Lawn Boy(29)

“Del Jeffers,” he said, without extending a hand.

“Mike,” I said.

“That all? Just Mike?”

“Mike Mu?oz.”

“Mexican, eh? Figured as much when I saw you pushing a lawn mower.”

I was hot and tired and happy to have a ride. I wasn’t going to disappoint him by not being an actual Mexican, so I didn’t object.

“If you don’t mind my asking, how does a fella find himself pushing a mower along the side of the highway?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Truck break down?”

“Yeah, but not today.”

Del considered the information to see if it fit anywhere. “You always take it fishin’ with you like that, the mower?”

“I’m not fishing.”

“Hmph. Well then, how is it that you got yourself a rod and a tackle box?”

“I came from the flea market.”

“Ah,” said Del. “So it’s all yours, huh? The mower, the rod, the tackle, all those there DVD videos.”

“It is now. Like I said, I was at the flea market.”

“Flea market, you say?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmph. Just a coincidence, then, I reckon.”

“What?”

“Daughter’s brother-in-law got his mower stolen couple weeks back. Green, like that one. Turns out he’s quite the angler, too. Where’d you say you live?”

“I didn’t.”

“Mind my askin’?”

“The res.”

Why is it people always ask you so many questions when they’ve already got their minds made up about you? Del kept interrogating me as we passed Little Boston and Crazy Corners, and a little ways past the Indianola signal, where he dropped me on the shoulder.

“This is as far as I go,” he said.

I was still a few miles from home, but I’ll be honest, I was relieved to get out of Del’s truck. He watched me intently in the side mirror as I wrestled the mower out.

“You take care, Mike Mu?oz of Suquamish,” he said out the window. “Stay out of trouble.”





Changing of the Guard I knew Mom would not be happy with the arrangement, but I figured Freddy’s days were numbered, anyway, and since he spent most of his time in the house, we agreed to swap rooms.


I’m not saying the shed’s a palace, but I made a desk out of eight cinder blocks and a half sheet of splintered plywood, and lined my books in even rows along the workbench, until the place started looking homey, in a third-world way.

I hung up my Billy Bass and pushed it a few times. “Take Me to the River,” he sang, his big lips moving so lifelike, his tail fin wagging in rhythm.

The biggest improvement was the solitude. Besides the thrumming of Freddy’s bass, the relentless screech of my neighbor Dale’s band saw deep into the night, and the occasional bottle rocket or M-80, it was pretty quiet out there. The first night, I settled into my air mattress and read this old French geezer, Céline, and boy, was he pissed off at the state of the world. I had to admire his spirit.

In the morning, I walked into the house to eat a couple Eggos and make my lunch before work, and guess who walked out of my mom’s bedroom in his hopelessly stretched-out tighty-whities? I’ll give you a hint: it wasn’t Bernie Sanders.

I was more stunned than anything else. “Freddy? Uhhh?”

“Mornin’, Mike. How was the guest cottage?”

“Where’s my mom?”

“I’m right here, honey,” she said, walking out after him in her bathrobe.

“Oh,” I said.

And really, what else could I say?

After breakfast, while I was scraping my plate into the garbage under the sink, I happened guiltily upon Freddy’s recent handiwork. And I have to admit, his fix was pretty ingenious. He’d replaced both the cracked drainpipe and the leaking elbow with the Festiva’s radiator hose and clamps. Cost: zero. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous that I’d never thought of it. That’s when I realized that there had been an official changing of the guard. My status as head of household had been usurped by a man who recorded homemade soundtracks to 1980s porn.





Chief Seattle Days I guess you get used to seeing things a certain way, so that even when they change you stop noticing. Maybe that’s why I haven’t exactly raved about the res. Sure, there’s a beautiful new tribal center where the slab used to be, but I still think of it as the slab, a hoopless basketball court riddled with potholes. They’ve dolled up Chief Seattle’s grave, but the place remains largely forgotten in spite of the new infrastructure the casino dollars have provided. They’ve rebuilt the dock, but it still leads to the same old place. I suppose it might help if I were Indian; maybe that would imbue the res with a sense of heritage, maybe then I’d feel some vital connection to the place. But as it is, it just feels like the place I’ve been stuck my whole life.


Except, that is, for a single weekend at the end of summer, when the whole res is transformed, and Suquamish feels like somewhere for once. For forty-eight hours, everyone puts their misery on hold. Old grudges are temporarily forgotten. The drumming and the dancing never cease. And the whole town is redolent with barbecue smoke. Some of my best childhood memories are of Chief Seattle Days. With the parade, the canoe races, the pageant, the salmon dinner, the softball tournament, and the vendors, it’s quite a powwow.