Held Hosta-ge
“When working around people’s houses, I’ve learned to “not look”. I don’t peer thru windows, or try to locate any points of reference, that are not within my purview. Not so, my co-worker. “That’s the biggest bong I’ve ever seen”, she said, as we pulled a plastic sled full of tools around the back of the house. I admit, it was fair game, sitting on the patio, like a naughty child put in time out. “I never would have noticed that if you hadn’t pointed it out,” I replied. I guess I’ve trained myself to be non-observant, by choice. The less you know, the less there is to react to. Sometimes, it’s better that way, in life. We proceeded to dig up the biggest Hosta, I’ve ever, well, dug up. An old soul. Keeping to the task at hand, I focused on the idea that everything must one day, be divided, if it insists upon growing. As we put all our muscle into the final thrusting, using two pitchforks working side-by-side, the gigantic non-mammal began to lift. The sound, half ripping, half reverse knitting, rent the air. Stranger still, that in its place, stood a strange pencil - a marker, perhaps, denoting what ... danger? Visually, a cousin to blasting caps of yore, or a septic pipe byway, or could it be an old flag, for defining plowing perimeters? We sat back, not wanting to touch it, but dusted it off, gingerly, then photographed it. Tentatively, cautiously, we pulled back the soil. Suddenly, there was a roar, and the tenant, a tradesman, roared into the driveway, in a pickup, followed by another. Two young men got out, intent on some errand. “They’ll know what it is,” I whispered, and my associate took the hint. Turning her attention immediately towards the guys, she yelled “Hey, maybe you know what this is, can you help us?”. One of the guys came bounding down. He took one look, grabbed the thing, and pulled. “Dunno”, he said. His bold action had not ended in any kind of explosion or electrical fire. “Yeah, it must have been marking something”, he said. We nodded. Then thanked him, all of us now in agreement that we’d found a non-lethal object. Both workers on lunch break disappeared into the one’s apartment. Before long, a distinct, herbal pungency some might call “sweet” began to permeate the area. My partner and I, now pulling the giant Hosta in the plastic sled to the other side of the house, mused upon the fact that the biggest bong had gone missing from the patio. “It’s a guy thing”, I said. And without trying to be biased or rude, I added: “ They can just grab stuff.” I wanted to elaborate, but it suddenly seemed superfluous. We encounter wires, underground pipes and grounding rods, from time to time, in people’s gardens. One’s they’ve forgotten about. It’s part of life.”