You Grow, Girl

“What on Earth is that?

“It’s a Garden, Georgina. I know we’re both getting on a bit — a bit long in the tooth — but it’s still early days for senile dementia, don’t you think?”

“Oh, don’t be snarky!”

“You know, grass, shrubs. A hedge. Flowers. Maybe even a tree. Lawn chairs, soil. A parasol. A little table, a tray of ice tea. Maybe a glass of gin and tonic for you, you old flirt. A garden.”

“I know what a garden is, you old bat! I meant that. Phyllis, I’ve never seen a plant like it in my life! It wasn’t there last week, that’s for sure. I would have recognised something like that. It’s so unusual. So… alien.”

“Oh! That. Oh yes, that’s something special indeed.”

“I know, that’s why I asked. Why so elusive, you old bint? It’s not like you’ve got bodies buried under there.”

“That you know about! Dead men tell no tales.”

“No, but I certainly do. So, what kind of plant is it? It’s rather tall, isn’t it? Taller than my grandson, and he’s six foot. By the time he’s 16, he’ll have to duck to come into the house!”

“Must have gotten it from his dad’s side. Nothing but hobbits on your half.”

“Cheeky! Now spill. It’s not one of them drug plants, is it? The marijuana or the cocaine or the heroin?”

“Heroin’s from poppies and cocaine’s from coca plants. And I’m pretty sure pot doesn’t grow this high.”

“Spoken like a true drug aficionado.”

“Yes, that’s what we call ourselves on the street, Georgie, the Drug Aficionados. Mexican drug cartels ain’t got nothin’ on us.”

“Oh, there goes your razor-sharp tongue again. Why are you so reluctant to tell me what it is?”

“’Cause, you’re always so nosy, Georgie.”

“Can you blame me? Frank’s been in the grave 12 years this August. I’ve got to entertain myself somehow. Now spill the beans, Phyllis. What on Earth is it? If you don’t tell me, I’ll call the cops and tell them you’re growing the Mary Jane in your garden!”

“You would do that, wouldn’t you? Least I know who’d to trust if we ever got put on the inside. Snitches get stitches, you know. My granddaughter told me so.”

“I would rat you out without even being prompted, Phyllis. I’d get six months with good behaviour.”

“You keep it ten toes down and eat that sentence by yourself! Besides, I doubt the po-po will care if an ol’ biddy like me is getting high with the faeries. Nobody cares what any of us coffin dodgers do, any more. It’s our curse, but it’s also our blessing.”

“Last chance. ‘Phyllis next door is Breaking Bad,’ I’ll tell them!”

“Oh, fine! Stick that nose in any further and it’s bound to get bitten off. Least of all by Hannibal here.”

“Hannibal?”

“As in ‘Hannibal the cannibal’. From Silence of the Lambs.”

“I know the movie, dammit! I lent you the DVD trilogy last year. Why on Earth did you name it that? Does it eat other plants?”

“Well, not exactly…”

“All right, all right, enough sidestepping. Tell.”

“Okay, okay. I swear you should perform interrogations.”

“I’ll move onto it as soon as I’m done with you.”

“Right. So, you know the Jameson twins? Those two little brats?”

“That snot-nosed pair who always littered in your garden? The ones who ripped up your petunias and kicked a ball through your fence, those Jameson twins?”

“Are there any other Jameson twins?”

“Don’t be so dry.”

“Well, yes. You’re right. Those Jameson twins. Well, a little over a month ago, I caught the one — Jamie, I think it was—”

“Such terrible names.”

“Such terrible parents. Anyway, I caught him urinating up against the side of my house!”

“Never!”

“I did!”

“My God! What a disgusting little animal! You never told me of this, Phyllis.”

“I know I didn’t.”

“Well, why not? We share everything.”

“Because I had a plan.”

“A plan?”

“That’s right, a plan. I went online — you know how my granddaughter set me up with the Google and the internet — and I sought a solution to those little pests once and for all.”

“What kind of a solution?”

“Well—”

“Did that plant just belch?

“Ha. Yes. Yes, he did.”

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Phyllis!”

“What?”

Phyllis!

“What, you gonna tell me I shouldn’t have got him? That I should have just let those Jameson twins run amok in my garden?”

“No, not at all. You’re completely justified there. I was going to say that you’re an idiot for calling him ‘Hannibal’.”

“What? Why?”

“Because Hannibal was a cannibal.”

“Exactly.”

“And this plant isn’t a cannibal. It eats humans. You’re only a cannibal if you eat something else of the same species. If you eat something else of a different species, you’re a…”

“A what?”

“Well, a predator, I guess.”

“Ugh. Oh, all right. How about Arnie?”

“No, no. Arnie wasn’t the Predator. Arnie killed the Predator.”

“All right. So what was the Predator’s name?”

“Gee, I dunno. I think it was just Predator.”

“That’s kinda dull.”

“Take it up with John McTiernan.”

“Who?”

“The guy who wrote it. Along with Die Hard and The Hunt for Red October.”

“You need to get out more.”

“With his hip? I’d go mad without my movies.”

“Too late.”

“Cheeky!”

“So, what do you propose I call him?”

“Hmm. Let me think for a moment.”

“Don’t focus too hard, I can see the steam coming out of your ears!”

“I oughtta come over there and teach you some respect.”

“Ha. I’d just hide behind Hannibal. He’s the man about the house, now.”

“Oh, I know!”

“What?”

“Audrey II!”

What? What kind of a name is that?

“From Little Shop of Horrors! You know, with Rick Moranis?”

“Oh, was that the guy from the Honey, I Shrunk the Kids movies? I love him.”

“That’s the one! I’ll have to loan you the DVD. I’ll come by with it later — you have to see it.”

“Oh, all right. As long as it’s not too bloody, all right, Georgie?”

“Relax, it’s not.”

“And leave little Pepper at home. Audrey here polished off two kids no sweat. Pretty sure she’d handle your little terrier with gusto.”

“Jesus, Phil. What about the neighbourhood cats?”

“Ha. That’ll teach ‘em to do their business in my garden! Once the first feline becomes supper, the others will learn.”

“You know, your darker side really began to shine when you buried Terry.”

“Still think it was a heart attack that ended him, Georgie? Ha! I’ll see you later on. Lasagna sound good?”

“Sounds good. Though I’m not sure I should be trusting you with my food. Probably poison in it.”

“Yeah, probably. See you later!”

“Yeah, see you tonight you old loon. Out of curiosity, what was the website you got her from?”

“Knew you couldn’t resist, you old tart. The company’s called You Grow, Girl. Put it into the Google, the computer will know what to do.”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s