Taking baby steps toward becoming a grumpy old man

March 7, 2002

Dear Leslie,

My dad has a reputation as a grouch. In fact, a plaque on his front door announces that one sweet person and one old grouch live inside. Nobody has to guess who's who.

His is a mild case of misanthropy he suffers with quite happily. "(Fill in the blank) gives me a pain I can't quite locate," he is fond of saying.

An inability to abide a co-worker's bullying was one of the first signs that I may be becoming my father. He was an equal opportunity bully, so I was far from the only recipient, but to my knowledge no one else told the bully off.

Actually, someone else did in much the same colorful words, but he's no longer here. Then again, neither is the bully.

A more recent inkling that my father's curmudgeon status may be genetic has been my reaction to the parties thrown by the fraternity brothers who rented the house we own next door.

While still a prospective tenant, one of the brothers said we probably were afraid of renting to college guys because we thought they'd be partying all the time. Before he could reassure me, I told him I don't mind parties. Just don't block the driveway.

Somehow I forgot the word party in the collegiate dictionary means many cases of beer will be consumed and yelling and screaming on the front porch at 1 a.m. are required. These are nice boys we wouldn't want to embarrass, so the party continued while I grumbled to DC.

The two houses share a driveway that creates a sonic conduit carrying every word from their front porch to our living room and bedroom. A few nights ago, fraternity brother laughter poured into our bedroom at 2 a.m. That did it.

How nice to be able to ask your nice neighbors to put a lid on it.

Either I just need a vacation or the final proof that I am losing my ability to smile at the indescribably unconscionable inconsiderateness of others presented itself last night. Walking by the front door about 10, I looked out and saw a young man -- not one of the brothers -- standing in front of a car urinating in the direction of the sidewalk that runs in front of our house.

Outrageous behavior used to just make me laugh. But a previously unknown response jolted my brain awake. This is my neighborhood. This is my house. I will not live in Jerry Springerland. The opportunity to rescue just one tiny crumbling bit of Western civilization presented itself in the image of this guy relieving himself by the light of our front porch fixture.

Flinging open the door I yelled, "Why are you peeing in my front yard?"

"Hey man," he screamed back at me. "I'm not. I'm peeing in the street."

Here was a man capable of making subtle distinctions while committing public indecency.

When I informed him that the police were about to be summoned, he got in the car and impatiently began honking. As I stood in the doorway with the phone at my ear, someone appeared from the building across the street, and they drove away.

I didn't really call the police, but I wanted him looking in his rearview mirror. I think Dad would be proud.

Love, Sam

Sam Blackwell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.