Free The Kitchen Readings by Michael Cleverly

that he wasn’t providing her with enough walking-around money. She thought a garage sale was the answer. This was fine with Ed. Everyone has too much crap. The two went through eons of forgotten and unwanted junk, earmarking this and that for the sale. The Saturday morning of the event, Ed responsibly covered the greenhouse with a huge blue tarp. Not wanting to witness the detritus of his life being hawked in a driveway, he left to spend the day in Aspen.
    Even before the first early-bird yard-sale aficionados arrived, the tarp had blown off the greenhouse. His girlfriend, focusing on sales, was oblivious, leaving the beautiful bushy plants exposed for one and all to see.
    Ed’s crops were low-maintenance, requiring little effort once they took hold; in fact, they grew like weeds. Babysitting was the problem. Farmer Ed liked to step out more than your average man of the soil does. He’d go up to Aspen, and some nights wouldn’tcome home at all. Sometimes he’d forget to make it home for days at a time. This would leave his crop home alone. To some, this might seem like careless parenting—giving your nymphomaniac teenage daughter her own van and a Gold Card. But to Ed it was a simple matter of trusting his fellow man. Those with a high opinion of human nature are often disappointed. And so it was that when Ed returned home one morning and went out to the greenhouse to tell the kids he was back, he found his babies gone. It was a crushing economic blow. Which is the same as a crushing emotional blow.

    Ed, the gentleman farmer.

    Photographs by Nancy Cook Kelly, courtesy of Ed Hoban
    Farmer Hoban enjoying the fruits of his labor.
    The outside patch behind the barn had been left unmolested for whatever reason. Probably a dead-of-night operation. The criminals had taken only what they had observed from thedriveway at the yard sale. There’s not much one can do in these situations. But then, over the next couple of weeks, Ed noticed that the outside patch seemed to be shrinking, too. He actually counted the plants and, after a while, determined that the criminals were sneaking back and taking a couple of plants at a time. Ed and a friend erected a small tent in the middle of the patch. The pot was much taller than the tent, so it was invisible till you were right on top of it. Ed began sleeping in the patch. A friend would bring him young women for amusement. Sadly, a man like Ed can spend only so many nights in a tent, even with pleasant diversions to keep him company. One morning he returned from town to find half the crop gone.
    Hunter was one of the first people whom Ed called. He needed some sympathy. Hunter was furious. What the fuck kind of world were we living in? Doc immediately declared war. There were two important issues at hand: To protect the remaining crop. First things first. And, beyond that, the ever-popular revenge. Retribution, reprisal, vengeance, comeuppance and getting even. Serious business.
    One evening a few days later there was gunfire in Emma. Hunter was speeding up the road in the Shark, radio blaring, firing a pistol in the air. He pulled into Ed’s driveway with presents for him: a .410 single shotgun, a two-thousand-candlepower boat/car light, two TV cameras, and a closed-circuit monitor. Everyone involved was confident that this equipment was sufficient to “do the trick.” Optimism was running high.
    Hunter heard nothing from Ed for a couple of weeks. It was harvest time, and Ed was pretty busy. There had been no more raids on the field, so Ed was just tending to his agribusiness. Hunter felt that he had a vested interest in the crop now and he was getting a little edgy about the lack of communication. Nightafter night he decided to give Ed a call and ended up putting it off each time. Finally he couldn’t stand it anymore and drove out to Emma in the wee hours. He left this note stuck to Ed’s front door with a dagger through it:
    Ed 10/29/81
    I