SCHREINERMEISTER PEDERSEN

One fine summer day, carpenter Pedersen was hacking away in his front garden next door. He’s been my neighbor for twelve years. He’s always in a bad mood. The corners of his mouth and his eyebrows are always turned down—Ebenezer Scrooge would be envious. However, I eventually realized that they weren’t down from pure aggression or exertion, but rather from sheer exhaustion, which made him appear so grumpy. Probably because he hates everything anyway, and his facial expression has become ingrained over the years. Presumably, he, like his face, doesn’t care about anything, as he’s long since missed joy, love, and happiness in life.

Once, if I remember correctly, I was ten years old and stood by his garden fence, watching him violently attack his bush with hedge clippers. He was more likely hacking the branches to pieces than actually cutting them. I hadn’t seen such anger since my brother received a hand-knitted horse sweater from Grandma Ingeborg for Christmas. Even in my younger years, I wondered what on earth was making him so angry. Was it the bad weather? Was it his job as a master carpenter? Was it the absence of his wife to cook him dinner in the evenings? I still don’t know. Now, watching him from my window, I realize that little has changed since then. He’s kneeling in his garden bed, hacking at the weeds with all his might, as if he were trying to kill Mother Earth. Once again, this makes me wonder: What’s wrong with this man? Chewing on my pencil, an idea strikes me. I’m 22 now, why don’t I ask this old goat myself? What could possibly go wrong?

So I quickly put on my shoes and head out into the garden. Step by step, I approach the wild beast. I don’t take my eyes off him for a second, which seems very important to me, since I’ve apparently watched too many safari documentaries. He huffs and puffs and hammers his hoe on the ground. Each blow strikes the ground like a massive lightning bolt, sending dirt flying. Clumps of grass lie scattered about, ants flee their nests in panic, and dismembered earthworms lie screaming for help all around him. A massacre. All wreaked by this untamed, wild beast. Someone has to tame him. I will tame him.

I place my arms on the fence bordering his property. In his frenzy, he doesn’t even notice that I’m only about three meters away. “Mr. Pedersen?” I ask cautiously. No answer, just the monotonous hacking. “MR. Pedersen!” I shout this time. Not provocatively, more respectfully, like in a courtroom. This time his hoe remains stuck in the ground, while only a long, drawn-out grunt escapes Carpenter Pedersen. Slowly, very slowly, he begins to look up, probably still unaware of what exactly is disrupting his rhythm of thrashing. With every inch he moves his head, he begins to tremble more. His carotid artery vibrates, giving him little jolts, making him look like a psychopath who needs to be committed. My God, I’ve woken this crazy, brutal boar! He’ll tear me to pieces, eat me alive, dismember me, and make necklaces out of the bits!

His red, furious eyes now stare angrily into my almost drenched eyes. “W… What are you doing, Mr. Pedersen?!” Drool runs down his yellow fangs, his nose snorts menacingly, and he looks as if he’s about to charge, tearing his supper to pieces with his claws. “I’M HOPPING!” he yells at me. I stand there, trembling slightly, clutching the garden fence, and take a few steps back like a fawn. “Oh, I was just… um… wondering,” I replied. He looked at me, somewhat confused, until his gaze returned to the ground, he gripped the hoe, and resumed pounding the helpless earth. Somewhat frustrated, but still frightened, I went back to the front door. Carpenter Pedersen is a madman; there’s no other explanation.