Whizzing though the town “center,” I admired a cozy cottage and a weathered barn with a very old man mowing the lawn. Brakes squealing (mine), I waved. As he waved back, he lost control of the tractor.
He tried to shut its engine. Oh-oh, he’d slipped it into reverse so I jumped out of my car to help.
It felt like a “Three Stooges” short. The tractor stops, he stops. He untangles his long legs and waves again sheepishly. I wave back. He actually crosses the street and walks over to talk. Boy oh boy, I love this guy: He’s Gary Cooper at age 89. Meet John Doe on a John Deere.
I say, “Wow, you didn’t have to stop just for me!”
He grins flirtatiously.
I really love this guy. (I’m man hunting too, but he’s a tad too old for me.) I say, enthusiastically: “I love your house, it’s so cute. How about selling her to me?” (All cute houses are a “she.”)
“Will you be moving to Florida anytime soon?” I chuckle at my own non-joke. (I’m from New York City, where we get right to the point and where you learn it never hurts to ask—well, not usually.)
His crinkly blue eyes sparkle and he says, “Yep, she’s a cutie.” (See, cute houses are called “she.”) “But Santa Claus doesn’t come to Miami.”
My ears perk up. He’s so interesting that I itch to take out my tape recorder. (Did I mention I’m always looking for dialogue for my Farrelly brothers screenplay?)
I keep gushing about his cute weathered barn, waving my arm in its direction, “Please don’t let that adorable barn fall down.”
He says, “You know, it just might—but I can’t help it, I don’t own it.”
“How come you own the house but not the barn?”
He says, “I don't own that house—I live across the street. I'm just mowing the grass, that’s all.”
We both laugh. I whip out my card and say conspiratorially, “Listen, if any of these houses go on the market and you call me first—I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”
He says, “Like how?”
I brag, “I’ll give you a finder’s fee, just like we do in New York City.”
He says, “We don't do things around here for fees.” (I think he never hired a lawyer.)
He says, “Thought you meant like taking me out for blueberry pie or something—with ice cream.” Adding, “I like ice cream.”
I say (big ex-New Yawka talking now): “I will fly in the best pie and ice cream that New York City has to offer.”
He replies, “Well, there’s a place nearby that makes the best ice cream I've ever tasted and I’ve lived here 70 years. That’ll do. You don't have to get a plane.”
“It’s a deal!” I promise.
He looks at me, blue eyes shining. ”I believe you,” he says. Then narrowing his eyes, “But I’m laying odds you're not really a New Yorker!”
How did he know I was born in Connecticut?
Humorist and freelance scribe Joyce Faiola is a consultant/designer for the hospitality industry and lives in New England. Her e-mail is JLFaiola@Juno.com
