Many years ago, in another house, I had a guy who came up to our door, set down his brown-bag wrapped tall boy, stared at us with his blood-shot eyes and lips all pursed, and said, “the lawn…needs…mowin’.”
We’d usually pay him about $20 bucks to take his weed-eater to the yard, creating that sort of drunken trash-fire wave of grass in our yard. He often left his tall-boy on our porch.
This worked out OK until he started coming late at night — past midnight — asking for an advance on mowing the next day. He’d stay there even after we ignored him for 10 minutes.
“Listen. Listen. The lawn…needs…mowin’. I’m jus’ tryin’ to get to the boot-legger, and I need a little cash. How about it?”
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