Unfortunately, I have become that guy. The lunatic father yelling at all of the neighborhood kids. Since I’m the only one yelling, it appears that I’m the only one on-duty these days. I didn’t complain much at first. The kids flock from all corners of the block to play in my yard with my kids. It keeps them entertained. Keeps them busy. Tires them out. What I hadn’t counted on though, was the destruction and mayhem that they would bring with them.
Unsupervised children are just that. Unsupervised. Think the old Wild Animal Kingdom specials. Sometimes they are the pack of elephants stampeding through my landscaping. Sometimes they are the lion chasing the gazelle, tearing across my rain-soaked lawn on BMX bikes. In short, they are undomesticated carnivores devouring my property and everything residing in it.
It appears that my wife and I have been elected, apparently via secret ballot, to serve lone dictatorship over all of the children in the neighborhood. The Grand Poobas over our mortgaged kingdom as well all inhabitants trekking, plodding, and stomping through it. Think Ghadafi…minus the disco hair, John Waters ‘stache, and grandiose Village People outfits. Although I firmly believe that I could pull off one of his electric-purple Bedouin robes, I’m also willing to bet that more than a few passer-bys would likely call social services on me.
You know how it starts. The way it always does….with a large dog tied to a piece of patio furniture galloping down my driveway and smashing into the side of my new car. Like I said. Your typical, everyday scenario. Ask anyone. Even that ridiculously irritating car insurance guy with the blue phone on TV would vouch for the normalcy of this kind of debacle on my street. I don’t necessarily know if he’s on my side, but I know for a fact that the large scrap and noticeable dent in the side of my car certainly is.
I have to admit. That kid and his dog should have felt pretty lucky to have made it home that afternoon. I had the unfortunate fates of Luca Brasi and Old Yeller swimming upwards from the darkened recesses of my mind. However, as my wife and next-door neighbor were both standing witness to said event, they also would have been required to stand state’s witness in the aftermath of my psychotic and verbally educational tirade. In the end though, I merely bit my tongue, hard…nearly severing it, and walked briskly into my backyard for some much-needed “me” time. Pursed lips trembling uncontrollably with each and every step, as a wide array of muted profanities attempted full jailbreak.
The following weekend, same kid, sans dog under specific shoot-to-kill orders per totalitarian decree, thought it would be a first-class idea to show my five year old daughter an educational episode of “Family Guy” on his iPhone. First of all, yes, a ten year old with an iPhone. I digress. When my wife questioned him about what he had shown her, he lied and said that it was a video that he had taken of his bike. How about a video of you taking you and your phone home? iPhone and patio furniture dog now reside in the same respected company. Exiled. Can you hear me now?
Several days later, I happened to look out the window to a group throwing sticks and other assorted items belonging to my children, at my son’s new basketball hoop. This time, my wife wasn’t around. I immediately adopted a personalized version of the Castle Doctrine and let loose with a pointly colorful tirade at all of the children within a half mile audible radius. It somehow concluded with handing over “$250 in cold, hard cash” to pay for a replacement. Cold, hard cash? When did my inner-Pacino suddenly make a cameo?
Although I anticipate that these instances will probably continue to make our lives a running punchline, I did reach a breaking point. The point where I had to stop, count, and mentally wait for my systolic number to return to normal. Whatever normal is these days.
While shooting baskets with some of the kids one afternoon, a ten year old girl from down the street thought it would be great fun to drill the basketball into my chest while I was talking to my son. Missing my chin by mere nanometers, I received an obnoxious laugh and an “I got you”. Really? What kind of kid does this? If I had done that to an adult, as a kid, I would have walked with a clubbed foot for about a month.
It took me a few seconds to remember that was a child though…and not of blood-relation. Calmly, and with an over-exaggerated smirk, I picked up the ball and asked how funny it would be if I were to return the favor. The laughing ceased…and for some reason, we don’t see her around the house much anymore.
So this is what I have resorted to? The intimidation and thuggery of children? I’m the Don Corleone of the neighborhood pre-teens. “Leave the Nerf gun, take the cannoli.”
I can’t help but to think back on what my friends and I must have put my father through. I’m pretty sure that we were just as obnoxious. My money is on “considerably worse”. I specifically remember him having to stop and count on more than a few occasions, in an effort to avoid tossing one or all of us over the fence for assorted adolescent misguidedness. Although I never dented his car, showed lewd videos to pre-K kids, or attempted to inflict a broken nose on an adult, I definitely remember a variety of broken doors, windows, and pool covers. I’m hoping that this isn’t a progressing cycle of havoc.
As the property despot, it appears as though I have unconsciously adopted the alter-ego of Mr. Rogers. Minus the cardigan and the whole talking to inanimate toys thing. Although, I have been known to publicly berate lawn equipment that refuses to start after the first ten, or seventy, pulls. Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood was gentle and calm. Simplistic. Mine has animals dragging patio chairs, la cosa nostra tactics, and a raving thirty-nine year old lunatic.
Would you be mine? Could you be mine? Won’t you be my neighbor?
