Lawn Boy(24)

“How did it make you feel?”

“Like kicking their asses.”

“C’mon, honestly. What did it feel like?”

He scratched his neck and looked vaguely in the other direction. “It didn’t feel like anything, Michael.”

“You were flattered, weren’t you? Admit it.”

“Fuck off.”

“Just admit it. It didn’t really make a difference, did it, if it was a dude or a woman? Either way, you felt good about yourself. You felt wanted.”

“You’re sick, you know that? There’s no way in hell you’re gonna make a fag out of me. Is that what you’re trying to do?”

“Is that what you think this is about? Believe me, Nick, even if I were gay, I’d have zero interest in you.”

“Good.”

“You hate women, you hate Mexicans, you hate gays—”

“I don’t hate women.”

“You hate these people because you’re scared, Nick.”

“Bullshit.”

“Because you’re insecure about your own intelligence, your own sexuality, your own measly job. Because you—”

And just like that, Nick stood up without a word and walked out of Tequila’s. The truth is, I was glad to see him go. But still, I couldn’t believe it. I’d never seen him leave a full pitcher like that.





Family I was pretty shit-housed by the time the bus dropped me off a little after midnight. When I got home, I could hear Freddy in the shed, thumping away on his bass while watching, one could only assume, vintage porn. Mom was at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette. There was no sneaking past her, so I ducked my head into the kitchen.


“Hey, Ma.”

“Hi, honey.” She smiled, so I could see her conspicuously white crown. The shadows played hard on her face. Despite the weariness, I saw an old spark of genuine satisfaction, too.

“You want to sit down?” she said.

“Nah, I’m beat. How was work?”

“Not too busy,” she said. “How’s Nick?”

“He’s good.”

“Tell him to come around more often.”

I could tell she wanted me to hang around and talk for a while. But then I’d have to tell her about Nick walking out on me, and I didn’t want to disappoint her.

“Well, good night, Ma.”

She tapped her cigarette and picked up her tumbler. “Good night, honey. Could you remember to take a look under that sink?”

“You bet, Ma.”

I stumbled into the bedroom and plopped down on my half of the disembodied bunk bed without taking my clothes off. The room spun slowly counterclockwise, to the tune of Nate snoring.

I got to thinking of Nick, way back in seventh grade, when he practically lived with us. His mom and dad were fighting constantly. Two or three times, the cops showed up at their house, and once they even hauled his old man off to county. Nick never talked about it, but we all knew that his dad roughed him up regularly. Don Colavito was a mauler. I’m pretty sure it’s the reason Nick always tensed up when you touched him unexpectedly. I’m also certain it’s why Nick goes by his middle name, Nicholas, and not his first name, Donald.

My mom treated Nick like one of her own, even though she had more than she could handle already. He was one of us, eating bruised bananas and crackers in front the TV while Mom was at work. He’d still be there when she got home with pizza and breadsticks. Some nights he didn’t go home, and it was a rare night when anybody came looking for him.

And then there’s the fact that Nick’s been like a brother to Nate, too. He’s spent countless hours in front of the TV with him, eaten a gazillion Big Macs with him, read a million books to him, stuck up for him in high school, though Nick was younger and a hundred pounds lighter. And he’s never once run out of patience with Nate.

I’m not defending Nick, exactly. It’s just that no matter what a narrow-minded dickhead he is, he’s family. All these years, I’ve had no choice but to accept him, in spite of his bigotry and shallowness and willful ignorance. No matter how deep the infection runs, family is family. The only other choice is to cut them off like rotten limbs.





Like Butter Having affixed my final bobblehead for the day, I was filing out the door behind Thing One and Thing Two when Chaz stopped me out front by the dead ficus. I assumed he needed me to start his car again.


“We need to talk,” he said.

My ears started burning.

“You got time for a beer?”

“Uh, maybe,” I said. “Let me call Freddy.”

“That your boyfriend?”

“No. Not at all. Kind of a roommate, I guess.”

“See what you can do, Mu?oz. Razmachaz is heating up. I need to start getting you up to speed.”

Though Freddy let me know on no uncertain terms that he’d have to shuffle some things around (presumably his nuts), he was willing to cover me on one condition.

“Pick up some chips on your way home. The cheesy kind. None of this baked-rice shit.”

“Got it,” I said.

“And get some grape soda at the Masi.”

“They don’t carry it anymore.”

“Orange, then. The name brand.”