Our neighbor (God Bless him he truly is a wonderful man) is the lawnmaster. Sure you may think you have the lawnmaster next door but you don’t. He has a golden plaque on his front door embossed with his title and wears a shirt that says, “Going Yard.” The lawnmaster of our town.
Or at least that is what we thought.
To protect his identity we will simply call him “Trapper”. Trapper mows his lawn almost everyday. Seriously.
Sometimes we’ve noticed him walking down to the corner liquor store and coming home with a bottle in a brown bag. We always assumed it was wine. He’s close to retirement. Practices his golf swing out on his sidewalk with a remnant carpet and plastic balls. He has a sharp wit, but is kind and polite in conversation. He openly admits that he likes to take care of his lawn. He even has a sense of humor about it too when neighbors give him a hard time.
But back to the brown bag. One night I was in the liquor store buying some beer. I saw Trapper going through the soda pop coolers. Where they also keep the forties of malt liquor. He pulled out a forty, paid and walked out. I just stood there with my mouth open. Certainly not Shiraz.
Last night we saw Trapper mowed the lawn. Twenty minutes later we saw him coming back with his brown sack from the liquor store. Considering he mows his lawn just about everynight I said to C_, “You know. I bet he doesn’t care about the lawn. He just likes the reward.”