Mean People Suck: A Story About Mean People Who Seriously Suck

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Less than ten years into law practice, I hit a wall, hard. Google “lawyer dissatisfaction” and you will get two pages worth of direct hits addressing the issue of work-life balance, therapists, life coaches, and career change agencies specializing in lawyers, all eager to take your money.

At that point in my career I had accumulated a file cabinet full of cases that were all work and no pay. I was three years into a case that was bouncing back and forth between the trial court and the court of appeals, the outcome of which would determine whether I was going to have to dish out thousands of dollars of my own treasure if things did not end well for my client. I forgot how to relax and bumped along from one day to the next with my intestines knotted up and in a complete funk. It was as close to hopelessness as I have ever been, feeling like there was no exit.

Increasingly I found myself daydreaming about leaving law practice and doing something different–anything. Looking through the classifieds one Sunday morning a particular business for sale caught my attention. A guy was selling all of his lawn and landscaping equipment, including a commercial grade zero-turn radius mower and trailer. His customers were part of the bargain.

Two weeks later I was in business. I managed to extricate myself from the legions of unproductive cases I had, and was in a position to practice law part time. The rest of the time I was out in the world as a working man, tending to people’s lawn. I joked that my business card should read “attorney-at-lawn.”

For obvious reasons, I did not offer the fact that I was a licensed attorney to my lawn customers. That sort of revelation, I judged, would cause too many folks too much confusion.

Driving all over the place, sweaty, dirty and tan I noticed something that I had not reckoned on. People treat people with leathery hands much differently than they do people with soft white ones, or at least some people do. I quickly discovered that there seemed to be two different types of customers, and they were one or the other fifty-fifty. Half treated me with the sort of respect that I sensed that they themselves would like to be treated with. No problem there.

For whatever their social prejudices, half of those I encountered as a lawn guy treated me with an appreciable lack of the respect I had come unconsciously accustomed to as a suit and tie lawyer. I was being treated much differently and it was shocking at first. I humbled myself as best as I could and vowed not to lose my patience when being told which way the wind blows by an indignant octogenarian widow, or an ultra-religious pharmacist with a chili-bowl haircut.

All the while I took classes in horticulture at the community college. It was an absolute blast to be back in school making straight A’s and turning in well researched papers with footnotes that caused my instructors to look at me with mild suspicion and a tinge of awe. I was learning something new and it felt great.

Chili-bowl was never impressed with my teaming horticultural knowledge. She would always demand that I mow her lawn a certain way, that was always different from the way I was doing it. I would point out that it was actually better the way I was doing it because it would put more nutrients in the soil, or it was harmful to the turf to cut it that short when it was as tall as it was, etc. She would have none of it. So, to insure her continued patronage, for her, and several other customers, I did it the wrong way with predictable results.

There was another customer, a kid in his early twenties and owner of a McMansion in a gated community in the suburbs. The best I could tell, Jeff had bought the house and lived in it with friends he rented it to. The first time I met him I was on the zero-turn in the front yard as he pulled into the driveway in a BMW M3. He got out and stood by his car and waved me over to him. I stopped the mower, dismounted and walked to him with my hand out to shake his. He gave me the limp, we’re-not-quite-on-the-same-level hand shake.

“So, your’e my new lawn guy?” he asked surveying the lawn and not making eye contact with me.

“Yes, sir. That would be me,” I said. “I bought the business from Steve.”

“Yeah, I liked Steve,” said Jeff looking around everywhere but at me.

“He seems like a nice guy,” I said.

“So, are you going to charge me the same amount?”

“Yes, sir, same amount.”

Jeff was satisfied with the arrangement in his distinctly nonchalant way. Notwithstanding the air of control and dominion he was seeking to impress me with, I instantly sensed his naivete and inexperience as a man in the real world, like shark smelling blood in the water. If he had been seated in one of my client chairs on the opposite side of my desk from me in my office, he would be the one saying “yes sir,” regarding me with a mixture of fear and admiration.

“Good then. I’ll pay you when you are finished.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Finished, I took my floppy, wide-brimmed sailing hat off and pressed the door bell. He was wearing pin striped suit pants and in the process of putting a tie on, maybe getting ready to go to a wedding, I imagined. He was obviously not used to wearing a suit. The pin stripes were too wide and pronounced. His shirt looked as if he had tried to iron it himself instead of having a professional dry cleaner service do it, and the tie didn’t work–too colorful and thin.

He stepped out to inspect the lawn. “Okay,” he said handing me a check.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll be back by in a week.”

“Let’s make it every other week,” said Jeff.
“Will do,” I affirmed.

“Oh,” said Jeff. “Be careful of my neighbor’s car,” he said pointing to a hot rod parked in his neighbor’s driveway just to the south of where Jeff’s lawn ended and his neighbor’s began. “He really loves his car.”

For all of Jeff’s silly bullshit, he wasn’t that bad of a guy. I mowed, he paid. He would ask why his grass was turning brown. I would ask whether he watered his lawn. He looked at me as if I had asked whether he knew what the rule against perpetuities is. I showed him how to water his lawn, and suggested he let me fertilize it to which he was amenable. The problem with having Jeff as a customer was his next door neighbor.

Three months into my horticultural adventure, on July the 5th, I pulled up to the curb across the street from Jeff’s house. It was late in the morning and the temperature was fast approaching 100 degrees. Jeff’s next door neighbor, a tall, skinny, scrappy looking type, with a small manicured mustache, wearing a halter top and a gold chain, was meticulously picking up tiny pieces of exploded fire works from the night before in the street.

Stepping out of the truck I said, “Good morning.”

He shot me a fierce look, and grumbled, “I don’t have time to talk to you.”

“Right,” I said and went about my business mowing Jeff’s lawn, thinking to myself, that guy is best to be avoided.

Two weeks later, on a blazing hot afternoon I arrived at Jeff’s house. The scrappy neighbor was working on his primer grey hot rod in the driveway. Done mowing and edging I was blowing the clippings clear of the side walk and driveway, and disbursing them where the clippings had clumped in the lawn. While gold-chain was under the engine compartment of his hot rod, I accidentally blew clippings into his driveway without noticing it.

Between the high decibels of the blower and the ear plugs I wore, I didn’t hear gold-chain at first until he was right behind me, shouting, “Hey, mother-fucker!”

I shut down the blower, removed the plugs and stood face to face with gold chain. “You blew grass on my car you son-of-a-bitch!” I stood back a pace to make a little distance.

“I-I did? I’m sorry. It was an accident.” He continued to cuss me, wild-eyed, sweating, and his lips and mustache twitching with rage. I finally cut him off in the middle of a rant heavy with threats and profanity.

“Hey, look man. It was an accident, so settle the fuck down.”

We stared at each other for a long uncomfortable moment. “You want to fight me?” he shouted. “You want me to kick your ass?”

I was going to hook him across the face with the hand held blower that was clenched in my hand. It was going to happen, until my reason came to the rescue. I took a deep breath, relaxed my stance, and stepped a few feet back from gold-chain. “No sir, you and I are not going to fight today. It’s not going to happen,” I said looking him in the eyes.

A woman’s voice came from his open garage. “Charly,” said the concerned voice. He turned around to look at the woman, his wife perhaps, and then looked back at me. “Consider yourself lucky,” he said, “and stay the fuck off my lawn.” We backed away from each other cautiously and in silence.

I finished up Jeff’s lawn as fast as I could, and left. That evening I called Jeff and told him he would need to find someone else to mow his lawn. The next day at the office I performed a skip trace on old Charly, and found out his full name, social security number and identified his assets. I considered suing him for assault and making a police report, but chose to let it go.

By the end of the next summer, I couldn’t stand doing the whole thing on my own and had hired Leo, a tireless Mexican man old enough to be my dad. We had become good friends. We took on some landscaping projects building stone patios and designing landscapes for people. Working with Leo taught me that I was probably not cut out for all of that. His landscaping skills were masterful in comparison to mine, and I would never be as good at it as him.

In July, the case from hell had finally been favorably resolved and I would not be out of pocket the forty thousand dollars I had anticipated. In fact, I would be liable for nothing. The sword of Damocles disappeared from over my head and a great weight lifted from my shoulders.

Slowly I began to come around to the realization that I would never build a profitable landscaping business. It was hard work, the profit margin was slim, and the competition was stiff. I wasn’t trained to be a business man. I was trained to be a lawyer.

I started applying for law jobs and going to interviews.

In late August I came down with a raging sinus infection that had creeped down into my lungs and had become a full-blown case of bronchitis. Laid up in bed, I had Leo and his brother take my truck and equipment out to mow lawns that day without me, something I had never done.

A little after noon, I was awakened by my cell phone. I was offered and accepted the job I wanted with a public interest firm.

An hour later chili-bowl called me. “Who were those men in my yard?”

“You mean the Mexican guys?” I asked.

“Yeah, the Mexicans. You won’t need to mow my lawn anymore. We are going to hire someone else.”

“You don’t like Mexicans?”

“No, I don’t,” she confessed.

“Suit yourself, bigot,” I said and hung up.

About Post Author

C.H. McDermott

C.H. McDermott is a jack-nut doing what he loves best, which changes with each passing moment.
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13 years ago

One thing humanity will never be in short supply of is assholery. The people who get paid the least here, the custodial staff, are more vital than the rest of us. We don’t show up, nothing happens to the books. They don’t show up, the place will smell like a motherfucker.

Plus, I know more than a few profs who, outside their particular narrow field, are dumb as a sack of rocks. And, of course, mean like Mr. Hot Rod.

13 years ago

Why didn’t she like Mexicans? They may not be very good at football – based on todays efforts – but they seem very likable to me

osori
13 years ago

Great,great story Collin. You told us a lot about yourself and how you deal with the issues. How you deal with adversity (you handle it well) and how you found that your niche was the right place for you. And the whole thing was very entertaining. I can picture Gold-Chain and Chili-Bowl too.

Although I’d already heard most of it from my cousin Leo.

Jess
13 years ago

AYUP, Jess’ rules for dating. Dealbreakers for me, they had to speak nicely about their mom and be nice to serving people at restaurants, along with my other things, you know be kind to animals…. Most anything else I could shrug off, but not being kind to people just out doing a job, nope see ya. The only people we have are the gardener and the pool people and I treat both of them like family. The gardener gets more of it, because he swatted my butt when I was younger, when I would do something to get in trouble with one of his sons who is my age. I don’t see him as often anymore, it is one of his nephews that runs it now, but he still comes around once in a while.

Jess
13 years ago

I quit dating a guy, because he was mean to a server, right after one of our dinners. There is no reason to be so mean to people that are only doing their jobs. I don’t like people like that who look down on other people just because of how they look or what they may do for a living.

Reply to  Jess
13 years ago

I have done the same thing too. A guy who doesn’t tip is no better. Although we have had to walk out of restaurants because the sevice sucked so bad.

We’ve been lucky with what little “help” we hire- all have done right by us, no doubt because we try to treat them decently. In this shit economy you never know- that busboy may be a laid off teacher; that lady cleaning your house may have a Masters degree she can’t put to use.

13 years ago

That is a great story! I remember you mentioning your chili-bowl escapade during a session of libations but never quite heard the whole deal. You have much better control of your temper than me!

I remember once I was in the parking lot of the local grocery store, just getting out of my car, when I heard this yell of “Hey MotherF&*@##”. That was it, I didn’t even wait to see who it was. I was rapidly descending on whomever hurled the insult.

Much to my surprise, it was the Lawyer, just pulling my chain. But his expression had gone from smile to wide eyed. It was then that I decided that I needed to calm my temper just a little…

Reply to  C.H. McDermott
13 years ago

It was two guys, actually, one coming from behind and one in front. In a the Home Depot parking lot downtown- you know, the one rife with drunks and strung out meth addicts.

Guess they took Krell, despite his strapping over 6’2 frame, as a gutless nerd, their mistake.

If I’m telling the story wrong, he’ll let me know, but he’s too modest to sing his own praises (and certainly not flexible enough to blow his own horn) so I’ll tell you what went down to the best of my memory: Basically he jammed his keys into the guy-from-behind’s hand, when the guy flinched Krell turned and palm-punched him in the nose. They ran off.

Reply to  C.H. McDermott
13 years ago

Glad you like it. It is actually a picture of me about 20 years ago. I look pretty good huh?

Reply to  Professor Mike
13 years ago

The first thing I noticed was the budgie on his finger. Then I scrolled down. Now I need some of Jess’ brain bleach.

Reply to  C.H. McDermott
13 years ago

I have to say that when the Lawyer was mowing the lawns, he was getting to be a mean, tanned, fit and trim.

Looked like he could have ran a 50 mile marathon before breakfast without any deodorant and showed up at court at 10:00 am, no sweat.

Reply to  Krell
13 years ago

Don’t anyone take this the wrong way, but he was hot!

Constant physical sweaty labor does that for a man.

Reply to  Mother Hen
13 years ago

Why thank you, sweet cakes. Uh-o, better watch what I say or Krell will be coming after me to stab me in the ass with his house keys.

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