Sunday Scribblings - Eating Organic

Little Johnny imagined he heard strange sounds coming from the direction of Mr. Gorman’s compost pile.  At least his mother told him he imagined them.  Johnny wasn’t so sure.  He pulled the blanket down enough for his left eye to see the clock.  It read 12:00 AM, the witching hour.  The same as last full moon.  There it was again.  Johnny quickly covered his head.  Beads of sweat covered his brow.  One droplet ran down the bridge of his nose, pausing in the indentation above his top lip, before plummeting downward over his chin.  It disappeared into the collar of his cotton pajamas.  He heard the sound again, a muffled keening, as if someone or some thing were in distress.

Too scared to move, Johnny lay perfectly still for what seemed like an hour.  In reality, it was only a few minutes.  The sound paused, and then started up again.  This time it seemed louder, closer, more cat-like.  Perhaps it was Old Lady Crenshaw’s tom cat looking for a fight.  Satisfied with his mind’s explanation, he peeked at the clock again.  It was 12:15 and the sound stopped, suddenly, not like the creature decided to call it quits, more like a strong hand muffled the sound, right outside his window.

At the very moment sleep closed his eyes for the second time that night, a scraping sound opened them.  Feeling braver now, Johnny crept from his bed, crossed to the south window, and peeked through a crack in the blinds.  Mr. Gorman was busy shoveling leaves on top of his compost pile.

Mr. Gorman didn’t look like someone who worried about whether or not his food was organic, yet he used the compost to fertilize his garden.  As a result, his tomatoes were bigger and redder than any Johnny had ever seen.  He kept the neighborhood supplied in fresh vegetables: green beans, corn, okra, and those awe inspiring tomatoes.  Everyone liked Mr. Gorman, except Johnny.  Johnny didn’t trust him.  Sometimes he seemed nice, other times he oozed evil.

Johnny watched Mr. Gorman shovel on one last scoop of leaves from the wheelbarrow.  The man took a flashlight and pointed it toward the compost pile.  He walked slowly around the pile, shrugged, and disappeared into the darkness.  Puzzled as to why Mr. Gorman would work on his compost pile during the wee morning hours, Johnny decided to see for himself.

Although mostly overcast, a full moon managed to provide enough light for Johnny to find his way into the neighboring yard.  He paused under a massive live oak tree before running the last few feet across the freshly mown lawn.  He stopped beside the rotting pile of organic waste, wrinkled his nose, and held back the urge to present the pile with a large plate of partially digested spaghetti and meatballs.

Johnny looked around for a stick to displace the leaves.  He was curious to see the most recent addition to the pile.  He searched next to the fence where Mr. Gorman sometimes stored tree trimmings, but came up empty handed, and then remembered seeing a hoe propped against the garden shed.  He grabbed the hoe and headed back to the compost pile.  As he raised the hoe, a firm hand clamped his left shoulder.

“What do ya think you’re doing there boy?”

Johnny’s heart pounded in a race to come up with a good reason for standing beside Mr. Gorman’s compost pile with a hoe in his hand.  Nothing came.  He opened his mouth, but no words came out, only an odd squeak and then silence.  He felt something cold touch his bare toes and looked down.  He wanted to scream.  Instead he spewed that plate of partially digested spaghetti and meatballs over the pale white hand lying on his foot, effectively hiding it from Mr. Gorman.

The man let go of Little Johnny’s shoulder and took a step back to avoid splatter, “You sick?”

“Yes sir, but I-I-I thought I heard Mrs. Crenshaw’s cat out here.  I figured she didn’t know he was out.”

Mr. Gorman started back toward the house, “That cat can take care of himself.  You get on back home before you catch pneumonia.”

Johnny’s bare feet flew across the lawn.  Once he was safe inside the house, he made a beeline for his bed, hopped in, and covered up his head.

A few minutes later, Little Johnny imagined he heard noises coming from the direction of Mr. Gorman’s compost pile.  This time he didn’t quiver with fear.  Instead, he crept out of bed, across the floor, and peeked through the blinds.  Mr. Gorman was busy shoveling leaves.  Once the wheelbarrow was empty, he leaned against the shovel’s handle, and looked straight at Johnny.

Johnny envisioned himself suffocating beneath a pile of leaves, reached for the phone, and dialed 9-1-1.

As dawn approached, Johnny watched from his bedroom window.  Officer Franks stepped back to allow the detectives to do their job.  The coroner had transported the deceased Mrs. Crenshaw and her cat to the morgue, Mr. Ronald Gorman had been dragged from his bed, handcuffed, and helped into the back of squad car, and Johnny’s mother had grounded him for the rest of his life for sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night.

Someone else watched from across the street.  Mr. Gorman’s identical twin threw a shovel in the back of his gardener’s truck.  After climbing into the cab and starting the engine, he drove off to continue his efforts in convincing the world the importance of eating organic.