He Bugs Me

The noise mocks me. Every time the power goes out, the curmudgeon a few doors down doesn’t hesitate to plug in his generator pronto. And then in the dark of night, with my popsicles melting and my children screaming for want of their nightlights, the stark hum of the generator grates like a giant mosquito buzzing in my ear.

He’s a surly fellow, this one. Single man in the neighborhood, retired Cleveland cop. Meets the geriatrics on the dot every morning at McDonald’s to solve the problems of the world. I once saw him hold a buff teenager in a headlock until the cops arrived, called because the young man dared to walk across his pristinely manicured lawn. It’s the lawn that he loves the most. Riding mower glides passionately across the heavily watered thoroughfare. Edges are carefully manicured and coiffed. Cuts his trees down so he doesn’t have to rake the leaves. Puts little faces on the stumps in a bizarre homage to totem poles or Cabbage Patch dolls, I’m not sure which. And every Halloween without fail, he ropes off the grass so the miniature pirates and princesses do not parade across his precious lawn.

Cars are his second love. He is single-handedly trying to revitalize the failing American auto industry, I think. He has one white Rendevous; he used to own two of the exact same year. Now it is joined by a fiery red sports car with plates that say GERRR and a red Chevy truck with racing stripes. These vehicles get washed frequently, and I mean WASHED. He scrubs them down, at least one car each day, and when he is done, he blow-dries them with the leave blower. This man is thorough!!

But it’s the generator that kills me. This sweltering night, my kids’ room lit only by the handfuls of glow sticks they clutch in sweaty fists, I angrily imagine him kicked back in his man cave, ice-cold beer in hand. But then again, if his house is the only one on the block that is lit, maybe the mosquitoes are all annoyingly buzzing around HIS head.