By Donald Dunphy, Contributing Editor
This will make sense in a few – just go with me for a moment.
In what feels like a lifetime ago, 2008 to be exact, I was working for a lawn care company, not as a writer but as a literal on-the-road treatment provider. I and my co-worker Patricio were on a lawn along the New Jersey coast. It was mid-September, and one could feel the chill coming off of the ocean; over the miniature, personal cove below; up the hill; and onto the modest backyard. The actual house was small, but then again, this was the summer home and it was right on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, so location, not size, was everything.
The cellphone buzzed in my pants pocket. I answered to hear the voice of the boss of the company. The property security system must have sent a message to its management team that we were there and they, in turn, must have notified the owner who, subsequently, told our boss to stop all treatments immediately. The back ramp of the truck comes down, the Z-Sprayer and spreader are loaded in, and we are gone.
You see, the home was owned by an individual who was a primary partner of a major banking company, and it was about to tumble into bankruptcy, like a Z-Sprayer that rolled too close to the coastline.