Carl Dahlgren drove his Porsche up the tree-lined drive, marveling at his two acres of lush green lawn. The flower beds were in full bloom, a virtual rainbow of colors; reds and yellows, violets and blues and creamy-whites. He had always had a green thumb, even as a child. On his twelfth birthday, he had wished for and received gardening equipment in lieu of a twelve-speed bike. At thirteen, his roses had won first prize in the national 4-H fair.

   He suddenly slammed on his brakes, his eyes squinting into the distance. Was that a weed he saw, way over there next to his azaleas? Jumping out of the car, he slowly approached the spot, eyes narrowing, lips set in a tight line. He stopped short of the multi-leafed aberration, circling it slowly, like a lion stalking its prey. Round and round he went, mumbling under his breath, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. This was impossible! Only yesterday, he had smothered his lawn with a specially-formulated weed killer; success guaranteed, or "your money happily refunded."

   "Charlotte!"

   The front door was flung open a few moments later, his wife rushing onto the porch.

   "Look at this, Charlotte! Come over here and just look at this!"

   Frowning, his wife hurried over and directed her attention to where he was pointing. "It’s only a weed, Carl. My God; the way you screamed my name, I thought you were having a heart attack."

   "Damn near it. Just look at that monstrosity, screwing up my whole, entire lawn! It’s like a ----- like a big, juicy zit on the tip of Julia Robert’s nose!"

   "Oh, for heavens-sake, Carl." Charlotte dropped to her knees, dug her fingers around the weed and yanked it up by its roots. "See how simple it is?" She shot her arm out toward Carl, growling, as though the weed was a rabid animal about to bite him.

   "How could God have plagued the world with such things?"

   "If you haven’t noticed, he gave us lice and maggots and serial killers and terrorists. Not to mention, poison ivy and dandelions and skunk cabbage."

   "I’m going to spray the entire lawn again, after supper. This time I’ll really give it a bath."

   "This is a new house and an even newer lawn. Give everything a chance." Charlotte rolled her eyes, letting out a weary hiss of breath. "It was only one itsy-bitsy, solitary weed and an unhealthy one at that. Park the Porsche and come in to eat. We’re having your favorite; prime rib, baked potatoes and asparagus."

   "One weed will breed others. It’s like a bad family moving into a good neighborhood."

   That evening, Carl sprayed the whole lawn with an extra-strength dosage of weed killer, completely saturating the spot where he had found the lone culprit. Charlotte watched from the front porch, in her rocking chair, wondering a bit uneasily what had ever given her husband such a fear of weeds. Or, for that matter, anything that even came close to resembling a weed. To call it a "phobia" would have been putting it mildly

*** ** *** ** *** **

   The next day, as he was approaching the house, Carl gasped, very nearly loosing control of the Porsche. His lawn, his whole beautiful lawn, was totally infested with weeds and every facsimile! Big and small and everything in between! It was a goddamn, frigging jungle! He leapt from the Porsche, staggering like a drunk, his legs nearly buckling out from under him. He was going to file a complaint with the weed killer company! Oh, yes, indeed! And, then, maybe even a multi-million dollar lawsuit!

   "Charlotte!"

   His wife rushed onto the porch, stumbling over the welcome mat. "Carl, what in the world is it? What’s wrong?"

   "What’s wrong? Look at this lawn, woman! Just look at it!"

   Charlotte stared, her eyes growing as big as saucers.

   "How could you ever have let this happen? What were you doing; watching those goddamn soap operas all day?"

   "And what do you propose I could have done, Carl? Maybe I should have patrolled the lawn, whacking the little stinkers as soon as they showed their heads."

   "This is no time to get smart-alecky with me, Charlotte!"

   "It’s just one of those problems that we’re going to have to deal with. Maybe we have inferior soil."

   Weeds kept popping up as they watched, like the heads of cobras darting from some underbrush.

   "Come on in to eat and we can discuss our options. Maybe we can hire a professional lawn service."

   "No bumbling strangers are going to touch my lawn. And how can I possibly eat with this mess?"

   An hour later, Charlotte parted the curtains and watched as Carl tackled the multiplying infestation with his weed-whacker. He looked totally foolish, having donned a pair of her latex dishwashing gloves, as well as the rubber waders that he used for throat fishing. Good Lord, you would have thought that the weeds were carrying some sort of lethal virus! He crazily went about his work, chopping weeds down as quickly as they sprouted, his lips moving with a stream of muted curses. When it became dark, he continued by the outside spotlights, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. She began to fret over his sanity. When she got into bed at one in the morning, he was still hard at his task.

*** ** *** ** *** **

   Carl started out for home late the next afternoon, his Porsche riding low under a trunk crammed with a new type of weed killer. When he rounded the last bend of the drive, he stared at his house in horror, the Porsche plowing down a whole row of his prize rose bushes. His house, his entire house, from the cellar clear to its roof, was totally green! The weeds in the front yard had spread like a fungus, and joined by creepers and ivy and all sorts of other horrendous plant life, had infested his porch and every inch of the two-storied house’s brick siding! He could only stare in shock, his mouth working like a fish out of water. Finally, regaining part of his senses, he snatched up his cell phone, fumbled it and grabbed it again from his lap. Calling his number, he waited impatiently for an answer.

   "Hello?"

   "Charlotte! Are you all right?"

   "Well, of course I am, Carl. Why wouldn’t I be? Where are you calling from?"

   "I’m right out front."

   "Why are you calling me from out front? Supper’s getting cold, you’re late."

   "Are you absolutely crazy? I’m not going into that jungle!"

   Carl started to hyperventilate and he had to pause for a few moments in order to catch his breath.

   "Are you still there, Carl?"

   "Yeah, yeah, I’m still here. Charlotte, get your ass out here, right now! Have you seen the outside of the house? It’s ----- It’s completely overgrown with creepers and ivy and God only knows what else! It’s the frigging Twilight Zone, Charlotte. It’s the house in Amityville!"

   "Honestly, Carl; why must you always make such a big fuss over things? Maybe you should go to a shrink and get some valium or something. You’ve really got to learn to calm down."

   "The house is some kind of rain forest and you want me to calm down?" Carl began to pace, cursing and running his fingers through his hair. "I’m coming in there and getting you out, even if I have to sling you over my shoulder!"

   "Over my dead body you will."

   "Keep it up and I just might oblige you!"

   Carl took a deep breath, trying to settle his nerves, and started out for the house, walking gingerly over weeds as though they were a bed of hot coals. Reaching the front door, he paused for a few seconds, before tearing away a thick growth of creepers and ivy. His mouth was dry, his heart pounding a mile-a-minute. Opening the door, he took one wobbly step after another, heading cautiously toward the living room.

   The lights were all on and the thermostat felt as though it had been jacked up to a hundred degrees. Creepers and vines, ivy and moss and all sorts of strange-looking lichens totally covered the walls, and there were weeds and dandelions, by the hundreds, sprouting from the goddamn floor! How, in the name of Jehovah, could they be flourishing and multiplying on wood? The moist air smelled of chlorophyll and decaying undergrowth, as though he was winding his way through a steaming jungle. The floor felt soft under his feet and he looked down to see a carpet of moss that very much resembled broccoli florets. A butterfly flitted under his nose.

   "Charlotte. Charlotte, where are you?"

   Her voice came form the direction of the kitchen. "I’m in here, Carl. And don’t even think about slinging me over your shoulder."

   "One way or the other, I’m getting you out of here!"

   A vine fell, dangling over his shoulder, and he yelped, brushing it off.

   Charlotte appeared in the doorway, beaming from ear-to-ear, a piece of crystal stemware in her hand. "Well, Carl; how do you like my little Garden of Eden. I bet you can find a snake if you looked hard enough."

   "Are you crazy, Charlotte? Have you gone totally out of your gourd?"

   The plant life began to stir as if he had somehow injured their feelings. The heat was unbearable, his shirt taking on the feeling of soggy tissue paper. The moss began to shift restlessly under his feet.

   "What the hell do you have the heat up to?"

   "Ninety degrees. My little garden needs heat and moisture in order to thrive." Charlotte held up her crystal glass. "I’ve opened up that bottle of dandelion wine your father made for us. Quite befitting, isn’t it." She took a sip, smacking her lips with relish. "Would you care for some, Carl?"

   "Jesus H.!" he shouted, reaching for her. "And you think I need a shrink? Come on! I’m getting you out of this freaking hellhole!"

   "You most certainly are not!" she responded, yanking her arm free of his grasp.

   Cursing, he lunged forward to grab her again, but she squealed with delight, scampering out of reach, stopping for a few moments to stroke the fronds of a giant fern.

   "I will not leave these premises without you. And the first phone call I make will be to the Department of Environmental Protection!"

   "Oh no you won’t!"

   "Oh yes I will!"

   As he prepared to make another rush for her, a creeper shot out, wrapping its leafy tentacles around him and yanking him back hard against the wall! Before he could realize or react to what was happening, another creeper reached down, coiled itself tightly around his neck and lifted him clear off the floor as if he was nothing but an oversized rag doll! Tighter and tighter it squeezed, causing his eyes to bug, his lungs struggling for precious air!

   Charlotte watched, unconcerned, taking another sip of wine. "Now see, Carl, you got my babies all upset. You really need that psychiatrist, you know." She giggled. "Or maybe I should say ‘botanist’."