There were many topics of great debate in Willa’s neighborhood: The pro-pollinators versus the mosquito-haters. The man who scattered kibble for stray cats versus the woman who wished them dead. The people who praised the looming, swaying, 100-year-old oaks versus the people who believed it was only a matter of time before these 14-ton terrors murdered everyone.
But few topics were quite as divisive — and inspired quite so many online commenters, passive-aggressive mailbox missives, and driveway confrontations — as leaf blowers.
“Dear neighbors, I just want to say thank you,” came one recent comment on the neighborhood’s private Facebook page. “For one blissful hour yesterday I was able to do yoga in my front yard without the ear-splitting noise of those infernal leaf-blowers. It was a wonderful break. I could even hear birdsong. If only every day could be like this.”
“Yes, 100 percent. Last week I was out walking my Mitzi, who is very old with cataracts and psoriasis and that’s why she rides in a stroller with sunglasses and a head scarf so please stop staring and laughing, and got a huge gust of pollen blown into my face by a leaf blower.”
“I have extra rakes on my front porch for anyone who would like to clean up their yards the old-fashioned, considerate way.”
“I’m sorry, but aren’t there bigger problems to worry about these days, like world hunger and homelessness and the inferior size of the speed bumps on our street? Drivers see them as a fun challenge, like moguls in skiing. And what about the stop sign at the end of my driveway? Nobody pays attention to it. Even some of you. People just speed through, even though I stand there and point and yell.”
“OMG, Mom. Do you have a death wish???”
And so on.
Most days, Willa didn’t actually care about leaf blowers one way or another. To her the sound was kind of like white noise, something she frequently piped through her earbuds to drown out anxious thoughts — about whether she’d remembered to take her meds that morning, about whether her children were safe at school, about the studio’s numbers, about that cookie she ate, about corporate’s continuing barrage of criticisms, about Jamie’s rapidly shrinking body.
Today, though, as she was on a run before boxing class, Willa felt like she was running the gauntlet of those gas-guzzling machines — the oblivious landscaper who blew dirt onto her shoes; the fat guy who turned off his leaf blower to say, “damn, girl, I wanna work out with you;” the tired Dad who seemed to be killing time by blowing the same pile of leaves around his yard while carrying a tiny toddler on his shoulders in a hard-backed, buckled seat (the $169 MiniMeis G4 Shoulder Carrier; she looked it up on her phone after she dodged his dust clouds).
Willa was grateful when she took a right and headed down Ponce de Leon Avenue and into its unique mix of honking traffic, aggressive panhandlers, scooter-riding millennials, and boys selling bottles of water. She was even more grateful when she arrived, breathless and sweating, at the door to Knuck If You Buck, a shiny boxing gym where carefully curated rap thumped through the speakers and the walls were covered in commissioned graffiti that fit the color scheme of red, black, and silver. Heavy bags dangled from the ceiling like homemade salamis.
“Welcome back to Knuck If You Buck!” yelled Cherise, an African-American former powerlifter who had traps and tris Willa would kill for. “Here are your gloves.”
Willa went into the studio and set up at bag number 11, near one of the mirrors, and lightly tapped out a combination — jab, cross, lead uppercut, rear uppercut, continuous hooks — while she waited for class to start.
“Willa?”
She looked behind her, and it was Jeremy, the dad she’d taught at FitFams and seen in the Tenth Circle of Hell.
“Oh, hey!” she said. “I didn’t know you worked out here.”
“Yeah, I have a pass that lets me try a bunch of different studios every month. I’ve been coming here a couple times a week so that I don’t beat the shit out of the guy in my office who thinks Pizzagate was real,” he said, pulling on his gloves. Then he stopped to clarify himself: “I mean, I would never really beat the shit out of anyone.”
“Oh, I would,” Willa said, trying to itch her nose with the wrist strap on her left glove. “I hate alot of people.”
Jeremy laughed. “I wouldn’t have guessed that. At FitFams, you’re so … chipper.”
Chipper? What are you, 80 years old?
“Well, I love coaching,” she said. “And people say I can be pretty nice. But I’m also the kind of person who lays on the horn and gives the finger to the minivan in front of me, only to find out the driver is my kid’s teacher.”
Jeremy laughed again. “Mrs. Morris?”
“Yup,” Willa shrugged. “Live and learn.”
“Indeed,” he said as the coach cued the start of class.
Willa tried to release specific bursts of aggression with each punch. A client wrote “you’re too chatty and personal” in a review? (Jab!) Flora got picked for the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue and will be in Bali for the next month and by the way she won’t have time to find subs for her classes? (Lead hook!) Sell more FitFams booty shorts, dammit! (Rear hook!) Why aren’t more classes full to waitlist? (Lead uppercut!) Call your mother! (Jab!) You missed Teacher Appreciation Week, you dickhead! (Rear uppercut!) Mrs. Morris hates your guts! (Continuous crosses!)
She was a red-faced mess by the final bell and sat on the floor next to her heavy bag, her chest heaving.
“Nice work,” Jeremy said, his dark brown hair slick with sweat. He gave her a gloved fist bump.
“Thanks,” she bumped back. “That was brutal.”
“Yeah,” he panted, then sat down next to her, catching his breath. “Do some people in your life wonder why you spend so much time and money getting your ass kicked?”
Willa laughed. “They are baffled.”
“Same,” he said, lying back on the floor. “Wanna go get a beer? My ex has the kids and I’m already bored.”
His beat-up black t-shirt had edged up to show a sliver of decently defined abs above his gray running shorts. Not bad, Mr. Mom.
“Um,” Willa said, checking her watch.
“C’mon. It’s Friday night,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow and giving a mischievous smile. “And we need to hydrate.”
She didn’t have other plans, and really, she was supposed to spend time with clients outside of class so they’d feel special and part of the community.
“Alright,” she said, wiping her face with a towel. “I’ll go change my shirt and then we can head out.”
“I love it when a plan comes together,” he said, and winked.
Leaf blowers, lol.