Steve... He's From Croatia

Croatian Steve is the first neighbor I met when we moved in here. He introduced himself that way. Not "Hello, I'm Croatian Steve." More like, "My name Steve, from Croatia, and this my friend from Bosnia." I don't remember his friend's name. Steve's business is repairing small engines, like lawnmowers and snow blowers, so I bought a lawnmower from him. It does run nice, he knows his business. All around us are immigrants from every conceivable part of the Earth. Asia, Africa, and a whole lot from Eastern Europe. I would love to ask Croatian Steve about how he came to end up in Chicago. It could be a very interesting story considering all the shit that went on over in that area of Europe, but there is a problem. I can't understand most of what Croatian Steve is telling me. He sounds much like Latka Gravas in the first season of Taxi. What I did understand was that my lawnmower has a lifetime guarantee and that I should never put oil in it. That is Steve's job. "You no put oil in. You fuck engine with lot of oil. I do oil only.", he said with a very heavy accent. And I am fine with that. Now Croatian Steve, or Steve as I call him, has found me a snow blower. A very nice Toro snow blower. It also comes with a lifetime guarantee, again, that is Steve's lifetime and he has skin cancer. But hell, it's a very nice snow blower and Steve is going to supply me with the premixed fuel of oil and gasoline so that I don't "fuck engine". I'm seriously giddy about the first snowfall. I have never owned a snow blower before and I can't wait to start blowing that shit all over the place. Hopefully it won't get old too soon, like mowing the lawn has. My back yard is filled with dog shit, with the grass growing just a bit too high because I lost interest in mowing it. I suppose I should tie some plastic bags over my shoes and mow it before that first snow.