The old man had a dream. Presidential candidates were calling for proactive policing in neighborhoods of angry old white men who might become radical Republican jihadists. Obviously, Dick Cheney had caused far more harm to America than Bin Laden. Clearly, Ted Cruz is scarier than ISIS. True in all of his dreams, except where he had to take a test or where he still worked for Nike, he was the hero. The old man dreamed in color with a loud soundtrack. except during the romantic parts, heavy on the British Invasion.
Make your dreams come true, the old man had always been told. He tried to think back on who might have told him that. Somebody. Anyway, accompanied by The Black Gang, he continued his surveillance.
Nothing. He was suddenly struck by the realization none of the candidates had ever served in the military. Bill Clinton lucked into a form of peace, but somehow, there’s something comforting when we decide to fight, we have a fighter in the lead.
To be honest, he was worried about leaving the young redhead, home alone unprotected. She’d make a good President, he thought. Then the old man dreamed about being the First Lady. And woke up!!!
They stopped outside one house, not far from home. Lovely older couple, she was taller and he looked like the old man’s Uncle John Moore, just lovely. But here’s what made the old man take note.
It was that kind of neighborhood. He had seen one guy polishing his mailbox. Another guy was blow-drying his Mercedes. One lady was vacuuming her graveled front yard. These two manicured their lawn by hand, squatting like Asian peasants. For hours at a time. To be honest, the old man envied their ability to squat all that time. They’d be out there when he began his six-mile workout and they’d be squatting there still, like little girls taking a pee, when he finally dragged his ass around for the last time.
Tell the truth, looked like this couple was having fun. Plucking their yard like you might floss your teeth. And they call me crazy, the old man thought. But, but, there was always this but, if that’s what floats your cabin cruiser, then fine, whatever. Knock yourself out. God bless you. Good luck. Enjoy.
He used to run over a hundred miles weekly at seven thousand feet above sea level, so he understood bizarre behavior. Who was he to judge?
Me, I’d rather read. Me, I’d rather watch sports on a big television. Me, I’d rather write friends who never think of writing me first, he thought. The old man was still too young to take a nap, but he was awfully fucking certain he could come up with something better to do than manicuring the lawn. The thought of Lucille Ball working the conveyor belt at the candy factory came to mind.
The old man stopped outside one house, not far from where they lived. And he stared. The dog, too. Even in the light of the moon and the street light, that yard did look pretty damn good. The little guy had a bad back, wore a brace, he was still out there every day except Sunday. She looked good and he looked happy. Might be something to think about. There were vacant lots look better than the old man’s lawn.
Have you ever seen a one hundred and eighty pound dog take his morning piss? That boy can kill a bush. So, The Black Gang relieved himself on a perfectly groomed yard and the old man felt bad about that afterwards.
The night was quiet. Not what the old man had imagined. But it was a gated fifty-five-and-older deed-restricted neighborhood, so what the hell were you expecting.
Do you see what I see, he asked the dog. The dog looked puzzled.
Schlepping uphill, some old white guy was wearing a pale wife-beater t-shirt and silver boxers. Mostly bald with a stringy ponytail. Why do they do that? Wasn’t moving fast, a filtered cigarette in one hand, half-full highball glass in the other.
The old man pulled up ahead and parked Walter White in the middle of the road. Stay, he told the dog and he knew the dog knew he meant it. Didn’t want the pale pedestrian to soil his silver boxers.
Out kinda late, the old man said, like he had just discovered a curfew violator.
The answer came back at him like it was polysyllabic. Wwwhhaaatttt???
I have to admit, you look just fetching in your reflective skivvies, but what the hell do you think you are doing out here this time of night?
My doctor told me I need to get more exercise.
Puzzling yet somehow insightful.
