On Tuesday evenings I think about taking the blade from the lawnmower and bashing it into my skull. I’m not sad. In fact, there has been little despondency in my life since mother died of Creutzfeldt–Jakob disease 11 years ago. Shortly thereafter, my family and I relocated from North Carolina to a nice residential community outside Fort Lauderdale. Aside from the occasional outburst from my 9-year-old son, Samuel, for not understanding word problems in math, or an annoyed glance from my wife, Meredith, when I forget to pick up soy creamer for coffee, I feel loved. At the accounting firm, I have a secretary who buys me a nice bottle of port around the high holidays and a boss who gives me raises without my having to beg. Still, there is that lawn mower. It’s right behind the newly leased Camry. Tonight, when I’m in the garage compressing cans with the contraption Meredith bought on SkyMall, I actually consider removing the blade. What fascinates me is not so much end
Cover Page Footnote
Another Night of Recycling Cans was originally published at Booth.
"Another Night of Recycling Cans,"
Booth: Vol. 7
, Article 2.
Available at: https://digitalcommons.butler.edu/booth/vol7/iss9/2