Help me out with this one.

It’s 7:58 p.m., and my car touches down in my driveway.  In the garage, I open my door.  Before my Allen Edmunds lace-ups hit the ground, the across-the-street neighbor is calling my name and entering my garage.  Apparently, he has been stalking waiting for my arrival all night.

I’m in a suit.  I’m carrying a briefcase.  I’m sure I look like I haven’t been home since the sun arose.

But, neighbor dude blows right through all that.  He’s needs something.

Back up a couple of months.  “Donnie” (not really his name — duh, he’s my neighbor) has been leaving little gifts for Island Boy in my garage.  In reality, Donnie has been cleaning out his own garage.   But, this does devalue the man’s altruistic intentions.  He really likes IB.  He knows we did a good thing in bringing IB here to America.  In his own way, he wants to help.

Some of the stuff is wanted — the big wheel is one of IB’s faves; the kiddie picnic table is awesome.  Other things, not as much.  The catch is that Donnie always circles back to make sure we’re using what he has bestowed on us out of his sense of largesse.

Am I being petty by pointing out that there are strings attached?  I think not.  I never asked for any of this crap.

I’m not ungrateful.  Last season I laid ducats to two luxury box seats to the Bills game on Donnie and Mrs. Donnie.  I can return a gesture and then some when the situation calls for it.

****

So, about three weeks ago, this kiddie golf bag shows up.  It’s standing on its own two little pop-out legs behind my car.  Truth be told — I almost backed over the whole kit.

Wait.  If we’re really telling the truth here, I’ve got to come clean.  I wasn’t really wearing Allen Edmunds.  I believe they were actually knock-offs.  I probably bought them at Kohls (or some other boxy store).

More truth — I didn’t fucking want IB swinging metal clubs anywhere near my house, my cars, or my body.  Some five-year old tykes have the discipline and the hand/eye coordination for golf.  And then there’s my kid.

So, judge me if you will.  I surreptitiously carryed the golf bag down to the basement and hid it under the mound o’ sleeping bags.

When Donnie asked how IB liked the clubs (you knew he was going to), I responded with a jaunty, “No problems so far, Don.”

****

Back to tonight.

“So Major,” he began in a booming voice.  “I hate to be an Indian giver.” 

Oh, shit.  What’s coming now?, I’m wondering.  By the way, don’t you hate that expression?  I’m offended, and I’ve only got a few drops of native blood in me (if that).

“I need that golf bag back.”  Donnie then launched into a complex explanation of how the new golf bag that he bought for his daughter (a nice kid even though she and her snotty friend kind of snubbed IB yesterday) is somehow no good.

My first impulse was to grab my own “golf bag” in a lascivious manner and offer a makeshift substitution.

Enter my beautiful wife onto the scene to save me from myself (once again).  It seems that Running Girl was awaiting my arrival by the door.  When she learned of my predicament, she immediately horizontally inserted herself between me and Mr. Manners before the police were called.

Bravo, RG.  You are truly the bomb.

Have I mentioned the Donzo’s breath yet?  He’s close enough for me to get a nice sample.  It smells like Jack Daniels went trick or treating as the Marlboro Man.

The presence of RG momentarily calms me.

“I’ll get right on that, Donnie,” I replied (not entirely devoid of sarcasm).

Luckily, this attitude sails harmlessly over our hero’s head.

“The thing is,” he squares, “I need it right now.”

Running Girl must have noticed my eyes getting all small and slitty.  She immediately took charge of the situ.

“I’ll get that for you right now, Donnie,” she offered with a big smile.

Hail, Running Girl,

Full of Grace.

The Lord is with Thee.

Blessed art Thou amongst Women.

And you rock.

I bid our visitor a pleasant evening and went into my abode for the first time in over 12 hours.

Now my friends, help me out with this one.

In the name of all that is good and holy, what just happened here?

I await your input.

— The Major