“The neighbor is like, gone, and he won’t mind,” Ziggy Robins shouted from his perch in the mighty oak tree he was preparing to mutilate. “It’s his tree, but this limb has got to go!”
The rest of his rambling was drowned out by the roar of the chainsaw as he made the sawdust fly. I jumped to avoid the massive limb that crashed to the ground at my feet.
Gulping at the thought of facing a neighbor whose giant oak was being subjected to unauthorized surgery, I couldn’t help glancing around to see who might be watching. Mentally, I put my running shoes on. If I heard even a mild shout, I wasn’t going to wait around to see who it might be directed at.
Three weeks earlier, my adventures with this particular hippie had started off in grand fashion. Summer was in full swing with a flood of orders and deliveries piling up.
“Hey, how soon can you deliver this inventory shed to Ziggy?” asked Shifty, my salesman.
I wiped the sweat from my brow and looked at the order form. “Should be able to fit him in soon since it’s just a few miles up the road. Is he in a hurry?”
“Yeah, it sounded like it when he reserved this one. He didn’t want to wait for an order to be built.”
“Ok, I’m on it,” I replied. Seeking refuge in the air-conditioned cab of my truck, I grabbed my phone and called Mr. Robins. After a few games of “tag, you’re it” on the phone, Ziggy and I finally connected and settled on the following Thursday.
However, after I loaded the shed on Thursday and called the honorable Mr. Robins with my customary courtesy call 30 minutes before ETA, he stammered around a bit.
“Uh, actually, I’m like, not ready after all, and I’ll have to like, postpone.”
Now hauling sheds is what I do, so loading and unloading sheds is no problem, but when I’ve got to do those things for no reason but to pass the time, I get a mite peeved. Maintaining my professionalism despite his inconsiderate cancellation, I agreed to wait until he called me.
Two weeks later, after connecting with Ziggy once more, I rolled up to his house on the agreed-upon day. I could see the house number on the little townhouse, but the empty driveway was giving me considerable concern.
The streets were narrow enough that I obstructed half the block with my loaded rig. The hiss of the air brakes setting seemed extraordinarily loud in the placid neighborhood.
Shrugging off my lingering doubts concerning the bare parking spot, I sauntered up to the little yellow-covered porch. Surprisingly, my knock on the door was answered after a few minutes of banging and clunking sounds from inside.
“Yo, man, whassup?” a voice slurred through the screen door. The sickly-sweet smell of marijuana filtered through the ragged bug barrier rather easily considering the density of the cloud enveloping the wisp of a man just barely visible inside.
“I’m Lem Parker,” he added.
“Hello, I’m Jason,” I managed to say without choking on the repugnant vapor swirling in the afternoon breeze. “I’m here with a shed delivery for Ziggy Robins. Is he available?”
“O-o-o-oh dude, he’s like, not here. Like, he’s gone. Like, I don’t think he’s ready for you, yet.”
Disbelief and frustration hit me at once. “I just texted him, and he said today was perfect!” I interjected, trying not to let the irritation show too much. “Are you sure?”
“Oh yeah, man. Like, it’s not gonna work. Like, he ain’t even got the dirt dug out yet for you.”
I’m not normally too impatient, but this time I was peeved. How does a customer in a hurry for a shed manage to screw up delivery times not once but twice?
Had I been less immersed in my own self-pity party, I might have taken the time to stroll around the house to the proposed location. Doing so could have averted the chainsaw scene from above. Nevertheless, frustration carried the day, and I stifled a snarkier retort.
“Can you get ahold of him and see where he is?” I asked somewhat stiffly.
“Lemme call him, dude, and see what he planned,” Lem slurred. “You wanna come in and have a seat?”
“No, thanks,” I responded, adding under my breath, “I’d rather not get high on your second-hand pot habit.”
Aloud, I said, “I’ll just wait out by my truck.”
“Hey, Ziggy man! Your shed’s like, here!” Lem’s pot-fogged voice interrupted my first dozen steps back to cleaner air. “Seriously, du-u-u-de, it’s like, here right now, and the guy’s like, wanting to unload it, and like, I’m not sure you’re ready, and like, it’s hot, and where are you, bro?”
I paused my retreat from the pungent vapor cloud and listened a bit more. The tinny phone speaker was indistinct from my self-prescribed weed social distancing, but Ziggy clearly was excited. Squeaks and gibbers emitted from the phone at an alarming pitch. After a few aborted attempts, Lem finally cut through the squawking and took over the conversation.
“Yo, bro, here’s the guy. Like, he’s still here, and he’s like, ready to talk to you, bro. He’s like, super chill, and you figure it out with him. Like, this ain’t my shed or my problem.”
With that, he thrust the squawking phone into my hands. For a second, I wondered how much weed was coming along with said phone, but I decided the local DEA’s arsenal lacked the means to implicate me as a doobie chewing trucker.
“Bro! Bro! Bro! Du-u-u-de, you was coming next Friday! I ain’t ready, man! You said like, next Friday!” The tumbling diatribe came in a rush with a generous helping of f-bombs. Generous, as in six or seven per sentence.
“Well,” I responded coolly, “I did mention today’s date earlier this week, and I texted you an hour ago and told you I’d be here in 45 minutes.”
“Naw, dude, I checked and it said next we — . . . uh-oh . . . um, oops. Oh, wow! I guess I screwed up a bit, didn’t I?” he lamely backpedaled. “Oh, du-u-u-de, I’m sorry, bro!”
Now ticked off as I was, I was stifling a faint grin at the hippy-speak tumbling forth and his complete, nonplussed humility when he realized his screwup.
“Well, that’s ok,” I replied. “However, I will have to bill you for the attempted delivery today.”
“Oh, du-u-u-de, you go right ahead. Man, I’m so sorry, bro,” he stammered, further disarming me with his apology.
“Hey, it’s ok. I’ll be here next Friday.” With that, I handed the reeking, squawking phone back to Lem.
“I’ll see you in a week,” I quipped as I climbed up in my truck cab. The lingering cloud from Lem’s well-chewed reefer clung to my shirt like cheap cologne. I had a sudden image of getting pulled over for a DOT inspection and trying to explain the lingering essence to the suspicious cop.
“I’m telling you, sir, I’ve never touched the stuff in my life! See, there was this customer, and he was puffing away in my face, and I was trying to get away, and it just sticks to you, and . . . and . . .” I figured I’d get that far before I was in handcuffs with the cop laughing at me.
Pushing the disconcerting thoughts aside, I vowed to change clothes as soon as possible, taking advantage of the spare set I usually carry in my cab.
When I called Ziggy exactly a week later to give him my 30-minute ETA, I was hardly surprised when he had a dozen questions.
“Hey, I want to get like, a few treated beams to put under the shed. How many should I get?” he asked.
Patiently, I explained that the shed came with its own set of treated skids and there was no reason to buy more.
“Oh, ok, cool, man! Well, there’s also like, a limb that might be in the way. Like, I don’t have a chainsaw, but like, I’ve always wanted one, so I’m gonna get one like, real quick before you get here.”
I shook my head in disbelief. This guy was a real nutcase. “Well, I’ll be there in 30 minutes, so just be sure to be ready when I get there,” I replied.
Thirty minutes later, the quiet of the little street once more was rattled by the rumbling of the big Cummins and the hiss of air brakes. Climbing down from the cab, I finally came face to face with the infamous Ziggy.
While inhaling cannabis clearly mellowed his buddy Lem, it apparently had the opposite effect on Mr. Robins. Ziggy was nearly levitating with pent-up energy. Between taking puffs on his blunt and generously scattering f-bombs, he was hopping from one foot to the other in a fair representation of the elusive perpetual motion machine.
“O-o-o-h, bro, the shed looks awesome! I heard you were good! I got the spot all cleared out for you. Measured it like a dozen times to be sure. Gonna be a mite tight, but it’ll fit. Now I want you to like, look at this limb before I like, cut it to make sure I need to cut it!”
He never stopped to catch a breath as we rounded the corner of the house and I saw the fated spot. A huge, stately oak spread his mighty arms all about in complete disregard for the life or health of any shed that dared pass beneath its clutching branches.
A particularly large limb hung low and menacing over the path the shed would need to take in order to reach the spot that was cleared. The sod had been removed and the bushes trimmed back to create a space that was certainly no larger than the 10 by 16 shed sitting out in the street.
My 25-plus years in this job have given me a fairly good eye for distances, and I was beginning to think Ziggy had used one of those defective off-brand tape measures. While the space was close to 16 feet long, I had a feeling that the 4 inches of overhang from the back porch coupled with the massive root wad of the neighbor’s maple tree were going to have a bit of conflict.
Looking up at the mighty oak limb brooding over the whole scene, I decreed that at the least, that particular menace had to go.
As I headed for my truck to get my trusty Fat Max® tape, Ziggy headed for his truck. To my surprise, instead of procuring his brand-new chain saw from the bed, he jumped in the cab and fired the old rust bucket up.
“I’ll be right back!” he hollered. “The hardware store has a good deal on the chainsaw I want, so I’m going to go get it. I’ll be like, right back.”
Words failed me as I stood there in the middle of the street. Here I was thinking he had gone and gotten the new chainsaw an hour before when he said he would. Silly me! Somehow, I had taken him at his word after several prior experiences should have clearly shown me that particular character flaw in his drug-addled life.
A blaring horn behind me jarred me from the momentary paralysis Ziggy had infected me with. Jumping, I stepped to the side as the speeding passerby saluted me with a complimentary finger. I guess he thought I was No. 1.
As I returned with my own tape measure to double-check, I discovered my distance estimating abilities were in fine form that afternoon. After figuring for the house roof overhang and gutter, and the shed trim and roof metal, I could see that the shed would extend past the excavated section by at least 10 to 12 inches.
I kicked at the mass of dirt encroaching into the area needed for the shed. The last month of hot, dry weather certainly hadn’t done the ground any favors. It felt only slightly softer than granite. Plus, there were a dozen wrist-thick roots from a small maple tree twisting through the bank like drunk lizards.
Taking a closer look at the maple tree base, I was fairly certain the shed would actually reach the root wad and possibly even extend over the property line. I looked around for a shovel or pick, figuring I might as well start chipping away. However, none revealed themselves to my probing eyes, and I finally resigned myself to waiting for my chainsaw-shopping hippy friend to return.
About then, Lem slouched around the corner with his ever-present smoke cloud trailing behind. “Du-u-u-de! It ain’t like, big enough, is it?”
“No,” I replied, “and I’m afraid this little maple tree is going to have to go as well, but it’s on the neighbor’s property.”
I mentally prepared myself to return the shed to the display and refund Ziggy’s money. There was simply no way the shed would fit. Turning it sideways would only result in the shed door being pressed up against the house too close to be of use, especially if I honored the local town ordinance of keeping buildings at least five feet from property boundaries. Why did I have to keep running into folks like this?
Before I could get much further in my thoughts, I heard a door slam, and Ziggy came loping around the corner of the house with a brand-new chainsaw in hand.
“Yo, man, let’s see if this thing works!”
“Well, we have another problem” I interjected. “This bank will need to be cut out at least another foot, and even then, the building will be over the property line by an inch or two. Also, this little maple tree of your neighbor’s is directly in the way. Is the neighbor around to ask if we could trim it back or cut it down?”
“Naw, he’s like, gone, bro, and he’s not gonna mind. As far as the city and the 5-foot setback, I’m gonna tell them the shed’s like, always been here. Oh, dude, and this bank, like, I can have that dug out in two minutes.”
Well, dealing with the city was not my problem. I figured if Ziggy wanted to risk the local inspector’s ire, that was up to him. However, cutting down a neighbor’s tree was not something I was going to do. Let Ziggy take that risk. I stepped back and watched him go to work.
The guy had the energy of a dozen normal people. He was nearly a blur as he raced about the tiny space with the pick and shovel that he magically found. Dirt flew, and the bank melted away under his frantic onslaught in a surprisingly short time. That’s when Ziggy clambered up into the huge oak tree and amputated the offending limb from the beginning of our story.
As much as I shook my head over his antics, I had to give him grudging respect for his manic work ethic. He was like a monkey on Red Bull® as he swung around up and down the tree, trimming it back.
Finally, he dropped to the ground and attacked the little maple tree mentioned before. That’s when I knew he should never have been trusted with a new chainsaw. To my relief, he did not cut it cleanly down. At least the neighbor would not see a gap in the hedgerow.
He simply split the tree down the middle and proceeded to cut into the root wad with the sparkling new chainsaw bar. I winced as sparks flew and a rainbow of dirt arced out from the spinning chain. He was cutting wood, dirt, and rocks all at the same time.
In about five seconds, the saw was barely able to get through even loose dirt anymore. Then smoke started oozing out as the destroyed chain hacked away at the remaining roots. I walked away. There was no way I could watch anymore and stay silent. I decided to unload and get my Mule set up under the shed.
Because of the tight quarters, I had to rig up temporary skids under the shed so I could slide it in sideways. By the time I had that done, Ziggy had actually managed to trim all the limbs, dig all the dirt out, split the offending maple tree down the middle, and clear the knot of roots away.
I cringed as I saw the saw sitting off to the side with a wisp of smoke trailing off the mangled chain and bar. The last few roots looked like they’d been burned away by a branding iron.
Well, now it was my turn. I had to thread the needle and put the shed into place. In my distraction with the whole situation, I had scarcely noticed the gathering crowd. I suddenly took note that four or five of Lem’s type had shown up, and through the overpowering essence of weed, I could detect a good bit of alcohol was also consumed by this bunch.
Their “Du-u-u-des!” and “bros!” were not only slow and drawn out, but slurred just a mite. The combination of whiskey-laden breath and clouds of marijuana smoke nearly had me getting high. I shook my head to clear it and got to work. Rounding the street corner to where my shed and mule sat waiting patiently, I hoped I could actually get this in. No question, it was going to be extremely tight.
Squelching my stomach knots, I fired up the mule and headed for the ill-advised spot. As I came around the house with my mule remote in play and the shed following behind me like an obedient puppy, I found out where Ziggy got his penchant for profanity-laced conversations. Or maybe he influenced his friends. Either way, the booze-infused crowd was quite vocal in their astonishment.
Smoking grass took a back seat immediately to astonishment at the remote-controlled contraption maneuvering the shed around. Lem’s freshly lit blunt actually fell to the ground as his mouth opened in literal jaw-dropping awe.
Ziggy was true to form and bounced all around, cussing up a storm of awe while pointing out any limb that was close. Sure enough, after getting halfway into the spot, I ran into a wrist-sized limb that was going to be a problem. As I pointed it out to Mr. Robins, he glanced ruefully at the brand-new chainsaw.
“Dude, like, I don’t think that saw can cut anymore. Like, it’s pretty dull.”
No kidding, Sherlock, I thought.
However, Ziggy was unfazed. “I’ll just climb up here and like, pull it back, bro,” he announced as he scampered up the tree. His sandals gripped the tree surprisingly well, and in no time, he was hanging off the backside of the tree pulling on the offending limb. Surprisingly enough, he moved the limb enough to let the shed through.
It would take too long to tell the whole story of how much maneuvering it took to get the shed into its final spot, but there was less than a quarter-inch of clearance on each end. When I finally set it down and got the dollies out, there was less than an inch between the shed and the house gutter and maybe a paper thickness between the shed and the split maple tree.
At least, that was what I could see. My eyes were watering from the clouds of smoke wisping around, and the air was definitely a shade of blue from the unbridled admiration of the bystanders.
Getting my tools and mule loaded back up, I wondered how long it would be before I was back to move the shed. There was no way the city would not notice the violation. Not to mention the neighbor’s wrath when he discovered his trees had been butchered to allow the passage of the shed.
No matter, I decided. I was going to get paid either way. And maybe, just maybe, ol’ Ziggy knew his neighbor well enough to be right about him not caring. Either way, I was off the hook.
As I filled out the warranty card and recorded the final payment from Mr. Robins, the swarm of buddies on scene walked all around and inside the shed admiring it.
“Hey, Ziggy, this is perfect for a good bong smoking party,” one of them remarked.
“Great idea!” he replied. “Mr. Kauffman, you wanna like, join us?”
“No, thank you,” I replied. “I’ve got a long day ahead.”
Five minutes later, as the fresh air of an open window and speeding truck further cleared my head, I concluded that saying no had definitely been a good idea.
Smoke gives me a headache. Besides, I don’t think my lace-up work boots and short hair would have fit in with that crowd.