One day, shortly after Daryl had allegedly mowed the yard, I noticed a large patch of uncut grass about 8 feet by 20 ringed completely by a strip that had been cut.
“Daryl,” I asked, “why didn’t you mow this?”
“I’m going to cut it with the weed-eater,” he said, a response that I found patently absurd.
I said as much. “That doesn’t make sense. It’d have taken you 1 minute tops to cut it with the lawn mower. It’ll take considerably longer than that with the weed-eater.”
“Not really,” he said in that droning teenager voice, this being the response I get every time I say something he disagrees with but won’t give reasons to support his position.
“Yes really,” I said. “Besides that, the weed-eater won’t cut it evenly. It won’t look as good. Always cut as much as you can with the lawn mower.”
“OK” – same monotonous drone.
“Did you see that patch of grass Daryl didn’t mow?” I asked my husband next time I saw him.
“I did,” he said. “I told him he should have mowed it.”
There wasn’t much we could do about it though because the lawnmower had returned to our friend’s house. Rats had chewed through our wiring harness so in a desperate pinch, we hauled hers out to our house.
About a week later, that friend was sitting at our dining room table.
“Did Daryl run over some telephone wire or something when he was mowing?” she asked.
My shoulders sagged as the pieces started to fall into place. “He didn’t say anything,” I said cautiously. “Why?”
“Well, we couldn’t get the blades to spin and when we got to looking under it, there was this telephone wire wrapped tight around the blades. I don’t see how he could have mowed with it like that.”
My husband and I stared at each other silently for an extended second or two before simultaneously calling out in a stern tone, “DARYL?!”
“What?” he asked as he sulked into the room.
“Did you run over something with the lawn mower?” I asked, now understanding why he had inexplicably stopped mowing before finishing a section he had obviously started.
“Really? You just stopped mowing even though the mower was just fine.”
“Well, it started smoking…”
“It started smoking and you didn’t say anything to us?!”
“Well!” His tone got defensive. “I thought it was just out of gas.”
“Seriously, Daryl,” my husband said, “you are smarter than that. It doesn’t smoke when it runs out of gas. And you are supposed to tell us when it runs out of gas anyway.”
“This wasn’t our lawnmower, Daryl! We were borrowing it and you knew that! You have to tell us when something like this happens, especially if it isn’t ours.”
This scene played out again a few days later when we discovered that his recent abysmal weed-eating performance was due to there not being any thread in the weed-eater. Rather than telling us as much when we got home and questioned his completion of the task, he just kept repeating that he had weed-eated. Even though every tree and fence post and porch or sidewalk edge had tufts of grass surrounding them. Every. Single. One. It wasn’t until a couple of weeks later when we set him to weed-eating again, that the truth was uncovered.
Seriously. I don’t know how they expect to get away with this stuff.