Free Yardwork by Bruce Blake Page A

implements -- many of them unused
-- lay arrayed in orderly rows awaiting their opportunity to shine
while his father’s worn spank mags stuffed the bottom shelf full.
He easily found the length of rope and roll of duct tape for which
he searched. Finally, his father’s fastidious nature -- a
disposition only displayed in the interior of the shed -- came in
handy.
    The man was
passed out and unlikely to awaken for a while. Tim knew this
because he’d seen his father in a similar state enough times, but
he crept toward the man anyway, taking no chances. He crouched at
his side, pulled out a strip of tape and used his teeth to tear it
off the roll, then spit the gluey taste out of his mouth. The smell
of the man threatened to overpower him as he leaned in to press the
piece of tape over his mouth: puke and shit and booze. His finger
brushed the stubble of the man’s cheek; it scratched against his
hand. He jerked away.
    Still no
movement.
    Tim unwound the
loop of rope as he wondered what would happen if the man heaved
again with his mouth taped closed. Would it kill him? Or did only
rock stars die choking on their own vomit? This man was clearly not
a rock star, so maybe he’d be okay. It’d be better if it didn’t
play out that way, but what the hell. He knotted the rope around
the man’s ankles, using two fingers to grip the ragged hem of his
pants and lift his leg as he wound it around then tied it off. The
other end of the rope he snaked behind an exposed stud and fastened
the man’s wrists, effectively hog tying him to the wall. The man
let out a snort while Tim wound the rope around his wrists, halting
the teen’s breath and stopping his fingers mid-knot, but it turned
out to be no more than a snore.
    Tim finished
the job, stood and took a step back to admire his work. He’d
learned a lot in the two months he’d stuck in boy scouts before
they kicked him out for lighting things on fire. The man wouldn’t
be able to free himself of those knots. He didn’t remember which
was which -- sheepshank, square knot, fisherman’s knot -- it didn’t
matter, as long as they held.
    “Tim, what the
fuck are you doing in there? These leaves aren’t going to rake
themselves.”
    “Coming,” he
shouted back trying to sound like the enthusiastic, helpful son --
an act he always put on though not always convincingly. He stared
at the man for a few seconds, excitement and anticipation swirling
in his stomach, tingling his limbs. His dick stirred in his pants
the way it did when he broke the twittering birds into pieces, the
way no female ever made it stir.
    “Do I have to
come in and drag you out?”
    A dose of
scalding rage doused Tim’s arousal. The man shifted a little and
farted: a long wet sound making Tim grimace. He grabbed the rake
from its place on the wall before the odor found his nostrils, then
planted a solid kick in the man’s lower back, imagining his father
lying bound on the floor instead of some homeless man.
    The man still
didn’t move.
    ***
    Tim purposely
abandoned the rake in the middle of the lawn so he’d have an excuse
to go back into the shed after dinner. His father wouldn’t let one
of his precious implements -- precious, though he never used them
himself -- remain outside overnight. Rust belonged on shelves and
hinges but deserved no place on a man’s tools.
    “What’s going
on with you?”
    He raised his
eyes from his half-eaten dinner where he’d been log-rolling limp
asparagus from one side of the plate to the other and looked at his
mother. The corners of her mouth tugged up into the sad half-smile:
the closest she managed these days to an expression of
happiness.
    “Nothing,” Tim
said fidgeting to the other corner of his chair for the hundredth
time. “Just enjoying dinner, Ma.”
    To punctuate
his statement, he popped a chunk of over-cooked roast into his
mouth, chewed it with visible effort, then followed it up with a
fork full of lumpy mashed potatoes.
    “Don’t
patronize