Edgar, my next-door neighbour, passed away suddenly and impressively. He took off to the garden of paradise leaving me with a pile of earthly troubles—and a pile of earth. A pile sitting in his driveway. A pile ordered by me, but delivered to the wrong house. All because Edgar had said “sure” when asked by Backhoe Bill, the illicit soil dealer, if he should dump it. Edgar thought it a gift. This resulted in a tri-lateral dispute of Balkan proportions, all because of a pile of earth; same as any other of the world's disputes, I suppose. Consequently, my pile of soil had lain in Edgar's driveway all winter. Bill wouldn't come back to move it, I refused to, and Edgar, with the tenacity of crab grass, had claimed squatter's rights. 

With old Edgar gone, the balance of power had shifted, and since the house stood empty there seemed no reason why the soil shouldn't be reclaimed by me, the rightful owner. But I needed help; a truckload of topsoil can destroy a back, and mine was already on the defensive. 

I placed an ad in the window of the local variety store—Boy needed for garden work—good pay! I hoped it might attract one of the nearby highschool kids, a huge one dabbling in steroids and desperate for money. No such luck. I only received two calls, which surprised me considering all the kids I'd seen hanging around the mall with nothing to do.

I arranged the interviews for the following morning. I had it in mind to simply choose the biggest and strongest, but it didn't quite work out that way. First to show up was Erica, a fourteen-year-old feminist. She didn't really want the job; she just came to give me a stinging lecture on the inequality of my hiring practices. By the time she'd finished I felt so guilt-ridden I pleaded with her to take it. 

“Please,” I begged. “I'll even include lunch.” 
 “Lunch!” she sneered. “You misogynist old fart! You're all the same. You think you can get anything you like for a free lunch. Up yours!” She then made a particularly male gesture before swirling out of the driveway like a dust devil, leaving me flapping in the breeze. I am not an old fart, I said to myself. I may be fifty, but I have the body of a forty nine-year-old. 

The next applicant was Mario. He gave a wide berth to Erica as he shuffled toward me mumbling something about needing money for more memory. Then he went into a confusing cybertalk I couldn't understand. From the way he kept blinking at the sunlight I guessed he might be a computer geek. He didn't seem to grasp what I needed, so I tried to communicate digitally by pointing at the pile of soil, then pointing to the backyard. No good. Next I tried using a piece of chalk to draw little wheelbarrow icons on the driveway. Nothing. He continued glancing back and forth from me to the soil. 

Finally, I asked in exasperation, “Do you know where potatoes come from?” He looked puzzled. “How about french fries?”  At last his face lit up. “McDonald’s?” 
I groaned, “Thanks Bill Gates. The information highway begins and ends at a drive-through.” 

Mario took one last look at me and the topsoil before backing away down the driveway. I gave up and went inside to lie down for a while. I needed to rest. If I didn't find help soon I'd have to move the soil myself. 

I'd barely laid down before an insistent hammering on the back door jolted me off the couch. I opened the door. A small, odd-looking boy of around twelve stood there.
 “Hello,” I said, “what's your name?”
 “Gneville.”
 “Gneville?”
 “Yes, Gneville, with a G.”
 “With a G?”
 “You got it. A silent G. You know, G-nu, G-nat, G-nome.” 

G-neville G-nome, I thought to myself, swallowing a smile—fits. “That's a very interesting name, Gneville. So, you're here to apply for the garden job?”
 “No, I came to tell you that for five dollars I'd get rid of the girl who's snapping the heads off your tulips.” 
 “She's what!” I dashed to the front of the house. He was right, someone had broken the heads off my tulips, but there was no one in sight.  “Too late,” I said, “she's gone.” 
 “So I guess you owe me five bucks.” 
 “No way. How do I know you didn't break the tulip heads off?”
 “You don't, but I can make sure it doesn't happen again.”
 “Why you little...” 
 “Okay, okay. Forget it. My Aunt Cyn tells me to always make the most of any opportunity.” 
 “I’m not sure your Aunt had protection rackets in mind. If you need money you’ll have to work for it.” 
 “I guess so. I’ll take the job instead then. What is it?” 
 “Moving that topsoil to my backyard. Do you have any experience?” 
 “Moving topsoil? Sure, I help Backhoe Bill with deliveries.”
 “That's not exactly shovelling the stuff is it? I'm not certain you're suitable for the position.” 
 “Don't have much choice do you, not if you want to grow anythin' in it this year.” 
  Sharp little bugger, I thought. “What grade are you in Gneville?”
 “Twelve, same as my age. I'm advanced. My Mum says my growth spurt went to my head.”
  I sighed, “I can see it must have. Okay, you can have the job, but stay away from the tulips.” 
 “How much?”
 “Well the whole pile of course.” 
 “No, I mean how much will you pay me?” 
 “What's the least you'll work for?” 
 “Five dollars an hour and lunch at McDonald’s.”
 “Is that where fries come from?” 
 “Is this a skill-testing question?” 
 “Could be.” 
 “No, they come from potatoes, and I can spell it.” 
 “All right,” I continued, “Three dollars an hour and a ten dollar gift certificate to McDonald’s.”
 “Four dollars an hour, and the gift certificate.”
 “Four dollars an hour, four hours max, and the gift certificate.” 
  Gneville grinned gnomishly, “Four dollars an hour, four hours max, cash up front, and the gift certificate.” 

This was beginning to feel like a hostile corporate take-over of my assets, but I needed the soil moved so I agreed. “You have a deal. Eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.”

The following morning Gneville surprised me by showing up on time. “Sixteen dollars cash and the certificate,” he said bluntly. I paid up and we began filling the wheelbarrow. I'd only tossed three shovels-full in when he announced, “That's enough. I'm not big enough to push it when it's full you know.”
 “But it'll take forever if we don't fill it.”
 “Okay, fill it, but then you have to push it.”
 “Oh, all right.”

We compromised by taking turns—full - half full - full - half full. It was a slow process. And while I pushed he sat on the pile whistling the soundtrack from Snow White. I was beginning to dislike Gneville. I tried to get him to reopen the contract but he refused. 
 “No way,” he said. “Four hours is all you paid for, four hours is all you get, and in case you haven't noticed it's five to twelve. Time's up.”
 “But we've barely moved half the pile you little creep.”
 “Too bad,” he said, waving the gift certificate in my face. “A deal's a deal. I'm going down to McDonald’s to pig out—see ya.” He reached the end of the driveway and stopped. 
 “Wait a minute,” he said, squinting at the certificate. “This has expired.” 
 “Oh really? I hadn't noticed. But then we never discussed validity of the certificate. The large print giveth, and the small print taketh away, kid. Finish moving the soil and I'll take you to McDonald’s, 
but no pigout.”
 “Three Big Macs and a milkshake isn't much. Anyway, how else am I going to grow if I don't eat lots?” 
 “Have you tried broccoli?”
 “Yuck.”
 “Push the wheelbarrow and you have a deal.” 
 “Oh, all right.”

We finished the job and I took Gneville to McDonald’s as promised. I was ravenous. I ate almost as much as he did. I wish I could say we bonded over the burgers, but when he began bragging about the return on his mutual funds, then offering to flip a coin for a fourth burger, I refused. I had an uneasy feeling I'd be meeting him again—after he'd evolved into my bank manager. I didn't have to wait that long…