Rock and Bluegrass

People

The right front wheel of the lawnmower was loose, just slightly off true, but Damon knew right away.

Probably loosed a screw bumping the curb trying to avoid the car turning right too fast when he was coming from the red brick house with the black mailbox perched on the porch.

He was certain that that’s when the wheel loosened, and he was mad at himself for not checking before he started the next lawn, the white house with the tall roof and the satellite dish, the one whose front yard he stood in now.

Damon took care of his lawnmower like some people took care of their show dogs.

He was due for a new mower, and he knew it, and it made him sad, very similar in sadness to someone who knew their show dog didn’t have much time left.

Damon didn’t know much about show dogs, except the nice lady who lived in the house with the round stained glass in the brown wood door had one.

It was a Weimeraner, and that’s what Damon called it, “Hi, Weimeraner,” even though the lady had another name for it, but Damon couldn’t remember names. The lady had stickers on her car that said Weimeraner, with silhouettes of her dog, and after multiple passes of the car with his mower, Damon remembered Weimeraner. 

Damon remembered houses that needed their lawn cut, and some of the people would say “fine job, come back Wednesday,” but Damon couldn’t remember what days went with what names, so he would just knock on the doors of houses and ask if they wanted their lawn mowed.

Damon didn’t know it, but some of the people whose lawns he mowed marveled at what a great job he did for a guy who couldn’t remember their name or when Thursday was.

Damon didn’t know it, but he was a savant.