There's that. . . . Guy!

Max was very excited yesterday. The Guy came to pick up the last of our neighbor's leaves. Max was was pumped 'cause here's this dude in "Ni-Ni's" (Nina's) yard with motorized vroom-vroom makers. He's also pumped because he can drag a chair over to a window and plunk the glass with his little pointer finger and say, over and over, "Guy!"

I don't know what the heck to call these guys except "guys". "Workers" just seems a little too, I don't know, Brave New World-y: "Look, Max, there's a Delta, happily vacuuming leaves off Ni-Ni's lawn!" (Really, would you trust an Epsilon with a power tool? I didn't think so.)

Basically, in one swoop, every non-female, whose specific signifier he doesn't know, has become "Guy". Not just "Guy" but, excited, pointing exclamatory, I-know-him, that's. . . "Guy"! "Hi, 'Guy'!" Now, when we drive down the street, there's "Guy"! The little, tiny plastic dude riding a motorcycle? "Guy"! All the men working with machinery in his "Construction Zone" book? Glad to see you "Guy"!

Just as long as he doesn't become one of those people who calls everyone "buddy", you know, non-ironically? Ugh, I'd rather he smoke. If he's going to be a rapscallion, let him be like the super-polite highwayman, Captain Feeny, from "Barry Lyndon".