Lawn Boy(23)

TMI On Saturday night, Nick swung by and picked me up in his beloved Honda, House of Pain rattling the windows as he pulled up to the trailer. His love for bad hip-hop, like his love of that stupid Accord, is every bit as irrational as his fear of Mexicans and gays. He’s already sunk a ridiculous amount of money into that car. Nothing on the damn thing is stock. The muffler belongs on a drag racer. The spoiler belongs on a Formula 1. The LED hubcaps spin to no discernible purpose.


At Tequila’s, we got in a round of darts, in which he beat me handily—as usual. I’d lost what little dart mojo I’d ever had, but I didn’t care. Though it was the first time I’d been there in weeks, I was sick of Tequila’s, weary of the jukebox, tired of smelling the bathroom, sick of the ubiquitous neon and the endless repetition of SportsCenter, and most of all, done with the nagging hope that somehow tonight would be different, that something or someone would magically walk into my life, because I was in the right place. As though Tequila’s in Poulsbo could ever be the right place.

“So, what’s new?” he wanted to know. “How’s the new gig?”

“Repetitive,” I said.

“Well, that’s the idea of a job, Michael. The minute it stops repeating itself, you’re out on your ass.”

“I guess so.”

“Hey man, I might be able to score us some tickets this season—fifty-yard line, yo. Some big-shot contractor with like four different trucks says if I hook him up on some all-season Toyos, he’ll give me a pair of tickets to the game of my choice. What do you think, Cardinals? I love watching Arians lose his shit.”

“Just not the Rams,” I said.

“Hell no,” he said, taking a healthy pull on his beer. “Oh, hey, I got a joke. What’s the difference between a fag and a refrigerator?”

“I don’t want to know.”

“A refrigerator doesn’t fart when you pull out the meat.”

“Nick, I said I didn’t want to know.”

“What is it with you?”

“What about you? Why are you always bashing people? Mexicans, fags, lesbians, I don’t get why they offend you so much. What did a Mexican or a fag ever do to you?”

Nick doesn’t answer, just sips his beer irritably.

“Seriously, I just don’t get it, Nick. You don’t even have a reason.”

“Duh, Michael. Look around. They’re taking all our jobs. They don’t pay taxes.”

“Fags don’t pay taxes?”

“No, dumbshit, illegals. And for your information, they’re not normal.”

“Mexicans?”

“No, fags.”

“What’s normal, then, Nick? Tell me that. Your porn habit? The way you talk about women?”

“Oh, like you don’t watch porn?”

“Actually, no.”

“You’re a liar.”

“What if I told you I touched another guy’s dick?” I said.

“Pfff.” Nick waved me off and turned his attention back to his beer.

“What if I told you I sucked it?”

“Will you please just shut up already?”

“I’m dead serious, Nick.”

“Well, I’d say you were a fag.”

“I was ten years old, but it’s true. I put Doug Goble’s dick in my mouth.”

“The real-estate guy?”

“Yeah.”

Nick looked around frantically. “What the fuck are you talking about, Michael?”

“I was in fourth grade. It was no big deal.”

Cringing, Nick held his hands out in front of him in a yield gesture. “Stop.”

“He sucked mine, too.”

“Stop! Why are you telling me this?”

“And you know what?” I said. “It wasn’t terrible.”

All the air went out of Nick, and he looked at me dully, his face a prairie of blankness.

“This is a joke, right?”

“No, Nick, it’s not a joke.”

“So you’re saying you’re a fag?”

“I doubt that. It’s been twelve years since I touched a dick. But that’s not the point.”

Nick looked genuinely troubled. Averting his eyes to his beer, he looked just about as thoughtful as I’ve ever seen him look.

“So, wait,” he said. “You’re not, like . . . in love with me, are you?”

I swear, I almost punched him. “Fuck no. How could I—or any other guy—possibly be in love with you?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re still missing the point, Nick.”

“No, why wouldn’t a guy love me?”

“Never mind,” I said. “Just drop it.”

“You’re wrong, asswipe, I happen to know gay guys like me. I’ve caught them staring at me.”

“How’d you know they were gay?”

“They were gay.”

“How’d you know?”

“They were staring at me, dipshit. It was in the city. Of course, they were gay.”

“Okay, so assuming they were gay—” I said.

“Shhh!” he said, glancing up and down the bar.