The blades of the whirring

May 07, 2003

The blades of the whirring push mower created that surging, warm pleasant rhythm that arcs upward and then dies in waves. It was five or six front lawns away up the next street. It was a quiet enough neighbourhood that you could hear it from where they were. Some of the kerosene spilled onto his jeans as it dripped out the nail hole in the last tennis ball can at the bottom of the cannon. No matter. It evaporated fast in the sun and the jeans were pretty stained anyway. Five cans were taped end to end with the gaffer’s best and only one end was sealed. The nail hole was where you held the lighter. They’d been building their makeshift bazooka all afternoon out back behind the shed. After that ounce of fluid had made its way down to the bottom he swung the tube like a windmill to get that explosive vapour roiling about inside and on the edge of evaporation. They liked the smell as it heightened the event with a cheap high. Boy #2 heard “NOW!” and tilted his hand sideways over the nail hole with the Bic lighter wheel cocked under his thumb. Boy #1 dropped the fluorescent greenish yellow fuzzy ball down the tube and swung the cannon up onto his shoulder. Buddy’s hand tracked the hole as it moved up behind Dan’s back and simultaneously cranked the flint wheel of the Bic. There was a roar that deafened them both. They couldn’t hear the whirring of the mower stop in mid wave. They couldn’t hear the old man fall with a quiet thud to the freshly mown lawn. They couldn’t hear him get up and mutter “jesus christ”. They couldn’t really hear for two days.