Lawn Boy(27)

“Dude,” I’d object weakly.

“So, assuming you’re that guy, Michael, and you probably are, I wouldn’t give it a whole week. You see my point?”

It was like having a conversation with my own ego.

In the end, I decided to wait until payday to call Remy. I did my best to dial her number breezily, as though there were absolutely nothing at stake. But the second she answered it, I went blank.

“Uh, hey, it’s me, Mike. You know, from Mitzel’s and . . .”

“Oh, hi.”

“So, uh, I was thinking like maybe we could, I dunno, grab some kind of food or something? Maybe some pizza. Or like maybe a drink? Like a cocktail or whatever.”

“Oh, I see. You wanna get me drunk, is that it?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Typical man. One thing on his mind.”

“No, really, I didn’t mean like—”

“And what happens once I’m tipsy? What’s your plan then, Mike?”

“I was just talking about—”

“Is that when you take advantage of me? Like in the back of your truck or something?”

“Look, I swear, I wasn’t trying to say—”

“Mike, I’m kidding,” she said. “I’d love to have a drink.”

“How about this weekend?”

“The thing is, I’m leaving for Wenatchee tomorrow to see my parents for a couple weeks.”

“Ah.”

“It’s sort of embarrassing, actually. I need to work at my dad’s hardware store and make a little money to hold me over. I’m totally broke.”

I found the news that Remy was broke thrilling. It released me from my own shame and potentially made me attractive, too, as a person who was not only gainfully employed but also soon to be the point man for Razmachaz LLC—whatever the fuck it was.

“How about the nineteenth?” she said. “It’s a Thursday.”

“Perfect,” I said. “Where?”

“You decide.”

“Uhhh.”

“You don’t have to decide now. Text me.”

When I hung up the phone, I felt slightly changed. Like I’d just made some kind of major step. Granted, I was a little late in taking it, but still it was a confidence builder.





All You Can Eat Three days later, Remy texted me, marking the beginning of a brief exchange: OMG. It’s soooo hot here. Ugh.


LOL. Only 70 here.

Lucky!

I’m feeling lucky!

Don’t do anything naughty . . .

I’ll try not to!

Again, on Thursday she texted: Looking forward to the 19th!

Me, too! It’ll be fun!

It better be! LOL.

Is that a threat?

Maybe.

And again on Friday:

I’m over Wenatchee. My dad is driving me nuts.

Hang in there.

Thanks. At least $$$ is good.

That’s good.

See you when I get back!

Not only were we flirting, not only was Remy initiating it, but we were actually developing intimacy. These exchanges with Remy, the two of us perfect strangers, really, separated by 140 miles, were about the closest I’d ever come to having a bona fide girlfriend, pathetic as that may seem. And I must say, it had me feeling bullish.

Saturday morning, Mom, Nate, Freddy, and I all squeezed into the Tercel and drove the two miles to the casino. They’ve got a huge breakfast buffet over there with an omelet bar and twelve toasters and the whole shebang. It’s called the Clearwater Buffet. We call it the Clearwallet Buffet, though. It’s the kind of thing where in order to bring Nate, you’ve got to have backup because there’s a high ape-shit probability. Too many choices, too much food. If you haven’t noticed, food is a big trigger for Nate.

For all of Freddy’s faults, he’s really good with my brother, which I’m certain is the only reason my mom hasn’t kicked him out yet. Freddy is like Nate’s sensei. At the buffet, when Nate started working himself up into a state, Freddy remained calm and made eye contact with him.

“Look here, boy: I feel your pain. They ain’t never enough blueberries in them waffles. Damn near drive a man crazy. But you a grown man, dog, remember that. Fact is, you a well-grown man. And sometimes a man gotta bear up in the face of adversity. They’s a truckload of waffles not fifty feet from here, and they’re all you can eat. You’ll get your fill of blueberries. You just relax now, boy.”

Freddy’s silky baritone had an immediate calming effect on Nate. My brother was a pussycat the rest of the morning while we heaped our plates with bacon and potatoes, and eggs any way we wanted them. Tall glasses of orange juice and bottomless cups of coffee. We gorged ourselves on bear claws and dunkers and bagels with smoked salmon. We laughed, we grunted, we farted, we sighed. I felt like a king sitting at that table, seeing everybody so cheerful. Here was the Mu?oz clan (and Freddy) on a sunny Saturday morning, with actual promise on the horizon. All the restaurant food we could eat and no anxiety or guilt about the expense. My mom looked ten years younger, sitting there with no cigarette between her fingers, no tumbler of wine, her crow’s-feet turning to laugh lines before my eyes. Freddy was in high spirits, too.

“Mm-mm, I’ll tell you what, Mike Mu?oz,” he said, snapping off half a crispy bacon strip. “Old Freddy could get used to this. A man grow weary of Rice Chex and instant oats, ain’t that right, Nate?”