Lawn Boy(13)

“Not if it was assigned.”

“Then you should definitely check it out. Classic muckraking.”

“Cool. Thanks, man.”

“I’m Andrew,” he said, extending a hand.

“Mike,” I said.

He smiled, exposing a big pileup of crooked teeth that looked like a miniature Stonehenge. It was sort of a heartbreaking smile, but it didn’t seem to bother him.

“You should go ahead and check out the new fiction, too,” he said. “By all means. Don’t take my word for it. See what you think. Maybe you’ll like the acoustics.”

Once again, the library had my back. I left feeling a lot less desperate and scared than when I’d arrived. I clung to that security as I walked down the hill to town, clutching my five books.

Around five fifteen, I arrived in the murky environs of Tequila’s, where Nick awaited me in back. Before I could even tell him about getting fired, he started in on his usual bullshit.

“You see where they’re puttin’ a Mexican market across the street?”

“So?”

“Who do you think’s gonna shop at it?”

“Uh . . . Mexicans? People who like Mexican food?”

“Bingo.”

“So, why do you give a shit?”

“Because this place is starting to look like Tijuana.”

“You ever been to Tijuana?”

“Fuck no. Why would I go to Tijuana? Hey, look at that fag over by the jukebox,” he said.

“That’s Ron Strobeck’s little brother. He’s a youth pastor.”

“He’s a total homo.”

“Nick, do you have any idea what a dumbshit you sound like? I mean like ninety percent of the time?”

“Hey, you’re the one mowing lawns, chowder hound. I stopped mowing lawns for money when I was twelve. I made thirty-one grand last year at Les Schwab. So who’s the dumbshit?”

“But c’mon, don’t you want more?”

“Yeah, more pussy.”

“I’m being serious, Nick.”

“So am I. I’d like to be getting considerably more pussy than I’m currently getting.”

“What about a steady girlfriend, then?”

“Fuck that noise. Then I’d never get laid.”

“See? You sound like a total misogynist when you say stuff like that.”

“Fuck you, I don’t see you getting laid.”

“This isn’t about getting laid, Nick. This is about your life.”

“What are you, my guidance counselor now?”

“Where do you see yourself in ten years? Seriously, Les Schwab?”

“What is it with you tonight?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t see myself in ten years. Why would I want to do that? I’ll probably be fat. And my hair will be gone. You’re really starting to piss me off with this superiority complex of yours, Michael. You work with a crew of illegals mowing old ladies’ lawns. I just don’t see where you get off judging anybody, I really don’t.”

Maybe Nick was right, maybe it wasn’t my place to judge. But his ignorance seemed willful. Or maybe it was just lazy, which was also willful. Whatever the case, I was running out of patience for it, growing weary of the exercise—mostly fruitless—that comprised coaxing out Nick’s good side. Such was my fatigue that over the course of the next two beers, I didn’t even bother telling him I’d quit my job or how I’d struck out with Remy. Already besieged by doubt and insecurity, I couldn’t see how telling Nick anything would make me feel better.





The Pavement The next morning, I slumped at the kitchen table with a splitting headache, combing through the Kitsap Herald classifieds—all two columns of it. Nate was at the table with me, plowing mechanically through his third bowl of Rice Chex.


“Do you have to chew so loud? I’m trying to concentrate here.”

Actually, it took very little concentration once I conceded that I had no sales experience and couldn’t swing a hammer or program computers or even do an oil change. My broke-dick truck disqualified me from the delivery-driver position or even a job with those fascists over at Uber. And of course, there was nothing in the Herald for landscapers.

My mom emerged from the bedroom, her hair in a sleepy jumble, squinting as she reached for her cigarettes.

“Rained out today, sweetie?”

“Not exactly.”

“Are you sick?”

“Nah, Ma. Actually, I sort of quit.”

She lowered herself into a chair. “Honey?”

“Lacy is such an asshole, Mom. I was only making twelve bucks an hour. I want to do more with my life than clean up dog shit.”

I could see the annoyance in her face as I rationalized the decision. As it was, our EBT card was nearly maxed by the fifteenth of every month.

“I’m gonna find something better, Mom. It’ll work out, I promise.”

I could see that she was anxious, but she didn’t let on. Instead, she patted my hand.

“I know it will, sweetie.”

Don’t get the idea Mike Mu?oz wasted any time on his job search, either. Not five hours after breaking the news to Mom, I’d already filled out an application and secured an interview by 3:00 p.m.