Nick spent most of the evening raking leaves for Edith Harnesveger as he had done the past couple of autumns, a ancient but kind soul who’s mud-gray hair his mom would sometimes put into curlers on Saturday afternoon. And so, it turned out she paid handsomely for a strong young man to line the front of her yard with Hefty bags for pickup on Tuesdays. But it was good thinking time with few distractions, even as some of the jock-types drove around in their Cutlasses and kids played in the neighbor's yard to the tune of teeny bop on a boombox. All that and twenty bucks a week.
He still chuckles at his first such encounter with Mrs. H back in eighth grade, standing just outside the patio door in a dark blue shawl, scarf, black skirt, knee-highs and clunky black shoes she cast the vision of clearing the lawn each week as the enormous maples shed their foliage, pretty much what he expected until at some point there was brief mention of feesus.
“Be sure to watch for the feesus under the leaves, I don’t want your poor mother to have to deal with that.”
Rather than asking what she meant he just nodded, then for the proceeding hours looked under every single leaf for the mysterious substance - or was it a life form? - only to find the occasional twig or, ironically, a dry dog turd. He finally gets home near 9 on a Friday night and asks his parents “what’s feesus”. It would be ten minutes, literally, and several trips back into the living room after changing into house clothes before they could regain composure enough to even attempt a reply.
So, in the past couple of years he tries to preempt her by saying “and I’ll watch out for the feesus,” although, so far it’s only triggered an approving grunt before she hobbles back inside to watch Pat Sajak through a scratched-up acrylic magnifier.