Standing There

An allegory about innovation, perception, and the quiet punishment of doing something too well.

What happens when you solve a problem too well—and people stop believing you deserve to be paid for it?

He started mowing lawns when he was eleven. Just one or two at first—neighbors, family friends. His dad had an old push mower and a plastic gas can that always smelled like summer. He’d lean into it, arms locked, the motor rattling through his ribs. It was slow, but it worked. And it made him feel useful in a way nothing else did.

By fifteen, he’d saved enough to buy a used riding mower from a guy down the street. Bright red. Seat duct-taped at the seam. It was a game-changer. He could do three lawns a day, maybe four if the grass wasn’t too thick. He started putting his earnings toward community college courses in engineering and robotics. Nights were for studying. Weekends were for grass.

At nineteen, he upgraded again. A stand-on mower—sleek, fast, maneuverable. He could cut a lawn in half the time, and he no longer needed to sit. Something about standing made him feel more alert, more in control. He wore noise-canceling headphones and listened to lectures while he mowed: circuit theory, programming, machine vision.

Somewhere between his fifth and sixth summer, he started tinkering. His truck bed was a mobile workshop—bungee cords, soldering iron, microcontrollers, spare blades. He installed sensors, GPS modules, and eventually, small on-board cameras. After a few clumsy prototypes, he got it: a lawnmower that could cut a yard entirely on its own. It was beautiful to watch. Precise, methodical. The lines were clean. The corners sharp.

So he built another.

With two self-mowing machines, he could service adjacent houses at the same time. Or leapfrog across town. He’d drive one to a job, set it loose, then roll the next one out while the first was finishing. He stood in the middle of the street watching both machines hum along. Sometimes, he'd have a soda. Sometimes, he'd check the weather. It felt like magic. Like proof of everything he'd been working toward.

He wasn’t doing the work anymore—not with his hands—but he’d built the machines. He’d engineered the process. He had multiplied himself, quietly, with no one’s permission. And he was making more money than ever.

That’s when the reviews started.

“He just stood there the whole time.”

“I could’ve done that myself.”

“Overpriced for what you’re actually getting. He didn’t even break a sweat.”

His business rating dropped from 4.9 to 3.7 in two weeks.

He tried explaining. “It’s the same service. Better, even. Straighter lines, no missed patches, less noise.”

But it didn’t matter.

People wanted to see him doing it. They wanted the illusion of labor—the slow arcs of the mower, the wipe of the brow, the visible presence of effort. They didn’t care how efficient it was. They didn’t care that it was his design. They wanted him, arms locked, pushing something heavy across their lawn.

So he sold one of the autonomous mowers. Tuned the other to accept manual control.

And now, every day, he rides it.

Not because he has to. Not because it’s easier. But because if he doesn’t—if he just stands there—people get uncomfortable. They cancel appointments. They leave one-star reviews. They call him lazy.

So he stands on it as it drives itself. One hand on the bar. A small tug of resistance in the turns to make it look like he's doing something.

He wears the same work gloves he wore as a kid, even though he doesn’t need them. Sometimes he brings a rag and wipes nonexistent sweat from his forehead.

The machine hums beneath him. The blades do their job. The lines are perfect.

And from the curb, it looks just right.

Curious what happened to him years later? Read the quiet follow-up monologue:
Prototype 3