The Rail Rider

I held up my hand to shield my eyes from the sun,
until it looked like I was saluting a distant horizon
of dust and heat and blur. As I squinted, I could just
make out the outline of an old, abandoned railcar.
I tried to run towards it, but I had seemingly become
rooted to the spot on the lawn. Whether my lack of
movement resulted from a new development or an
old affliction, I did not know. It was hard to be certain
of anything, in times like these. As I stood there,
immobilized, I looked down at my feet. I watched as
the ubiquitous dust devils swirled about like little
portals several inches above my inexplicably green
lawn. The lush, verdant nature of my lawn had long
been the subject of neighbourhood gossip - well,
at least since The Drought. The success of my lawn
was a bit of a mystery to my as well. In truth, I never
really tended to it, or even watered it. The tools and
the hose had long since fallen beyond arm's reach,
which incidentally, was why I had become so interested
in that railcar - I needed the migrant workers who'd
once ridden its rails to tend to both myself and my lawn.
Despite the fact that the railcar had long since become
overrun with vines and weeds and greenery, I still held
out hope for its continued relevance. In many ways,
I had drawn some pretty sobering comparisons between
myself, and that abandoned railcar. Whether my lack
of attention resulted from a new trend or an old habit,
I did not know. However, what was certain was that
my neighbourhood was suddenly overrun with migrant
workers. They seemed to be on parade, walking single
file down the street. "Over here," I shouted at the line,
but no one came. I tried to wolf whistle, but I accidentally
inhaled a dust devil, and I nearly passed out from a
choking fit. When I came to, the parade had gone,
but one migrant worker stood before me, holding hat
in his hands and staring at his feet. "Beg your pardon,"
he said. "But I'm powerful hungry. Can I mow your lawn
in exchange for a meal?" I nodded, grateful that someone
finally would. He immediately set to work pushing the
antique lawnmower. As the grass clippings began to fly,
I said, "I thought you'd be here sooner. I mean, that railcar
has been abandoned for quite some time. I thought you
rail riders would have made your presence known before
now." The man put the lawnmower aside and began to rake
up the clippings. "We know what we're doing," he said.
I nodded, grateful that someone finally did. Then the next
thing I knew, the carefully raked piles of grass clippings
began to swirl about in the evening air like lush, verdant
dust devils. Suddenly the air smelled free of dust and heat
and blur. Then the worker looked me right in the eye,
and he stepped through the swirling mess of clippings
as if he were walking through a portal. I tried to follow
him, but I remained rooted to my spot on the lawn.
He did not reappear for quite some time, and I fell back
into my vigil of watching that old, abandoned railcar.
I tried to wolf whistle again, and almost at once,
the migrant worker stepped out from within the green
portal. "Where've you been?" I asked. "I was riding
the rails," he said. "That's impossible," I said, "I was
watching the railcar the whole time and it didn't move
once." The worker fixed me with a pitying look, which
put me on the defensive. "Well," I shot back with unexpected
venom, "at least I'm not some wayward bum!" The worker
smiled knowingly, and blew a wolf whistle of his own.
Almost at once, my ankles, my calves, and my thighs
were soon overrun with vines and weeds and greenery.
It was not long before I was completely bound, torso,
shoulders, and head, in an angry outburst of lawn.
As it migrated up my body, the only part which remained
uncovered was a small slit across my face through which,
if I squinted, I could just make out the outline of a yawning
green portal, moving towards me in the afterglow of an
indifferent and setting sun.