Absolute Rage by Robert K. Tanenbaum

garden.”
    Karp himself had never gardened, and as far as he knew, Marlene’s vegetable expertise was limited to windowsill herbs and houseplants, but Giancarlo had decided to grow veggies on what seemed to his father an absurdly large scale. He had studied books on the subject and arranged for the rental of a rototiller and talked his brother into helping him break the soil for it. Then he had laid the garden out with mathematical precision, using stakes and strings, and had planted and watered and fertilized and weeded. Now the taut strings were nearly obscured by young growth. Karp had no idea what any of it was, although he thought he recognized young corn. They showed it a lot in the movies.
    Giancarlo was in the field with a hoe. He was wearing bib overalls over bare skin, and on his head was a ragged straw hat, once Marlene’s. When he saw Karp standing by the wire fence, he stopped, pulled off his hat, wiped his brow theatrically, looked up at the heavens, and said, “Paw, if it don’t rain soon, we gonna lose the farm.”
    â€œYes,” said Karp, “we’ll have to move to the city and live in miserable tenements, but someday your grandchildren will go to college. What’re you doing?”
    â€œHoein’.”
    â€œI see you are. Why exactly does one hoe?”
    â€œTo rip out the weeds. You can use herbicides, too, but I don’t like them. I like hoeing. It’s hard work but it’s also really like restful. You want to try it?”
    â€œSure, if you think I can.”
    â€œWell, I don’t know, Dad, it’s totally tricky.” The boy grabbed up another hoe from a collection of tools lying by the fence. “You see, the metal part here, that goes down in the dirt, and the wood part, you hold in your hands.”
    â€œMet-al? Down?”
    Giancarlo giggled. “Sorry, I guess I was going too fast for you there. See, you kind of chop down and then up and pull the weed out roots and all. You have to make sure you rotate your hips and always keep your eye on the weed. Follow through the weed.” He demonstrated.
    â€œGot it. Point me at some weeds.”
    It was restful, Karp found. After half an hour he had taken off his shirt and tied a bandanna around his head and was going down the row of feathery plants with a will, making the dirt fly. At first, his mind was full of the office, and he took out his several frustrations on the dandelions and plantains. Later on, however, these thoughts faded, and he became interested in the hoeing itself, how to lift the weed with a minimum of effort, how to keep a gentle rhythm going. At this stage it was very much like shooting baskets, he was thinking, and he briefly speculated that athletic prowess largely depended on the constant repetition of acts that were essentially as boring as pig shit. Both of the boys were reasonable athletes, but neither was as yet outstanding. They didn’t seem impelled to practice in the way he had. Still, it was early for them. He had not pushed them at all yet. Should he? He hated the men he had observed who lived their athletic dreams out through their kids, and though his own athletic dreams had been more or less blasted, he had firmly resolved not to do this to them. He had himself been a high school all-American and a standout in college until he had screwed up his knee. The knee was an artificial one now, an emptiness there that worked well enough when it worked, as now. Gradually even these thoughts faded, replaced by mere sensation: the beat of the sun on his back, the shock of impact in his hands, and the dull burning of friction where he gripped the handle. Mindless work; what he needed.
    After an unknowable interval, he stopped to stretch and saw that his wife was standing by the fence, staring at him in wonder.
    â€œI never thought I’d see the day.”
    â€œBring me little water, Sylvie,” sang Karp.
    â€œHow did he talk you into