Mythology and Machines
The Lawnmower Man, the strangest King story I've read
Good morning.
If you’re new to this newsletter welcome. This is The Barrens, Kindling’s Stephen King book club where we read, dissect, and discuss all things King. Currently, you’ve caught us in the middle (more like towards the end) of his first published short story collection, Night Shift. If you would like to participate, grab a copy, and read “Quitters, Inc.” for next Monday’s virtual meetup.
If you’re in the States, I hope you’re all staying warm. Frigid temperatures and snow storms have taken hold across the country, and my home state is not immune. It’s zero degrees outside as I write this. The animals are sleeping. My house is warm, but I can hear the wind kicking around outside.
Imagine how strange to finish “The Lawnmower Man,” caught in the thrashings of winter. Picturing fresh cut grass and a cold beer is difficult, but piecing together this strange little tale is even harder. I think, unless my memory fails me, we have found the absolute weirdest of the weird, and I can’t wait to hear what you think.
This post also features additional audio. It is not a voiceover of the article, just some extra thoughts from yours truly. Please listen if you’d like, share your own bookish opinions and comment below!
I don’t even know where to start, but here we go.
That’s how weird this story is everyone. We’ve hit a low point in this collection. This story, is about a man named Harold Parkette who cares about his manicured lawn. It’s a point of pride, a chance for him to enjoy some beers and listen to the game while ensuring his neighbors think his house looks good.
Until the accident. The summer before our dear protagonist finds an ad for a lawn service in the Sunday paper, he mows the neighbor’s cat. You heard that right. Blood everywhere, his daughter so disgusted she vomits on her new jumper. His wife cries as he cleans the blades.
The whole thing has him on edge, and when the next summer rolls around, he lets the grass grow. And grow it does. The summer weather is perfect, a light rain every couple of days interspersed by pleasant warmth. His yard starts to look more like a meadow than a lawn, and the neighbors can’t help but crack jokes as they walk by.
Which leads him to the paper.
When he sees a woodchuck in the backyard, he knows he can’t ignore it any longer. He decides to hire someone to do the job.
The time had come, he decided. He flicked off the radio, picked up the paper, and turned to the classifieds. And halfway down the Part Time column, he found this: Lawns mowed. Reasonable. 776-2390
So he calls the number, and finds on the other line, a professional voice answering for Pastoral Greenery and Outdoor Services. Harold waits on the back porch with his beer, dozing off while listening to baseball on the radio. Until the doorbell rings.
A man in grass-stained denim overalls stood on the front stoop, chewing a toothpick. He was fat. The curve of his belly pushed his faded blue overall out to a point where Harold had suspected he had swallowed a basketball
The man is there to mow his lawn, and he seems awfully gleeful about it. Harold is anything but. There’s an uneasy feeling around the whole affair for him, and not just because he’s squeamish about lawnmowers.
He’s also afraid of men like the lawnmower man.
…they were always tanned dark brown, there was always nets of wrinkles around their eyes, and they always knew what to do.
Any city kid who has gone to a farm or a ranch will know this feeling well, and I think that sometimes men feel this when they hire someone to fix something in their house. It’s a strange, vulnerable interaction. I’ve watched it.
A man calls someone in to perform a service. He knows more about plumbing or electricity or carpentry. Sometimes the plumber or electrician lets the other man know that he knows more. All of this is just under the surface, an uncomfortable interaction if you’re on the outside, watching your dad or husband or brother talk too long about the leaky faucet or the busted pipe.
“The back lawn’s the real chore…I’m afraid I’ve let it go.”
'“No sweat, buddy. No strain…The taller, the better. Healthy soil, that’s what you got there, by Circe. That’s what I always say.”
Here’s where I said, wait a minute.
I’ll be honest, I don’t know Greek mythology well. My kids can school me any day of the week, so when I read Circe my mind went to…Game of Thrones. Cast your literary stones. I know. I know. But like I always say, thank Circe for Wikipedia.
Circe was renowned for her vast knowledge of potions and herbs. Through the use of these and a magic wand or staff, she would transform her enemies, or those who offended her, into animals.1
Interesting. But the story goes on with spilled beers, talk of baseball, and a little dive into stocks. Harold starts to doze, thinking of his failed bison burger business venture when the lawnmower roars to life outside. The noise is so loud, he rushes to the window to see it for himself.
The aged red power mower the fat man had brought in his van was running on its own. No one was pushing it; in fact, no one was within five feet of it.
Oh, said I. I know what’s going on here. We’ve got ourselves another machine monster horror story, like the “The Mangler” or “Trucks.”
And to be honest I thought King had tried this too many times in one collection. Sure, the living machines differed in their path to sentience. One was brought to life by demonic possession, and the other through unknown means. Still.
And then shit starts to get strange. Really strange.
The lawnmower man had removed his clothes—every stitch. They were folded neatly in the empty birdbath that was at the center of the black lawn. Naked and grass-stained, he was crawling along about five feet behind the mower, eating the cut grass. Green juice ran down his chin and dripped onto his pendulous belly. And every time the lawnmower whirled around a corner, he rose and did an odd, skipping jump before prostrating himself again.
What. Is. Going. On.
He lost me here. Is it disturbing? Absolutely. Does it make any sense? No. Not to me. We’ve got Circe, we’ve got a naked lawnmower man, a self driving lawnmower, and then the mole. A little mole who had made the grassy yard his home decides to make a run for it, attempting to hide under the porch when—you guessed it—the rabid racing lawnmower turns and goes after the little creature. It gets him, and the lawnmower man? He eats up the remains. The sight is so disgusting that Harold faints.
When he wakes up he thinks it must be his wife Carla, shaking him from some nightmare. But the lawnmower man stands over him, grass stuck between his teeth.
“You fainted buddy, right, huh?”
The lawn is cut, the clippings taken care of by the lawnmower man’s voracious appetite. Green drips down the sides of his mouth. Harold is deeply disturbed, but he has to play it cool in front of the lawnmower man, who explains his strange business as “efficient.”
“Of course every now and then we run into a customer who doesn’t understand—some people got no respect for efficiency, right?—but the boss is always agreeable to a sacrifice. Sort of keeps the wheels greased.”
Did you notice that word, sacrifice? I know I did, and Harold does too. Then we find out who the lawnmower man is working for.
“Pan. Pan’s the boss.”
People, people. This is just…too much.
Pan, the greek god, half goat half man, a pastoral god of fields and wooded areas. In charge of the fat, naked, lawnmower man? Using him to…eat grass and perform the occasional animal sacrifice? Wow. Let’s continue.
He tells the man to go ahead and finish in the back. He’s going in to take a nap. The man is all smiles when he walks out, and Harold immediately calls the police, reporting the only thing he thinks they will believe.
“I’d like to report a case of indecent exposure.”
But while he’s on the phone getting the details sorted, the lawnmower man is back, and he doesn’t like what Harold has done. The lawnmower is cornering Harold, tearing up the rug as it attempts to flank him.
“That won’t do any good, buddy,” the lawnmower man said kindly. “Apt to be messy, too. Now if you was just to show me where you keep your sharpest butcher knife, we could get this sacrifice business out of the way real painless…I think the birdbath would do and then—”
Harold makes a run for it.
But of course, the guy works for Pan. That’s right guys, the lawnmower man has cloven feet—perhaps explained by his brief mention of Circe who was known for turning people she didn’t like into animals—and the owner of Pastoral Greenery is the god, Pan, himself. When Harold goes running, the lawnmower is at his heels. Until he trips and falls, suffering the same fate as the neighborhood cat the summer before.
The story ends with police taking pictures, some patrolmen remarking on how many crazy people were out in the world. Guys who would get naked and call the police on themselves. Guys who drank too much beer and went crazy with the heat.
Goodwin strolled around the house and Cooley followed him. Behind them, the scent of newly mown grass hung pleasantly in the air.
So what’s with the Greek gods?
I found this to be the most wacky insertion in the whole story. We have greek gods and living machines, a man with cloven hooves for feet who munches grass behind the autonomous lawn mower, because his boss, Pan, believes it to be more efficient? No. I’m sorry. King has gone too far.
Okay, okay, okay. Can we suffice it to say that this one was a doozy?
What is going on here? Too much if you ask me dear readers. Between Circe, Pan, the lawnmower man, and the rabid machine, I’m not sure what to say. Did the story work? Barely. Is it good? No. I’d say not. Not by a long shot.
As always, King’s writing is great. He understands how to weave a story together with the right peaks and valleys. But the details here people, the details are insanely ridiculous. I can’t help but think this is influenced in some way by King’s love for B monster movies. For any of you who partake in those flicks, can you enlighten me? Does that hunch track?
Did I hate it? Weirdly no. Do I think it’s a good story? Absolutely not. Period. End of sentence. How did you all feel?
Your review is spot on. B monster movies... probably as good an explanation as any. King has said more than once; if he can’t scare ‘em he’ll go for the gross out. This one certainly fits that bill.
I've always thought "Grey Matter" (the one where the dad drinks the warm beer and turns into a grey blob) was just as....strange. And gross. And typical King.