“That grass is dead, man.” Jimmy continued.
“No, it’s not,” I lied to myself.
“Sure! Whatever you say, neighbor. It just looks mighty dead from where I’m standing,” Jimmy smirked. His smile looked like someone had painted teeth on a tomato.
“It’s not dead. It’s resting,” I insisted, rubbing my neck.
Jimmy leaned against the fence. The fence creaked in desperation.
“Well, as soon as your grass is done resting, come to me and I’ll give you the name of a guy. My grass guy can do stuff at a good price. No one will ever know,” Jimmy winked.
His “grass guy” sold plastic turf. I shuddered, imagining my proud rose bush and the dahlias surrounded by plastic fakery. I didn’t even buy plastic lawn chairs. There was a reason. A good reason. My mother had died in a tragic and completely unpredictable plastic explosion. Her body had been riddled with strips of cellophane and the cheap polyester scarf around her neck had shrunk in the heat suffocating her. No plastic. You couldn’t trust plastic.
I gave Jimmy a dirty look under my brow. “No plastic.”
“Fine!” he said, throwing his hands up. “So when are we gonna have another BBQ on your fresh lawn?” he continued. Some people were just born to be assholes even when they were friendly.