How my van was presently situated, the side sliding door—the side my desk faced—was flush against the fence separating mine and my neighbor’s yards. Faced out into its overgrown, trash-strewn expanse. Away from the sun.

But if I could get it in head first, I could booty-first, too, I decided. That was physics.

I needed an office. Somewhere with a sun-facing window I could pack a lunch and mish it to. Even if that mish was five steps outta my back door.

The mish itself wasn’t the point; the point was having a mish. A mish worth mishing.

And while this wasn’t a task that was useful to anyone in society, wasn’t a real job, it was something job-like I could do!

Something useful to me, my van; or, in any case, something that, while I was doing it—until I was done doing it—felt useful.

I rallied for this gig. Smoked more cigs, merked another coffee. While letting the engine warm.

Opened the back gate.

Trimmed the tree back.

Eased her down the sloped driveway, remembering how me and V late that last grow cycle of the season on J’s main property the one he lived on building that fence that perimeter that barrier to keep critters animals randos out how that football field of outdoors atop the hill J’s house was at the base of were so ripe so bursting us waiting edging till they got as ripe as possible to max em out only we waited too long and we’d risk leaving em final-trimester vulnerable exposed to the elements losing em to a storm so when that storm started brewing the wind whipping J telling us to move camp to the top of the hill to be on emergency-harvest call only every time I tried whipping the box up that turnoff to the clearing it was so steep she kept skidding out spraying mud almost fishtailing into the upper post bounding the entry gate jostling left-right-left down over the concrete craters/moguls back there, eying the tree in the cracked, moving-taped rearview mirror-shards and it not until J thinking it over chewing on his nail a sec telling us Finish out the fence brb and leaving and coming back lugging that trailerful of gravel before 4-wheel driving it up the slope and easing it out pneumatically then three-point turning into the handicapped parking spot opposite me and V doing the frantic Jap rock garden sweep spreading out the pebbles evenly before ramming that bitch back up, but backwards J telling me Give her one more shot thinking it no way was gonna catch how slick the dirt how many times she’d skidded out already but then gunning it way fast skrt-ing onto the turnoff that the tracks caught—