Saturday
Admiral Biscuit
Saturday was a day to unwind, to not think of work. To not think of working, a day to sleep late, eat brunch instead of breakfast, go out to the lake, or to invite friends over for a barbeque.
Or even better, be invited to one of those things.
Saturday was also sometimes the day to catch up on household tasks, just little ones that didn’t get done during the week.
Such as mowing the yard. An hour’s investment, the sun was shining, and there was nothing that said being lord of the fiefdom like mowing the lawn.
Except when the lawnmower wouldn’t start.
It had gas in it, and the pull cord pulled just fine. The motor would catch briefly and then quit.
Probably just the spark plug.
The tool kit’s in the garage, a mechanic’s tool kit from Sears, back when Sears was still a going concern.
The plug looks okay, but who knows. They’re cheap, and the hardware store isn’t that far away.
•••
In-stock, $3.99 for a Champion plug and $7.99 for a genuine Briggs & Stratton. Couldn’t make that much of a difference, but an extra four dollars is a small price to pay for peace of mind.
Naturally, that doesn’t fix it.
•••
A few hours later, the air filter and oil have both been ruled out. The engine turns, so it’s not a seized bearing. It ran fine last time it was used; it’s just being belligerent. Maybe it’s got too much gas in it, maybe not enough.
The manual doesn’t help. The air filter housing comes off easy enough, though, and looking down the carb is an important diagnostic step, maybe.
The garage door’s open because it’s not safe to run a lawnmower in an enclosed garage—never mind that it currently doesn’t run. A beer in hand is another good diagnostic step; backyard mechanics on TV never fix anything without a beer in hand.
All that’s missing is the nosy neighbor.
“Mister Hendershot?”
Perfect.
“You can call me Craig.” Her voice, lilting and musical as befits a unicorn. Elegant and imposing, despite her diminutive stature.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing my lawnmower. Well, trying to. You don’t know anything about lawnmowers, do you?”
She shakes her head. “Why?”
“I have to cut my grass before the neighbors complain.” Before one specific neighbor complains, the same specific neighbor who is offended by yard gnomes. “It’s too long. It was raining last Saturday and I didn’t get to it. By tomorrow, Henrietta’s going to be out here with a ruler and if she finds a single blade over six inches, she’s going to call code enforcement on me.”
“Oh.” She looks out at the lawn and back at the lawnmower. “Well, I know some ponies.”
“Do any of them know how to fix a lawnmower?”
She shrugs. “Maybe, it’s never come up. But they know a thing or two about cropping a lawn.”
•••
A flock of pegasi, a herd of horses, and a blessing of unicorns. Or was it a luck of unicorns? Whatever it was, none of them knew anything about lawnmowers, but when it came to cropping a lawn, well, they knew a thing or two. They didn’t have to get out the weed whipper to clear around the dozens of yard gnomes, they got their muzzles right in there and nibbled off the grass.
And they didn’t accidentally run over the other landscaping and spit it out the chute—an easy mistake to make with a lawnmower.
Saturdays were meant for sleeping late, relaxing at the lake, or barbecuing. Not pushing a lawnmower was relaxing, but it wasn't fair to the crew who had showed up and helped out. The thought had percolated, slowly, that this was a backyard party.
Craig still had a boombox, and it had a slot for CDs. Ponies loved musicals. Jekyll and Hyde, The Count of Monte Cristo, Hamilton.
Beer, apple juice, water, lemonade, the only thing missing was the grill, but what would the point of making food be when the ponies had a veritable buffet in front of them? Grass as fresh as grass could be, a thick luscious fescue sprinkled with a few weeds here and there. Apparently a delicacy for some. Gnomes on the border, and then some proper—or so the realtor had said—landscaping against the house. It grew and needed to be weeded and the gnomes watched over it.
Of course Ms. Henrietta Bundermann showed up, and as she rounded the corner her hand was reaching into her purse and the tape measure surely contained therein.
Not today, Ms. Bundermann. Not today.
“What in heaven?” She fanned herself, clearly offended by both the half-cropped lawn and the fantastical pastoral tableaux thereupon. Thomas Kinkaid was a piker; even his wildest fever-dream never would have included a rainbow of ponies nibbling at the grass, and yet. . . .
“Craig Hendershot, what have you done?”
“What have I done? I thought I’d change up the normal barbeque, really get to know the new neighbor and her friends. Turns out they all love a shaggy fescue, who knew? There’s plenty left if you’re feeling peckish. I’m sure they’d share.”
“If . . . if. . . .”
Seeing someone’s brain completely lock up is a new experience. Her face got red and her mouth hung open and no more words came out.
There was compassion and there was twisting the knife. Given that it was Henrietta, the choice was obvious. “There’s plenty of beer too, if you want one. Or apple juice, if beer’s not your thing.”
“This isn’t over,” she finally hissed and then stormed off, accompanied by Edmond singing that he was dead.
Whatever, there was no law against ponies eating his lawn. The bylaws were clear on length of grass and keeping of animals, but said nothing about having friends over who wanted to listen to musicals and nom on the fescue.
•••
Henrietta called the cops, because of course she did. A brief discussion with a bemused deputy later, and an admission that there was no law against new friends eating the grass. The party continued in the backyard where the grass was taller and apparently tastier, and the musicals got turned up just a notch. A few nudges of the radio ensured that it was exactly facing Ms. Bundermann’s patio, because who didn’t enjoy Lin-Manuel Miranda?
Author's Note
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Special thanks to Bugsydor, Sir-Not-Appearing-In-This-Fic, and FanOfMostEverything.
