Lawn Boy(44)

“How do you infiltrate invisible communities?”

“You go to three church services every Sunday, plus a Thursday mass at St. Cecilia. You go to fund-raisers and dodge out right before the bidding. You go to city council meetings—even in cities you don’t live in. You go to Little League games—yeah, a little weird, since you don’t have kids, but you’ve got a four-by-eight-foot billboard in center field, plus one in the lot adjacent to Rotary Park, and a realty sign in front of the duplex two doors down, so it seems pretty natural, you being at Little League games, know what I mean? You’re a sponsor. The point is, you be there. That’s how you earn trust. Just by being there. Attendance is gold.”

“But . . .”

“No buts. You just always gotta be in the right place. You’re the writer, what’s the word I’m looking for? Ubiquitous. You gotta be ubiquitous. Where do I turn?” he said when we hit Division.

“I’ll just jump out here.”

“No way, pal. I’m taking you door to door. For old times’ sake.”

There he was with the old times again but no mention of penises. How could he act so familiar and not talk about it, like it wasn’t sitting there between us like a goddamn elephant?

“Well,” I said as he pulled up to the house. “Here we are: Rancho Dumpo.”

“Ah, it ain’t so bad,” he said. “You gotta see the potential. They call me the House Whisperer down at RE/MAX. What you ought to do is strike that old canopy and make a few trips to the dump. Get rid of the jalopy. Put a skirt around the bottom of the unit, so it looks more like a foundation. Plant some hedges, front and side, to break up the rectangularity of the place and give it a little buttress. Couple of planters under the window. Half-dozen paving stones and a little paint would add some serious curb appeal, too, and cheap. You own the place?”

“No.”

“Never mind, then. As you were.”

As I climbed out of the car, Freddy appeared on the porch in his underwear to admire the Lexus, scratching the springy hairs of his chest and hocking a loogie. Goble didn’t even flinch—the guy was unflappable. He gave Freddy a familiar little wave and Freddy waved back, visibly confused to see me in a Lexus convertible with a guy wearing a dress shirt.

“By the way,” said Goble, producing a business card. “Give me a call on Monday. I might have a job for you.”





Before and After Monday morning, I called Goble. He was currently managing six new properties on the island, all in need of regular maintenance. And get this: he’d pay me twenty bucks an hour—cha-ching! He instructed me to meet him out at the first property in an hour, which was on Wardwell, just off 305. I crammed the mower in the trunk of the Tercel, along with the edger, the weed whacker, and the rake, then got Freddy and Nate to give me a push for a compression start.


When I arrived at the first property, Goble wasn’t there yet, so I parked on a hill and began unloading my gear. The house was your typical McMansion. Gray and boxy, with some corny flourishes intended to look classy: a pergola, some pillars, a roundabout driveway. It sat on a big lot, mostly wooded. What lawn it afforded needed some work, especially around the edges.

Just as I was getting ready to fire up the mower, Goble pulled up in his Lexus, top down, auto-tuned pop music blaring.

“Dude, you can’t park there!” he shouted. “You’re blocking my sign!”

So much for parking on the hill. I put the Tercel in neutral and started rolling her down toward the corner. That’s how I wound up with two wheels in the ditch.

Despite his annoyance, Goble was pretty cool about the whole thing. He called a tow truck and gave me his AAA card. My debt to Goble was mounting by the minute.

“I really appreciate it, man,” I told him as the tow truck pulled away.

“Just do a good job,” he said. “I gotta move this place.”

He walked me around the property, soliciting my opinion on a few matters. Should he stage some lawn furniture on the flagstone patio? What did I think about painting the front door red? Should we clear out some of those junk trees around the perimeter?

“Mike, I need your professional opinion here. Where do we start?”

“I don’t know.”

“Really? That’s the best you’ve got?”

“You’ve seen my house. How the hell would I know?”

“You’re a professional landscaper. I asked you, and you said yourself you were good. You’ve got to act the part.”

“Okay,” I said. “The lawn needs some work. The edges are rough, and you’ve got a dandelion problem. The reason it’s bald under that walnut tree isn’t because of the shade, it’s the high acid content of the soil. I’m betting some fescue would take root there. Four bucks at Bay Hay and Feed. Done and doner. And yeah, if you lose a few of those alders, you might lighten up the place. That Japanese maple would do better with more light. I’d also square up that laurel and deadhead those rhodies.”

“Now that’s more like it, Mike. You sound like a gamer.”

“I could also carve you a sculpture out of that boxwood there. Maybe like bald eagle with a rabbit in his talons.”

“Quit while you’re ahead, Mike.”

“What about a fish?”