All’s Well That Ends Well
A few years ago, I was a sweet summer child freshly out of college with zero idea what I wanted to do with my life.
I became a homeowner after maternal unit moved overseas and gave the house to me, and I decided to work for a house painting company for one summer while I got my metaphorical ducks in a row.
The next summer, I was out of the painting business and working as an EMT, which meant sometimes I would have a full day or two off.
I noticed my house was in some need of paint touch ups, so I decided to do them myself. I had brushes, paint, nothing to do, and a sixer, so I went at it one Tuesday afternoon.
So I’m working on the frame of the front door, dressed in old painter whites and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and I sit down to let the primer dry and have a cold one.
I’m happily perched on the front step when I notice a can-I-speak-to-your-manager haircut with a face that looks like she just ate 12 lemons staring at me from the sidewalk.
My front lawn is decently long and slopes down a hill, but I could see an artery pulsing in her neck from my spot. She had a dog next to her, so I just wave and say, “Cute dog!”
I guess my words broke the floodgates, and she unleashed upon me a verbal attack of which I understood about 30%. The gist: “HOW DARE YOU DRINK ON THE JOB ON THIS NICE PROPERTY.
YOU DON’T DESERVE TO SIT THERE AND WASTE THE HARD EARNED MONEY OF THE WELL-EDUCATED PERSON THAT OWNS THIS PLACE.”
While I’m pondering this, she’s still spewing frothing condescension at me, which culminated in: “UNEDUCATED, LAZY, MENIAL, FREELOADING, IMMIGRANT DRINKERS LIKE YOU ARE WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS COUNTRY.” Well, aside from the many problems in that sentence, I’m white.
Like, really white. Blond hair, green eyes. Born and raised in the good old US of A. Specifically, in this house.
Perhaps I look like some sort of insidious immigrant from far away, so I stand up and make my way down to her, but not before cracking open another cold one.
She’s positively quivering with anger and indignation, her dog is pulling at the leash to say hi to me, and so I bend down to say hello back, when she says “WELL, WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?”
I raise myself to my full 6’2” height, which towers over her little 5’ nothing self. She doesn’t back down, and the following conversation ensues.
Me: “Hello ma’am, what seems to be the problem?” Her: scoffs “YOU. Sitting there wasting the homeowner’s money so you can get paid to be a lazy idiot.” Me: “Oh, I’m being paid?
Seems odd, I didn’t feel the need to pay myself for this, but I suppose that could be fun to try.”
Her, gears turning: “Pay yourself? Don’t make me laugh, some deadbeat like you couldn’t afford this house. You need an education for a real job.” I’m wondering what her education fixation is all about, but not caring all that much, I just want to entertain her conversation enough to really get her mad.
Maybe her head will explode.
Me: “Well, I didn’t buy this house, my mother did, but she left it to me when she moved overseas after I graduated from college.” Her, smirking: “Oh, did you go to local community college, known for not being that great?
Only someone working as a painter would go there.” Me: “Actually, if you look at my shirt, you’ll see it says ‘Ivy League School Athletics’, which is where I attended school and played a sport.
I am in good shape because of that, so I figured I would keep that up by working on improving my own home while having a few cold boys to cool off in this heat.
Did you attend community college? Because if so, I can see how you might not be able to understand that.”
Disclaimer: nothing wrong with that CC. Just wanted to watch her boil, and oh boy, did she. Her eyes widen bigger than I thought possible, and her mouth starts working like elderly folks’ do when they’ve lost a lot of teeth, lots of lip twisting.
This culminates in her rearing her ugly head back, and spitting on the front of my shirt. “You probably took that from someone, you ungrateful piece of trash.”
Okay, wow, not sure what I’m ungrateful for, and ew germs, so I tell her that’s it’s been fun but I’m going to continue working and turn to walk back up the lawn.
She grabs the back of my shirt and attempts to pull me backward. It doesn’t work, so I spin around and smack her hand off me.
She flops like a Premier League soccer player, flinging herself all over my lawn, howling like she’s been shot.
She’s let go of the dog’s leash, so he comes over to me for pets, happy as a clam. Her yodeling has brought some neighbors out of their homes, including my cool next door ones.
They come over and I give them the story, and ask for their phone to call law enforcement. Mine was inside charging. They laugh and hand it over.
I let the officers know that some maniac is gyrating loudly on my lawn, could they please come remove her.
I return to my work, my cool neighbors probably have started making popcorn. A little while later, I hear the officers arrive. Maniac is still singing her messed-up opera, and starts screaming at the authorities a story of a belligerent squatter (who’s painting said site of squatting??) who chased her with a baseball bat and broke her arm in multiple places.
Her talons point to me, so I come down and tell the boys the whole story. They crack up, apparently they know the nutcase by name, and so they tell her to call her husband to get the dog “again,” and cuff her for trespassing and disorderly conduct.
Dog hung out with me until the husband, apologizing profusely, came and got him.
He also informed me that they are in divorce proceedings, so that may have made her “crazier than usual.” Never saw the lady again, thank god, but have developed a neighborly friendship with her ex and the pup.
All’s well that ends well.