| Power II |
So, this big-ass truck backs up along the side of my house here on the
North Shore of Long Island and dumps a black, steaming pile of the worst
horse-shit smelling landscape mulch I’d ever seen in my life.
Two days later, my neighbor knocks on my front door and tells me that
there are tire tracks on his land from the dump truck that delivered the
stinking mulch. I say, “I’m very sorry about that. I’ll fix things up the way
they used to be.” He replies, “ It’s really not a big deal; it’s mostly poison
ivy , pine needles, and ground cover, so don’t break your balls doing
anything right now.” I say, “Okay, no problem, but I’ll speak to the workers,
just the same.”
Then, he says, “Why don’t you put up a fence, so that you know where your
property line is?” I thought about it for a second before I responded. “You
know, Larry,” I say, “I really don’t give a shit where my property line is.”
He looks surprised, like he’s wondering what the fuck is wrong with me,
and he asks quizzically, “Why don’t you want to know where your property
begins and ends? We all pay a lot of taxes around here.”
I explain, “Well, Larry, to me, paying property taxes is more like paying rent
for this land where my house is. It shows that I’m more like a temporary
guardian of the land, not the true owner.”
I get an even stranger look in response.
“If I really owned the land, how far down do I own?,” I press on. “Let’s say
that I got a drill and dug a hole a thousand feet deep; do I own the bottom
of the hole? And, if I did, what the hell would I do with the land at the
bottom of the hole? Do the squirrels and raccoons and mice give two shits
about crossing over property lines to get from one tree to the next fucking
tree? I don’t think they really give two shits, Larry.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Mike?”
“Larry, what I’m trying to say is that, before you and I lived in these houses,
other people lived in them and they said that they owned the same houses.
Even before there were any houses here, a farmer grew potatoes. Before
the farmers came and kicked the native people off of the fertile land, the
Setauket Indians claimed that the land was theirs. Before any Indians were
in North America, or anywhere near fucking Long Island, the biggest bad-
North Shore of Long Island and dumps a black, steaming pile of the worst
horse-shit smelling landscape mulch I’d ever seen in my life.
Two days later, my neighbor knocks on my front door and tells me that
there are tire tracks on his land from the dump truck that delivered the
stinking mulch. I say, “I’m very sorry about that. I’ll fix things up the way
they used to be.” He replies, “ It’s really not a big deal; it’s mostly poison
ivy , pine needles, and ground cover, so don’t break your balls doing
anything right now.” I say, “Okay, no problem, but I’ll speak to the workers,
just the same.”
Then, he says, “Why don’t you put up a fence, so that you know where your
property line is?” I thought about it for a second before I responded. “You
know, Larry,” I say, “I really don’t give a shit where my property line is.”
He looks surprised, like he’s wondering what the fuck is wrong with me,
and he asks quizzically, “Why don’t you want to know where your property
begins and ends? We all pay a lot of taxes around here.”
I explain, “Well, Larry, to me, paying property taxes is more like paying rent
for this land where my house is. It shows that I’m more like a temporary
guardian of the land, not the true owner.”
I get an even stranger look in response.
“If I really owned the land, how far down do I own?,” I press on. “Let’s say
that I got a drill and dug a hole a thousand feet deep; do I own the bottom
of the hole? And, if I did, what the hell would I do with the land at the
bottom of the hole? Do the squirrels and raccoons and mice give two shits
about crossing over property lines to get from one tree to the next fucking
tree? I don’t think they really give two shits, Larry.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Mike?”
“Larry, what I’m trying to say is that, before you and I lived in these houses,
other people lived in them and they said that they owned the same houses.
Even before there were any houses here, a farmer grew potatoes. Before
the farmers came and kicked the native people off of the fertile land, the
Setauket Indians claimed that the land was theirs. Before any Indians were
in North America, or anywhere near fucking Long Island, the biggest bad-
© 2007 by Michael Domino
by Michael Domino