“Your husband’s pretty grouchy” Garrett sneered over the
rattling of his freshly painted wagon wheels.
He’d promised the week before when I saw him that black
spray paint was really gonna sing and no doubt, he was right. It really zazzed
up his whole riding lawnmower/wagon rig. It was also at that time that he’d inquired
about doing a bit of yard work for me. I pussily faked interest just so he’d
let it go. He’s such a persistent little
shit I should’ve known better, in fact, I'm sure I did.
If you’ve been
following my blog over the years you may remember the time he tried to strong
arm me into purchasing a used bathtub stopper from his “yard sale”. After he
basically instructed me to toddle on home and get a dollar, I tore down the signs
he’d made of notebook paper instructing the neighborhood on where they could
buy crap Garrett found in his dad’s junk bin. You also may remember a post
awhile back where I admitted how over the last few years, I’ve come to admire
this little bastard’s work ethic. He’s tenacious, to the point you’d like to
slap his face but hell, he gets shit done. I wish I could say the same for
myself.
Anyways…so there he was, calling me out. I’d luckily avoided
him all week on my dog walking adventures but there was no escaping his chilly
gaze or cul de sac interrogation now. He backed up slowly, parking the wagon in
front of my dog Walter who never minds a sit. I figured the best thing to do
would be to just act as though I had no idea what he could possibly be talking
about.
“What? Haha…what do you mean?” I asked before quickly averting my eyes to
the old man who’s been pouring a new driveway this week. I waved, he didn’t see
me. I kept waving, trying my best to distract Garrett from this whole
confrontation but he was cocked and locked.
As I stated, a persistent little
SHIT.
“All I did was come by your house…like YOU told me to, and
your husband came to the door all mean and stuff…saying “Don’t ever ring my
doorbell again! Now you go on! Git!”
He didn’t look hurt or upset, just furious. Granted it was
the fury of a 12 year old raised in a comfortable suburban home, but still an
awkward conversation I had no interest in having. I just want to be left alone and enjoy my fucking walk. Please universe! Can that happen?! Fuck.
The story my husband told the day it all went down had been
a bit different. He claimed Garrett had come to the door like the police,
banging on it hard/fast then immediately ringing the doorbell several times in
quick succession. He said this cycle repeated 3 more times before he could
finish wiping his ass and find out who the fuck was being chased by a deranged
killer and needed to be let into our home. Furthermore, he stated once said door was
opened, the demon child on the other did not greet him, rather, demanded to speak
with his wife about a business matter. At that point he said he gave the hell
spawn instruction to never ring our bell in such a manner again and followed
that up by shutting the door.
I knew immediately that Garrett would not take kindly to
this.
Now, here he was, frozen blue iris’ attempting to glare a
confession of assholishness out of me.
Sometimes playing stupid is the smartest thing to do.
“Oh my God! You’re
kidding! I can’t believe he did that, wow…well…were you ringing the door bell
like in a crazy way or something?” I’d
hoped maybe if I could coerce some sort of admission of guilt from him, he’d
move his wagon so I could get home and watch Masterchef.
It didn’t work.
“Well I rang it a couple times, but no, I didn’t ring it
crazy. He’s just a grouch.”
Truthfully, he is kind of a grouch sometimes but knowing
Garrett like I do, I didn’t doubt the events played out just as my husband had
recanted them. However, I still couldn’t seem to bring myself to chastise him
for it. Instead I took the easy way out. I totally fronted on my old man.
“Well…haha..yeah, he can be a butthole sometimes…for sure…haha…how’s
about maybe we’ll talk about you raking the leaves this fall. But you just talk
to me about that okay?”
I totally sold my husband out, right the fuck out.
“Oh believe me, I’ll ONLY talk to you” Garrett replied
sarcastically before throwing his rig in “mow” allowing my dog and I passage
through his turf. He didn’t even look back as his mower wagon combo snaked up
the long driveway that leads to his house.
He’s kind of a dick
if you haven’t picked up on that yet.
Hubby was more than pissed when I regaled my tale of Garrett
upon returning that evening. I didn’t
tell him that I didn’t back him up at all. No, no, that would’ve resulted in
some sort of Bloodsport death match. He really despises that kid. Instead, I
mentioned the part about him saying “Go on-Git!” the part that made me howl
because I really wasn’t sure if it was true. If it were, well then I wasn’t sure
I’d recognize who I’m married to anymore.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Go on!? Git!? Am I 90 years
old? Shaking a cane in the air, shitting my pants? You honestly think I’d say that?”
I could only laugh.
“So this little asshat is a liar too? Well that’s just great.
All I know is he had better never come to our door like that again. Go on…git…that
little retard. I’ve never hated a kid so much.”
I should’ve been honest with Garrett, I know that. He’s just
a jerky little douche. He probably would only have benefited from it, a life
lesson and all about how to approach the customer. But it’s too late now. I
just hate being hassled on my walks. It’s my decompression time, one of the only chunks of the day I stop thinking about everyone and everything I hate and revel in
simple pleasures like how happy my dogs look when they’re smelling the grass or
how happy I am smelling the kickass ribs my neighbor’s cooking up on the grill.
That’s what we do. We walk and we sniff. I will throw my husband under the bus
or lie to any obnoxious child to preserve this special time.
That being said, here’s to hoping next time the little
bastard just leaves a written estimate in the mailbox or even better, moves to fucking Borneo.