Lawn Boy(35)

“Yeah, but . . .”

“But what? Come on, I’m buying.”

I’m not ashamed that my mom is a waitress. It’s just not something I like to watch. For this very reason, I rarely go to the Tide’s Inn, though it’s only five blocks from the house and I could probably score an occasional free beer. Add to that the discomfort of bringing Remy to my mom’s place of employment, where somebody was bound to tease me, and you’ve got a pretty good idea why I was so itchy under the collar.

There were numerous BMX bikes parked out front, which is a hallmark on the res, because DUIs are kind of a thing around here. There was also an old St. Bernard with a giant tumor on his neck, lounging in the doorway. Stepping over the dog, we pushed through the door and made our way across a floor littered with scratch tickets, ending up at a wobbly table in back, where we sat in the glow of the ancient cigarette machine.

“Uh, just so you know,” I said, “my mom is gonna be our waitress.”

“That’s your mom? Wow, she’s pretty.”

Mom was pleasantly surprised to see me, and I imagine even more surprised to see me with a girl.

“Ma, this is Remy.”

“Nice to meet you, sweetie. You have excellent taste in men.”

My scalp tightened.

“Yeah, so far he’s a keeper,” said Remy.

Goddamn, it was hot in there. My mom hovered over our table, small-talking with Remy for what seemed like an eternity. Honestly, I just wanted to get past the pretense and kiss Remy and find out whether or not it would be life changing.

My mom comped us a pitcher, which I knew would later come out of her tips.

“So when’s your novel going to be published?” Remy asked, topping off our glasses with the pitcher. “When can I read it?”

“Actually, uh, there is no novel,” I said. “Not really. I was just trying to impress you.”

“Ah, I see,” she said, visibly unimpressed. “So you lied?”

“It wasn’t a total lie,” I said. “I’m trying to write a novel, but it’s terrible. I wrote a scene where a guy is sitting on the toilet eating a turkey leg, trying to figure out what he’s doing with his life.”

“Is he pooping?” she asked.

“I haven’t really figured that out. I guess I assumed he was pooping, since his underwear is around his ankles.”

“He should be pooping,” she said. “Or he should get off the pot.”

It was like she was talking about me.

When our beers were empty, we reached that awkward point where it was time to make a decision. I can’t speak for Remy, but I had a pretty good buzz by then, between the wine and the beer. My instinct was to drink more, because I felt like it would only get us closer to something definitive, but I didn’t have any money.

“Well, I better call it quits while I can still drive,” she said.

I should’ve said something like “You can always take a cab” or “You can crash on my couch” and then ordered another pitcher or a couple of J?gerbombs and had my mom comp it. But then, maybe Remy was trying to preserve something. Maybe she really did think I was a keeper. Maybe she didn’t want to move too fast.

Outside, the rain had let up. We stood in the parking lot for a while, prolonging the opportunity to take some elusive next step. I was compelled to take that step but mostly by voices in my head.

Nick: “Hit that shit.”

Freddy: “What you waitin’ for, boy?”

Mom: “She was awfully nice, Michael.”

What was the big hurry, anyway? If Remy and I were meant to be, it would happen, one way or another.

“We should do this again,” Remy said.

“Totally. I’ll text you.”

“Well . . .” she said.

I leaned into her, then stopped, then she leaned forward and halted. Finally, we leaned in at the same time and managed a kiss. It was clearly more than polite but still a little ambiguous. I should’ve put my hand on the small of her back and pulled her close to me and really locked lips with her, like in an old movie. I should have staked some claim to her immediate future.

“Thanks for the picnic,” she said, climbing into her car.

“You bet,” I said.

And then she drove off.





The Revolution Is Postponed




That night, I dreamed of landscaping, of clean lines and neatly raked beds. Of calloused hands and green boot tops, of steaming mulch and hissing sprinklers and sun-dappled rhodies in full bloom. I dreamed of tidy edges and shady corners and weedless gravel paths meandering between rose beds. I dreamed of a world where I was still getting a paycheck, still coming home each day exhausted but satisfied, ninety-six dollars richer. In my dream, I had a brand-new F-250 named Georgia. And it was divine.

I awoke to the dulcet strains of Dale’s band saw, the rain beating down on the roof of the shed like pea gravel. The entire right side of my jaw was throbbing. The pain hit like a rubber mallet and ran like a shiver up the back of my skull. I reached in and wiggled the tooth with a wince until it was loose, and the pain took my breath away.

Believe me, it would have been easy to eat four Advils and stay in bed all day. But I got dressed and left without eating breakfast or even going in the house. By afternoon, with my loose tooth still throbbing ceaselessly, I put in job applications at KFC, Payless ShoeSource, and Taco del Mar.