“Where are they coming from?” I muttered, parting the curtains a crack. My fingernails were all bitten down to the quick. I paced another half-circle across the living room floor then went to peer out the window again. “Damn it, Ricotta, would you just calm down?” demanded Murt. And, he’d brought along a new pair of gnome buddies. “You’ll have to find another home.” I dropped him off among the Oldham’s daffodils a few yards down then continued on to jog in the park.įlasher gnome was back next to Petey the next day. “Sorry, fella,” I said to the second gnome. But two suggested I actually liked the things, and that was a boundary I wasn’t prepared to cross. One gnome in my yard I could tolerate you know, kind of ironically. “Who told you you could invite a friend?” I asked Petey, but he just stared smilingly out across the yard. Both its hands were clasped to its fat belly it was either enjoying a hearty laugh or preparing to flash an unsuspecting schoolgirl. The new one, every bit as ugly as Petey, wore a bright yellow rain jacket in addition to its pointed red hat. My mood was brought up short by the sight of a second gnome under the rhododendron. Half-drunk on harmony and goodwill and all that shit, I decided to stop by the rhododendron and say good morning to Petey. Even New Jersey puts on a decent show in late spring: blue skies, sweet-smelling air, the earth a carpet of green. I forgot all about Petey until the next morning, when I stepped out for a jog. Giving him a wave through the window, I drove off to my boring old day job at the firing range. Under the rhododendron, the gnome’s red cap shone like a beacon. Scooping up my duffel bag, I got into my Prius. I weighed the gnome in my hand, considering, then set it down again. Maybe they’d send me a postcard I hear people with too much time on their hands do that kind of thing. I checked the grass under the bush for a note or some other indication of who was responsible, but found nothing. “You’re a stupid looking little bastard, aren’t you?” I said, tapping the tiny buttons on its blue coat.
GNOME IN SHIFTY SHAFTS PATCH
I mean, at nearly six feet tall with a big scar on my left cheek, I’m not the kind of guy you’d expect to find weeding the vegetable patch or planting tulip bulbs. Several of them like to rib me about my gardening anyway. One of my neighbors must’ve put it there as a prank. “What the hell?” I studied it, chewing on a thumbnail, then laughed.
This one was smoking a pipe and wearing an expression of benign contentment you might associate with a hearty German dinner before the flatulence sets in. You know fat, puggy-nosed, white-bearded, pointed cap - that was the flash of red I’d seen. The thing standing under my rhododendron was a gnome. That’s the kind of life I lead.īut this time my vigilance proved unnecessary. Hell, part of me had been just waiting for the day one of my bushes decided to lure me close and eat me. Paranormals wander into my kitchen any old hour of the day and fix themselves a peanut butter and ectoplasm sandwich. Exaggerated caution, you think? Ha, when you’re the world’s only hitman of the supernatural, caution is the only sensible option. I wiped my hands on my pants then crept towards the bush on the balls of my feet, like I was expecting it to erupt. Mine - well, one of mine - began when a flash of red under my rhododendron caught my eye. Some of life’s moments should come attached to a warning label.
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