Lawn Boy(28)

Indeed, Nate was lost happily somewhere between abstraction and diabetic shock. Things couldn’t have been nicer or more pleasant. And dammit, I was grateful, but a little guilty, too. I really should have invited Nick.





Not Just Any Lawn Mower After the buffet, Mom had to pull an afternoon shift, so Freddy, Nate, and I walked out to 305 and caught a bus to Hansville for the flea market. I had fifty-nine bucks in my pocket, and as much as I’d been promising myself I’d show a little financial restraint, I was itching to get there.


Flea markets are a glorious thing if you’re not a millionaire. There’s nothing quite like the pleasure of discovering lost treasures among life’s flotsam, unless it’s the pleasure of getting rid of rusty old shit and making a buck. It’s a win-win situation—kind of like recycling for poor people. It was a thirty-five-minute bus ride to Hansville, and the window wouldn’t open and Nate was a little gassy after the buffet. He’s not inhibited that way. On top of the drive, it was a half-mile walk to the flea market from the bus stop, a warm stretch of highway in August.

Freddy’s corduroys kept riding up on him.

“Goddamn,” he said, digging at his crotch. “It’s like a goddamn reuben sandwich down there.”

“Spare us the details, please.”

“You don’t understand, boy. I hail from warmer climes. A man’s privates gotta breathe.”

“I didn’t realize Tacoma was so much warmer.”

“I’m talking about Africa.”

“Kind of a stretch, don’t you think?”

“How’s that?”

“That was like five generations ago.”

“Uh-huh. And I suppose you ain’t Mexican?”

“Technically, my dad was born in California.”

“Uh-huh. You just keep tellin’ yourself that, Mike Mu?oz. But far as anyone else is concerned, you Mexican. If it looks Mexican, and it has a Mexican name, it’s probably Mexican. Even if it don’t speak Mexican.”

There must have been forty stalls spread out in roughly even rows on the dead grass, a couple of blue Honey Bucket outhouses on the far edge of the gravel parking lot. Most people don’t realize it, but a flea market is a whole social order. First, you’ve got your pros, the ones who might actually own a home of stick construction. Usually, they’re retired. Their stalls consist of foldout tables, the kind you see in church basements. The pros have canopies for shade. They have power strips and cash boxes. Their wares are varied and many, everything from pewter figurines to frilly, old lamps. Stamp collections, books, ceramic bowls, vintage postcards, Victorian doilies. Meanwhile, your rustics and fierce libertarians, the ones whose homes probably don’t have cement foundations, operate from their tailgates, amending them with saw horses and plywood to accommodate their inventory. Their wares are also many but less varied: carburetors, chain saws, winches, wedges, mauls, old license plates, ammunition, and knives. The next rung down is the broke-as-hell working-class stall. This is your classic fire-sale scenario—everything must go: blenders, 28k modems, Foreman grills. Crock-Pots, treadmills, and terrariums. Even toys, which sort of breaks your heart. Farther down the line, your hippies operate exclusively on blankets or tarps. Candles, dream catchers, and handmade drums. Maybe a wood carving of two bears fucking. Always a sad cardboard box of records—some America, some CCR, some scratched-to-hell Steppenwolf, and maybe an old Andy Williams or Mantovani album, which belonged to their parents. By the time you get all the way down to the tweakers, you’re almost to the Honey Buckets, and there’s no more shade. You have some heavily tattooed kid with an oversized baseball cap and his fourteen-year-old girlfriend. A towel, a pit bull, and some stolen DVDs. That’s where I usually start shopping. On this occasion, I scored a bunch of DVDs for Nate, including Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs and Scooby-Doo Wrestlemania Mystery 2.

Farther up the line, I found a fishing rod for eight bucks and a tackle box for three fifty. Not that I fish, but I’ve been meaning to start one of these days. I always see Indians sitting on the dock downtown, with a can of beer in a brown bag, their fishing poles dangling over the edge. They never catch anything but bullheads, but it looks relaxing. I also bought another Leatherman for four bucks and, for five bucks, a Billy Bass wall hanging that lip-synched “Take Me to the River” and wagged its tail fin in perfect time. If you’ve ever seen one, you know they’re hilarious and quite lifelike.

Yes, I realize I was spending immoderately. But dammit, I needed it. The fact is, I only bought one big-ticket item: a lawn mower for thirty-five bucks. I haggled the guy down from forty-five. Not just any lawn mower, either. A Snapper 3.5 horsepower mulching mower with a thirty-six-inch deck. Green, like my old one, but in better shape.

It didn’t occur to me when I bought the mower that I’d have to push it all the way home. So, while Freddy and Nate bused back to the res, I began the journey on foot and started thumbing. After about eight steps I realized I should have sent the tackle box and the DVDs home on the bus with Freddy. Eventually, an old blue pickup with three dozen angry bumper stickers stopped for me. The driver, who wore a long white beard, watched me suspiciously in the side mirror, like a detective on a stakeout, as I hefted the mower into the bed. I was about to jump in back with the mower, but he waved me into the cab, where I squeezed in with a pair of overweight labs.