The Cowardly Trencher

Beginning the first week of June 2004, someone began “trenching” my front yard. The "Trencher" pulls into my yard in what is probably a four-wheel drive truck, flooring the gas pedal and spinning the tires, stripping the grass and topsoil away. Through the summer, Trenching occurred about once a week. Trenching occurred different times of the day and night, different days of the week.
One summer afternoon standing in my garage, I looked up to see a metallic/tan truck with the big red letters spelling out “Z 71” on the left rear side of the bed, driving out of my yard across the lower part of my driveway and into the street. When I gave the truck description to the police officer, he said, “There are a lot of those in town.”
After the first time or two, I began to report every event to the police department. In November, after one more daytime trenching, I talked with a police officer at the station about these incidents and discovered that not all of my reports to individual officers had been entered into the main computer at the police department.

Trenchings

1. Week of June 5-11, 2004. Discovered on my return from vacation.

2. June 16, 2004, between 9:00 and 10:30 p.m. I heard a loud engine revving, and as soon as I got to the front yard, I found the grass stripped, the yard trenched.

3. June 21, 2004, at 4:45pm a late model pick-up truck, a Chevrolet with a large red Z 71 on the left rear side of the box. It was driving west, maybe followed by a white older Suburban.

4. June 22 or 23, 2004, between 9:00 p.m. and 7:00 a.m. Trenched.

5. June 25, 2004, 12:15 to 12:45 a.m. Heard engine roaring and tires squealing. From the skid marks, it appeared to be heading east. I reported it to the police on 6/25/04.

6. June 27—July 3, 2004, yard was trenched. I gave my only copy of the details to the police. This was a bad idea because:

7. July 4—July 10, 2004, yard was trenched. Details lost to police.

8. July 11—July 17, 2004, yard was trenched. Details lost to police.

9. July 18—July 24, 2004, yard was trenched. Details lost to police.

10. July 25/26, 8:00 p.m. and 8:00 a.m. Trenched. Left my written report of everything to this date with the officer.

11. Two Trenchings in August, reported to police, but did not make a personal copy.

12. 2nd August Trenching.

13. Two Trenchings in September, reported to police, but again did not make a personal copy.

14. 2nd September Trenching. Looking at my yard after one of these events, I suggested to the policeman that I was going to have to catch the Trencher or grant him an easement.

15. Two trenchings in October, reported to police, but did not make a personal copy of the details.

16. 2nd October Trenching.

17. Nov. 2nd Election Day trenched between 8:00 a.m. and 2:30 p.m. reported to the police. During conversation with police officer at the station, I found out not all of my reports had been entered in the computer.

18. Dec 9, 2004, Between 8:00 p.m. & 6:30 a.m. Trenched. My neighbor thinks she heard a car at 9:00 p.m. Reported to PD at 6:30 a.m. Another neighbor, sweet, demure, proper, and quite elderly is incredibly angry. She talked of wanting to wait for the Trencher with a gun.

The cowardly Trencher is angry. He is, I think, angry at many more things/people than me. For some reason, I have become the focus of his anger. Possibly the one bright moment in his life, when he feels (as it turns out totally in error) he can "get back" at all the "thems" that hamper and hold him down, is when he drives into my yard, cranks up the engine of his big truck, pops it into gear and strips the grass and an inch or so of topsoil off two narrow strips of my lawn with his spinning tires. When he goes out and about in his life and encounters what must be inevitable discouragement, disappointment, failure, he feels badly and it occurs to him to go drive through my yard again. For a brief adrenalin-filled moment, he feels in control of something again. Actually, it is a good sign that he now only comes through about once a month. It means, hopefully, his life isn't quite so miserable and pathetic as it was when he felt a need to come tearing through every week.

I've felt all along his problem is he is full of anger that he can't face directly for some reason. Of course, I don’t even know if it is a “he.” I think he/she/it just doesn't have the courage to come up to a cripple guy and tell him off, or punch him in the face or . . . something.

Of what could he/she/it be afraid? I try to imagine what he fears. Possibly, that I will lift a hand off a crutch handle and punch her, or that I might hit it with a crutch? Perhaps he is afraid I will kick her with my good leg. Maybe it plans an assault and/or insult followed by a run away taunting and he is fearful that I will chase her down, catch it and insult him back, or maybe beat her to a pulp. If it is so angry at me that lawbreaking is his choice outlet, then surely she could explain the reasons for its anger to others well enough for them to all join him in prosecuting me. Surely, she is not so angry over something so small that others cannot see the wrong in what I have done. Surely, I have broken some law, or boundary of propriety and it can call in others to help him make me pay, for my wrong.

On the other hand which is worse, this frustrated pathetic being who destroys my lawn, or my ex. A wife I loved, respected, and trusted, spending two years of our marriage involved with another man. Finally leaving our family and home, divorcing me, she marries him, and has a second church wedding a block south and twenty-eight years later than her first church wedding. I wonder if it was complete with showers, receptions, gifts, and thank-you cards.

Now enthroned in an impressive house, well-entrenched in the community as the wife of wealth, fulfilling sham propriety, propping a façade of respectability, she never speaks publicly to me, neither her or her, now often absent, husband. They simply do not "see" me in public places. She funnels public gifts to our children, while, to me, she refuses child support and college money for them.

I think, as a victim, I prefer trenching to rape.

Bastory

bastory

\Bas' to ry\, 1. Begotten and brought into the world in an unnatural and secret way; a perversion of nature, legitimate in appearance, but fundamentally illegitimate. Alien and against all nature, but with the outward appearance of humanity. See Angel of Light, n, note.

2. Fundamentally lacking in genuineness; spurious; false; adulterate; -- applied to things which resemble those which are genuine, but are, in fact, antithetical to all that is true, legitimate, honest, and pure. See Father of Lies, n, note; and also Satanic, adj., note.

3. Of an innocuous make or proportion but deadly in effect; as, a Bastory mushroom (poison), a bastory bomber (a young mother who quietly and secretly straps explosives to her cuddled child for detonation mid-flight while nursing).

4. A medical book, detailing antidotes to poison with deadly poison embedded in the pages, killing all who touch it.

Bastory friend insinuating into a spouses affections, seducing, and manipulating the spouse into shattering the hearts of children, family, and friends by breaking from and abandoning, them all.

Bastory step a person appearing to be a model, if innocuous, step-parent, but who is possessed by such a fundamental disinterest in children that the emotional chill is palpable.

Bastory confidant who poses as a spiritual, moral, person, but counsels sin and betrayal by characterizing them as Godly, the true will of God: "God wants you to be happy; he wants you to divorce your spouse and marry me."

A Trust Betrayed A

When absolute trust is betrayed absolutely,

when a twenty-five year history, a pledged lifetime, and a warm place in the family heart are abandoned tearlessly

with a slow shrug and flat toneless words, drifting without articulation from between tight lips,

"I don't love you anymore. I don’t know if I ever did."

Maybe you drop into a block of granite,
crack hard immobility and black rock blindness?

After eternity,
granite fades to fog,
a chunky igneous fog.

You emerge,
incrementally,
from the gelatinous haze,
imbedded crystals scraping you clean but raw.
The fog clings, cuts, and scrapes, resisting your coming out,
a sloth slowly slipping into lighter black, darkest grey,
thinking every day, “Things are really starting to clear up."


Looking back from weeks later and clearer still, the former fog--thick, heavy, and lowering--no longer passes for the clarity it seemed. Trying to see further back is impossible, impenetrable.

Further back in the black granite fog, cold and inorganic, the scrapings of your skin, blood, heart, and hopes are drying on the lightless crystalline flecks, petrifying in the frigid, igneous, heart of absolute betrayal.

You cannot see the way clearly, how you emerged, how you even knew the way.

What odds a miracle?
What’s the proportionate expression?
What’s the chance you emerged self-powered?

A fractional ratio: zip over none.