Friends Don’t Let Friends Use Electric Trimmers
My friend Bill was wearing a maniacal grin as he approached a stand of spirea drooping over some unruly boxwoods. In his hand was one of those orange-colored electric trimmers…you know the kind. They’re about two feet long with a business end that reminds me of a sawfish. (I actually caught one of those shark-like creatures when I was about 10 years old, but that’s another story.)
An unrolled orange electrical cord was a telling sign. It told me he intended to attack just about every green, and possible every living, thing within the reach of that cord. The neighbor’s labradoodle was looking on with real apprehension.
Bill pulled the trigger on the trimmer and the jaws of death sprang into life.
At this sound, Bill’s wife, Carol, burst through the back door. She was shouting something and gesturing frantically, first at me and then at her husband.
“Bob, stop him,” I finally heard over the menacing whine of the toothed machine. “He’s gonna kill something…again.”
Just before the trimmer’s teeth touched the spirea, Bill looked over his shoulder, an even broader grin on his face. I thought “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” as he turned back to the job. Bits of chewed up, shredded plant pieces spew into the air. Carol put her hands on her hips then looked at me and finally, in despair, at the ground.
Me? No, I’m no hero. Especially when my Bronx friend has a living hedge trimmer in his hand.
Later, after the heat of the moment was over, and he had turned off the trimmer “It’s ok now, Bill,” I said. “The spirea can’t hurt you anymore. Give me the trimmer.” With that, I gently removed the trimmer from his hands.
