I have never claimed to be a mature, fully evolved adult and at this late-stage, I know I never will be. And that's okay by me. I embrace the truth that I'm a bit of a perpetual rebellious teen with an over-developed sense of justice. It's an odd dichotomy, I know, but there you are.
One of the delightful things about living in a warm climate is growing lovely citrus in your yard. I have two orange trees, a grapefruit tree, an avocado tree and my favorite: a Ponderosa lemon tree. The lemon tree was a gift from a dear friend who has since passed away. In fact, one of the last things he and I did together was plant the lemon tree in my yard, situating it so that the aroma of the blossoms wafts into my bedroom window at night, sweet, clean, pure. As we packed the soil, I sang "Lemon tree, very pretty and the lemon flower is sweet..." as he sambaed around the yard, ala Carmen Miranda. Sweet memories, indeed. This is the second year the tree has borne fruit since it came to live with me. Last year the two sole pieces of fruit it birthed disappeared one night just as they became fully ripened and almost ready for picking. I consoled myself that this year, I would water and fertilize better, talk to it more and guard it from what I was sure were fruit rats (until the Guy in the Boxers noticed tennis shoe prints in our yard under the tree).
But, still, I figured it was a fluke thing. This year I planned to make lemon squares with Schmoopie and squeeze the lemon juice to store in the freezer to make lemonade this summer. I tended and lovingly watched over my lemon tree, delighted as the fruit grew larger, the yellow hue deepening, the sweet citrus smell intensifying with each passing day, nudging me as I walked by it.
Last Saturday night, after Schmoopie had been tucked into bed with her iPod and a copy of "The Uglies," the Guy in the Boxers and I retired to the deck off of our bedroom to look at the moon, sip some wine and enjoy the crackling fire in the chiminea.
Round about 11:45 PM we heard a ruckus growing louder, approaching from about a block away. It was a cacophony of the loud singing and cussing and talking and shouting of a roving group of teenagers cutting a swath through our neighborhood, led, per usual, by the resident ruffian of our neighborhood, Mike, who lives kitty-corner from us. Our dog raised her head from the planks of the deck and cocked her ear, listening as the din of the approaching marauders grew louder. She stood, her tail at attention. She leapt off the deck and ran to the corner of our fenced yard and let out a ferocious volley of barks.
"Dude, hurry up," I heard a young male voice, which was so close I was startled. They were just on the other side of the fence--a few feet from where we sat, concealed by our fenced, covered deck. The Guy in the Boxers and I stared at one another, silent, straining to hear, not wanting to give away our nearness to the teens who had invaded our yard. Then, to my horror, I saw a yellow missile soaring in a perfect, beautiful arch over the streetlight on the corner, heard the unmistakable splattering of ripe fruit against concrete. I leapt to my feet and stood on the seat of the Adirondack chair I had been lounging in. The little bastards had stripped the fruit from the lemon tree and were pelting one another as they ran down the street, each dense thud and splitting sound more heart-rending to me than the next. A rage filled me as their high-pitched adolescent cackles filled the air. I stepped off the deck and started toward the gate, adrenalin propelling me forward. I wanted to kill the little pricks.
"Don't." the Guy in the Boxers said quietly, "Let it go."
"Those shits just destroyed all my lemons! And for what? For 'fun'?" I choked out. "Those gutless little fuckers!"
My rage grew hotter as their cackles intensified. I crept to the fence and squinted through the slats, watching as two punks jumped on the hood of Mike's car and rode it as if they were in a parade as he drove, zig-zagging down the street toward the beach. The thuds of fruit being whipped at cars as they passed dully audible. I walked out to the yard to survey my tree. Some of it's young branches had been snapped. The ground around it was littered with leaves, trampled green confetti. It looked forlorn and battered. I seethed with anger.
The next day I seethed more. I thought of knocking on Mike's front door and confronting him. I had discarded the idea of calling the police the night before. No sense in getting into it, I decided. And talking to Mike or his parents would be a waste of time. Their ineptness at teaching him respect for the property of others speaks volumes. He's an asshole kid and they have a lot to do with that. No, I thought, I will let it go. But I couldn't. It ate at me.
So last night, I was working late. I decided to take the dog for a quick stroll around our small block before I retired. It was 3 AM. As I pulled a sweatshirt over my head, I found myself in the kitchen. Without any forethought (honest), I opened the fridge and grabbed two eggs. I slipped them into the front of my hoodie and the dog and I headed off. It was unusually dark and windy last night. No moon. Low temperatures have prompted everyone to close up their windows. Lots of leaves and acorns were being blown from the trees as the gusts shook branches and palm fronds shimmied. It was a bit of a raucous night, weather-wise. I walked the dog down the street and back, thinking. I paused in front of Mike's house. It was dark, quiet. I reached into my pocket with my right hand, drew out an egg, and in one neat, overhanded swoop, I lobbed the egg over my head, it arched in a beautiful white streak and landed with a muffled plop and exploded on the rear window of Mike's little shit-box car that was parked in the driveway next to his daddy's Lexus. I was filled with satisfaction. I quickly drew the second egg and repeated the overhanded lob. It was a thing of beauty. I stood and admired my work for a moment. The dog looked, sniffed the air, looked back at me. The wind lifted my hair and tickled the back of my neck. I turned and headed for home, went to bed and slept the deep sleep of the righteous.
This morning over coffee I confessed myself to the Guy in the Boxers. He was quiet for a long moment and said, "You know, honey, sometimes I have NO idea who you are." Then he high-fived me.
Sure, it was a futile gesture, an act of incredible immaturity, pettiness and all that. But I would do it again. It was healing for me. I have moved on. We agreed that Mike is such an asshole, the phantom egger could be any one of at least a dozen people who are pissed off at him. And who, I ask you, is going to suspect a middle-aged, housewife and mother, respected dog-walking member of the community? Hm?
1 comment:
You are my hero.
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