on Life in the Suburbs: Turns Out I'm A Terrible Neighbor

Hey, it’s me, your selectively friendly neighbor, here to solicit some soft-earned pocket money. I’m either Christopher, Christian, or Cristiano, but you can’t remember. You’re pretty sure it’s one of those three names, though probably not the last one because that name feels a little too exotic for this regular-ass dude standing at your door yet again, and, to be fair, you’re right. It’s Christian, by the way.

Here’s the deal: It snowed last night, as you and I can plainly see. And your walkway has yet to be shoveled, as you and I can plainly see. It’s only a matter of hours, at best, before the HOA comes by to cite you for failure to abide by their ordinances for snow removal. And you’re still in your pajama pants and mismatched grippy socks, as you and I can plainly see. So you can either go back inside, change, lace up your boots, and shovel your property. Or you can let me do it. For a small price, of course.

So go ahead: say no to my offer. I dare you.

I’m only asking for thirty bucks. Is that a scam or a steal? Hey, that’s for you to decide. I’m just an unlicensed businessman with an inadequate shovel, a car that needs major repairs, and a dream.

So, what do you say? Can I haphazardly shift some snow drifts around your front yard?

Sure, you’ve got plenty of reasons to decline my proposition outright. Remember just last month when I said that salting the driveway would cost extra? Well, this time it’s all included, baby!

Or how about a few months before that, when I started a lawn-mowing business with cute little business cards and everything, then lost interest and shuttered the entire operation after I discovered Tik Tok, and you came back from vacation to three-foot-high tufts of crabgrass?

And last spring break, when I offered to weed your garden with no understanding of which plants are weeds and which aren’t, making my best guesses and leaving giant invasive creepers because I thought their flowers looked pretty?

And while we’re opening this can of worms, let’s not forget about that whole dog-walking debacle. How’s her paw healing, by the way?

Anyway, that was all in the distant, recent past.

Let’s focus on why you have no choice but to hire me to perform manual labor in somewhat inclement wintry conditions:

First, you’re the one who forgot to buy a snow blower when they went on clearance last year. And you’re the one who forgot to sign up for a plowing service this year. So here I am, an out-of-shape thirty-something year old man who can’t quit vaping, ready and willing to make my fair-at-best attempt at looking like I’m shoveling. Otherwise, you’re the one who’s going to have to change into sweatpants.

Second, it will only cost you one-third as much as a professional with only twice the effort. Will I miss spots? Sure. Will my underworked arm muscles fail to chisel away the packed-down patches that will eventually freeze over and into place, thus creating a season-long slip hazard? You bet. Will the path I shovel be straight at least? Not a chance. But the job will be completed to the barest minimum of satisfaction. And all you’ll have to do is re-shovel everything when I’m done.

Look, you don’t have to say yes. There’s no downside to declining my services other than the fact that doing so will make you feel guilty every time we make eye contact as I rip my Posh on my front steps.

So go ahead and do the mental math. You have about ten seconds to decide before you let the chill in and your wife asks why the door is open. Just shake my hand and finalize the agreement. I’ve got other houses to hit.