Snap, judgment, studios.

Okay, so 15 years old.

Hot, humid, Michigan summer day, and trying to start this piece of jump lawnmower before

my father gets home and blows his stack.

I was yanking on the court, kicking in, I don't know what to do, but I do know,

Pops ain't trying to hear my sorry excuses, so I'm trapped between our unmoved lawn and

a hard place.

And then, riding down the street like he's leading the parade, our neighbor buzzes up in his

fancy fire engine red brand new riding mower, grinning like he just ate the canary.

Turns over to me, gestures at his machine.

Hey, won't it?

Huh? Well, actually, you know what?

If I could use it for just a couple hours, I promise I'll take great care of it and

pull it right back into your garage. No, no, no, no, no.

He gets off, tosses me the keys. It's all yours!

Huh? What? I have no dummy. People don't just roll up and hand me expensive things.

Sir, I can't take it. No, no, no, you own it now.

I won't be needing stuff like this. No more, I'll tell you what.

And I can see he's excited. He's fit to bust. Sir, I catch all yours!

And he dances back down the street.

Thank you. I'm still scared. I'm thinking the police are going to pull up and take my

black behind the jail for messing with this nice man's property.

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