The Gnomes’ Conspiracy
by Brent R. King
part 1
My name is Westerton, though my friends call me Wes. Through no fault of mine, I am sitting in a cell on a hard bed suspended by chains from a wall with tiles the color of urine, watching a young police officer hunt and peck her way through a report, stopping every few words to twirl a lock of bleached-blonde hair behind her left ear. As to the reason for my incarceration, well, it is complicated, but I now realize I have been the victim of a conspiracy, the depths of which I am only beginning to understand.
It started like this. I was in my front yard, taking a few practice swings before heading to the club. At our weekly lessons, the golf pro keeps telling me to visualize my shot, so I imagined my ball drawing perfectly as it arced into the dawn sky and landing in the fairway well past Chad Campbell’s ball, which I visualized as having landed near the water hazard on the fifth hole, where the twelve-foot alligator suns himself. I had a clear image of Chad bending over to pick up his ball when a scaly, green head, mouth open, showing rows of teeth, broke the surface like a missile launched from a submarine—
The gasp of air brakes interrupted my concentration, and I turned to see a moving van blocking half the road. Soon, movers began trudging back and forth, taking boxes and furniture into the house across the street.
I had known the previous owner about as well as anyone knows his neighbors these days, and I got on with Benson — or was it Bernsen? — well enough. Except for the matter of lawn care. He refused to do the respectable thing and hire a service. Instead, he insisted on mowing his own yard, and at an ungodly hour each Sunday, wearing only golf shoes and swim trunks, his big belly hanging over the drawstring and his farmer’s tan conspicuous even in the morning pallor. Hardly a sight one wants to see shortly after breakfast when leaving for an early tee time. One could only hope the new owners would set a better example.
The next morning, backing out of my driveway, in my rearview mirror, I saw them. Benson — or Bernsen — had built raised flowerbeds along the front of the house, and there was, standing among the pink and white azaleas, a colony of ceramic garden gnomes with wide smiles on their faces: bearded gnome men and plump-faced gnome women, all in tall red hats.
The gnome men were dressed in blue pants with red suspenders that matched their hats, and the women wore calico dresses over puffy white blouses. There were gnomes with pails and gnomes with hammers, gnomes with loaves of bread, and gnomes carrying baby gnomes.
I guess they were supposed to represent an idiotic notion like the “joy” of bucolic simplicity. And they were everywhere. I was sure they outnumbered the azalea blossoms. To be certain I wasn’t hallucinating, I got out of my car and looked, then snapped a few pictures with my phone.
I mean, really: garden gnomes? No other houses on Augusta Drive had garden gnomes, and I couldn’t remember a house on Winged Foot Lane, Pinehurst Road, or Bandon Trail or, for that matter, a single house in the entire Fairways community that sported the odious little yard ornaments. Brooke, my wife, was always saying that the neighborhood was going to hell in a handbasket, and here was the proof. When one buys a home in a place like The Fairways, one has a right to expect a certain sense of propriety on the part of one’s neighbors.
I sent the pictures to the president of The Fairways Homeowners Association. Surely there had to be rules against such things. But her response was completely unsatisfactory. Unless the garish eyesores were over thirty-six inches tall or less than three feet from the curb, the HOA was powerless. She closed her email by suggesting that I actually speak to the new neighbors about my concerns, as if it were my responsibility to explain appropriate decorum.
My opportunity came a few days later, when I saw a woman come out of the house and uncoil a garden hose, to which she attached a sprinkler so that a fan of water waved back and forth across the yard.
“Welcome to The Fairways,” I said as I crossed the street.
She looked up, her face half hidden by enormous square sunglasses and a floppy hat. “Thanks, I’m Sue, by the way.”
“Westerton,” I said. “I live across the street.”
She pulled off a ragged garden glove and offered me a hand. She wasn’t a tall woman, but other than having hair that some might call mousey, I could tell little about her between the hat, the sunglasses, and an oversized, overbright Hawaiian shirt that hung an inch above her knees. I made what I thought to be the requisite amount of small talk. But, Sue seemed distracted by the sprinkler, so I got to the point.
“So, Sue, about those garden gnomes, I think yours is the only house in the entire community with gnomes in the front yard.”
“Aren’t they cool? After my divorce, I was looking for a nice neighborhood, and I thought this place was perfect, except — and I hope you won’t mind my saying this — it seemed a little, I don’t know, kind of, well, stuffy, I guess. I figured these guys would add some fun. Know what I mean? I found them online really cheap, but you have to buy in bulk. I’d be happy to give you the information.”
“Well, I mean, after seeing yours...”
Obviously, she didn’t take my hint, so a different approach was in order. There was, of course, the off-chance one or more of the little demons might violate the HOA regulations, so I asked, “Would you mind if I measured a couple of them, just to see if they might fit my needs?”
I returned to my house and rummaged through our junk drawer until I found an old steel tape measure, then went back to Sue’s house. Sadly, the tallest, even fudging an inch by pushing my hand into the dirt, was only twenty-nine inches tall. I thanked Sue and retreated to my house to think of something else.
The next day, I was in the pro shop, waiting for my tee time and not looking forward to it. It was a weekly round my boss, Chad Campbell, insisted was critical for “team morale,” though the “team” was usually just the two of us, and playing golf with Chad did nothing for my morale. In fact, I often fantasize about Chad falling overboard when he goes on the fancy Amazon cruise he’s been bragging about. I mean, they have alligators in the Amazon, don’t they?
He was late, and I was beginning to hope he wouldn’t show when I heard Chad’s loud bray from behind me. “Well, Wes, I drove past your end of The Fairways the other day. I hadn’t been down there in a while. I noticed the neighborhood has dropped another notch. The house across from yours has gnomes in the front garden. What next, a double-wide?” He laughed.
Then he turned to the head pro. “Hey, Dave, didn’t you tell me ol’ Wes had posted a new handicap? I hope it isn’t higher. I already have to give him too many strokes.” He slapped me on the back, hard. His annoying, brassy laugh echoed through the shop.
The part about giving me strokes wasn’t true. Chad is a terrible golfer. I usually have to give him strokes, and even then I let him win. I mean, I was an alternate on an NCAA D4 golf team. But there would be hell to pay if I embarrassed my boss in front of Dave, so I just smiled and imagined Chad being slowly devoured by alligators.
We were on the first tee. Chad had hit his ball, and this time, miraculously, it was a near perfect shot down the left side of the fairway. I lined up my shot, took a practice swing and in the middle of my backswing, Chad said, “Oh, Wes, by the way, our boss, you know, your father-in-law, asked me to get the report on the Qunitronics acquisition from you as soon as possible.”
My concentration broken, I sliced the ball. It flew into the trees lining the fairway. I heard the hollow thud of a golf ball hitting wood.
“Oh, Wes, I’m so sorry,” he said.
“Well, I guess you owe me a mulligan. No harm done,” I said, though I wondered if my driver would wrap all the way around Chad’s neck if I swung hard enough.
Chad looked at me sternly and pointed his club to a sign on the edge of the tee box. The sign read No Mulligans Allowed. “Club rules, Wes. Club rules.”
By the time I got home, Brooke had noticed the gnomes. “Wes, have you seen those atrocious things across the street? I certainly hope you are planning to do something about them right away.”
I explained my email exchange with Susan Strathborne, the HOA president. Brooke rolled her eyes and said in her second-most abrasive voice, “Oh, come on, Wes. What were you expecting from that do-nothing? If you took Pilates with her, you would know she isn’t much for exerting herself. No, you are just going to have to man up, as they say, and take care of this. Go over there and confront them, for God’s sake. Tell them the gnomes need to go. That’s certainly what Chad would do!”
My father-in-law, the owner of the company, calls Chad a “take charge kind of guy” and regularly tells Brooke and me that I could benefit from his example. And more than once, I’ve seen Chad’s eyes taking a hiking trip along the hills and valleys of Brooke’s body, especially when he’s had one too many at the club.
I could hear the disappointment in Brooke’s voice, and from past experience, I understood my chances for future conjugal relations, limited as they already were, were about to diminish dramatically. Unless I could vanquish the gnomes, I was going to lead a miserable and celibate existence into the distant future, with little hope of reprieve.
As I sat in the living room, staring out of my front windows at the gnomes, I remembered something. It was a minor incident, but one that forced me to fire my lawn service, but with a respectful email, of course. They had been mowing when a rock thrown out of the mower bounced off the side of the house and chipped the paint on Brooke’s Mercedes, which caused her to have a full-blown tantrum.
What if, I thought, there happened to be gravel in Sue’s yard somewhere in the vicinity of the flower beds and a big mower rolled by? Might it not decimate the grotesque statues, restore the pride of The Fairways, and increase my changes of having sex at least one more time before I died? Even if only a few of the little monsters were destroyed, perhaps Sue would learn the error of her ways and remove the gnomes?
My first encounter with Sue left me certain she was likely to follow the awful example set by Benson/Bernsen and mow her own lawn. But, being a neighborly sort of guy, I could offer to have my new lawn service do her yard for her a few of times, just until she got settled.
First, I had to get the gravel into her yard. I pondered the problem on a boring, rainy afternoon. Golf was out of the question and Brooke was at the spa, so I slumped on the sofa and clicked through channels, my mind completely preoccupied with the gnomes, until, half paying attention to an old movie, I saw the solution. The movie was about some prisoners planning a jailbreak. They were digging a secret tunnel, and they had to dispose of the dirt, so they cut holes in their pockets and let the dirt run down their pant legs.
I was leaving for the club on Sunday when I saw Sue in the yard. “Hey, Sue,” I called, “do you have a minute?” I walked over to join her. “I was thinking more about your gnomes. Could I stop by sometime and take a closer look?”
“Sure, anytime. Right now, if you want.”
“I’m afraid I can’t right now, I have to make my tee time, but another day, maybe?”
“No problem at all.”
Preparation is the key to success, or so my father-in-law is always saying, and I had prepared. In my closet, I found an old pair of pants Brooke told me I should give away. I cut holes in the pockets and stuffed plastic sandwich bags with pea gravel from our back garden.
Two days later, my chance came. I watched Sue pull out of her driveway, and I walked out onto mine and waved, then hurried into the house, tugged on the pants, and, hands in my pockets, went across the street. As I walked back and forth “inspecting” the gnomes, rivulets of gravel trickled down my pant legs and into the grass.
True, a few pieces fell into my shoes, which made for an uncomfortable walk back home, but the pain couldn’t diminish my pleasure as I pictured the green riding mower rolling by the flowerbed hurling pellets of gravel and leaving the unctuous gnomes in pieces. All I had to do now was contact my lawn service.
But before I could do that, Sue ruined my plans. It was a few hours after I scattered the gravel. I saw her roll an old-fashioned push mower out of her garage. I walked across the street. “Oh, Sue,” I said, “you aren’t going to use that old thing, are you? Please let me have my lawn service take care of it, my treat, at least until you can get a proper mower. Though most people here in The Fairways employ a service.”
“That’s very nice of you,” she said, “but I like my push mower. It is quiet, doesn’t pollute and it’s great exercise. As long as I don’t let the grass get too high, it’s fine.”
She started pushing the mower across the lawn. The blades made a soft whispering noise until she rolled over the gravel. The pebbles sounded like hailstones hitting a tin roof as they ricocheted off the blades, but the gravel bounced harmlessly back into the grass.
She stopped the mower. “That’s weird,” she said. “I never noticed pebbles in the yard. Oh, well, I guess they aren’t hurting anything, but I’m sure glad I didn’t use a power mower. That might have wrecked my garden.” She looked at me with a satisfied smirk.
Copyright © 2025 by Brent R. King
