"What do you know about lawnmowers?"

I looked over past postings to these writings, realized with horror that some passages had been repeated, that the whole post had a somewhat butchered look to it. It’s my computer; it has a hairline trigger—a key, that if struck accidentally—randomly repeats passages either partly or in their entirety. It’s one of the best computers money can buy, but at these times I want to stomp on the keyboard, grab it by its little cord, swing it around and around, smashing it into things. When I’ve done that for a while, I would gladly rip the cord out, take the keyboard and strike it repeatedly against the monitor, listening while the computer voice—which I’ve inadvertently activated—says, “Opening Windows. Windows closed. File unkown. Recent items: Safari. Closing safari…” and so on. As I was writing this little passage, the computer actually did exactly what I was referring to. It’s funny that way.

“So, G.—what do you know about lawnmowers?” I regarded the pretty young woman who’d asked me this, felt the air between us become thinner. At that precise moment, as the words left her lips, a slight blip in the machinery that runs the universe occurred—a skipped beat if you will. Somewhere high in a New York tenement, with a flickering bulb and a weary tenant laboring over a stuck toilet with plunger, the rusted and ancient sink drip drip dripping more rust-colored water down the sides of the worn porcelain, trickling past the meager sliver of soap, the plunger finally breaks off, snaps the cheap wooden handle. Undeterred, the tenant works at the clog with the broken stick, beholds five one-hundred dollar bills floating up from the muck, fishes them out, puts the stick down for a while, sits at the edge of the tub. Somewhere in Missouri a jagged line opens in a highway, becomes a crack, a cat jumps down there and is rescued and on the news, people from all over wanting to adopt that cat. In Kansas, in a little town near the Colorado border, a restaurant has run out of seafood and it’s their busiest weekend. They need fish. Out on I-70 a fish truck has wrecked, spilling frozen crabs, lobsters, orange roughy and salmon steaks onto the highway. The radio alert goes out: All those in need of seafood are to report to the scene and gather up as much as they can.

I steadied myself, considered my words carefully—although my upper lip was trembling, my thoughts racing to get ahead of what I had to say. “I. KNOW. EVERYTHING. ABOUT. LAWNMOWERS.” Although far from the truth, what I’d just uttered was close enough for the current circumstances. Whatever trifling bit of obstinacy her machine was posing could be easily remedied—of that I was sure. I nearly blacked out; there was surely a ringing in my left ear, and in my right ear I had gone perhaps completely deaf. My feet seemed to have swollen to elephantine proportions. I waved an unsteady hand for something solid to grab onto, tried to regain my composure. I got into the specifics of the symptoms, woozy with the delight of the topic. I spoke in surgically precise terms of oil and carburetors. If I’d had a lectern, I would have lowered my spectacles, offered a brief seminar there in the room, shuffling papers and referring to notes, but often speaking off the cuff—from my wealth of knowledge.

“I will help you fix your machine,” I said. “I’ll require a sandwich,” I added. She acquiesced to my offer and the sandwich provision.

And then, in an imperceptible act of self-correction, the universe shuddered back to normalcy, the lawnmower was forgotten, nothing came of it, nothing ever would. I would be providing my own sandwiches—or go to a place that sells them--as most people in a smoothly-running universe do.

That evening I pulled up to the rib place, looked down at my stockinged feet. The socks were white and clean, but no shoes were to be had. I’d gotten into the car shoeless, as was often the case, had counted on there being a pair down there on the floor. On this evening there were no shoes. I looked stupidly at my feet, then at the restaurant. They had a carry-out counter, where people picked up their ribs, crab-cakes and so on. Maybe I could go there, try to look inconspicuous in the busy foyer. I weighed my options, which weren’t abundant, started the car and went home. In front of the television, with one of those animal rescue shows playing, I ate roasted and salted peanuts one after the other, tossing the shells into a bowl. It takes a lot of peanuts to make a meal: They’re rather small.