Lawn Boy(10)

First, I tried the spatula method, but no matter how firm they looked, the turds were too soft in the middle, like one of those lava cakes. To make matters worse, the only bag I had was paper. And meanwhile, the rain was running a rivulet down the crack of my ass, and the stink of Duke’s ass goblins was damn near unbearable. After about six waterlogged turds, the paper bag ruptured, in spite of my desperate attempt to stop the breach with my bare hands. The whole mess hit my boots like a rotten pumpkin. Seething, I glared up at the pitiless gray sky for a second before I lost it completely.

“Goddamn-fucking-cunt-fuck-shit-ass-fucker!” I yelled.

I flailed and stomped my boot in disgust as a dollop of shit hit the sliding glass door like refried beans. In a blind rage, I kicked the ruptured bag of shit across the deck, then marched down the steps to the lawn, where I began dragging my boot and wiping my hands in the wet grass.

“Shit-fucking-mother-of-fuck!”

I must have gotten old Duke’s attention, because he’d lumbered to his feet and was standing there behind the glass, gazing out impassively, both eyes milky with cataracts.

“Fuck you,” I said.

But Duke didn’t bat an eye. He just lay back down with his big square head on his paws, let out a sigh, and closed his eyes.

This was the final indignity. The McClures’ fucking dog had a better life than me. Sure, he was bored. But he was warm, dry, well fed, and he could shit anywhere he pleased, and some poor schlep like me would clean up after him. And here I was, disconsolate in the rain, with shit on my hands. Again, I’m not blaming Duke. But what the fuck is wrong with this picture?

I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice it to say, I spent a half hour trying to clean up the mess, and you can damn well bet I wasn’t happy about it. But without another bag, there was only so much I could do.

So I left.





Boldly, into the Future Look, I’m not stupid. There was really no use in going to work the next day. I knew damn well I was a goner. But I wanted to see Lacy one more time and let him have it, let him know he could clean up his own dog shit if it was so important to him. I guess I needed to prove to myself that I did the right thing.


So the following day, Tino, Ramiro, Tomás, and I were lunching up at the top of Magnuson’s driveway on Hall’s Hill, when suddenly the three of them fell silent and went to skulking behind their tamales as Lacy pulled up in his white Econoline.

“Mu?oz,” he said, climbing out. “I specifically told you to pick up the shit on McClures’ deck, did I not?”

“We talked about this from the beginning, Lacy. The dog shit was their responsibility. I was hired to mow the lawn and beat back the blackberries. I’m sick of people changing the rules on me. Promising me one thing, then giving me another. Maybe they think they’re too good to pick up their dog shit, but that’s their problem, not mine. You can hire a new dog-shit picker-upper, I’m out of here.”

“Nice try, but you’re fired,” said Lacy. “Pack up your gear and get out of here. I can’t believe you even showed up today.”

Tino and the guys were all averting their eyes as I slammed my tailgate shut. Tino gave me a little nod, and when Lacy wasn’t looking, he gave me a clap on the back as I climbed into the cab.

“Shit, ese, what you thinking, man?” he whispered.

“I’m a landscaper, not a shit picker-upper, that’s what I’m thinking.”

He shook his head, looking genuinely disappointed.

“You got to watch your temper, vato. Is only dog shit, right?”

“That’s plenty.”

“I keep my ears open for you, amigo. Maybe my cousin Sergio knows somebody. You cook?”

“Not really.”

“Construction?”

“Not so much.”

“Too bad. You gotta learn some other skills, homie. Don’t get me wrong, you good with a lawn mower, best I know. And you prune really good, too, Miguel, but—”

“Don’t call me Miguel.”

“What about cars? You fix cars?”

“No.”

“What about bikes?”

“Not really. I mean, maybe. Fuck, I don’t know.”

He shook his head solemnly. “I keep my eyes open, Miguel.”

As I pulled away, I flew Lacy a bird out the window.

Maybe I’m my own worst enemy. Maybe I made my own miserable bed.

But I can’t tell you how goddamn sick of the indignities I was, how fucking tired of Lacy’s petty, patronizing ways. The way he kept me in my place, the way he seemed to relish my humiliation. Nothing would have pleased Lacy more than to watch old Mike Mu?oz pick up dog shit in the rain. And don’t get me started on some of the clients. Like the old lady in the wheelchair who treats me like her personal servant: always tasking me with fetching her an umbrella or moving boxes around in her three-car garage or dragging her garbage cans a half mile up the driveway. I don’t mind helping somebody with special needs—hell, I’ve been doing it my whole life. It’s the way the old lady expected it of me that made me want to wheel her off a cliff. The way she spoke to me, like I was beneath her. The way she never asked me how I was or even greeted me with a hello. Fuck the old lady and anybody like her. If I had my own outfit, I’d find clients that respected my work, people who appreciated my professionalism and my mad topiary skills and my immaculate edges. So, who knows, maybe getting fired was me turning a corner. Maybe this was Mike Mu?oz finally sticking up for himself and asking for more.