Lawn Boy(41)

“Hey, Mike. What’s up?”

“Not much,” I said.

“Spare two minutes to talk about the environment?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

“Did you know that Shell plans to resume drilling for oil in the Arctic?”

“Yeah, I think I heard something about that.”

“Experts say there’s a seventy-five percent chance of a major spill, and oil recovery is nearly impossible in Arctic conditions.”

“Bummer,” I said.

“Not to mention the fact that there’s no spill-response capacity in the region in the first place and that the Arctic is one of the most fragile ecosystems on Earth.”

He gave me about two seconds to let the information settle in before soldiering on.

“Did you know that the Arctic is currently warming at twice the rate as the rest of the world?”

“That’s fucked.”

“Yes, it is,” he said. “It is most certainly, unequivocally fucked. Especially if you’re a polar bear or a ringed seal or a migratory whale or a puffin. But also if you’re a human being. And the oil companies know this. They’ve known it for five decades. But they don’t care about anything but quarterly profits. That’s why we’re collecting signatures to stop the drilling before it begins.”

“Hell, yeah,” I said. “I’ll sign it.”

Andrew flashed a Stonehenge smile, handed me the clipboard and pen. I proudly filled out my name and address. Yeah, I know a signature’s not much, but it buoyed my spirits a little knowing that I’d at least done something to make the world a better place, which was more than I usually did. Hell, for all my complaining, I wasn’t even a registered voter. I determined then and there to change that.

“Thanks for caring,” he said.

“You bet,” I said. “Thanks for, you know, standing on a corner with a clipboard.”

But I don’t think Andrew heard me, because he’d already moved on, accosting the next passerby. Too bad, because I’d wanted to hang around and talk about books for a while. I was about to cross the street to avoid Tequila’s, when I ran into Tino in front of the Christian bakery.

“?Qué onda, Miguel? ?Cómo lo llevas?”

He was still wearing his work clothes; boots scuffed, dirt on the knees, baseball cap pulled down low over his forehead.

“Hey, man,” I said.

“Whatchu doin’, ese?”

“Just walkin’ around,” I said. “Savin’ the Arctic, that kind of thing. What about you?”

“Just picked up mucho dog shit at McClures’. Pinche dog shit on the lounge chairs. I need a cerveza, ese. C’mon, I buy you one,” he said nodding at Tequila’s.

“Do we have to go there?”

“Naw, man, wherever you want.”

So we walked down by the marina to the Dockside Tavern, with its murky light and its sagging, lost-puck shuffleboard table, its filthy bathroom, and its bar top sticky to the touch. The bartender, not the chatty sort, had a jagged three-inch scar across his forehead and a naked-lady tattoo on his forearm.

I ordered a PBR to go easy on Tino’s pocketbook.

“So, what’s new?” I said.

“Ah, you know, ese. Same old shit. Lacy, he just getting meaner and fatter. New accounts, bigger projects. We working most Saturdays now. Overtime on weekdays. But he don’t pay us extra. He still payin’ the same shit wage, no matter how many hours.”

“So quit.”

“Shit, I’m thinking about it, but it’s the same everywhere. Nobody want to pay a Mexican. I need to make more money, ese. I need some space, you know? That trailer is getting too small. Ramiro, he only four foot six, but he snores like a pinche oso. And Rocindo, all the time he having sex with his wife late at night. Then his hijos eating Skittles and climbing the walls at six in the morning. It’s Locotown. I gotta get out, ese, gotta get my own place. But how am I gonna do that working for Lacy, when I’m sending half of what I make to Durango?” He shook his head grimly. “Is not supposed to be this way, Miguel. Is supposed to get better.”

“It does get better,” I said.

“Yeah?” he said, doubtfully.

“In my experience, yeah. Right before it all goes to shit again.”

Tino sipped his beer soberly. “Something gotta change, that’s all I know, ese. I gotta do more than just survive, or what am I doing here? I may as well be back in Durango.”

“I know a guy who’d be happy to give you a lift to the bus station.”

“Don’t I know it, ese. Back home things are even worse, though. But still I miss it, my ni?os, my esposa. Is lonely, Miguel, you don’t know.”

“So go back.”

“I can’t afford to go back. It took me everything to get here. More than everything. I got people depending on me back home. I gotta make something happen.”

“Bring your family up here.”

“Ha, is not so easy, Miguel. And my money, it don’t go so far, not here. Rocindo, he got help—his wife, she work part-time. Her brother help them out, too. And still they need me and Ramiro to pay the rent. Where do I put my family?”

“Gotcha,” I said.

Tino drained his beer and held up two fingers for the bartender, who delivered two more, promptly and without a word.