During dinner tonight, the doorbell rang. Weird, it’s Sunday at 6:35. Kids look and say it’s a man with a kid. Oh, Omar rthe Gardener is here! 3 houses ago, we got stuck in a turf-war over snow removal and grass cutting in Hampstead. Don’t laugh. This was serious business and we chose to break the rules because that’s who we were, rule-breakers. Also, Jay really liked Omar. So we took to Omar, who only charged us every third year.
On the one hand, he was worth every penny. On the other hand when it’s time to pay, holy shit! Omar is either Syrian or Turkish, and when he’s not cutting my grass around all the dog poop I didn’t pick up, he’s gone to his home country to help people. So I don’t ask, I pay and I shut up.
When jay was dying and we moved, I called Omar and I said ‘stop cutting the grass at the old house. We moved to a new house’. Not only did Omar cut the grass at the new place, even though it’s totally not his territory, when I texted him that Jay was dying and the gutters were broken, he broke up all the ice and made sure the steps and driveway where perfect.
so tonight the door bell wrang. It’s our fourth house. ‘The stairs are crumbling, want me to fix?’
‘Thanks Omar, I’m broke. It has to wait’
‘I fix. You pay me when you can’