The Leafblower

His lolloping gait complemented the motion of the machine he swept pendulously before him. It blew not only leaves, but all manner of detritus: grass that had drifted onto the pavement from recently mown lawns; cigarette butts, feathers and food; the souls of the recently deceased.

“Excuse me,” he said to the lady with the pushchair, for whom he had temporarily switched off his machine and stepped aside.

“Thank you,” said the lady - but she gave him a furtive glance as she walked past.

The leafblower continued on his way.

...

The leaves, the grass, the cigarette butts, the feathers, the food, the souls. Travelled. In no particular direction, but generally away from the leafblower. Away from his machine. Their final destination was undetermined, but it was not for the leafblower to be concerned with such things. He was the go-between. The middleman. The ferryman on the river Styx. His was not to judge, merely to send the detritus on its way.

“Hey, watch it!,” said a man who was just getting into his Jag, when a stray bit of grass cuttings wafted into the car.

“Sorry,” said the leafblower.

The leafblower continued on his way.

...

A bit of grass stuck to a wheel rim of the Jag. The Jag’s owner did not notice this, as he tutted and sighed and brushed more grass off the black leather interior. He then got in, gunned the engine and the car screeched to a swift acceleration. Diesel fumes made the leafblower cough slightly. The leafblower’s eyes raised to the departing vehicle.

It wasn’t only grass that was blown into the car.

Earlier that day, as the Jag owner was rushing to a business meeting, on an otherwise deserted street, he hit an old lady who was slowly stepping off the pavement to cross the road. He side-swiped her and she half bounced off the side of the bonnet, then lay on the tarmac, bleeding and moaning.

“Fuck,” he said, as he brought the car to a halt, leaving the engine running, looked around and saw that there were no apparent witnesses. In the space of about two seconds, he considered helping the old lady, running back over her to finish her off or getting the heck out of there and taking the chance that she would be dead soon or too blind, shocked or senile to have mentally noted his number plate. It was a gamble, but he really needed to get to that meeting. So off he went.

The gamble paid off and the old lady died within minutes.

The Jag owner put the car through a car wash after the meeting, but a bit of the old lady’s blood remained on a wheel rim.

Her recently departed soul followed the Jag - or rather was drawn to it, like a gravity well. When the Jag owner was driving home, he stopped to buy some provisions, then when he was getting back into his car, the recently departed soul was blown in by the leafblower, along with some grass, a bit of which got stuck on a wheel rim.

...

The leafblower did not switch off his machine, brought no halt to his lolloping gait, but his eyes remained raised towards the Jag, as it sped off to wherever it was going. It skidded as it turned a corner, then revved to get back up to speed and was out of sight. The leafblower lowered his eyes, continued to blow leaves, grass and other detritus. He heard a loud thud, a tinkling of glass, screams and the wailing of a car alarm.

The leafblower continued on his way.