Jimbo Dunston’s Bonemeal Fertilizer
I hired the man just before leaving for Florida. He was recommended by a friend. I had my reservations when he pulled up in a Ford F150 pickup, right taillight missing, windshield cracked and badly in need of a wash. However, my friend had said he was the best so I invited him in.
We toured the greenhouse, discussed his knowledge of exotic plants and went over his fees.
He assured me of his qualifications but I felt I was missing something. I handed him the greenhouse key and the pass-card to the front gate anyway, letting my doubts dissipate like the cloud of carbon dioxide from his muffler as it left my drive. I had a plane to catch and business to conclude.
Standing in the greenhouse this morning, I wished I’d been more thorough. I knew there was trouble when I saw the F150 parked in the rear of the drive. The greenhouse door was open and several pots were broken on the floor. His Oakland Raiders cap lay near a coil of bloated, grayish pink roots, their texture that of hairless, newborn rats. One shredded knee-high rubber boot lay just beyond it. There would be some explaining to do. I wonder if my friend knows a good cleaner. Good help is so hard to find.
