Page 2 of Mountain Grump
It’s the girliest vandalism I’ve ever seen. And harmless or not, it doesn’t belong.
I grip the ribbon and tug.
The surprisingly sturdy fabric snags on a barb.
I pull the switchblade out of my pocket and slice through the ribbon.
I tug on the cut piece.
It snags again.
I grit my teeth and slowly walk along the fence, unwinding the ribbon from the barbed wire.
What sort of person would spend the time required to do this?
It snags again. I cut it again.
Jack wouldn’t do this. And I’ve never known him to bring a woman out here. So whoever is here is trespassing. And defacing public property.
I continue down the fence line.
Unwind. Snag. Cut. Repeat.
My irritation grows with every step, and all the while, the humming persists.
I don’t recognize the song, but it sounds off-key.
On the other side of the fence, but still out of sight, is Jack’s gravel driveway. It’s only about thirty feet away, but the forest extends past the fence, and where the tree line finally ends, the ground slopes downhill, toward Jack’s house, so none of it is visible from here.
Which again begs the question, who woulddecoratea fence you can only see when you’re standing next to it?
I take another step.
Unwind another foot of fucking ribbon.
Cut it.
Carry on.
The humming continues.
Jack’s driveway is over a quarter mile long, and it makes a ninety-degree turn halfway down, so if you’re coming from the road, you can’t see the house until you’re practically on top of it. But Jack has a multitude of no trespassing signs that start at the mailbox. So even if somebody turned down the driveway by mistake, it’s obvious this is private property.
I slice another length of ribbon, flip my blade closed, and slide my knife into my pocket.
The rest of this purple bullshit can wait. I need to know who’s here.
Careful not to catch my clothes, I duck between the top two strands of wire, officially leaving park land.
My brain focuses on the humming.
Did someone break into Jack’s place?
Am I gonna have to kick out squatters?
A few strides later, I’m out of the trees, and Jack’s driveway comes into view.
It rained this morning. Not enough to wash away the tire tracks that I’d swear weren’t here last time. But enough to leave little murky puddles in the uneven surface.
