I waited until the maintenance shack was deserted and grabbed the red can I had spotted the day before and took it with me and ‘Harley’ to the far side of the resort. I ran the mower until the gas tank was good and dry, then filled it with – you guessed it – windshield wiper fluid. It struggled for a few minutes then stopped dead. I deliberately pumped the choke over and over and gave the rope several good tugs each time to ensure that the liquid was flooded throughout the machine, then Bucky from the maintenance department showed up to see why I wasn’t working . “Bucky, I dunno, it just won’t go.” Bucky gave it a few more primes and some serious pulls then loaded it up on his truck and took the three of us back to the maintenance shack. There he fussed and bothered with it for a long time until at long last he removed the gas cap. He was confused by the un-gas-like aroma and stuck his finger in the tank. He asked where I got the gas and I pointed to the tank that was now returned to its familiar spot in the corner of the shop. He went off on me yelling about me being ‘useless’ and a ‘waste of time’ but I knew I was safe because I had an ‘in’ with the owner, so was untouchable. He sent me out to weed. The ‘Harley’ was never the same again. Several times I saw Bucky working on it at the back of the shop but he could never get it to run properly. I got a new Lawn Boy to mow with and it purred like a kitten. On really hot days, I could park it by a tree on the far side of the resort and catch up on my sleep and no one ever knew. Bucky never liked me after that. It was uncomfortable for me, as he was the #2 in maintenance behind Mr. Schregardus. In 2010 I could have lodged a complaint with the HR department regarding harassment, but it was 1970 and I had no rights. Instead, I steered clear of Bucky as much as possible.
