Lawn Boy(18)

“I just carded you, remember? It’s in your back pocket.”

“Oh, right, duh.” I pulled out my wallet and handed him my debit card. “Just put the difference on the card.”

“The difference? You mean thirty-two cents?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry. There’s a three-dollar minimum.”

Here’s the thing. There was exactly $2.03 in that account, and I didn’t have overdraft protection. If that guy used my card, it would get declined for sure, and Remy would witness the indignity.

“Um, shoot, let me run out to my truck.”

You know, the truck sitting in impound.

“Or you could just buy a pack of gum,” said the clerk.

“Yeah, I don’t really like gum. . . .”

“Or a Slim Jim,” said the clerk.

“Not a big Slim Jim fan.”

The checker heaved a sigh. “Look, anything that costs thirty-two cents will put you over the three-dollar minimum.”

“I’ve got change,” said Remy, sparing me further embarrassment, sort of. She fished through her purse at length, looking for the difference.

Clearly, I was the biggest loser ever. There was the clerk, wearily holding all my nickels and dimes as the line stacked up behind us.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll just run to my truck,” I said.

“No, no, I’ve got it,” she said, setting her ChapStick on the counter. “Just put it all together.”

We walked out of the store side by side, my heart beating in my throat.

“Where’s your truck?”

“Oh yeah, I totally spaced. I walked down here.”

“So you live close?”

“Just down the road two and a half miles.”

“C’mon, I’ll give you a ride.”

My knees almost gave out. Remy was inviting me into her car—Remy! I must have spent a thousand bucks eating rubbery steaks and powdered mashed potatoes just to get this woman’s attention. Now she was not only forgiving me for being a complete loser, she was actually willing to contribute to the cause. This should have been some kind of turning point for me, right?

“Nah, that’s cool,” I said. “I need the exercise.”

“Are you’re sure? You look sweaty. Let me give you a ride.”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“It’s like ninety degrees. I’m giving you a ride.”

In the car, she asked me what I did. I knew she meant what did I do for work, but I wasn’t about to tell her I was an unemployed landscaper.

“I’m a writer,” I said, regretting the lie immediately.

She looked impressed, or maybe just really surprised.

“That’s so cool. What do you write?”

It pains me to remember our conversation. All I know is, I didn’t want to blow it. I was desperate to redeem myself.

“Oh, you know, Great American Novels. I’m currently working on something big.”

“What’s it about?”

“Well, it’s difficult to give you a synopsis. It’s pretty sprawling. A lot of the book is about class issues. Wealth inequity. Race. And a bunch of other things.”

“Like what?”

“Well, there’s some stuff about poultry.”

“Sounds amazing.”

“Well, I’m no Frank Norris, but it’s getting there.”

Remy seemed genuinely engaged by my psychobabble. She was actually buying it. Things were going inexplicably well, until the bottom fell out.

Suddenly, as we neared my neighborhood, I got panicky. I didn’t want her to see where I lived. If she saw where I lived, everything would fall apart. I’d get caught in all my idiotic lies. She’d see my truck not sitting in the driveway. She’d see our crappy double-wide. If she dared to venture inside, she’d soon see that I shared a room with Nate, that our beds were in fact two estranged halves of a single bunk bed. Mom would still be home, puffing away. Freddy would be scratching his taco on the sofa. The place would stink of Blueberry Kush and cigarette smoke. There would be no typewriter, no stack of pages. Who was I fooling thinking I could ever be with this girl? She’d see through me in two minutes flat. By the time we got to the abandoned grocery store, I had no choice.

“You can just drop me here.”

“I can take you all the way.”

“Nah, this is great. I wanna walk at least a few blocks.”

Without further ceremony, I opened the door and hopped out of the car.

“Great seeing you,” she said.

“Yeah, you, too.”

“Don’t forget your beer.”

I leaned back into the car and grabbed my tallboy off the dash.

“Come in and see me,” she said.

“I will.”

She winked. “You better. And bring your brother.”

“Well, I’m not sure about that,” I said.

When I walked away from Remy’s car, I didn’t even look back as I heard her circle halfway around the lot and give me a little honk.

What was I supposed to do, ask her out? Out where? With what? Christ, I didn’t even have wheels. She’d have to pick me up, and soon she’d realize that I’m just some unemployed, unenlightened wannabe trying to figure out who the hell he was. So, yeah, now you’re starting to get the picture. Maybe she liked me, maybe she saw something in me, but that’s because she didn’t know me. I’d rather she never see me again and maybe remember me as something I’m not. Like a writer or at least a guy with a job.