SATURDAY MORNING WITH CRANKY DON JOE | The Lawn Crew Knows Exactly Where My Bedroom Window Is

My name is Cranky Don Joe. Cranky DJ to a lot of my neighbors.

I am not an expert. Which immediately makes me more qualified than half the people on television.

Following last week's award-winning investigation into Scottish soccer fans, ninety missing kegs of beer, and Larry's completely unearned confidence in international football strategy, I had one simple, modest goal this Saturday morning. Sleep. Not until noon, mind you. I am not sixteen years old. I just wanted one extra hour. Maybe ninety minutes if the good Lord was feeling generous.

Apparently, that was a statistical impossibility. Because at precisely 8:01 Saturday morning, somewhere deep inside my apartment complex, a highly classified tactical briefing took place. I don't know where the bunker is located, but I am convinced it exists. There is a folding table, stale donuts, clipboards, and a man standing in front of a satellite map with a laser pointer. Eventually, the commander looks at the room and says, "All right, people... where does Cranky Don Joe sleep?" Another operative raises a hand and says, "Building C. Second floor. Third window from the left. He just closed his eyes after a midnight movie." The commander smiles and says, "Excellent. Unleash the combustion engines directly underneath his head."

Friends, I have lived in this apartment for six years. There are acres of grass, miles of sidewalks, hundreds of shrubs, and forty-seven mature trees. Yet somehow, every single Saturday, the lead industrial mower begins its deployment directly beneath my bedroom window. Not across the parking lot. Not near the main entrance. Not over by the playground where children are actually awake and bursting with youthful adrenaline. No. They begin exactly fourteen inches below the drywall where my skull happens to be resting.

I have started believing this cannot possibly be a coincidence. This is high-level surveillance. I think the landscaping company has access to military drones and thermal imaging technology. They know the exact microsecond I reach that perfect, deep level of REM sleep where you temporarily forget your own social security number and what year it is. That is the exact moment they pull the rip-cord on a two-stroke engine.

You know that sound. It isn't merely an engine. It sounds like a rabid grizzly bear trying to start a Harley-Davidson inside your pillowcase. You do not gently wake up; you launch. I sat upright so fast I nearly left my skin on the mattress. I haven't cleared a bed with that much velocity since a basement plumbing failure in 1984.

The amazing part is the mower is never a solo act. It is merely the opening band. About three minutes later, once they verify my heart rate has reached dangerous triple digits, they bring out its emotionally unstable cousin: the leaf blower.

Friends, I have major constitutional questions about the leaf blower. Why does a machine designed entirely to move dead foliage require the same decibel level as a space shuttle launch? Who looked at the prototype of a leaf blower and said, "This is good, but it needs to sound like an F-16 that is personally furious about landscaping"? And what exactly is the tactical mission? To move one single, solitary oak leaf from this side of the concrete sidewalk to that side of the concrete sidewalk. Twenty minutes later, a second fellow arrives with a matching machine and blows the exact same leaf right back. I watched this happen from my blinds. The same leaf crossed the concrete four times. I have seen professional Wimbledon tennis matches with less exhausting back-and-forth volleying.

Larry says I'm exaggerating. Larry always says I'm exaggerating. Larry claims they are "just doing their jobs before the midday heat arrives." This is an interesting corporate defense strategy from a man I have known for twenty-three years, during which I have never once seen Larry voluntarily outdoors before ten o'clock on a Saturday. The closest Larry comes to morning physical exercise is reaching for the television remote control before his coffee maker finishes dripping. Yet suddenly, he is a certified lobbyist for the commercial landscaping industry. Last week it was the World Cup, this week it's turf management. Larry looked at me and said, "The grass grows fast, Don."

I know the grass grows fast, Larry. I have met grass. But does it grow so aggressively that if it isn't decapitated before breakfast it constitutes a national security emergency?

Have you ever noticed that these lawn crews never appear stressed? They move with the chilling confidence of men who know they are completely untouchable. One gentleman drives a zero-turn mower like he is piloting a fighter jet. Another operates a leaf blower with the posture of a classical conductor. A third trims edges with a line-weed-whacker that sounds capable of slicing clean through reinforced bunker concrete. Nobody is in a hurry. Meanwhile, eighty-three sleep-deprived residents are standing behind their curtains in mismatching pajamas, gripping their coffee mugs, wondering whether this qualifies as a violation of the Geneva Conventions.

Then comes my absolute favorite part: the precision micro-mowing. There is a tiny, useless patch of sod directly beneath my bedroom window. It is maybe six feet by six feet. For reasons known only to the upper management of the landscaping syndicate, this specific square yard of grass receives more analytical attention than the rest of the property combined. They mow it north-to-south. They mow it east-to-west. They trim it, edge it, blow it, inspect it, and admire it. I fully expect them to bring out a level and a pair of surgical scissors next Saturday. The rest of the apartment complex gets a basic haircut; my section gets a full European day-spa treatment.

I once considered moving my mattress to the living room on Friday nights. Then I realized the crew would probably just drive the mowers up the stairs and into my hallway. I am convinced they have a copy of my lease agreement. The rental office knows where I live, the lawn crew knows where I live, and at this point, I wouldn't be surprised if the local gray squirrels had a laminated map of my apartment layout.

And don't even get me started on the motorized hedge trimmers. They sound like two gas-powered chainsaws having a physical altercation over a family inheritance. Every individual shrub in the courtyard apparently requires three hours of psychiatric counseling from the trimmer blade. One little bush gets sculpted into a perfect sphere, then another, then the first one apparently changes its mind because the operator walks back to it five minutes later to shave off another eighth of an inch. Meanwhile, I am inside my apartment wondering whether I should just put on real pants and admit complete, unconditional defeat. Once the hedge trimmers are humming, you have lost the war. You are no longer sleeping; you are merely negotiating the terms of your surrender.

My grandson tells me I should appreciate how nice everything looks afterward. He looked at my furious face and said, "Grandpa, they're making the community beautiful."

He is right. I hate it when he is right. By noon, the sidewalks are pristine, the grass looks like the fairway at Augusta National, and the flowers are standing up straighter. The whole property feels cared for. Families come outside, kids start riding their bicycles, neighbors walk their dogs, and people actually stop to talk to one another instead of staring into their pocket screens. It looks absolutely wonderful.

I just have one modest, civilized proposal for the landscaping front office. Start with Building F next Saturday. Let them enjoy the beautiful majesty of the morning combustion engine first. Work your way toward Building C around lunchtime. I am not an unreasonable man. I am flexible. I will even sit down and help design the logistical schedule.

Just don't put Larry in charge of the committee. He will probably recommend they start at 5:00 AM so the lawn can achieve maximum symmetry before sunrise. Naturally. This is the exact same man who once set three separate electronic alarms on his smartphone just so he wouldn't oversleep his 3:00 PM afternoon nap.

Until next time, Cranky DJ

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