I don’t get along with anyone. I’m used to people hating me, I mean my own wife hates… oh right I already said that. My bad, I’ve had a lot of jobs, but storytelling never was one of em’ so sorry if it’s a little rough. Anyway, the kid aint fond of me, but like I said I don’t mind. I love the kid, even when he made me buy him stuffed animals and dolls in public, I used to think he was gay and wondered how I’d handle that mess. Couldn’t go calling him a fag playfully until I was certain. Shit, there’s more than I thought, should’ve saved the weeds for tomorrow.

Okay, like I was saying, I love the kid, he’s just nothing like me, ya know? God damn though, I thank the almighty every day for that. Also, it turned out he wasn’t gay, just kind of…a pussy. Again, not in a bad way. He cried a lot as a kid, but it was good for him. Maybe I should’ve cried more. Now he’s the spitting image of his mom, long legs and brown eyes. The legs are awkward on him though, being a boy and all. They helped him play basketball, that is when he wasn’t tripping over them. He’s got my shoulders though, and the girls have already noticed, even if he hasn’t. God I’m glad he’s not me. I was right by the way; she was looking out the window. Only way she could have seen the car before I did, walking up to me while I shoveled the mulch into the wheelbarrow acting like she only noticed after she came outside. A black sedan had just crept around the corner and on to our street.

“Is that Andrew?”

She peered down the road, sure enough a black sedan was pulling up, speak of the devil and he will appear. She handed me a beer without looking at me, a peace offering. The kid had been gone two days with no calls, it would take our combined forces to scold him. It was the one thing we did well together, not raising him, but tearing into him.

“Yeah that’s him, shoulda figured he was hanging with that retard all weekend.”

“His name’s Chris, try and be civil.”

“Sure.”

The sedan pulled up and Andrew already had a look on his face that made it clear he was aware of what was in store. It was nothing new, he’d leave for days at a time and come home to me and his mother, ready to tell him off. When the door opened, I actually had to fan the air around me as Grace turned away in disgust. The odor of cheap weed and the neglected interior of a late ninety’s sedan seeped out, the stench was only amplified by the dry summer heat.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

“Calm down, Chet. It’s not his car.”

“No, just his friends.”

Andrew stepped out and gave his friend Chris a departing hand gesture. Then the other kid, Chris, stuck his face out of the driver side window with a polite smile.

“Have a nice day mister and misses O’leary, I brought the dork back in one piece for you.”

Andrew flipped his friend off while walking past. My wife smiled and waved; I didn’t move. Despite twenty years of unhappy marriage I still maintained a good enough physique to play the frightening father figure, at least for a couple more years. I often thought that might be the only reason Grace was keeping me around: aged eye candy and protection.

  I’ll give the Chris kid some credit, he would almost be a charming young man if it weren’t for his disheveled appearance. Sure, Andrew was wearing a black T-shirt which he had obviously been wearing for the last couple days, and maybe he hadn’t showered, but he still looked better off than this other kid. Chris had long curly hair, maybe matted is a better term. He sold weed around town, a young entrepreneur. He needed to work on his presentation though if he wanted to get to the big leagues. I mean the kid actually had some bud caught in his hair, his fuckin’ hair: A literal pothead. Anyway, the kid drove off, back to the other Estates where he lived. The nice one. What a fuckin joke. I guess kids were rotten everywhere, or a maybe this place was just that infectious. After all, the kid wasn’t always such a loser, just young and stupid like all of us. But time has a funny way of fucking with perspective.

Andrew stood awkwardly in front of us before trying to walk briskly past

“Where the hell have you been, kid?” I looked at him sternly

“With Chris.” He gestured to the sedan as it turned the corner, his tone was what you’d expect from a defiant seventeen-year-old.

“For two days? No calls, no texts, nothing?” Grace had her hands on her hips

“Why does it matter? I’m back. If you really cared you could have texted me, ya know?”

“That’s not our job Andrew. You tell us where you are, not the other way around.” Grace was pointing her finger at him, I took a sip of my beer.

“Why not?”

“Watch it.” I glared

“Because we are your parents, young man. We will not have you hanging around with pot-heads and wasting your days away with kids like that.” Grace was using her well-practiced stern voice, I leaned in and sniffed him.

“Seriously?” He protested, taking a step back

“You smoking that shit?”

“What? No.”

I knew he wasn’t, he hung with pot-heads, but he wasn’t one. He didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, not weed or tobacco. He was a pussy in a good way.

Grace observed him with shock as if the thought never occurred to her

“Andrew you better not be, it would break my heart.”

Me and Andrew both rolled our eyes.

“Whatever, I don’t need this.” Andrew walked past us and up the porch steps, Grace yelled after him

“Well there’s no dinner in there for you, I didn’t know when you’d be home, so I didn’t bother cooking any!”

She had used that one on me plenty of times but, truthfully, Andrew was probably just happy not to suffer through eating that mess she called cooking. I stood with one hand on the shovel and one hand holding the beer. I took another sip. Grace placed her hand on my bare shoulder. Despite the sweat, she kept it there.

“What are we gonna do about him, Chet?”

I didn’t say anything.

“I’m gonna head inside and get dinner ready, want to come?”

I gestured to the mulch, halfway there. “I should finish up. I’ll be in soon.”

She had one of her rare looks of understanding. Of course, if she really did understand, what a painful realization that must have been for her. We both owed each other an apology, another one to add to the pile, but that was a debt we’d pay down the line. She went to walk away when Andrew came back out the screen door of the porch. He had changed his shirt and put on some cologne. He walked down the steps with a youthful strut.

“Where you heading, kid?”

“Just across the street, gonna grab a pizza. Probably gonna hit up Tom or Becca about hangin’ tonight.”

Grace scoffed, and a forced a sarcastic laugh. Tom was another one of Andrew’s friends, another great influence, Becca was the girl he had a crush on. He still thinks I don’t know. I was quiet and went back to shoveling, Grace was less quiet.

“So, while you’re off with your friends-AGAIN, your father will just be slaving away on the garden with no help? He’s been out here all day in the heat, sweating his ass off.”

“Well what have you been doing?” Andrew looked at his mom

“Excuse me, young man?!”

“I thought it was your garden, why’s dad doing it?”

He tried to play me against her, clever little shit. Grace just turned away in exaggerated bewilderment. When her authority was challenged, her best response was to break down crying or just act like everyone around her was crazy. She was good at it.

“Watch your damn mouth kid. Do not disrespect your mother. It’s my fuckin garden, I paid for it, last I checked I pay for the whole fuckin’ house, the roof over your head. So if you’re not planning on being around but you still expect dinner and a bed to be here for you when you come back, then you better start helping out.” Times like this I couldn’t tell if I was being a good husband or a good father, in all likely hood, I wasn’t being much of either.

“Okay well, what the fuck do you want me to do?” He just stared back at me with his wide brown eyes, Grace stepped in.

“Andrew watch your language!”

“What do you want me to do?” He calmed down, looking physically strained by the attempt to appease us both.

“Tomorrow you and me are gonna fix that porch, so be home by noon. It looks like shit and it’s about time you carried your weight around here.”

“Sure, fine, whatever.” He stormed off down the road.

“Unbelievable.” Grace muttered, “I wonder where he gets that from.”

I smiled.

“Yeah, I wonder.”

“Come inside when you’re done.”

“Sure.” Almost done, I looked at the pile of mulch. It might take a while; longer than I thought. I stuck the shovel back in and poured a full clump into the wheelbarrow. I looked up and saw Andrew staring back at me as the screen door shut behind his mom. He averted his pink swollen eyes when he saw me stop shoveling and look his way. Shaking his head, he walked down the road. So, he hates me. Good. Just like his mother, just like me. Let him hate me. Hate me and get the fuck out of here, kid.