Is It Just Me?

Growing up in the 1950s in New York City, I was lucky to play year-round on my block with kids who reveled in simple games such as tag, hopscotch and hide-and-seek.

But the most annoying character on my block was Mr. West — a grouchy, retired Army captain who came out of his neat house at 7 a.m. daily and hoisted the stars and stripes on his front lawn.

If our Spaldeen H-Bounce Ball dribbled into his pansies or tulips he’d rumble from his rocker on his front porch, “Don’t even think of going in there for your damn ball. It’s mine, now.”

If we dared to invade his front lawn with a misguided step off his sidewalk he’d shout out a military command, “Hey, you, son get off my lawn for Crysakes!”

At Halloween, his front porch was pitch-black and all the lights in the house were doused. Maybe he was still practicing as a World War II air warden looking for incoming German planes.

He was probably holed up in his basement bunker until morning when all the trick-or-treaters were asleep.

Capt. West was that grumpy grouchy old man who had no use for kids, kites, cats, rubber balls or bikes.

Now a half century later, a strange change has taken over my brain,  a feeling that I — now approaching Medicare eligibility — have become that grumpy, grouchy Captain West.

I, like the curmudgeon Capt. West, have come to dislike disorder, loud music coming from the hot rod next to me at a red light or kids throwing balls or Frisbees near me at the beach.

Here are a few examples of my becoming incapable of dealing with these invasions and becoming Capt. West:

• We belong to a local swim club for 20 years. Now if two middle school boys start squirting each other with those huge water guns near me, I get up and complain to the lifeguards. If the speaker system at the pool blares out heavy metal music, I ask why they can’t play some Tony Bennett or Sinatra tunes.

• At the supermarket, I’ll give an evil eye to the young mom with an infant in her cart who cuts ahead of me into the “Express — 10 items or less” lane although she has a cart full of baby food, sugary cereals and salty snacks. She turns and tells me, “We’re late for Tara Ann’s ballet lesson.”

• When I do get to the 17-year-old cashier with my three express items, the teen clerk stares at my arugula and is puzzled. “Is this lettuce, she ponders?”
  
  I tell her, “No. its arugula.” Is that a problem?
  
  "No", she replies as she slowly leafs through the list of codes for all produce items trying to locate the proper number for the mysterious arugula. I should have just bought a head of iceberg lettuce.
• In the parking lot with my two items and my now wilting arugula (produce code 6248), I am tempted to leave a long scratch key mark on the side of the huge SUV that is parked so close to my driver side door that I cannot squeeze my old knees and legs into my car. Should I leave a sarcastic note on his windshield? “Hey jerk, why not take up 3 spots with your Bradley armored tank?”  

• Last Saturday as I sipped my morning coffee in the quiet of my backyard deck, I was jolted by the roar of two riding mowers as the landscaping crew began cutting my neighbor’s lawn at 7 a.m.
  
  On weekends, the local laws allow mowing to begin at 8 a.m. Being my new grouchy self, I jotted down the phone number of the landscaper and a sleepy Mrs. Landscaper answered.
  
  “Who is this?” she snarled. “Don’t you know it’s only 7 a.m. on a Saturday?"
  
  I told her as long as I was up, why shouldn't she join me as I stretched the phone out to where she could hear her crew mowing away.

Is it just me or do you, too, have a grouch-o-meter? Just leave a comment to let us know.