What Are You Doing?

Chapter I

         The American people have forgotten what work is like; I mean that literally. Thanks to computerization, most folks don’t recognize physical labor when they see it. This is a rather strong statement, one guaranteed to raise a hue and cry from here to yonder. My charge is not an unfounded one however, and hopefully the following pages can offer both concrete evidence and irrefutable proof for it’s validity.

         This story closely parallels another project of mine a couple years back, therefore a monumental effort will be required to ensure a carbon copy doesn’t result.

         Without further ado lets bring this thing right out in the open. The topic is working---hereafter referred to as “wurkin.” For the better part of 2 weeks I’ve been wurkin out along the right-of-way, and it’s certainly been an assignment to my advantage. It has broke the monotony of routine, but the best part of all is the fact that a roadside right-of-way is absolutely the best place in all this world to get educated. In  a hurry too! More knowledge can be acquired in 1 hour wurkin by the right-of-way than a Rhodes scholar can absorb while attending a six-week seminar conducted by the Rand Corporation at one of their “think tanks.” Out there along the highway nearly every motorist, pedestrian and jogger who happens along is an “Einstienian Sidewalk Superintendent.”

         My assigned chore these past few weeks has been “weed cuttin.” Heretofore I’ve always assumed ( evidently a wrong assumption ) that cuttin’ weeds was manual labor in it’s most primitive form.

         Well now! In only 9 wurkin’ days a total of 863 cars screeched to a halt where I was “layin’ them weeds low.”

         From the interior of 861 motor vehicles came this: “What are ya’ doin’?” Absolutely no research or prolonged study was needed to answer their questions, thus my reply came instantaneously: “I’m cuttin’ weeds.” A puzzled look clouded the finely-chiseled features of the drivers, and many carried the all-encompassing conversation to even more soaring heights: “Whatcha’ doin’ that fer.?”

         I truly felt these taxpayers were due an explanation. They were, after all, paying the pitifully low wages that kept me in a perpetual state of poverty. “Well, my bosses have decided there are several stop-signs around town that have been hidden too long by these obnoxious and unsightly plants. They’ve concluded that, for the sake of safety, it might be a good idea to make them visible once again to the motoring public. The heirarchy issued a communique to end the existence of weeds on earth, and I am the tool to carry out that proclamation.”

         “Oh, I see” said a motorist as he pulled away in a cloud of smoke that caused me near strangulation. “Just thought I’d stop and check to see what was goin’on.”

         “That’s mighty thoughtful of you neighbor, and do drop by again.” I was barely able to extend my cordial invitation before he roared off down the highway in his noisy pile of junk.

         A grand total of 863 rattletraps; from 861 came the same query: “Whatcha’ doin’?” The occupants of those other two were highly educated citizens and therefore stated the following: “I see you’re cuttin’ weeds.”

         “Yeah,” I said to both these “in the know” folks as they started to depart. “Y’all stop by again.”

         Now I ask you---861 questions---2 statements! What kind of ratio is that! How much dumber can we get?

         Yes siree, we’ve forgotten what menial labor is like, and computers are the cause of it all…

Chapter  II

         Supposedly ours is the “enlightened generation” who exist in “the age of awareness.” Aw come on---please! We don’t even know what a person is doin’ when he swings a weed sickle to and fro! Electronic monsters will soon dictate and rule us and they’ve taken a giant stride toward achieving that goal by creating this vast sea of ignorance.

         Somewhere along the line various individuals ( mostly town G philosophers ) have mistakenly gotten the crazy notion that I enjoy cuttin’ weeds. Absurd, nothing could be farther from the truth---I derive no pleasure at all from that grueling task. It’s exerting and strenuous work, fully capable of draining every ounce of vim and vigor ( not to mention body fluids ) from ones anatomical frame.

         It’s dangerous too---many are the perils of cuttin’ weeds. A goodly number of the doggone things have built-in defensive mechanisms, enabling them to retaliate with a vengeance. When human skin comes in contact with poison-ivy the result is disastrous. Nettle weeds are even worse---a “getting together” with that formidable foe is catastrophic!

         May I offer a bit of advice before blasting off on your next “weed cuttin’” foray. Study your flora book well; secondly and even more important, don’t go wadin’ into yonder weed patch clad only in Bermuda shorts. Wear britches that extend downward to those delicate and sensitive ankles. By all means a pair of gloves should cover your soft, tender hands, and a shirt with sleeves reaching to those frail wrists is highly recommended.

         It goes without saying that weed patches are the natural habitat for a varied assortment of wild critters and varmints. Most are harmless and go scurrying away at the ominous approach of human footsteps. But be forewarned pal---all of ‘em ain’t cowards! For instance, bees and other flying insects, most of ‘em deadly and heavily armed with multiple weapon  systems.

         And right here the entomologists among the reading audience may wish to pay special notice---with attention both rapt and undivided. Yon weed patches are beckoning, calling and you’re sure to find blissful happiness there---among the weeds. I know for a fact the wingspread of some insect species native to our area is nearly that of a California Condor, and the sound they emit when “zeroing in” on a vulnerable human target reminds me of screaming jets swooping in low on strafing and napalm runs. It can become quite hair-raising---out there in the weed patches!

         Anyone for snakes? Just last week I was wurkin’ near a rocky precipice, and suddenly a hot thermal breeze carried a dreadful sound my way.

         Rattlers were shakin’ a merry tune, and in the ensuing melee I murdered 19 of those slimy sons of Satan! Not because I harbored undue malice or fear of those slithering strings of death. But I got to wondering--- what if this many venomous serpents staged a simultaneous “breakout” from their den of evil? Why man!… half the human race would be in jeopardy!

         One must be prepared for the unexpected when “wurkin” out along the highway. A fella’ never knows from one minute until the next what’s goin’ to happen, and must maintain a constant vigil.

         Allow me to tell you about a recent incident involving a jogger who came huffing and puffing by at the place where I was wurkin.’ As you’re probably aware, joggers act strange. Many non-joggers use much stronger language---odd---peculiar---weird! These are but a few of the terms I’ve heard used to describe idiots who run in 90 degree heat, and also when a foot of snow blankets the ground.

         I’ve found in 98 percent of the cases where a cordial “Good morning” or “Good afternoon” is extended to joggers there is no response whatsoever. Thus, long ago, I learned not to notice “huffers” and “puffers”---just completely ignore ‘em. This action on my part doesn’t stem from “big-headedness;” it stems from the fact this is the way  joggers seem to prefer it. So when I espy one headed in my direction---well, he’s just a non-existing entity who never was---and never will be.

         Joggers---jut-jawed and staring straight ahead. A blank, faraway look clouds their eyes, grim determination etched into every feature. They seem in a “trance-like” state, oblivious to and the rest of it’s inhabitants round about. Their designated “mileage per day” must be achieved, and that can hardly be realized if valuable breath is expended on every Tom, Dick and Harry encountered along the highway. I understand---and don’t even look their way.

         You know, it’s almost as if joggers are deaf and blind. That’s it… they can neither see nor hear. Oh, to be sure. Every now and then one will nod his head when passing by, but that small token of politeness is indeed a rarity.

         You can well imagine then my complete surprise when this “chuggin’ chap” stopped the other morning to ask: “What’s goin’ on?” He’d caught me completely off guard--- man, I “put near” fell over backward!

         After regaining a small measure of composure I said  to the profusely perspiring young man; “I’m cuttin’ weeds.” (He’ll soon be entering his senior year at college; I thought he should’ve known what I was doin’) Then I waited for the inevitable--- which wasn’t long in coming.

         “What is the purpose of your performance here?” Did I hear right? Did he say performance?  Goodness gracious alive and great stars above! Could this educated idiot believe I was singing a baritone solo at the Metropolitan Opera?

         “The explicit purpose of my performance is to prevent a jungle from taking root and flourishing here. Such a tangled undergrowth would provide a haven for carnivorous beasts of prey, and those predators might come chargin’ outta’ the bush to devour joggers who do their thing along this stretch of road.”

         “I hadn’t thought of that,” the dude replied, all the while eyeing the sickle in my hand. “May I examine the implement of labor you’re holding?” May the Good Lord intervene to save us from these nincompoops.

         “Sure friend.” He seemed genuinely interested in the crude  “implement of labor.” Myself---well, I refer to it as an idiot’s tool. I offered the infernal thing to him for a closer inspection, and before I could prevent the disaster the jogger had taken hold of the sickle by it’s blade. A big, big old mistake…

Chapter  III

         Now listen! I keep the blade of my weed sickle finely-honed---it’s sharpness is that of a razor. Thru long years of experience I’ve found that weeds come tumblin’ down so much easier when a keen cutting edge is applied. Never, never cut weeds with a dull blade; you can work your fool self to death and still accomplish nothin’.

         This jogging enthusiast, much to his chagrin, found out just how sharp I keep my blades. Four fingers and a thumb were promptly sliced to a considerable depth. This catastrophe made it quite clear the chap wasn’t overly familiar with---to use his own words---“implements of labor.”

         He became somewhat alarmed and undergoing a mite of pain, but didn’t really require hospitalization. The only handkerchief the lad owned was tied around his head to act as a sweatband, much in the same manner that the great Indian Chief Cochise wore his. I produced a clean one from my pocket. It could staunch the flow of red stuff until he could get his wounds properly bandaged and attended to.

         I had a bit of parting advice for this young fella’ who would soon enter into his sixteenth year of schooling. “Next time ya’ inspect a weed sickle, grab ‘er by this wooden part here. It’s called a handle, and it’s much easier on hands and fingers.”

         “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll remember that.” Then he said something which stunned me to no end. “You must be crazy to be working out under this hot sun.”

         I looked long and hard, straight into the eyes of this person who was sweating 5 times the amount of body fluids that my own was producing. I hardly knew whether to become irate---or laugh. Thinking it over for a brief moment, I opted for the latter. Sure---that’s what my reaction oughta’ be. And I laughed; as a matter of fact, I was bustin’ my sides. But following the brief period of mirth somethin’ else was on my mind.

         I posed a question to the youngster: “Do you have a sponsor? I mean, is someone paying you to run in this 90 degree heat?”

         “No,” he replied. “It’s my choice to run for the purpose of building up my stanima.”

         Laying the sickle down I said to him: “Come on, let’s go.”

         “Where are we going?,” the college-bound chap asked in a puzzled tone.

         “Well friend, I’m being paid to work under this broiling sun. You ain’t getting’ a dime for subjecting your poor body to all that torture. Pilgrim, you and I are headin’ fer the nearest head-shrink. We’ll let him decide which of us is looney. And I’m gonna’ level with ya’ pal. I ain’t in the least worried about the decision he’s gonna’ render.”

         I really must knock it off here. I’ve been quite busy lately paintin’ a sign, and the little chore is almost completed. This one is akin to those “EAT AT JOES” things made popular in the comic-strips many years ago. But my sign will not be advertising the delights of dining on delectable continental cuisine. The message on this one is directed toward the “enlightened and aware generation.”

         I’m gonna’ hang this thing over my shoulders and display it on both belly and back. It will inform those “enlightened ones” out there along the roadside that “I’M CUTTIN’ WEEDS…"

The End

M. L. Wilkinson

July, 1987