The other day I sat down for a quick lunch break. I had purchased my usual sandwich selection, fresh pot of joe had been brewed, it was feeding time. The lady from the sandwich shop had surprised me by doubling up on the toppings, slices of ham thicker, the bread oven-warm.
It wasn’t everyday that I was treated this well, must have been the positioning of the moon with Pluto rising.
That’s when the phone rang, right as I was about to take my first exploratory bite. With a hint of grain waltzing over my tongue I picked up the receiver;
-This‘t better be good… uhu… yeah… maybe, will have to check… all right… all right… sure… okay, will take care of that straight away.
I believe that it was sometime during the 1980’s that the phrase “straight away” had gotten a new meaning. Back in the good old days when buggies were still drawn by horses, when telegrams were the quickest way to send a message, during these days things were taken care of straight away in a ‘as fast as possible’ manner.
Someone needed a file, it meant digging through cabinets, walking up and down stairs, possibly having to cross the road to another building. It could take minutes, even hours.
By the time that a flock of seagulls became a one-hit wonder and yuppies called the shots, things had changed. Getting a file meant checking the computer, or sending a flunky in search of. If things did not go as fast as you liked you could always give yourself a boost by snorting a line or two of columbian marching powder.
Still, straight away only meant to say “as soon as I feel like it”.
In this case I still had my chompers to put into the sandwich lying in front of me.
As I drove unto the driveway a couple of hours later I was ready for the mission at hand; watering the plants, my boss’s plants. Him, away on a beach vacation. Me, plant watering flunky.
A couple of years ago I had visited with this buddy of mine who had become an -as he called it- amateur horticulturalist. In his case it meant growing about 10 plants of the Cannabis Nearlandica family. They stood 8 foot tall, growing buds the size of a fist. The smell was strong and sharp, a miracle that dogs didn’t bark at his house day and night… then again there is an ample shortage of free-roaming pot sniffing dogs, so need to worry on that front. It was the first time that I had gotten an interest in plants and the self-cultivation there of.
But after 3 futile attempts at become my own personal pusher, growing stalks 2 inches tall with brown leaves, I gave up and became a regular filler of someone else’s pockets again.
Plants; useless dust gatherers. That is how they are described in my dictionary.
Thus it should come as no surprise to you when I say that my task at hand was one that I would not perform with the usual verve of a chore like say… oiling up a blond-leggy-busty-nymphomaniac stripper, or cleaning Hugh Heffner’s swimming pool at the mansion.
Bleep bleep bleep bleep and the code was accepted. Way back in the garden, out of view and well hidden by an old chestnut tree, stood the glasshouse. Oh, did I fail to mention that my boss takes his plants very serious? Pure cubic feet in space I don’t know, but I sure as shit know that my first apartment could have fit into this glasshouse twofold.
There was an accumulation of flora and fauna to be founad here. To call it a hobby would have been belittling the task of professional groundskeepers at your local castle whatnot.
I couldn’t even start naming half… all the planty things in there. Probably cause I can’t give a flying heap for the lot, but also cause the offerings was a kin to the food found at a Swedish smorgasbord during brunch being served by wig wearing faggots sporting knee-high breeches while ladies exposing loads of cleavage drink mimosas and the gentile folk sniff a pinch from the armpits of their favourite mademoiselle…
I found the water hose in a corner and proceeded to dowse the plants with thick drops of H2O. Row after row I walked, hose in hand, humming “I can’t get no satisfaction” in the key of C.
Strange yet soothing this exercise proved to be. Maybe there is something to this hobby of keeping foliage. Ideas and thoughts popped in and out off my mind like soap bubbles being created by a toddler.
-What if I would have bought the red sweater, would I have been more aggressive?
-If SaSo hits another 43 homeruns then he will beat the record.
-All I need is 10 million buckeroos to be able to live the life I want.
-Whatever happened to Daisy Fuentes?
-That sure was a tasty ham-cheese sandwich I had earlier.
Seconds had turned into minutes into hours. Pots full of moist earth, roots growing and reaching for the watery nectar.
During the time spend on my newly found recreation I had formulated and solved many world crises.
I had become the priest of my own temple, cast laws aside and forged new ones while sporting a charming cloak and hat.
Changes had been made to the curriculum of beauty pageants; from now one all contestants had to perform magic tricks involving fruits and vegetables.
Most importantly, a decision had been made to build glasshouses in urban problem areas so that inner-city kids could get the chance to experience the same exhilarating feeling of mental relaxation I had a while ago. Give them the opportunity to build something, cultivate something, be part of something more…
As I left my boss’s abode behind me, heading back to my own place of existence –my four-walled cell- my tuned-in mind tuned back out. Music from the radio, vis-à-vis the vibrating air reaching those little hairs in my ears who in turn send out electrical message to my defunct brain, awoke me from my slumber. A hunger had awakened itself, asking… demanding to be fed. I needed a sandwich, and I needed it now.
My planty plans lost their lustre and faded away. They became void as my mind was now preparing to process the taste of a double cheese burger, biggie fries and large Coke I had procured at the drive-in. Though not as tasty as a big kahuna burger, the food hit the spot. Hunger subsided and a smile was born on my face.
The rest of the trip I tried, in vain, to sing along with the radio while my a-rhythmic fingers tapped along on the steering wheel.
The daily conundrum was reality again. Gone was the green vegetation in my life. Gone were the plans for change, the ecclesiastical attire, the disappearing aubergines at the Miss Universe contest. My daily routine returned to visiting the sandwich shop and hoping for a favourable position of one celestial body to another. My boss had returned from his beach vacation with a nice tan, renewed vigour and several plans to restyle his glasshouse.
As a sign of gratitude for my watering endeavours he had bought me a t-shirt with the message “Life’s a Beach” printed on it.
He asked me what I thought of his little set-up and was amazed to hear I had had a good time.
“Guess you will start your own little greenhouse,” he asked inquisitively, “or are you thumbs not green enough?”
And that’s when I realised that my glasshouse plans would remain plans. For looking at my thumbs I noticed the colour was not green but brown. Brown thumbs due to their cavity placement, sitting around doing nothing… and truly enjoying the non-effort being made! Sure, it is nice to make plans, but actually realising them takes energy, and energy is something I only get when eating and drinking them burgers and large Cokes.
The next time I found myself watering the plants the location had changed… and so had the water.
Damn those large Cokes!!!