There is nothing glamorous about being a Gate Guard. It requires standing on your feet for six hours at a time; in the midst of the hot, blistering sun.
Gate Guard Journal: The Brat
By Richard Mabey Jr.
I never really saw myself as a Gate Guard. A friend, here in Gated Community Land, suggested that I might like it. He himself was and still is a Gate Guard. He told me that he would give me a good recommendation and that I was as good as in, if I wanted the job.
At first I thought, “okay, I’ll be a Gate Guard for a couple of months. It might be fun.” That was three years ago. It’s really not fun. The main thing is that the schedule is somewhat flexible and it gives me a lot of time to write.
Today, being Sunday, the traffic was a bit lighter than usual. I work the afternoon shift from high noon till six at night. It was about two o’clock this afternoon that the obnoxious family stopped at my Gatehouse. They came complete with an eight-year-old boy, who defined the word brat.
The couple that stopped at my Gatehouse were in their early thirties. They asked for a certain street. I really do forget the name of the street, but for reference purposes I’ll call it Orange Pit Lane.
They were driving one of these sports utility vehicles. The hubby was simply full of himself. He pulls up to my Gatehouse door, stops and shouts at me, “Orange Pit Lane….directions!” No please, no “could you help me with directions,” no “sir, I just need some help here…” The body language, the voice flexion, the whole bit shouted at me, “I’m a big shot, important guy and you’re not! I’m cool and you’re not.”
So, I said to Mr. Cool, “I guess you need directions?” Silence. Not a word. Then the Mrs. leans over and says to me, “are you going to get us our directions, or what?”
So, I look at them both, almost feeling sorry for them. I simply say to both of them, “hold on.”
I went into my Gatehouse and got the big map. I came out with my map and simply said, “let’s see, Orange Pit Lane …mmmmm….. let me see if I can find it here.”
“Don’tcha know where it is?” the husband shouts at me.
Then here’s the clincher, the brat in the back seat shouts out, “didja hear my dad, don’tcha know where it is, you stupid dope?”
I could imagine what would have happened to me if I ever called a grownup a “stupid dope” in front of my dear old dad. One thing’s for sure, I would have been really sorry for doing that.
The brat’s father doesn’t say a word. Then the brat’s mother turns her head to the backseat and says to the brat, “Jimmy, please, that wasn’t very nice.”
I’m thinking …… “please!” You say “please” to the brat after he called a grownup a “stupid dope.” I don’t think my dad would have said “please, Richie, don’t talk like that.” No, respectfully, Dad would have had another approach to me, if I ever said something that rude to a grownup.
Well, I’m looking at the map, trying to find “Orange Pit Lane.” After about 20 seconds pass, from the time the brat in the backseat disrespected me, then husband says, “the h…. with it. We’ll find it ourselves. Open the #$%&# gate!”
Then the backseat brat shouts at me, “yea, you heard my dad, open the #$% gate.”
I did not say a word. I opened the gate. The man puts the peddle to the medal and speeds away. I fold up my map, go inside my Gatehouse and put the map in my top desk drawer.
I know that a lot of my readers and Facebook friends don’t dig President Obama. I get it. But, basically our nation’s in a mess. And, like it or not, it’s not all President Obama’s fault. It’s time men came up to the plate and became decent gentleman, became good husbands, and became strong fathers.
When the pitcher barrels a fastball down the strike zone and the batter lets it go, there’s only one thing to do; call a strike, a strike!
Peace and harmony,