A Motor Scooter and a Broom
This is a true story. Welcome to my suburbia.
My neighbor’s twenty-something son lives in the garage. He owns a motorized scooter. Boy, does it leave an impression. A hybrid scooter and gas-powered rocket, it propels the guy at a clip faster than I can run (as I learned one morning), with a 3-horse motor that sounds like a go-cart on steroids. Its high-pitched scream can penetrate a two-mile swath of dense tree canopy while it transports this helmetless, wind-in-the-hair free spirit on his Saturday morning wake-up whiz to nowhere.
It woke me too early one summer holiday, and I followed it around the neighborhood in my mind. With each silent curse, I imagined him in his basement lair minutes before, kick-starting his neurons with a few puffs of doob before he pulled on his WHATEVER shirt and cargo pants to do nothing. I actually did this to feel better.
On his fifth pass, I decided that he needed discouragement. As he BWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA’ed toward the end of his lap, I bolted out of bed, threw on some shorts and went to greet him as he passed. I paused at my pantry for a checkered flag but had to settle for a broom instead.
You’d think that poor fella had never seen a broom before, the way he leapt from his vehicle. Or perhaps he’d just received a similar greeting from someone who’d chosen the broom for a different purpose. In any event, it took me a few minutes of calm lecturing about common courtesy before the blood returned to his face, and he resolved to confine his joyriding to the middle of the day.
Confident that I had achieved my purpose without using the broom, I softened up and assured him I wasn’t a mean-spirited man, and by the way, although it was quite loud, it was still sort of a cool thing.
He offered to let me take it for a spin, but I am quite certain that all of my neighbors own brooms.
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