About the Growth of Grass and Pansies

About the Growth of Grass and Pansies

By Ofir Marom

Paul’s mind was working overtime - a gushing waterfall - as he searched for something to explain what had happened a few moments ago. He was sitting in front of his computer screen, fingers typing with intensity – like a cat pouncing on a wounded bird.
An event, a memory, a feeling – That’s what had happened, and in that order too. The event had occurred while Paul was slouching on the couch, drinking a can of Heineken beer and eating greasy potato chips, which, with the use of modern day flavorings, had an incredible likeness to beef jerky.

He was flicking through the million-billion-zillion channels on his television (one of those brand new supercool LCD ones), only vaguely aware of the images that flashed before his eyes – a man pointing a gun at another man, saying, ‘Let’s settle this once and for all!’; a lion in the bush, stalking a herd of deer; a game show where one found ones true love; Jimi Hendrix, jamming like a devil on his electric guitar.
And that was the event that had triggered the memory, which caused Paul, like a golem animated, to sit up from his couch, wipe potato chip crumbs off his beer-stained t-shirt and take a what-is-going-on-with-my-life timeout.

Usually, when Paul wrote down his ideas and troubles, he found a fulfilling feeling of calmness and appreciation by the end of the exercise. Words flowed from his fingertips like a tranquil river. The rhythmic click-click-click of the keyboard seemed to be singing a peaceful song. 
WHAT’S HAPPENING! WHY ISN’T IT WORKING THIS TIME?!
He increased the intensity of his typing, trying to force that memorable feeling he had felt so often before; but this time, the click-click-click sounded like evil voices, conspiring against him. He stopped. Silence - except for the gentle swooshing of a fan. His fingertips were sore and tired. He shut down the computer, not bothering to save the document he had typed.

It had happened 16 years ago, the 16th of March – he remembered the date because it was the day of his birthday. He was in his room in his parents’ house, lying on his bed, and throwing a tennis ball against the wall. Throw-catch, Throw-catch, Throw-catch…the creaking sound of the front door opening! He got up hastily and ran to meet his father.
‘Dya get it?! Dya get it?!’ he asked his father as soon as he saw him; but Paul knew immediately that he had, for his father was trying (and not too successfully) to conceal a winning smile. His father shrugged, trying to play dumb.
‘Oh no…Sorry Paul…slipped my mind. I’ll get it tom-’
‘C’mon dad,’ Paul said, in a pleading voice. ‘I know you got it. C’mon…’
His father, unable to contain his delight at seeing his son delighted, finally cracked – a big grin spread across is face. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘It’s in the car. Bring it to your room and we’ll set it up.’
The truth is, that it was pretty crappy guitar – one of those on-special-guitar-and-amp-combos that were sold everywhere except at guitar shops. But Paul saw a shining, beautiful instrument - black body, and a sleek, long neck that reminded him of a graceful giraffe.
Together, they set it up, Paul’s hand shaking as he plugged in the amp …CHCHCHCHCHCH – the beautiful sound of electric feedback.
‘IT’S SO COOL!’ Paul shouted above the noise, and despite the fact that he was twelve years old and reaching that I-don’t-show-my-parents-affection stage, he hugged his father fiercely. His father turned the volume-knob down so that their ears wouldn’t pop.               
‘Glad you like it Paul,’ he said ‘Happy birthday son.’ He handed Paul a book, The Ins and Outs of Electric Guitar: a Beginners Guide, which Paul hadn’t noticed until now.
‘Just remember,’ he said. ‘If you practice hard, the sky’s the limit.’ And as he left the room he added: ‘maybe you’ll even be as good as those rock stars you admire so much one day. Oh, and one more thing…keep the volume down - you don’t want to give your parents a heart attack, right?’
A few hours’ later, Paul’s mother shouted from the kitchen, calling him to come for dinner, but her calls were not heard – partly because of the noise in Paul’s room, but mainly because he was fixated, zombie-like, with his new acquisition. Eric Clapton, Jimi Hendrix and Paul Warder – the great guitarists of our time, he thought to himself as he read chapter one of his book entitled: A Simple Exercise in Picking.

As Paul got up from his desk and walked to the window, he wondered what had happened to his old guitar – in the attic of his parents’ house, no doubt, with all the other remains of his childhood. How long did he play for, before he gave up? Did he ever finish that beginner’s book?  Maybe I’ll go down there some time and dig it out, he thought to himself, although he doubted he’d remember a single chord.
Paul looked out of the window now, full of pride at the little garden he owned. His girlfriend, Kelly, was outside in a pink sunhat, with a hosepipe in her hand, like a shotgun locked on a target. Her legs were muddy and scraped; she looked like an injured soldier, but the battlefield thrived and blossomed - daisies, roses, daffodils and pansies (the red ones with a black patch), each flower type forming a square (a mini-garden of its own) around the perimeter of the garden. And in the center of the garden – freshly laid green grass, crisp and fresh.
When was the last time he had commended Kelly on her hard work? It wasn’t easy for her, he knew that much, for she toiled for hours and hours in that little patch of land – ‘Pansies are the toughest, you know,’ she would sometimes tell him. ‘They require lots of attention and care, like a newborn baby.’ And Paul walked in and out of that house every day, usually looking straight ahead; his mind preoccupied with other (more important) matters.
Kelly saw Paul staring at her; she waved at him, a warm smile on her face.
‘What are you looking at, mister?’ she called out. ‘Look away willya, can’t you see what I look like?’
Paul turned away from the window, back to his desk. Within 2 minutes Kelly was standing at the doorway to the room, leaning against the frame.
‘What’s the matter honey?’ she asked.
‘What? Nothing. What make’s you think some-’
‘Paul Warder, I know you, okay. If you think I don’t know when something is bothering you…’
‘Okay, okay,’ Paul conceded. ‘It’s nothing really. It’s just...it’s just…’
‘It’s just what?’
‘The garden – it’s really beautiful,’ Paul said. ‘I just wanted to tell you I think you’re doing a wonderful job.’
Kelly walked up to him now and started massaging his shoulders.
‘Thank you hun,’ she said ‘Pansies are the toughest, you know. They require lots of attention and care…’
‘…like a new born baby.’ Paul finished for her, and they smiled warmly at each other. He gently removed her arms from his shoulder and kissed her wrists.
‘Can I ask you summin?’ she said. ‘What’s your favorite thing about the garden Paul?’
‘My favorite thing…’ he mused. ‘I think I like the grass in the center-’
‘The grass. C’mon Paul be serious, okay-’
‘I am being serious Kel,’ he said. ‘The grass – it grows. It doesn’t stop growing, even if you neglect it. Isn’t that nice? Isn’t it nice that there’s something out there that doesn’t stagnate, but just sprouts higher and higher?’
‘No Paul, it isn’t. Maybe it would be nice for a while, but it’d get boring after a while.’
‘You think so Kel? I don’t know…I don’t see it that way.’
They remained silent for a while; Paul was still holding Kelly’s hand – they were warm, moist and sweating.
‘Canya do me a favor?’ she eventually asked. ‘I need a new hosepipe - the old one’s full of holes. Canya get me one from the nursery please? I’d go myself, but just look at me.’ She spread her arms (which were caked with mud) out to emphasize the ridiculousness of the suggestion.
Paul’s mind was still racing when he walked out the front door. He looked straight ahead; but then, he turned his head, and looked at the patch of pansies. Paul, for the first time, noticed the flowers’ thick overlapping petals. They were clustered close together, as though they were wrestling, and it seemed to Paul as though each pansy was competing with its peers – trying to be the most beautiful in the patch.
Paul picked up his stride, determined to get Kelly the hosepipe as quickly as possible.