There were so many leaves cluttering the area I couldn’t get doors open. They invaded my kitchen, and stuck to my boots, but I didn’t care. They were off a whole month early, and I raked all day to get them onto the street, grinning the whole time. Blisters formed; I raked anyway, and relived Halloween.
That night I’d become an old hag. Only pale, bespectacled eyes could be seen; the rest of me was draped in BLACK. My pointed hat covered long grey scraggly hair; expertly delivered cackles rang up and down the street as I rocked back and forth in my chair, and with a very long, gloved black finger, beckoned visitors, using my best British-accented gravel-voice, to ‘come closeh, my deahs’ for candy. I knew I’d passed muster when a group of teens paused nervously at the bottom of the stairs. One said, “You’re not a real witch, right? You’re the garden lady…”
I’d snickered with rusty laughter before leaning forward to confide that for 364 days every year I was in costume; This. One. Night- I was myself.
They’d gaped, accepted candy bars, mumbled that I totally rocked, and hurried away. It was most satisfying.
I did stifle my cackles for little urchins, who thanked me in tiny voices, their eyes wide as dinner plates. Pint-sized witches bounced up the stairs much more confidently. “We’re sisters!”
1,100 children visited our street, down from nearly 2,000 the year before, probably because the cold drizzle dampened Spirits.
Anyway, while endlessly back-scratching the ground with my bored rake I’d savored the stupid spells I’d invented-
“…eye of newt and mandrake root, brewed with beer and an owl’s hoot...”
City workers banged and clanged out front, collecting huge piles of curbside leaves. Alas, there was nothing I could do to hurry up delivery of my own mountain.
Finally, hours later, just before twilight, Les came by and heaved bulging tarps through the garden gate and into the spotless gutter. This fresh dump ruined the spruced up look of the street. Hmmm… a few vigorous post-Sandy gusts might motivate the neighbors to hunt me down…Oh, well. I’d done the best I could, as fast as I could.
I looked wistfully up the empty, dead-quiet street, wishing for a tiny time warp.
Exactly then – a monster yellow leaf-munching truck materialized a block west, then trundled straight to me, trailed by a much smaller, very cool leaf-pushing machine. Its operator winked, then gestured to me from his enclosed cab to heave out the last front garden bits I still hadn’t collected; he’d wait.
I stood there, open-mouthed, incredulous.
My street had been totally empty of people and cars. Yet, here they were.
Whooping, I dumped the last heap out there; he scooped up the lot and ran them right into the maw of the giant truck, which waited, idle and panting, just ahead. Both machines chugged off while I ran alongside, pumping my arms, yelling thanks. I got a salute in return.
In a blink, they were gone.
Stuff like this makes me think of Serling. Or Stephen King’s Christine….
I’m just sayin’…
I sighed in the twilight, and decided to leaf well enough alone.
The right machines had- appeared.
That mountainous pile of leaves had vanished.
Then, the machines had, too.
The end.
Still-
You had to be there.