Just Look At All Of The Possibilities

By dcat

Hardcastle spent the better part of fifteen minutes looking and searching for one seemingly AWOL Mark McCormick. His first stop was the kitchen, usually a pretty good guess where the kid would be, stuffing his face and reading the Judge's paper. The kitchen however was clean, right down to the freshly scoured sink. He scowled up his face and shouted through the house once more. "McCormick, are you in here?" The sound of silence echoed.

Outside he stepped, toward the gatehouse, a new found energy propelled him along the path. He barely left a knock and a half on the heavy door as he basically walked right in and barked, "McCormick, where the hell are you? Your car is outside, I know you didn't go anywhere." He scanned the downstairs area and saw nothing. The place actually looked clean too, just like the kitchen had been. He debated whether or not to check upstairs but his curiosity or rather his nosiness get the better of him, so up he went, only to discover a neat, well pressed bed, no clothes on the floor and even a hint of air freshener in the loft. "I'll be damned, what's gotten into this kid?" He said to the empty room, and then mumbled, "Just where the devil are you kiddo?"

"He's up to something," the Judge groused as he slammed the door closed on the gate house. "Probably lazing about in the pool, when I'm trying to find him," he continued his mini-rant.

At the corner of the pool area he stood, hands on hips, expecting to lay into the kid, but the only thing in the vicinity was a tiny, white butterfly that hovered above the water, not even causing a ripple.

Milt scratched his head. "Doggone it, I know you're around here somewhere."

He took the back path down to the beach now expecting to see him 'beer fishing.' He was about to call out, 'aha, I caught yah,' but once he stepped into the sand, he saw it was deserted.

Hardcastle was stumped.

The Judge tromped back up to the estate and lo and behold he finally spotted his charge, laying flat on his stomach amidst the large area of estate lawn.

Hardcastle let out a deep breath and walked up behind him. "I've been looking for you all over the place. You want to tell me what you're doing? Is something wrong with you?"

McCormick didn't move a muscle, his head and chin, resting on his folded arms, looking straight ahead at the rather vast lawn. He didn't answer right away either, but finally calmly he said, "Nothing's wrong with me."

"It's not going to cut itself you know?" the Judge asked sarcastically.

"I'm not going to cut it," Mark answered quietly.

"What do you mean, you're not going to cut it? That's part of your job around here. You know I'm tired of having to repeat myself to you all the time. Why can't you just get into some sort of routine with the chores around here? I don't ask you to do that much."

That got a quick turn of the head and roll of the eyes from McCormick right back at the Judge.

"Oh, did I hit a sore spot with that one?" The Judge asked.

McCormick went back to staring at the grass.

"I'm not hiring someone to cut this McCormick," the Judge said. "What the hell are you doing anyway?" He finally asked him outright.

"Is there something you want me to do? I cleaned up the whole house, the gatehouse is clean too," Mark answered. "I thought I could just use my down time, if you don't mind."

I wanted to know where you were," The Judge answered.

"And now you found me," Mark answered in an even tone.

"What the devil are you doing down there?" Hardcastle shouted.

Mark took in a deep breath and answered, "I'm looking for the perfect blade of grass."

"You're WHAT? What kind of nonsense are you babbling about? Do I need to run you downtown to the clinic to see what kind of grass you've already been ingesting?"

The second quick turn of the head and roll of the eyes came from McCormick followed by a, "I'm not smoking grass, sheesh."

"Listen, what's it gonna take to get you to get up and cut the grass?" Hardcastle started to show the hint of being irritated.

"I told you, I can't cut it, I'm looking for the perfect blade." He pulled his right hand out from underneath his chin and ran it over the grass in front of him. Then slowly he pulled himself forward, inching up in the grass.

The Judge folded his arms and glared down at McCormick, "All right, I'll bite, why is the perfect blade of grass so important?"

Maintaining his calm voice, "It's a contest. I saw it in a magazine when I was at the barbershop."

"When have you ever been to a barbershop?" The Judge cracked and then added, "Has there ever been a scam you haven't fallen for?" Hardcastle asked him. "A perfect blade of grass," he mumbled under his breath.

"It's not a scam, it's a real contest." Reaching back with his left hand, he pulled out the ad from his back jeans pocket and held it up for Hardcastle to grab.

The judge took a few steps forward and plucked it out of his hand, but not before being chided by Mark that he had stepped too close toward the 'unchecked zone.' He held out the magazine clipping and tried to read what it was saying, squinting at the tiny printing.

"There's a hundred thousand dollar prize. The way I see it, if I can get a hundred grand for a blade of your grass, I won't have to worry about cutting it for a very long time, as in never again."

"This is crazy, who'd pay out on that? And who's gonna judge a perfect blade of grass?" Hardcastle asked.

"It's all right there in the ad Judge. It's some company from Japan and they've got some strict criteria, length, thickness, color gradiation."

"What in the blazes is color gradiation?" Hardcastle interrupted.

"It's the different shades of green in a single blade."

"Oh you're full of baloney and so's this Wakajima Company," the Judge wasn't going for it.

"You won't be thinking its baloney when I have a check for a hundred thousand dollars in my hands."

"You do fall for everything don't you?" Hardcastle began, "I've never even heard of this Wakajima Company before."

"They've made riding lawn mowers since 1947."

"It's a scam, I tell you. Whoever heard of a perfect blade of grass?"

Hardcastle couldn't see the grin on McCormick's face. "Apparently the Wakajima's have, they've had this contest since 1966, look at the picture."

Hardcastle narrowed his eyes and studied the previous seventeen winners in the photo. And he was starting to soften. He sat down carefully in the lawn next to McCormick and crossed his legs. "You really think we might have it out here?"

"Just look at all of the possibilities," Mark said, peering over to see the Judge had sat down. He inched forward again and swept his hand over the grass. The grin never left his face.

The Judge still wore a look of suspect, but he began to scan his lawn and watched as McCormick intently was checking blade after blade. "Well, what do we look for?"

"I told you, length, thickness and color gradiation. You'll know it when you see it. And if you find it, be careful when you pull it up. Any little stress can damage it. The worst thing would be if you yanked up and cracked the perfect blade. So if you spot it, let me know, I'll help you get it out. There's a trick to it."

The Judge kept one wary eye on McCormick. After a few moments, he spun around on his belly, just like McCormick and they both continued the quest for the perfect blade of grass.

"You know I think you're nuts don't you McCormick?"

"You mean as nuts as a judge who wears Hawaiian shirts and tennis shoes under his judicial robe and chases after bad guys in his spare time?"

"Uh huh, something like that."

"Just keep looking, think of all that money."

"Yep, it'll be my money too McCormick, it's my lawn."

They both inched up together and started looking over a new section of lawn. Neither one of them knew how long they'd keep searching for the perfect blade of grass, the possibilities were endless and they were both nuts.