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Updated: August 28, 2024
Short weeks after I'd inoculated Mrs Dinkman's lawn, that part of Los Angeles known as Hollywood had disappeared from the map of civilization and had become one solid mass of green devilgrass. No one refused to move for this dispossessor as they had for the governor; thousands of homeless fled from it.
Parenthetically she acknowledged my presence with a pleasant smile. "You hear that? Remind me the next time I am troubled by a transposition or a solopassage that it takes less muscles to smile than to frown. For I have got to work at last, A W; the loafing and inviting of my soul is past, my soul has responded to my invitation. You remember Crisodd's Devilgrass Symphony?
Now I'll bring the microphone closer and maybe you can catch the noise of the flame. Hear it? That's quite a roar. I guess old Mr Grass is cooked now. "Now these boys are advancing in a straight line from the street up over the curb, holding their fiery torches in front of them. The devilgrass is shriveling up. Yessir, it's shriveling right up like a gob of tobaccojuice on a hot stove.
But the mown area was narrow and the machine quickly jerked through it and made the last easy journey along the wall of untouched devilgrass beyond. The gardener, without hesitation, aimed his machine at the thicket of grass. It growled, slowed, coughed, spat, struggled and thrashed on and finally conked out. "Ah," said Miss Francis. "Oh," said the spectators. "Sonofabitch," said the gardener.
"Thisll do the business," he announced confidently as I relinquished the spotlight to him with understandable readiness. "It's a regular jimdandy." It certainly was. The devilgrass came irreverently above the wheels and flowed with graceful inquisitiveness over the blades, but the brisk little man pushed heartily and the mechanism revolved with a barely audible clicking.
"There's nothing marvelous about it," I told him a little irritably. "It used to be really green, a bright, even color, but up here where it's high and cold it doesnt look much different from ordinary devilgrass dirty and ugly." I thought his enthusiasm distinctly out of place in the circumstances. He did not seem to hear me, but went on dreamily, "And the sounds it makes!
But this was far from the last aftereffect. Though attention had naturally been diverted from the orange band to the eccentric behavior of the contiguous grass, it did not go unobserved and about a week after its first change of color it seemed to be losing its unnatural hue and turning green again. Not the green of the great mass, nor of the queer periphery, nor of uninspired devilgrass.
"I cut lots a devilgrass, lady, but I won't tie into this overgrown stuff at that price. You got no right to expect it. I know what's fair and it's not reasonable to count on me cutting this like it was an ordinary lawn. You know yourself it isnt fair." "I'll give you ten dollars and that's my last word."
I inquired, not believing it would jog my memory, but out of a natural politeness toward inferiors who always feel flattered by such attention. "Dinkman," he muttered. "Adam Dinkman." ... That incredibly dilapidated frontlawn, overrun with sickly devilgrass and spotted with bald patches.
Here I am again, folks, in the street in front of the Dinkman residence a little out of breath, but none the worse off, ready to resume the blowbyblow story of the fight against the devilgrass. That was a little trouble back there, but it's all right now.
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