“Buddy look, you’re doing that the wrong way, here let me show you”, I grab the clippers out of JR’s left hand and snip the hydrangea bush planted in the side yard at Meggo’s house on Lookout Mountain, TN.
“Buddy why’d you snip it at an angle and how’d you know where to snip it at?”, Jr says back to my ponytail head as Im leaning down grunting and huffing, trying to keep my balance in my flower garden,
Yard work is for young people, skinny people or short people. Ooh and by the way, so is baseboard cleaning,
“I snipped it between the “a” and the “t” “, I say back to JR in my best mommy gah-know it all voice.
“Huh? Where’s that buddy?” Jr says back to my smart-ass (literally, my ass is halfway up in the air and I think I might faint) answer,
“God Ole’ Mighty dude!! It’s an expression, it means don’t use a preposition at the end of a sentence! Just say, “buddy where do you snip it?”, I say back as I lift up from my hydrangea bush like I just gave birth to a mini-hydrangea while down there,
“Buddy, I don’t understand what you’re talking about?”, he says back most sincerely,
“Listen buddy, I don’t either, I’ve never understood what any of this correct grammar bullshit means, I don’t have a clue about why things are the way they are, I just memorized and cheated my way through my English classes. I’m a math person, not an English person. All I know is if you use “at” or any other fucking preposition at the end of a sentence then smart people, even smart black people, will think you’re a dumbass, low-rent, uneducated black guy from the hood!! Who doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the wall and who at some point might rob them of their stuff. And another thing!!! If I say a word you don’t understand, then stop me because sometimes I pontificate a little and I forget what I’m talking about or what I’m selling”, I say back to JR as I watch my other buddy, Roscoe, drop his water hose ten feet from us and take off running towards us as though a tiger just got let out of a cage and we’re the only people who can stop it and there’s no food around except us.
“WHAT THE HELLLL!!!!” I yell as Roscoe pivots his way past my hydrangea bush,
“DAWG BUDDY!!!” Roscoe says as he runs up the stone wall next to me, next to the tree, next to my truck, next to Meggo’s car.
But before I can get an answer out to Roscoe’s fifty yard hydrangea dash, JR drops the hydrangea shearing tool within an inch of my big alpha toe, leaps his way onto the stone wall next to Meggo’s car, next to the tree, next to me, next to end of my driveway and joins Roscoe on top of my brand new, broken in by a four point buck head-on collision four days after I bought it in November of 2012, Ford F-150 4 x 4.
Now I’m not exaggerating here when I say “on top” of my nine-month old truck.
My team buddy members are on top of my 2013 Ford F-150, private labeled from mexico, “Eco-boost”-22 miles per gallon “my ass”, heavy duty, 3/4 ton truck; and I’m standing in my hydrangea bed wondering what the hell just happen.
About that time I hear and turn around to see my wonderful connected person of twenty-three years, Emory graduate-double major in Art History and English, flower child turned wonderful southern smocking Irish mother of two, grandmother of one, Meggo, walk out of her door with our granddog Lucille, “The Most Dreaded Racist-Classist” dog there ever was and ever will be on Lookout Mountain, TN, according to Roscoe’s and JR’s reaction to Meggo’s exit off her back porch steps onto the stone grassy pathway where Lucille does her business each morning and evening.
“Come on fellas, I’m not gonna let that dog hurt you, get off my brand new truck!”, I say back in my sweetest Appalachian meets a hillbilly voice as Meggo approaches her car, looks over at me to see grinning from ear to ear and reaches out to my boys,
“What are you guys doing up on Michele’s brand new truck?”, Meggo smiles as if she already knows I’m up to no good,
“It’s the DOG…Meg”, JR says suspiciously, already sensing something might be a foul.
“I’m sorry JR, what dog? You mean Lucille?”, Meggo says, as she gently strokes the back of the head of the whimpering, the cowering down, the scared as shit but wants to play ball with the fellas so bad she can taste it, the best golden retriever anyone could ever ask for, the so ball-obsessed she has to take medicine to control her anxiety over her obsession, the can’t hurt a flee Lucille dog.
“Yes Meg, Buddy said the dog is racist and doesn’t like black folks with no money in their pockets”, Roscoe says back as JR looks over at me twice, to see if Im starting to grin?
“Buddies, just like my children learned a long time ago, you’ll start to learn not everything Buddy says is actually true”, as she coaxes my buddies off my truck and throws them Lucille’s ball of Illumanati-bullshit proven to be a trilogy-game of catch.