The Majestic Rusted-What-You-Ma-Call-It

I’ve never been much of a gardener—unless, of course, you count meticulously planting twelve rows of vehicles in various stages of glorious rusty bloom as gardening. Tail pipes, planted sometime during the Nixon administration, shoot from the ground like cornstalks, and when the wind hits their rusted sides, the soothing sound of a lawn mower rolling over the a gravel road fills the valley. I think the deer like my garden too—because every time they visit, they pause to admire every pair of headlights they encounter. Sometimes, it takes ‘em a whole day to cross from one side of the property to the other. I guess Im pretty lucky too, because they look at everything in my garden and think “nah, too much work.” Of course, the deer aren’t my only admirers—those pretty red butterflies like the place too, always fluttering around the tailpipes like they’re waiting for the rust to bloom into something better.

My neighbor, Old Man Ford, on the other hand—well, you can hear him spitting out all kinds of fancy French words whenever the deer stop to admire his garden. It must not be as nice as mine, ‘cause they don’t stay near as long either. You know, now that I think about it, I might actually be a pretty darned good gardener, because Old Man Ford, who’s county-renowned as the best gardener, well, I catch him looking over all pained-like every time I plant a new vehicle. If you ask me, he’s just jealous that I’m such a good gardener, that my garden grows faster than his. Every time I plant a new chassis, he gets that constipated look like a Chevy trying to turn over in January.

I know you’re supposed to get to know your neighbors, but on top of being a great gardener, Old Man Ford’s an even better magician. Every time he sees me, there’s a bang, and a cloud of dust in the shape of Old Man Ford. While I sure hope he’ll teach me how to do that one day, it makes it awfully hard to get to know a feller. Now, I’ve also figured out that he must’ve been one of those spelling bee champions, because he’s got a lot of nicknames for me that I couldn’t even begin to sound out. He must still be trying to find one he likes, though, because he’s always got a new one for me. He blushes when he says them, too, so I suspect he’s embarrassed that he hasn’t found the right one yet. Not that he’d ever admit it, of course.

These days, my garden’s become a full-blown ecosystem. Just the other day, I was taking my morning walk—you know, inspecting the crops and whatnot—when I heard quite the commotion coming from inside a Cadillac Seville. When I opened the door, the noise stopped, and six raccoons turned slowly to look at me. I’m pretty certain the old fat one, who must’ve been their leader, gestured and told me he’d make me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Though, to be honest, it sounded like he’d stuffed his cheeks with tissue paper, so I can’t be certain. Either way, I know what happens when you don’t take those masked bandits seriously, so I closed the door and backed away slowly. And you know what? Ever since they moved in, pieces stop vanishing too—though occasionally they must be sleeping on the job, or I’m getting more forgetful, because every now and then a piece appears that I don’t remember planting. Guess that happens when you get a garden as big and lush as mine, though, and I’d certainly never accuse them raccoons of being up to no good.

I have two pieces of good news to share. The first is that my garden’s expanding so fast it broke through Old Man Ford’s fence. At first, he tried to fight back by planting a row of old tires along the fence line, but I countered with a ‘65 Mustang that I found on Craigslist. It’s been a popular addition—just the other night, I heard a commotion, and through my bedroom window, I saw four dogs smoking cigars and playing poker around the hood. I’m pretty sure the short, skinny one was cheating too, but not wanting to get the dogs on my bad side, I didn’t interrupt. After all, it’s not every day you see a dachshund with a straight flush. Second, I got a letter the other day from the local garden club. Wouldn’t you know it, turns out, a rare butterfly—the Rustic Metalwing (or something fancy like that)—was discovered fluttering around my rows of tailpipes. Scientists say it’s the first time this species has been seen in decades, and they’re calling it a ‘miracle of nature.’ I’m not sure what’s so miraculous about a butterfly that thinks a rusted tailpipe is a flower, but hey, I’ll take the credit. Old Man Ford was so excited to hear the news he started vibrating like a gas-powered compactor. I’m not sure if it was pride, rage, or some kind of mechanical malfunction, but before I knew it, he’d dug himself into a hole. Literally. I had to fish him out with a broom and a length of garden hose. He didn’t say much afterward—just stood there, covered in dirt, muttering. I like to think he’s just jealous that his nomination to have my garden relocated to the landfill didn’t pan out.

Anyway, now my garden is swarming with khaki-vested weirdos armed to the teeth with binoculars, nets, and fancy cameras. The best part? Not only does the rusty little fella like my garden, but it also apparently only lays its eggs on rusted metal. Who knew? After all these years, the junk’s finally paying for itself, multiplying faster than Old Man Ford can rattle off his fancy French curses. Five bucks a head, or a six-pack for locals. The deer get in free, of course—they’re practically the mascots at this point.

So, if you ever find yourself in my neck of the woods, stop on by, say hello, and take some time to admire the Majestic Rusted-What-You-Ma-Call-It. Just watch out for the raccoons—they’ve been known to shake folks down for snacks. I’m pretty sure their leader’s got a tiny trench coat and a pair of brass knuckles, but I’ve learned not to ask too many questions.