WELL DONE! A REMARKABLE DAY by Mark Braught

WELL DONE! Fiction

A REMARKABLE DAY by Mark Braught

Not uncommon, people believe their expectations will far exceed the slow and tedious unfolding of odd bits and pieces of the life they will actually lead. My experience has been these seemingly benign, unrelated loose threads are the true treasures in their lives that are the real gems. This is the stuff that stories worth telling are made of, and last Monday, this story began.

Spring has the sort of air you breathe in making you feel fresh again, clean and confident. Leaves fluttered to the scent of pine and gardenia. There was a warbling chatter of birds completing this picture. It was going to be a remarkable day, particularly for Blake Stephens.

Nearing the end of his morning regiment, he slid on a pair of black Levis. Remnants of a wardrobe that somehow escaped the “purge” every husband experiences upon marriage. Paint splattered with wear from various home projects, these were reluctantly tolerable now that they were regulated to “work clothes” and out of the public-at-large display.

“Too 80’s, and they just fit you funny,” she would say, he mused to himself.

They made him feel seasoned, rugged, and ready for whatever a household task may present, like a suit of armor for battle. A happy compromise for all concerned. This armor was completed with socks, shoes, a tee shirt, and a denim shirt with the tails out and the sleeves rolled up. Striding out of the bedroom and down the hall toward the kitchen, he glanced to his left at the single row of eyelevel small, square, framed photos of friends, family, and his wedding that hung on the wall. It was the smiles on their faces that he always wanted to see. Nearing the last image with an almost imperceptible hesitation was a black–and–white close-up of his bride during their first dance. Reminiscing those moments was comforting.

Back on stride, he rounded the corner into the kitchen to choose a coffee cup that would be appropriate for the day . . . “ Failure is not an Option.” was absolutely appropriate. That first cup of hot coffee signaled the countdown to square-off with the day. For so many reasons, this rite of spring brought particular joy. He always did this on a weekday, leaving his weekends available for friends, family, and occasional fun. A reward of sorts he relished, reserved for those who were masters of their time, pursuing fame and fortune in the ranks of the self-employed. It was also a privilege of home ownership with the opportunity to make a statement to his neighbors and community that he cared and belonged amongst them. In a very small, very normal community, he could offer himself briefly as a responsible citizen, normal in a nominal way.

“Got gas?”

“Yep.”

“Work gloves?”

On the counter over there.

“Phone?”

Nope, I don’t need it. I’ll check it on breaks.

“Oh! Don’t forget the Nano and earbuds,” a throw-back technology he defiantly and proudly refused to surrender to techno-progress.

With that, he gulped down the last bit of coffee, placed it in the sink, grabbed his work gloves, and headed out the back door, down the pink marble walk near the vegetable garden to face the garage where the weapons of choice for the task of the day resided. There was no option for failure; he had it on good authority.

He raised the garage door, and there it was, the biggest power tool in his manly toy chest parked before him. With a confidence rooted in the wild west, he mounted his trusty steed. Settling into the seat of his 42” Craftsman, he placed it in neutral, made sure the mower was not engaged, pushed in the clutch, and turned the key! Oh, the joy of a machine that beckons when commanded. Placing the gear in reverse, he slowly rolled out of the garage into the daylight, onto the concrete pad, and cut the engine off to begin going through a final checklist.

After his dismount, he began his routine of checking the gas and oil, finishing up with making sure the tires had the proper pressure. All that remained was an inspection of the roughly two acres of his three-acre lot to remove the limbs that seemed to constantly fall victim to gravity from the number of large oaks on the property. The walk was good exercise, and the view wasn’t hard to look at. His property was on the corner and surrounded on two sides by roughly two hundred and some acres of deer-infested woodlands owned by a gentleman in Tennessee. That withstanding, this was his least favorite part of this process. The mowing. Done properly however, the fun part could be fully enjoyed without interruption and, heaven forbid, an incident resulting in damage to his pride-n-joy.

Everything was shaping up very well. All that remained was plugging in his buds and dialing up his tunes. He even had a collection of tunes titled “Mowing” that would run a playlist for the duration. As he hit “play,” he slipped the device into his shirt pocket, settled into the seat, and turned the key to start her up. A tune by the Chieftains from the Fargo album began as the machine was brought about and the mower was engaged. He could feel the motor surge as the blades spun to begin cutting.

The plan was to start the laps at the back of the property at the tree line so the cuttings were always blown “inside” and continue working until everything was thoroughly mulched and mowed. Cruising along the back of the property, he turned, placing his left hand on the back of the seat to stabilize himself as he checked his work.

Pleased all was going well, he returned his gaze and torso forward, placing both hands on the wheel again as the first turn had to be navigated to meet the next straight away.

As the mower straightened out, he began to truly relax. Like one of those sensory-enhanced films, the sky, a cerulean blue, the breeze so sweet, so clean, only the music could be heard playing over this scene. Unfortunately, like an old movie projector, that celluloid SNAPPED, everything stopped. He lunged forward. There was a blinding light as if he were face-to-face with the lights at a ballpark, but he couldn’t close his eyes, and just as quickly, a deafly silent, cold, black void.

Blake Stephens was dead, face down, well before his arrival on the ground next to his mower.

Originally from Iowa, Mark Braught studied graphic design at the Minneapolis College of Art & Design, and graduated with a BFA from Indiana State University. The first ten years of his career were spent on the other side of the table as an art director and creative director. In 1984, he struck out on his own and created Mark Braught Studios to focus primarily on graphic design and illustration. He has created numerous award-winning visual solutions for various corporations, design firms, advertising agencies and publishers in the United States and locations world-wide. There have been lectures and presentations at schools, institutions, conferences, events, festivals, and organizations across the country and has taught as an adjunct faculty member at the University of Georgia, Portfolio Center, Ivy Tech, Hollins University, and the Creative Circus. Currently, Mark does his scribbling in Commerce, Georgia with words of encouragement and guidance from Figlette and Buddy.