The next-door neighbor is the type of old that makes people stop trimming their nose hairs.  He’s got an old name, which I don’t remember.  A used-up car sits in front of his house with a flat tire. I’ve never seen it running, but he comes out once a week and washes it as if he was entering it in a show.  Once a week he mows his lawn — on Tuesdays.

    I don’t have a lawn mower.  Not for any specific reasons other than the trouble of going out and buying a lawn mower.  I’ve thought about it.  I’ve stood on the porch and watched the weeds stretching upward.  Sometimes I walk over and kick them down at their base.  It doesn’t do much aesthetically, but it makes me feel better to kick shit out of those tall weeds.

    The other day, through sheer old-timey goodness, my old neighbor mowed my front lawn while I was at work.  There’s an obvious sweet sentiment in that.  I pictured this particular old neighbor out there huffing and puffing. Grass clippings sticking to his long cotton socks.  Sweat running down the grooves in his cheeks and dripping off the butt of his chin.  That’s what you want in a neighbor.  Kindness, generosity — and a lawn mower you can borrow from time to time.

    Then I started feeling bad.  What if he dropped dead in the middle of mowing my yard.  Maybe the sun was too hot on the top of his bald head.  Maybe it was the resistance from those weeds that accumulated at the base of the tree.  It wouldn’t have taken much.  Then I’m coming home to caution tape and a white sheet in my front yard.  I don’t know how I’d react.  At the end of the day, I might walk right by the whole crime scene altogether.  Give the paramedics a nod and walk right into the house to let the dog out so he doesn’t piss on the floor.  The dog might have investigated the situation.  But me personally, I don’t think I would want to know what was under that sheet.

    I didn’t think too much about liability and things of that nature.  I’m only renting the property.  That long discussion would have to happen between detectives and the owner.  At least that’s the way I imagine it going down.  Anyway, all of that wouldn’t occur until way down the line.  Weeks or months after the lawn mower circled back and mauled the downed body.

    I thought about the mess and the horror for whichever misfortunate kid discovered the body on the way home from school.  By then, the lawnmower would have been out of fuel, wedged between the an old fence and some shrubs.  It would have looked like an animal attack. Something big.  Water buffalo, crocodile.  Something non-native and angry.  

    The old man risked his old life to mow my lawn.  I was thankful for that.  I thought about going over there and shaking his hand.  Patting him on the shoulder for the good work he’d done.  He even put in the effort of doing the edges.  He deserved something.

    I didn’t end up going over.  I didn’t see him for two or three days.  Then I didn’t see him for two or three more days after that.  Maybe he was inside with his feet up, lounged in a recliner, recovering from the labor.

    It crossed my mind a few more times than something might be wrong.  The broken down car was as dusty as i’d ever seen it.  Tuesday came and went.  His lawn, and my lawn, went un-mowed.  I could have knocked on the door or called the police to do a wellness check, but that seemed intrusive.  I don’t know anyone who enjoys strange people banging on their door.  Not unless they’re delivering something of interest.  

    That’s what I did next.  I picked up a six pack.  I stood in the beer aisle for a considerable amount of time.  What type of beer does an old man with ultra-long nose hairs drink?  IPA seemed like too much.  Stouts and porters are always hit or miss.  Something about him said, Coors original, but I didn’t want to seem like a cheapskate.  I moved my eyes up one shelf and there was my answer.  Samuel Addams, Boston Lager.  How could you go wrong with a beer named after a founding father?  My neighbor probably grew up with the guy.

    I left a little note, “Thank you yada yada yada,” and I put the beer right there on his doorstep.  It wasn’t ten minutes later that the doorbell rang.  There he was.  Alive, with most of a beard grown in.  He held the six pack in his hand like a kitten.  He started talking.  It came out slow at first, like he hadn’t spoken in days.  Then the sentence sort of jumped right out.

    “I appreciate it, but i’m a recovering alcoholic…so I can’t have it.”  He held the case of beer out to me with two hands.  “I say, it sure sounds good on a hot day like this.”

    I apologized profusely and thanked him again for mowing the lawn.  He shrugged it off like he’dbeen mowing neighbor’s lawns all his life.  We shook hands.  I brought the beer back inside and put it in the fridge.

    That night I heard some commotion.  I didn’t think much of it.  When I came outside early the next morning, that old jalopy with the flat tire was parked half way through my neighbors garage.  The engine was off, but one of the turn signals was blinking away.  I walked over half-awake to assess the damage.  The old man was either dead or sound asleep, sprawled across the back seat.  I knocked on the window.  He opened one eye and saw me, then rolled over and continued snoozing.

    Seeing that everything was copacetic, aside from the caved in garage door, I went back inside.  I’m a firm believer of mind your own goddam business — so that’s exactly what I did.  

    It wasn’t until later that day that I started piecing things together.  I opened the refrigerator and saw that six pack of Samuel Addams still sitting there.  Only I noticed that there weren’t six bottles sticking out of the carrier, there were five.  The whole thing played through my mind like a scene in a movie.  My neighbor dealing with his inner conflict, the struggle between years of sobriety and a single chilled bottle of American beer.  He put up a good fight.  It appeared he had gone out later that day and mowed his lawn.  That probably got him all hot and bothered.  Then he was back inside and the urge was too strong.  He drank it.  He fell off the wagon and whatever happened after that is none of my business.

    All I know is the final price for my old neighbor’s decision wound up being about as much as it costs to replace a garage door.  There hasn’t been any incidents since.  He still mows his lawn, on Tuesdays.