Lawn Boy(17)

The kid just stood there, holding his guitar carelessly, apparently befuddled, but visibly unconcerned, smelling like armpit and car exhaust. I caught him admiring my pickle jar.

“You ever used this thing?” he said.

“Yeah, tons of times.”

I walked him through the process and got him his voucher. The kid only cleared four and a half bucks. How long he had to stare holes in his fret board, how many ham-fisted versions of “Aqualung” he had to struggle through to make four bucks and change, I couldn’t tell you, but I felt for him.

“Peace, bro,” he said, clutching his voucher.

By the time I emptied all my change onto the tray, scooped up the remainder, and cashed in my twenty-eight-dollar voucher, the kid was already back out front by the carts, butchering Steppenwolf. I watched him for a little longer than usual, until he finished “Magic Carpet Ride,” then started into something unrecognizable. When it felt like I had finally fulfilled my obligation to listen, I dropped three singles along with what was left of my change in the case.

“Right on,” he said. “Peace.”

The thing about the kid, the thing that made me a little melancholy as I hoofed it back to the bus stop with my twenty-five bucks, is that even though I don’t know him from Adam, I know his story without having to ask. All I have to do is smell that leather vest and see that broken tooth and those sad brown eyes and the desperate determination in his knit brow as he tries to make music, and I can guess roughly what the household he grew up in looked like. Probably a lot like mine. If he was lucky, he had a diabetic Aunt Genie somewhere. Or a mom and a brother. Or maybe not. Maybe he was on his own, trying to make music.

When I arrived home from the Coinstar, I was only halfway up the driveway before I noticed that something was amiss: my lawn mower was gone! Somebody had stolen it in broad daylight.

“Fuuuuuck!” I hollered, pounding the trunk of the dead Festiva. “Shit-fucking-suck-fuck-piss!”

Chest heaving, fist still clenched, I marched into the house.

“Well, I hope you’re happy,” I said to Mom. “My fucking mower is gone.”

“What happened to it?”

“Exactly what I told you would happen when we moved it out of the shed. Somebody stole it. Fuck, Mom. What if I get a fucking landscaping gig?”

“Honey, just cut out all the swearing. Every other word out of your mouth is ‘fuck.’ You’re smarter than that.”

“She’s right, you know,” said Freddy from the sofa, where he was smoking a joint. “Profanity is a class indicator.”

“Fuck you, Freddy. You live in a shed. You lay down bass riffs to old pornos. What does that indicate?”

“Those are original compositions.”

“Leave Freddy alone!” yelled Nate from the bathroom.

You see? This is what I’m up against. The whole world is conspiring to sink me. If it’s not some asshole stealing my lawn mower, it’s my own mother renting out my shed to a man who dispenses wisdom with one nut hanging out.





Three-Dollar Minimum Sunday afternoon, when Freddy and Mom were both home with Nate, I took the opportunity to escape the house, hoofing it all the way out to the Masi with $2.39 to buy a tallboy of Schmidt Ice. I called in advance for a price check and had to hit up Freddy for sixteen cents.


As usual, the line was six deep when I finally got there, and the place smelled, as always, of corn dogs and gasoline. I realized that spending money on alcohol when I was totally broke was patently irresponsible. But like Freddy once said, “A man ain’t no good to the world until he finds some relief.”

Just when you thought old Freddy had dipped into his well of tired axioms one too many times, he dispensed a little pearl of wisdom like this one. The fact is, I was no good to the world, and I needed twenty-two ounces of relief.

Well, I never got it, not really. Because guess who got in line directly behind me at the Masi? I’ll give you a hint: she recently came within three feet from being brained by a saltshaker. At once mortified and ecstatic to see her, my scalp tightened.

“Uh, hey, Remy.”

“Oh, hey! What’s up? How’s your brother?”

“He’s doing great. He’s sort of got a new caregiver, which, you know, frees me up a bit. Dang, we haven’t been to Mitzel’s since, well, you know.”

She laughed. “Oh my God, that was hilarious,” she said. “I actually heard that thing whistle past my ears.”

“I thought you hated us after that,” I said.

“Not at all. I just didn’t think I could serve you guys without cracking up. Oh my God, that old man—he had no idea!”

“Next,” interjected the checker.

I set my tallboy on the counter.

“ID?” he said.

I pulled out my wallet and flashed my license. He checked the date and scanned my tallboy.

Stuffing the wallet back in my pocket, I started digging out my change. It was accounted for, every penny of it—all $2.39.

“Two seventy-one,” said the clerk.

“It’s two thirty-nine.”

“Tax.”

“I thought there was no tax on food.”

“Beer isn’t food.”

I started patting my pockets. “Ah man, I forgot my wallet.”