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Friday, February 18, 2005

Motor Scooters and Brooms

My neighbor's teen son owns a motorized scooter, and boy does it leave an impression. A cross between a scooter and gas-powered rocket, it propels its rider at a clip much faster than I can run (as I learned one morning), with a 3-horse motor that sounds like a go-cart on steroids. Its high-pitched scream can penetrate a two-mile swath of dense tree canopy while it transports its helmet less, wind-in-the-hair free spirit on his Saturday morning wake-up whiz to nowhere.

Awakened at dawn one summer holiday, I followed his journey in my mind one, two, three, four times around the neighborhood. In between curses, I imagined him in his basement lair minutes before, kick-starting his cerebral neurons with a few puffs of something before pulling on his WHATEVER shirt and cargo pants to do practically nothing. I actually did this to feel better.

On his fifth pass, I decided that he needed discouragement. As he BWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA'ed toward the end of his lap, I bolted out of bed, threw on some shorts and went to greet him as he passed. I paused at my pantry for a checkered flag but had to settle for a broom instead.

Well you'd think that poor fella had never seen a broom before, the way he leapt from his vehicle. Or, coincidentally, perhaps he had faced such a threat before from someone who chose the broom for a more specific and different purpose. In any event, it took me a few minutes of calm lecturing about common courtesy before the blood returned to his face, and he steadfastly promised to confine his joyriding to the middle of the day.

Confident that I had achieved my purpose without using the broom, I softened up and assured him I wasn't a mean spirited man, and by the way, although it was quite loud, it was still sort of a cool thing.

He offered to let me take it for a spin, but I am quite certain that all of my neighbors own brooms.


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