Community Service (Part 1)

Hello All:

Years ago I wrote a five part short story about two high school girls who were unfortunate enough to fulfill their community service requirements with a local landscaping company. It was eventually unpublished due to the Rated R material. Well, the story has been re-written and returns to the Literary World of Tom Raimbault. We will featured it throughout the next five days on the blog.

 

Community Service (Part 1)

It was a Monday morning in June, marking the official start of summer break for Tricia and Beth. Both girls had recently walked across the stage at their high school graduation ceremony, but their actual diplomas were being held at the district office. A recent statewide mandate required a set number of community service hours for graduation, covering everything from urban housing renovation to public park landscaping. While both Tricia and Beth had spent months logging their time, a clerical oversight left them exactly eight hours short. 

Fortunately, the high school administration offered a pragmatic solution: they could participate in the commencement ceremony with their peers, but the physical diplomas would only be released once those final eight hours were fulfilled. To expedite the process, a local outfit called Square Deal Landscaping agreed to take them on for a single, intensive eight-hour shift. The arrangement was simple enough—the girls would report to the headquarters, ride along with the crew, and assist with mowing, trimming, and planting at various residential and commercial properties. Once the clock hit five, they would officially be high school graduates. 

The business headquarters of Square Deal Landscaping, however, left much to be desired. Located in a neglected industrial patch on the outskirts of town, the yard consisted of a gravel lot enclosed by a crumbling stone fence. Two weathered mobile trailers served as the main office and tool shed, flanked by a couple of beat-up work trucks with open utility trailers hitched to the back. It was a stark, isolating environment for two teenagers expecting a standard civic volunteer site. For the three-man skeleton crew—Rich, Don, and John—it was just the place they reported to every morning. 

Inside the equipment trailer, Rich checked the strap on his gear. "We've got those schoolgirls joining the route today," he announced to the others. Rich was the crew chief, a harsh man trying to keep his commercial driving privileges after a recent DUI. Because of his record, the company trucks were fitted with court-mandated ignition interlock breathalyzers. The system required a clean sample just to turn the key, and it ran unpredictable rolling retests while the vehicle was in motion to prevent any circumvention of the device. The constant, erratic beeping of the monitor kept him perpetually on edge. 

Don, sitting on a crate, gave a dull nod. He was a heavily weathered man who looked far older than his thirty-five years, his skin deeply lined from years of heavy smoking and hard labor in the sun. A unlit cigarette hung habitually from his lip as he adjusted his worn work shorts. Unlike Rich, Don had long since given up on recovering his license, relying entirely on others to ferry him from job to job while he quietly battled his own severe dependencies in the heat. 

"Did the front office leave any safety gear for them?" asked John, the youngest and most stable of the three, as he rolled a heavy commercial wide-area mower up the metal ramp of the trailer. 

Rich gestured toward a cardboard box on the workbench. "Joe left a couple of standard promotional t-shirts over there. Bright pink. Said it was all he had left from the spring marketing batch." 

John picked up the shirts, frowning slightly at the small sizing. "These look pretty small, Rich. They're going to be tight, and out in this humidity, cheap cotton doesn't breathe well. They'll roast." 

"Then modify them," Rich muttered, distracted as he rummaged through a toolbox. "Cut the sleeves off so they don't overheat, and trim the hems if they're too restrictive. We don't need them complaining to the school board that we gave them heat stroke on day one." 

John took a pair of heavy utility shears and cleanly removed the sleeves from both pink shirts, shortening the bottom hems to allow for better ventilation in the escalating June heat. 

Meanwhile, Rich turned his attention to a makeshift wooden structure secured against the interior sidewall of the trailer. It was a primitive, two-panel plywood privacy stall housing a chemical bucket—an OSHA-compliant portable restroom solution Rich had rigged up for long days spent on remote rural properties. A small, unyielding plastic mirror was mounted on the plywood wall. Grunting, Rich unscrewed the bracket and shifted the mirror near the door frame at a sharp angle, adjusting it so he could keep an eye on the tool racks outside while cleaning up between jobs. 

"Hurry up with those shirts, John," Rich called out, stepping out into the bright sunlight. "And Don, secure those trimmers. They'll be here any minute." 

Just then, a sleek, late-model blue Mustang slowed down as it approached the entrance of the industrial park. Behind the wheel was Beth, her blonde hair pulled back tightly into a ponytail. She scanned the faded commercial signs, clearly disoriented by the bleak surroundings. 

"Hey Rich, looks like our extra hands just arrived," Don said, pointing a calloused finger toward the road. 

"About time," Rich grumbled. He walked briskly to the edge of the gravel lot, raising a hand and throwing out a sharp, commanding whistle to catch the driver's attention. 

The Mustang had drifted fifty feet past the gate before the sound registered. Beth executed a cautious three-point turn and pulled into the gravel driveway, where Rich stood waiting. Dressed in heavy canvas work pants and a faded red tank top that bared his weathered arms, he chewed aggressively on a piece of candy, his rigid posture projecting an immediate, intimidating authority. 

He walked up to the driver-side window, looking down. "You here for the eight-hour community service detail?" 

Beth nodded nervously, her hands gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. 

"Pull the car up against the curb outside the fence," Rich ordered flatly. "Then walk through that gate and report to the crew by the trailer. Understand?" 

"Yes, sir," Beth said, offering a small, anxious smile. "They told me to report at seven o'clock." 

Rich pulled a silver pocket watch from his belt, staring at the face before looking back at her. "It's 7:10. You're late. Out here, time is money, and we've got a schedule to keep. We'll be tacking that missed time onto the end of the shift to make sure your hours are fully validated." 

He stood back, watching her park, deliberately establishing the absolute control he held over the remainder of her summer break. Until he signed that compliance sheet, her high school diploma belonged to Square Deal Landscaping. 

To be continued…