Be A Guy

Why Does It Always Have to Be Me? With Storm Update

In Be a Guy, Thoughtful- Items I'd Like you to Read on August 23, 2011 at 1:28 pm

My two eldest are small and playing at the end of the drive. I hear the bass beat and death metal from a driverless CJ-5. I wheel to watch it blow the stop sign. The kid at the wheel has dropped her joint and is reaching down to find it and is unseeable for twenty-five yards. I yell for my kids to freeze, toss a handful of gravel at the jeep and holler some encouragement. The kids and I head in for some lunch.

Shortly, the missus calls from the front because there is some irate woman on our stoop. The Neighbor (and I go around a bit concerning what may or may not have happened. Whether or not rocks got tossed at “her child” is discussed. I ask how old her child is – “Eighteen” – and explain that my kids are children, three and four, her’s can vote and drive and that the next time her little sweetheart blows the stop sign at 40, we’re going to have more than harsh words. Had her “child” stopped they would be looking for the car keys in the storm sewer. I’m making tuna, and a cop shows up at my door. We spar a bit, and finally I ask him, *** “Where do you want to go with this?” He asks what I mean and I tell him I’m about 30 seconds from telling him to send someone in a tie to investigate this as I’m about to clam up. He puts away his notebook and we discuss it like guys. He asks “Where do I want to go with this?”I suggest that maybe there was a misunderstanding, but, as I understand these things, I can go down the street and say something, then this irate homeowner might say something harsh, the next thing we know, it’s some kind of white trash war ,my dog is poisoned and her garage is aflame… So maybe he should go down the street and suggest it was all a big misunderstanding. He’s about my age and which means he’s been around, I’m speaking in a jocular way and we’re guys while she’s a menopausal maniac. We high-five each other and get on with our day. And I am deeply on my wife’s Shitlist. Soon it is Halloween. The people down at the end of the block are out of the house behind mold remediation and have left a bushel basket sized witches kettle of candy out front on the honesty system. We’re headed up the street: the wife, neighbor and our kids. A couple of teens stroll out of the gate with the kettle of candy. The two women turn and suggest I have to say something. I decline the opportunity reminding them of how much trouble I got into chastising the teen for blowing the stop sign. I, finally, agree to deal with the problem if they both cut me some slack the next time. I wait for these dummies and ask “which one of you shit heads really thought all that candy was for you?” They mumble a bit and apologize and try to hand over the kettle. I tell them “Get Lost — carry it back yourselves”, and when they return the kettle I make them empty the candy from their pillow cases into the kettle. This silliness goes on for years, and it’s tiring. The next Halloween I suggest a woman hit the kid who is harassing her son with shaving cream. She whacks him with a hobo cane and it comes back on me. Years later I euthanize a baby rabbit, crawling broken-backed across the road one morning, and that evening a neighbor with whom I’ve never talked stops us on the street to ask in front of my kids “Was that a squirrel you were killing this morning?” I throw plastic garbage cans out on the street in front of speeders; I speak up when a line is cut. I go to bat for all the kids who are about to be cut from summer baseball, despite my son having the third highest evaluation score, and create two additional teams. All the red blooded boys get to play baseball that summer. I’m on a fishing trip in Canada with a bunch of neighborhood guys younger than I and they suggest I sit on the aisle side of the table next to the drunks wearing Buck knives. Two years ago the neighborhood block party is at the ball field. Some grandfatherly fool shows up with his grandson and starts pitching him a bucket of hard balls. Ron, Jim and I are watching this kid get into his groove. The balls fly further and closer to the line of little children waiting to get into the inflatable Fun House. I turn to my buddies and mention “This doesn’t look so good”. These clowns mutely stare at me meaningfully. I say “Fuck You. No really FUCK YOU. Why does it always have to be me? Once I’d like to not be the hard-on. Why can’t one of you man up?” And Ron looks up from his shoes and says “because we’re not you” and takes another pull on his beer.

I flip them a double bird and walk out on the diamond, like any good manager, to query my pitcher “Just out of curiosity, what’s your game plan when one of those kids get’s beaned with a baseball?” He asks if they shouldn’t be practicing baseball. I tell him “I don’t know, me, I don’t give a shit, none of those kids are mine” He’s confused and wants to know what I’m asking and I explain “I’m curious, what is the plan is if one of those kids goes down?
 
Jump in the car and run away?
 
Stick around and swap numbers for the lawsuit?
 
Call your grandson’s parents before the cops hook you up?
 
Pull a gun to defend yourself when the half drunk father of a concussed bleeding kid comes after you?”

He asks if one of the kids is mine and I retort “If one of those kids were mine, little Jimmy’s Louisville Slugger would be through your windshield 5 minutes ago.” Gramps and grandson head for their car without retrieving the balls from the outfield.

I walk back to my buddies by the fence.
 
Jim asks “what’d you say to him?” I say “fuck you…. fuck both of you.
 
You want to know what I said, next time you be me.”
 

PS I drive up from enrolling my daughter in college and get home at 02:30 Saturday morning. I’m exhausted, Thursday night prior to leaving I had maybe 2 hours of sleep. So we get banged by Irene Saturday Night. Lose power Sunday a.m. and by mid-afternoon we haven’t seen anyone from the town, county or utility. I awake from my nap and say F-it. I go out to the shed, move the bikes and lawn furniture out of the way, grab the 24″ Stihl, dump the old gas out and refuel it. I say to myself “this starts on the first pull I’ll go to work”. And Son-of-A- Bitch it starts first time. Go inside put on Levis, steel toe boots and a T-shirt. Tell my 12 year old to cowboy up- we’re going to cut the trees blocking the street and covering the neighbor’s car. A couple of other construction and Fire Department type guys join in. In 2 1/2 hours we clear our street, two garages and several more driveways. My son get’s stung 3 times as do I, there was a massive yellow jacket hive in the boll of the 1st tree. It’s evident from the number of guys who come out to assist and offer comment that there are guys who seem to think they are capable of doing this. So why was it incumbent on me to keep a pro chain saw? Why do I have to be stuck with some kind of anti-suburban, odd ball survivalist jacket? Why do I have to tell the idiots in flip-flops to get lost? Why do I have to ask one of the mommies standing around to get some Benadryl, ammonia and ice for my little guy? These are the people that will be hunted for meat. Other guys have wives and fancy cars- I have chainsaws. What is wrong with me? I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me:

  1. I was bored. If we had lights I’d have been blogging
  2. I was showing off.
  3. I was hoping to teach my sons a life lesson.
The Punch Line is my Street Still has no Power for almost two weeks
Irene

Bee Hive

If You Like This Please Comment & Subscribe Below The Polite Police  

 

Did he really call me a codger?  F'in kid I have corns older than him.

Did he really call me a codger?
F’in kid I have corns older than him.

 

  1. Hey, sometimes it’s me. Irate citizen, aggressive 200# male, screaming at our 95 pound ill with cancer mayor in the middle of the Spring Festival on Main, calling her a crook and screaming at her, pushing he with his stomach, she’s hollering for someone to call 911, everybody (40 or 50 folks) is frozen like deer in the headlights. I listen for a moment and realize no one has their phone out and I can see a cop half block away watching this whole thing. So I take my cane and go out in the street , put it between them, rattle it back and forth being careful to hit him a couple of times hard on the shins. All the time I’m telling him to back off, this isn’t the time or place, she’s backing away crying, he’s trying to get in my face. I smack him another couple times on the legs with the cane. I turn around and put my arm around her shoulder and walk her away, he makes to follow, still hollering at her about the constitution. 3 minutes has elapsed since I stepped in. Finally several other folks tell the guy to lay off and another woman swoops in to take the mayor away to compose herself. The cop is still standing down the block, now there are two laughing, nodding at me. Later I get word that they thought it was funny that I stood up to the town psycho armed with a cane, and that they would have stepped in if it looked like it was going to “escalate”.

    I’m proud to say my daughter operated the “My Bodyguard” table in middleschool cafeteria; she has always been a big girl, a head taller and tough. All the littler kids, the new kids, the challenged kids, could sit at her table and the bullies left them alone. The bullies bothered her for a while but her sister was on the highschool basket ball team and taught her to block. So one day she just has had enough on the play ground, and when the guy comes by, cussing and scowling and making to push her down, she just whams her hip into him and knocks him ten feet. She says “OH I’M SO SORRY YOU BUMPED INTO ME AND FELL DOWN!!!” The teacher asks the kids what happened and they all chime in that the bully bumped into my daughter by accident, so the teacher goes back to the other side of the playground and all the kids break out in cheers. So it’s not cojones, it’s not guys, it’s every citizen’s duty to stand up to bullshit and protect the vulnerable, that’s how we see it. “What you do to the least of us, you do to me”

    Like

    • Deb-
      I’m becoming an acolyte of Malcolm Gladwell. Haven’t had the time to read “The Tipping Point” in its entirety but have started scanning it.
      Evidently the Kitty Genovese scenario is more common than we would like to think. Specifically, in studies, and I’m paraphrasing a single person is more apt to call for help or come to someone’s assistance when they THINK THEY ARE THE SOLE WITNESS. In a crowd the idea is someone else will come through.
      So let me rephrase the question, Why Does it Always Have to be Me When Deb lives in the middle of nowhere?

      I was pleasantly surprised when the old boy dropped dead on the subway platform July 5th last year at how many people stepped up. A woman stepped up and said I’m a nurse as a guy stepped up and told her he was an EMT. They checked him out and shook their heads at each other- but started CPR anyway. Some woman whipped out a cell phone and another headed for the booth. Me all I could do was observe and comment to the two samaritans that it would be awful if a train came by and caught the victims legs hanging over the platform. So I did assist by dragging him towards the center of the platform.

      For those of you who don’t know her- Deb is as tough as a $3.00 steak, and worked my ass into the ground.

      Like

  2. So we get banged by Irene Saturday Night. Lose power Sunday am and by mid-afternoon we haven’t seen anyone from the town, county or utility. So I awake from my nap and say F-it. Go out to the shed, move the bikes and lawn furniture out of the way, grab the 24″ Stihl, dump the old gas out and put new gas in it. I say to myself “this starts on the first pull I’ll go to work”. And Son-of-A- Bitch it starts on the first pull. Go inside put on Levis, steel toe boots and a ratty T-shirt. Tell my 12 year old to cowboy up- we’re going to cut the trees blocking the street and covering the neighbor’s car. And we get started and in 2 1/2 hours clear our street and 3 more driveways. My son get’s stung 3x as do I, there was a massive yellow jacket hive in the boll of the 1st tree. It’s evident from the amount of guys who come out to assist and offer comment that there are guys who seem to think they are capable of doing this. So why was it incumbent on me to keep a pro chain saw? Why do I have to be stuck w/ some kind of anti-suburban, odd ball survivalist jacket. Why do I have to tell the idiots in flip-flops to get lost? Why do I have to ask one of the mommies standing around to get some benadryl, ammonia and ice for my little guy? These are the people that will be hunted for meat. Other guys have wives and fancy cars- I have chainsaws. What is wrong w/ me?

    Like

  3. You need a doctor, or a lawyer.

    Like

  4. […] This previously appeared on Standup2P. […]

    Like

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