Lawn Boy(3)

So, you see, my life is not totally without purpose. After five caregivers in three years (two of whom Nate physically assaulted), we’ve burned so many bridges with the Aging and Disability Services Administration that we don’t even bother asking for help anymore. But we manage to maintain a household, just barely. There’s a lot of broken shit around here and not a lot of resources. So if you’re wondering why our showerhead is an empty plastic liter bottle riddled with fork holes, why don’t you run down to Home Depot and price a new showerhead?

When Mom emerged from the kitchen, tumbler in hand, she sat in the old brown La-Z-Boy that used to be Ronnie’s. She picked up the remote and turned on the TV to nothing in particular, firing up a fresh heater and drawing deeply from it. Maybe it was just the sickly light of the TV, but behind her veil of smoke she looked a thousand years old. You could see the new crown on her front tooth and how it was whiter than everything else—and it ought to be for six hundred bucks.

“You okay, Ma?”

“Fine,” she said, exhaling. “You?”

“I’m good.”

She flipped around the channels a bit, puffing her cigarette, until she landed on something called American Pickers, wherein two guys who seem a little gay drive around the country in a van, rummaging through people’s old crap and offering them money for it. Initially, there was something hopeful about the premise, but it turns out it’s not as simple as just being a hoarder. You need the right crap.

Finally, Mom stubbed out her cigarette and pushed herself to her feet. “When you get a few minutes, honey, could you look under the kitchen sink? It’s still leaking.”

“Sure, Ma, I’ll take a look.”

When she was halfway to her bedroom, she turned back, as though she’d forgotten something.

“Oh, and I hope it’s okay, but I picked up a shift tomorrow night. It’s gonna be tight this month with the—”

“But I was—”

“Oh, never mind, honey. If you’ve got plans, I’ll just call Jerry and—”

“Nah,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. It’s okay.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

After Mom went to her room, I took a cursory look under the sink and quickly determined that the drainpipe (cheap-ass PVC) was cracked, and the elbow seal was also a lost cause. Probably the whole works would have to be replaced. A small pain in the ass, and twenty bucks if you did it right.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed. Not about the sink but about tomorrow night. I’d planned on heading down to Mitzel’s to sit in Remy’s section, and eat another crappy entrée and drink a lot of water, so she’d have to come by and refill my glass. And no, I’m not stalking her. Some slow night, when there’s a break in our conversation that feels natural, I’m gonna ask Remy out. Nick says I need to “hurry up and hit that shit.” But then, Nick’s kind of a dipshit.





Nothing Auspicious




I have this old picture, bent and tattered around the edges, that sits atop my dresser next to my pickle jar full of coins. The photo was taken a few weeks after my old man moved out for good. Not that there’s anything particularly auspicious about the occasion of the photograph, but it’s one of maybe a half dozen I have from my childhood.

In the picture, I’m standing with Nate and my best friend, Nick Colavito, out in front of the Bainbridge fire station, where my mom brought us for the annual BIFF pancake breakfast. Maybe it’s because I look at the picture so often that I remember the details of that day so vividly. Or maybe I’m embellishing. But I remember my mom paying our admission with her previous night’s tips, a tired but scrupulous stack of small bills. I remember that Mom didn’t buy a plate for herself and that it was only after Nate went back for thirds and couldn’t clean his plate that she devoured a half a strip of bacon and part of a soggy pancake.

Afterward, we waited in line for a free ride on a fire truck. I distinctly remember not having the heart to tell my mom that I was a little too old to get any kind of kick out of a fire truck, and so was Nick. But looking back, the engine ride was probably for Nate’s benefit. He was always talking way too loud about fire trucks—often in church or in line at the grocery store. Anyway, that’s when Mom lined up the three of us and snapped the photo.

Nate is on the left, a half foot taller than Nick or me. At eleven, he’s already pretty thick around the middle, his T-shirt clinging to his bloated torso like a sausage skin and barely reaching the waistband of his cotton sweatpants, which are also too small. His hair is cropped short, so he won’t pull it out or catch it on fire. Other than that, he looks somewhat content, if not a little cross-eyed.

On the far right is Nick, same age as me but older looking, his good-natured grin unable to belie the considerable defiance in his eyes. The effect is sort of a glower, like he’s daring the world to do something or say something. Sometimes I wish I could go back and tell Nick to just hold his horses, that the world has plenty of shit in store for him. But I think he already knew that from experience.

That’s me, little Mike Mu?oz, standing in the middle. A sad-eyed ferret of a kid, skinny and bewildered, slight olive complexion, dark rings under my eyes. Greasy bangs plastered to my forehead, faded Toughskins jeans riding halfway up my shins. On my back, a dirty brown coat with a fake-fur collar. Not exactly the kid from the Sears catalog but a kid all the same. Eight years old and looking for a little security, a little self-confidence—any confidence, really. Just a third grader, bottom lip chafed from obsessive licking, little fingernails bitten to the quick, aching for a good time.