He leveled the blade at bush height and unleashed a confetti storm of leaves. I fired back with my own touchdown pass of clippings, green shrapnel drifting between us in slow-motion glory. Two ordinary dads chainsawing their way to suburban immortality. By the end, that poor hedge had a whole new haircut, one it definitely hadn’t asked for.
Fifteen minutes later, the mowers had been powered down, the trimmers were silent, and both of us had dropped down into our low-to-the-ground beach chairs—one in my yard, one in Malcolm’s—angled just close enough to be conversational, just far enough to honor the invisible property line.
Malcolm lifted his chin toward my yard, tipping his water bottle to mine. “You tried your heart out today, McKallister.”
I took my loss in stride. “I would’ve had you if that branch hadn’t done me dirty.”
“Sure, buddy, blame the shrub.”
Once upon a time, our yards had lived in peace. Back when we bought the house six years ago, Malcolm and I were just two landscape warriors banished to the front yard by our wives. For a year, we handled our chores in a kind of adult parallel play—him edging, me mowing, talking only to trade casual compliments or borrow a tool.
Then came the fateful day we’d both ended up trimming the same shrub that straddled both our property lines. Hedgers in hand, inches from slicing off each other’s fingers, we looked up at the exact same time, our eyes locking like the dogs inLady and the Trampsharing that spaghetti strand.
And just like that, a bromance was born.
“Think anyone will notice the most excellent job we did today?” Malcolm asked, clearly referring to the wives.
“God, I hope not,” I said. “Sets expectations.”
We both chuckled and sank deeper into our chairs—chairs that were also sinking deeper into the grass. A long, peaceful stretch of silence settled between us. A breeze kicked up, a single leaf drifting by as if admiring the craftsmanship, and for a moment, the world was perfect.
“Man, this is the life,” I said, legs splayed.
“I can think of better lives than sitting here watching you slowly melting into the grass.”
“Shhh,” I said. “Let me have this.”
“Malcolm!” his wife called out, summoning him like we were back in the 80s and the streetlights had just switched on.
He winced.
I grinned. “Uh-oh. Someone just hit curfew.”
He started wrestling himself out of his chair, legs flailing like a flipped turtle. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, Hotmail.”
“Hey, I told you that in confidence.”
“Scott!” Michelle’s voice rang out from our house. “Are the boys out there with you?”
“No,” I called back, shoving myself upward only to have the chair suction-cup to the ground.
Malcolm offered me a hand. Once I was finally vertical, he patted my shoulder. “That’s the sound of your perfect evening taking a turn, my friend.”
I headed for the porch, still smiling until I saw Michelle standing there, arms folded tight, scanning the street. “Where are they? It’s 6:10.”
“They’re ten minutes late. No big deal,” I said, and truly I believed it. They were boys. Punctuality wasn’t what our breed was known for. “I’m sure they realized they were late and are skating home now.”
She rubbed her arms and frowned. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right.”
I followed her back inside. The kitchen table was set and dinner was waiting.
“Did you win?” Keith asked me.
“There are no winners or losers in lawn care, son.”
“So you lost?” He shook his head in disappointment. “How am I ever expected to become a man with you as a role-model?”
I smacked the hat off his head, and we wrestled.
