The man with a tree growing out of his head wanted to buy a pair of pruning shears, but the assistant at the hardware store wouldn’t sell them to him. We have several models in stock, she explained. But they’re not for personal use.
Personal use? he asked, and his foliage shook in a manner which he knew some people found threatening. His voice, too, could have this effect. How else is someone to use pruning shears, if not by handling them directly?
The assistant became flustered, began to say something which the man with a tree growing out of his head assumed was going to be just more of the same as he’d heard from the arborist, from the doctors, from those he considered friends on whom he’d thought he could rely for help.
He interrupted the assistant. My eyes are down here, he said.
I’m sorry, she said. Your leaves, I was just admiring—
And all I want is to buy a pair of pruning shears. Short handle, comfortable grip, good quality. I’m sure you’d have something like that.
I’m sorry, she said again, and this time she actually sounded it. I can’t process that sale. You’ll have to excuse me, my lunch break.
Can you at least tell me— he began, but she was gone, hurrying down an aisle, then shutting behind her a frosted-glass door at the back of the store. A bell jingled.
He was left at the age-worn wooden sales counter to ponder his next step. What to do? This was the only hardware in town, he could no longer drive, they’d barred him from public transport, and too much walking made his neck sore. But they were all, the doctors, the arborist, the barber and now the hardware salesperson, afraid of the liability which would accompany the act of snipping the young tree’s still slender branches.
The man with a tree growing out of his head cared nothing for the liability. He just wanted the growth brought under control while there was still an opportunity to do so. He’d ruled out fire, he’d decided against herbicide, pruning shears were the way to go.
There were no other staff visible. He supposed he could explore the store’s shelves until he found the pruning shears—the display of items didn’t seem to follow any logical system which he could intuit—and could simply abscond with them. Shoplift. But he hadn’t done any such thing in half a century and he was damned if he’d start now.
Besides, even if they didn’t have CCTV, he would be fairly readily identifiable.
The man with a tree growing out of his head looked around once more, at the cluttered shelves of the empty store, and sighed and shrugged his shoulders and went back out, taking care to stoop a little as he went through the doorway. The sunshine was uncomfortably bright, the traffic was noisy. He turned and went back in, past the still unattended counter, towards the door at the back. He’d knock, as loud as it took; they couldn’t have all gone to lunch. He needed to make them understand. They were a store, they were supposed to sell these things, and his need was genuine. It was getting worse, he really would have to do something soon.
Simon Petrie is a New Zealand born writer now living in Australia. He is a three-time winner of the Sir Julius Vogel award.