Someday I’m going to retire and I’ll need something to do. Something that gives me a reason to keep on living day after day.
“Your day is coming. Be patient,” the impatient voice in my head says.
So I prepare.
I spread the fertilizer, pull the weeds, set up the sprinkler timer to slather the lawn with precise amounts of H2O.
And all the while, I continue to practice…
Sometimes in the bathroom mirror, other times when I’m pacing in the backyard.
“Hey you kids, get off my lawn!”
“Go play ball somewhere else, you mangy dogs,” I yell. But not too loud. I can’t show my hand to the kids who will no doubt be tempted to tap dance on my well-manicured lawn.
You can never really practice enough. Because when it’s show time, you want the words to come out naturally. Like you were born for this.
Because I was. I am.
Finally, after years of practice, patience, and persistence, I am ready.
It’s show time.
I shuffle out to the front porch and plop down in my wicker rocking chair.
I think about laying a shotgun across my lap, but no sense in going overboard. I’m not looking to win an Oscar or anything. Yet.
I’m all set up and ready. Then I wait.
The squealing weasels should be out any minute.
Soon they’ll be swarming the street throwing baseballs and frisbees or playing kickball. Maybe even ding-dong-ditchit for the more daring.
Inevitably, they’ll touch my lawn. Oh yes, yes they will. And I’ll be ready.
I think that some days, I might just stay inside the house and hide behind the curtain in the living room, the one in front of the plate glass window. The same window those little urchins will probably be soaping or egging or throwing tomatoes at on Devil’s Night.
So I wait. And I wait. And I wait some more.
I’m back on the porch. It’s getting late.
Finally, a couple of teenagers walk in front of my house. They’re looking down at the glowing screens in their hands.
“Hey, you kids,” I say half-heartedly. “Hey, I’m talking to you,” I say louder.
They stop for a second and look up from their phones, annoyed at the interruption.
But they’re not on my grass. Not even close.
They look back down at their phones and continue walking.
“You want to walk on my grass?” I blurt out, as I reach into my pocket and pull out a $10 bill, waving it in the air as I shuffle towards them.
“Are you crazy, old man?” the one boy says.
“Not yet,” I say, quickly running out of breath.
“Make it $20,” one of them says.
I dig deeper into my pocket and pull out another $10.
“Thanks, granpa,” the kid says as he grabs the two tens from my hand.
As they start to walk away, I manage to get my foot in front of the twerp and he trips… onto my lawn.
“Get off my lawn!” I yell at the top of my lungs. I grab the two twenties from the dazed hand as he then quickly scurries to his feet. As the two punks take off running, I head back to the house, hoping to get in some more practice.
Because when it’s show time, you want the words to come out naturally. Like you were born for this.
Like I was. I am.