Get Along

Get Along

“Get off my lawn,” yelled Gus near a newly-poured concrete pad.

I hurried along the sidewalk.

“Get off my lawn,” yelled Gus from that same concrete pad a week later.

His house is on my regular walking route. I hurried along.

The next week I again walked in front of Gus’s house.

“Get off my lawn,” he yelled while standing on that concrete square. “I’m going to call the police.”

Now I have to know what’s so important about his concrete square.

“Gus, you know me. I walk by here every day. I never walk on your yard. But I’m curious, what is with the concrete square in the grass?”

Gus eyed me suspiciously. Then a smile crept over that face. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Yeah, hi again. So, what gives? Why do you defend that square?”

Gus slowly came to me, all the time checking around his yard.

“It’s like this, their sense of smell is ten times greater than ours. If they smell that anyone but me has been on the landing pad, they won’t come.”

I searched his face, but he kept looking around the yard, a constant sweep of the perimeter, like a guard dog.

“Um, okay? Who’re they? Why’re they landing?”

“Don’t you know? They're the folks from the Black Eye Galaxy. Bruno and Nate. They land here every night, we talk, have a few brewskis. they leave when the sun comes up.”

He is serious, I can tell he actually believes this.

“Tonight they’re going to let me know when I can travel with them.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it. You don’t want to be caught with your pants down, as they say.” I chuckled, he frowned.

The next day I checked on Gus. No house, no pad, no Gus. They took everything.


W/C 300