I’m in the garage gathering something for someone else. It has to be for someone else because it’s not my garage. No, I’m not breaking into this one. It’s my girlfriends mother’s and I’m here doing work.
It’s all the early possible nice weather (I can’t say spring because I don’t believe it exists anymore) tasks of putting out the dumb shit that 1) is rarely used (I’ve asked the next door neighbor who’s always in his yard, she might use the table and chairs I’m force to bring out once, maybe twice) 2) is totally unnecessary (a ceramic shoe planter? That’s never had a plant in it? Really? That’s going to add to the ambiance of the yard?) yet must be done.
And don’t think I can willy nilly this task. Are you kidding me? One year I put a thing on the deck that was supposed to be on the first stair where I’d put something that, to my obviously idiots eye, looked strikingly similar to the one I’d put on the first stair. Oh the gnashing! Oh the recriminating stares focused my way! You’d have thought I’d shit in the ceramic shoe.
As you can see this is possibly the most important task I’ll have this week (I’d say month but I’ve got to mow the lawn in a couple of days) so it should be afforded my utmost and more sincere efforts and concentration. At least that’s how it’s presented to me. My feeling is, if nothing broke, I’m golden.
I’m bringing a planter to the front of the house when I hear,
“Oh, I’m so glad it’s you.”
Who doesn’t like to hear that?
It’s the neighbor. He’s always trimming and moving and working around his yard. This time he’s pruning this sort of bonsai looking tree. At least that’s what he’s made it look like. He works on it a little here and there, standing on his scaffolding for hours at a time but, to this idiots eye, it looks as if he’s pretty much coming to a completion.
“What’s happening?” I ask. “Trees looking good.”
“Can you come here a minute? It’s kind of urgent.”
I put down the planters (in the exact location) and head over. Huh. Something seems amiss to me. His feet don’t seem to be on the scaffolding. That’s odd. As I get closer things start to come into focus.
And I almost bust a rib laughing.
“Yeah, yeah, get it all out. Just get me down.”
It seems that, while moving from one side of the scaffolding to the other the crotch of his pants got stuck on the cleat (where the rope ties off) of the flag pole.
I regain myself well enough (what that means is I was still laughing but could safely stand up) to lift him off the cleat and safely place him on the scaffolding.
He tells me that, to his great comfort, nothing touched his flesh.
“It might me too bad it didn’t. I would have got here sooner.” As true as that is, he said he was still happy with the outcome. He tells me he thinks he’s done for the day. I tell him I think that’s a good idea. I mention that he might wanna think about wearing tighter pants while doing this from now on. he chuckles and says,
“I bet you don’t have another stuck on a flag pole story, do you.”
As a matter of fact. When I was a kid I knew an older kid who shimmied up the flag pole all the way to the top. He hauled himself up and over it to perch himself on the truck (the topper) of the flag pole which just happened to be a spread eagle.
“He’s all happy with himself so throws up his hands while leaning back. He then started to fall. Which was bad enough. A few of us walked over to him. He’s squirming on the ground so we figure he’s not that badly hurt. You know, the way kids think. It wasn’t until I notice a ton of blood pooling on his shorts that I figured out something was wrong.” I look at the neighbor and smile. “He’d torn his scrotum in half when it got caught on the eagles wing. You could actually see his balls hanging out of there.”
He looked at me for a second before shaking his head.
“Why did I bother asking?”
“Because you wanted to know yours is a funny hanging from a flag pole by your crotch story!”
See? It’s doesn’t take much too to make someone feel better about themselves.