FIRE!
I was typing out the Boris story down there when I got a call from Obi. Obi is the most community involved member of our group, with affiliations to the Manalapan Police Explorers, and local Volunteer Firefighters. Armed with a police scanner, pager, and various other public safety radio apparatus, Obi keeps himself informed and ready to respond when danger knocks on our doors. So don't be surprised when you find your self in the arms of Matthew Daniel O'Brien if your house is burning down, and a handsome man in a fire fighter's uniform rushes in to save you from the perilous flames and certain death.
But back to what really happened.
Over the phone, Obi informed me that there had been reports of smoke and fire at the Battleground Country Club. I placed the sleeping Jibbles gently aside and proceeded to speedily button on a shirt, grab my camera bag, and head to the scene on foot. I squinted hard, but could not make out any fire engines, police cars, or flashing lights. I called Obi, who told me that the dispatcher was now directing units to 23 Bloomfield Road, on the other side of my devlopment. I rushed back and continued on bike to the scene.
I got there just as the EMS ambulance pulled up, and I asked the driver if anyone had been hurt. She told me she didn't know, so I biked closer for a better look. I couldn't see any fire or smoke, but there were 4 squad cars and a Ford Expedition with Fire department markings. I snapped a few pictures, and stuck around, knowing a police officer would see me and question me.
My assumption was correct, and as the officers had finished looking around and came back to their cars, one of them said "Hey!" and came over to me. She asked why I was here, and I politely responded, explaining that I heard there was a fire on the scanner and came over for a look. We talked for a few moments and I asked what caused the fire. Turns out a few mischievous hoodlums had ignited a magazine which had caught a small patch of brush on fire. On my way back, another officer in an unmarked squad car stopped me and asked me if i had seen anyone around. I showed him the pictures I took and he told me anyone who had started the fire was probably at home and snickering by now. He told me to take it easy, and drove off.
The story of my lawnmower, Boris, is both a long and adventure filled tale. My father purchased Boris in June of 2008. Since then Boris has hacked out trails, hauled broken bicycles, rammed garage doors, popped wheelies, carried my boat, and transported my friends and I as far as his 1 gallon tank can muster. Right from the start, I fell in love with this little red machine. You see, I have a sort of obsession-addiction with anything that has the ability to propel itself, and offer some form of steering/stopping. Cars, airplanes, ATVs, motor scooters, Boris, etc. And so from the day I stepped off the bus to a shiny new Yard Machines Garden Tractor, I was ecstatic.
Cutting the lawn with Boris has become second nature to me. Turning, disengaging the blades, backing up, and turning back onto the uncut grass all happens in one fluid motion. I feel like a boss cruising down West Parsonage, at 8 miles an hour and 13.5 horse power at my disposal. And who wouldn't? Short of a car its the best way to get around on 4 wheels. ATVs be damned.
But perhaps the most interesting story about Boris is how he got his name. The scene was the summer of 2008, the night of Manalapan Day to be specific. I was with Greg Andrew and Patrick. The sun had long since been down, and the grass was cool and just beginning to dew. Looking towards the heavans, our eyes met a dark June sky, as we eagerly anticipated the coming fireworks. A loose crowd of people assembled across the fields and on the hill where I stood, laughing and carrying on. We laid down and the soft green earth embraced us with welcome and relaxation.
I remember waiting for what seemed like an hour before the first volley shot skyward with a hiss, and brilliant steaks of colorful light exploded before our eyes, ripping through the darkness of the no longer still night sky, and bombarding our ears with a series of shrill cracks. Trails of sparks flew high into the sky before bursting into cascades of colorful arcs. Fingers pointed and lips touched as we gazed up in wonder at the awe inspiring display.
Suddenly, and without warning, a sheer wall of rain cut through the explosions and rockets red glare, which promptly began dousing the crowd that was now a chaotic mob, running around and scrambling for cover. I found myself in the center of a torrential downpour, amidst screaming teenagers and fat drops of rain. I ran to the nearest tent, which was full and could offer no more shelter. I found similar situations as I ran from tent to tent, all were full. I spotted a larger canopy atop a hill across the lighted football field, and made a sprint for it.
Huddled next to strangers underneath the pony rides tent, I suddenly realized I had lost my companions. Although I didn't realize it at first, much time had passed since the rain had began, and after calling all three of my comrades repeatedly, I discovered from Greg that they had since evacuated. And I was stranded. Alone. Standing in hay and piles of pony excrement, I felt separated and abandoned. I looked around the tent in search of familiar faces. Many of my classmates had been caught in a similar predicament and were under the tent as well, but none could offer me assistance.
Finally, I came across Zach Matmon and William Khashkes. They were about to make a dash for the main road, where Will's father was somewhere in the traffic, crowded with annoyed and angry parents picking up their soaking, and equally annoyed and angry children. I wrapped my phone in caution tape to prevent water damage from the rain and took off with them. After scrambling through the cars we found Will's father. I got in and was greeted by Boris, Will's Russian speaking dad.
I was very thankful to Boris. I mean, he had saved me from certain death, kinda like fireman Obi up there. Realistically though he had helped me avoid walking the 2 dark rainy miles back home, and for that I was extremely grateful. I asked Will how to say thank you in Russian, and said "spasiba, Boris" in my best Russian accent, as I stepped out of the car.
Later on, as I thought of a name for my new Lawnmower, the only name befitting a machine so reliable and dependable that I could think of was, you guessed it, Boris.
So much so has Boris become rooted in Battleground (our development) lore, that the action of using Boris for fun instead of work has gained it's own title, Boris Adventures.
Click Beetles (I'll be brief. It's late[early])
There was one in my room. They make a horrible clicking and pop around like Mario in supermario 64 when you accidentally go into the lava. I hate them passionately. The end.
My condolences to any now or former Gypsies, as today is the 82nd anniversary of when being a nomadic, law unabiding, non taxpaying Gypsy became illegal in Hungary.
Goodnight
-Chris
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