'None of your business' makes for good business

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2012 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

I strode into my local dry cleaner and awaited Gary, the proprietor. After a minute or so, he emerged from behind a rack of neatly pressed suits, covered in plastic bags. He was sweating profusely, just one of the downsides of working 12-hour shifts in a summer chock-full of triple-digit afternoons.

"Are you picking up today, Mr. Schwem?" Gary asked. There was no need for me to produce a ticket; after years of service, he knows my name.

"Not today, Gary," I replied. "I just came in to ask your views on the designated hitter rule."

"Excuse me?"

"The designated hitter." I repeated. "In baseball. Are you for it or against it?"

"Well, uh, nobody's ever asked me. Most customers ask if I do alterations."

"Don't change the subject, Gary," I said impatiently. I need to know now. In favor of it or against it?"

"Uh, in favor of it?"

"Goodbye."

"Wait, where are you going, Mr. Schwem? You've been coming here since 1993."

"True, but I'm not sure I can continue doing business with somebody who doesn't believe the DH cuts down on strategy and managerial decision-making."

"Why are we having this conversation?" Gary asked as nervous perspiration began mixing with the work-related sweat on his forehead.

"Relax, Gary, I was kidding," I said, breaking into a grin. "But I'd be careful about letting your customers know your personal beliefs on hot-button issues from now on. You're aware of the brouhaha at Chick-fil-A, right?"

"Can't say I am," Gary said. "When you run a small business and work 70-hour weeks, you don't always have time to watch the news."

"I'll fill you in," I said. "Dan Cathy, the company CEO and the founder's son, recently stated his opposition to gay marriage. Now gay marriage advocates are demanding boycotts. Social networks are ablaze over his comments. Celebrities are tweeting about it."

"Like who?"

"That guy from 'The Hangover' movie, for one. Ed Helms. He tweeted, and I quote, 'Chick-fil-A doesn't like gay people? So lame. Hate to think what they do to the gay chickens. Lost a loyal fan."'

"I'm confused," Gary said. "Mr. Cathy never said he didn't like gay people. He just opposes gay marriage. I'm opposed to cigarettes, but I'm still friends with people who smoke. And what the heck do Mr. Cathy's political beliefs have to do with his ability to cook a chicken sandwich, wrap it in paper and hand it through a drive-thru window with fries and a Diet Coke?"

"Beats me," I said. "Gary, you're the best dry cleaner in town. I'll keep coming to you even if you favor lowering the drinking age to 12 and support mandatory texting while driving. Nobody gets coffee stains off my ties like you do."

"I appreciate that," Gary replied. "Man, I was nervous for a minute. If it meant keeping you as a customer, I was ready to change my view and say, 'I oppose the designated hitter.'"

"Hey, Gary, did I just hear what I thought I heard?" said another voice.

"Mr. Sullivan. I didn't even see you come in," Gary said. "I have your suits ready."

"Don't play nice with me, buddy. I just heard you say you were against the designated hitter. Apparently you LIKE watching a game featuring pitchers who look like they are defending themselves against imaginary muggers when they swing a bat. I can't believe I've been letting you starch my shirts since 1981. Does the Facebook community know about this?"

"I'm not on Facebook."

"Well I'm going home and creating a Facebook page right now urging everybody not to set foot in this place anymore. Excuse me while I step outside and photograph your establishment."

"You're messing with me, right?" Gary asked, not entirely sure what the answer would be.

"Yeah, I'm messing with you," Sullivan said. "I was outside and heard you talking with Schwem. I feel your pain, Gary. I run a restaurant and I'm afraid to talk with customers about anything other than the daily specials."

"I pride myself on being friendly with my customers," Gary said. "I know their interests, their kids' names, their favorite vacation places. That's why I'm successful. Am I just going to have to say, 'no comment' now whenever somebody comes in and asks me anything non-laundry related?"

"It seems we're heading in that direction." I said.

"Everybody just needs to chill out," Gary said.

"I agree," Sullivan said. "Gary, when you close for the night, why don't you come over to my place for a beer? And a meal. It's on me. Greg, you can come, too."

"That depends," I said.

"Depends on what?" Sullivan asked.

"Artificial turf. For it or against it?"

"Shut up, Greg."

To my child, I bequeath the blade

Originally posted by Tribune Media ServicesCOPYRIGHT © 2012 GREG SCHWEM DISTRIBUTED BY TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC

I am a nervous wreck as I write this column. Several hours ago, I heard the garage door open and the engine start. My teenage daughter rolled down the driveway piloting a piece of machinery that I warned could cause serious injury to herself or even innocent bystanders if she isn't careful.

True, she's nearly 16, but she still seems so young to take on this much responsibility. Was she really listening when I explained, in the simplest terms possible, how the engine operates? When I showed her how to read an oil dipstick, she kept rolling her eyes and repeating, "I know, I know."

She had better not be texting while the apparatus is in motion. Listening to music is also forbidden until I am convinced she is a safe navigator. She knows the rules. Still . . .

Where is she? What if she ran out of gas? What if there were a far worse mechanical failure and she's stranded? She knows I'm just a phone call away. Wait, I just heard the garage door open again. There she is, safe and sound. But something's amiss. I can see it on her face.

"What's wrong?"

"I had an accident, Dad."

"What?"

"I ran over the stupid flowers."

"Noooooo!"

"I'm sorry, OK?"

"Sorry isn't going to bring the geraniums back to life, young lady. Perhaps you just aren't ready to mow the lawn."

Wait, did you think my anxieties had something to do with her motor vehicle skills? Puh-leeze! As soon as she gets her license, I'll let her borrow the family car at will for it's high time somebody besides my wife and I shuttled all her teammates to volleyball practice. But the mower? That's a different story. I am a suburban dad and, by law, cutting the grass is a sacred ritual. Most dads will eventually bestow the blade to our children, but it's not something we easily relinquish. I remember the day my father walked nervously behind me as I navigated row after row of our backyard for the first time. I was 12. Occasionally he yelled encouragement. Sort of.

"Keep it straight, KEEP IT STRAIGHT. You look like you're failing a sobriety test. Never mind. I'll do it!"

And he did. Until I was 13. A year later, I was known as "the neighborhood kid who mows lawns," a title I reluctantly surrendered when I graduated high school. After college, I lived in apartments and mowing duties were handled by various landlords. I was responsible only for maintaining my domicile's interior appearance, which meant I vacuumed once every other month .

But the minute I became a homeowner, I bought a shiny red Toro Recycler Walk Power mower and instantly all those fond lawn-care memories became reality once again. A sun-drenched day, fountains of sweat cascading down my back, and the knowledge that I was shedding a few pounds. Not only is lawn mowing great exercise, but any married guy will admit that it gives us a tremendous excuse to do nothing the rest of the weekend. Ever wonder why you hear so many mowers running early on Saturday mornings?

"Sorry honey, I can't watch the kids, shop for groceries or do anything else that constitutes physical labor this weekend. Why? I just MOWED THE LAWN. Now please keep it down and hand me the remote. Pro wrestling is about to start. Where's my pillow?"

There is also an immense feeling of pride that comes with walking barefoot through the finished product and thinking, "Wow, I did this." I long for my daughter to have similar feelings although I'm certain the only thought that will churn through her brain as she maneuvers the Toro back and forth will be, "At least I'm getting paid."

Yes, mowing the empty lot next to our house, which I recently purchased as a real estate investment, constitutes her initial foray into summer employment. It's a big property -- nearly half an acre- and she's cutting it with a (GASP) push mower as I refuse to purchase a riding model. I have no place to store it during the cold winter months and besides, the "I just mowed the lawn" excuse doesn't work on wives who glance outside and see their spouses doing nothing more than driving a small tractor in circles while drinking a cold beer. It's like saying you're exhausted from playing golf when a caddy sprinted ahead of you, raked the sand traps and picked your ball out of all 18 cups while you drove the cart.

I may never officially retire from lawn mowing. For now it is a shared duty; I mow the established lawn surrounding our home while my daughter mows the empty lot and learns what manual labor feels like. It's grueling yet satisfying.

Come to think of it, so is replanting geraniums.