Edelstein: Getting older, one garbage can at a time
There are many pivotal moments in a man’s life: Getting a driver’s license, first girlfriend, first job. Getting married, having children, buying a home.
But perhaps there is no greater moment than the moment a man becomes an old man.
Like, “back in my day” old. Like, “get off my lawn” old. Like, hike-up-the-britches-past-thebelly-button old.
It happened to me last week, and like many other of life’s momentous occasions, it snuck up on me quicker than you can say “Wait, what? Wilford Brimley is still alive?!?!”
I was sitting on my front porch and - (oh wow. Just the act of “sitting on my front porch” might’ve confused my younger readers in that they might have assumed THAT was the moment I turned old. Nope. Keep reading.)
I was sitting on my front porch on Saturday night and - (and there we go again, huh? No, youngins, “on a Saturday night” was not the moment I turned old either. Just stop interrupting me and learn yourself something here. Damn millennials and their Tweeter and Lady Guh Ga.)
I was sitting on my front porch reading a book (don’t you dare) while also enjoying a cold beer when a neighbor took six patio chairs and a table out to the curb.
I live on a main road, so there was no way these were going to last long. Someone was going to snatch them up. Would’ve been me, except I already have patio furniture.
Five minutes goes by, and there it is: A car pulls up across the street and two young men get out and start hauling the chairs back to their car. Their car, if not a Dodge Neon, was something similar. Small. I watched for about 10 minutes while these two attempted to get a single chair in the trunk … the back seat … the front seat. Wasn’t happening.
Being the neighborly neighbor I am, I sauntered across the street and said something to the effect of, “You boys need a hand, because I can for sure fit these chairs in that there minivan of mine.”
The young men were thrilled. They lived just a few streets down, and were happy for the offer. I drove the minivan across the street, they loaded the chairs in, and then I followed them to their home.
And then like a gazer turning to stone after sneaking a peak at Medusa, I turned into an old man when I saw the status of the guys’ garbage.
It was out front, for all passers-by to see. Not on the curb for pickup, mind you, but in their driveway. Their town-issued garbage can was overflowing. Scattered around the garbage can was trash piled up.
I noted it and felt the change happen immediately.
As it turns out, the fellas were two of six college students renting the house. Very nice young men. Even offered me a few bucks for my help.
And when that occurred, when the wallet came out and the money was proffered, it happened. My wrinkles got deeper, my eyes got squintier, my ass got flatter, and this is what I said: “I don’t want your money. What I do want is for you guys to go out and buy a few garbage cans so you don’t have trash everywhere. Neighbors don’t care for that type of thing. Besides, you don’t want to play into the ‘college kid stereotype.’”
The kids must have saw it. They must’ve saw the wrinkles wrinkle, the eyes squint, the ass flatten, because one of them immediately launched into a “yes sir, we’ll take care of it immediately sir thank you sir.”
I saddled back up in the minivan and rumbled home. I felt good.
And I felt even better when I drove by a few days later and saw three more garbage cans and not a Taco Bell wrapper in sight outside the gents’ house.
I was so happy, when I got home I treated myself to a warm cup of tea and turned on the VCR to watch the latest episode of “60 Minutes” while eating a bowl of farina with a black-and-red checkered blanket across my lap and a small tray set up next to my lounge chair in the TV room. Delightful.