Lawn Boy(47)

“Because you do superlative work?”

“C’mon, Goble. Why?”

“Well, you do good work, you really do. But the fact is, prospective home buyers—the ones I sell to—they don’t want to see Mexicans in their prospective neighborhood. You get one Mexican in there, and pretty soon you’ve got a crew of Mexicans in there. You may as well park a taco truck in the driveway.”

“Oh, so that’s how it is.”

“That’s them, understand, the clients,” Goble said. “Not me. Don’t confuse me with my clients. I’m fine with Mexicans. I just ate at Casa Rojas the other day. And yeah, I know you’re Mexican. But not Mexican Mexican. Not that it makes a difference—to me, anyway. Besides, you don’t look too Mexican, that’s the important thing. As long as you don’t grow one of those peach-fuzz mustaches, or start wearing cowboy boots on Saturday night, or listening to salsa really loud, you’ll be okay.”

I needed Goble to stop talking before I punched him in the throat and fucked up the best opportunity anyone had ever offered me.

“Anyway,” he said. “You did nice work out there today, Mike. Really nice work. Welcome to Team Goble.”

He raised his beer and I raised mine, at once hopeful and a little heavy of heart, like maybe I just sold part of my soul.

“Goble or go home,” he said, and we clinked glasses.

I was still a little conflicted about my new job when I got back to the shed. More precisely, I was conflicted about my new employer. In a way, he was like Chaz: shrewd, self-assured. He knew how to think big. Like Chaz, Goble always had a plan, an angle, an objective. But Goble was different. Whereas Chaz was chasing his dreams and schemes to achieve personal freedom—the freedom to sleep, the freedom to drink at 9:00 a.m., the freedom to be your own boss, the freedom not to work hard, etcetera—Goble seemed like he was after something more. You got the feeling Goble didn’t even enjoy his freedom. He filled his free time with more work. He worried about his weight and complexion. He ironed his jeans. Quite simply, he strove in a way Chaz didn’t strive. Like Chaz, he extended goodwill, but only if he thought it could help him win. That was the thing: Goble had to win. Old Chaz knew when he was beaten. Once they put you in cuffs and chained the door, you had to shrug your shoulders and start making lemonade. But not Goble. You got the feeling he would never submit. Whereas Chaz was bullishly optimistic, even careless in his pursuit of upward mobility, Goble was calculated. And I guess that’s what unnerved me.





The Monkey That hundred bucks from Goble hadn’t been in my pocket more than an hour before I texted Remy: You want to hang out this weekend? Dinner? Beers?


An hour later she replied:

Pizza?

Perfect.

That Friday after work, I drove the Tercel, which nearly quit on me at the junction, and met Remy at Campana’s out on Viking Way, where my mom had worked when I was a kid. Still the same decor, the same hot breadsticks, the same stale mints at the cash register. Remy’s eye wart didn’t seem as prominent in the low light of the bar. She was wearing less makeup, too. Tonight she looked more like the girl I fell for all those months ago at Mitzel’s—minus the frumpy work uniform.

“Oh my gosh, what happened to your teeth?” she asked when she noticed.

“Had to get a couple pulled. It’s only temporary,” I lied.

“Who’s your dentist?” she asked. “I need to find a new one. Mirkovich is my guy. He’s got fingers like bratwursts, though.”

“I don’t remember my guy’s name,” I lied. “He’s in Silverdale.”

We ordered a pitcher of Silver City pale and a pizza with anchovies, which seemed like a good omen, since nobody ever agreed to anchovies, let alone enthusiastically. We talked pretty easily over breadsticks about movies and Remy’s job search and my recent good fortune. The more I got to know her, the more self-assured she seemed, unafraid to speak her mind or say something irreverent. And she was generous with her encouragement.

“You really should write it,” she said of my doomed novel. “Just go for it, Mike. Don’t overthink it. It’ll be great.”

“I dunno. Who wants to read a novel about a landscaper, anyway?”

She set one of her hands atop mine and looked me straight in the eye.

“You do,” she said.

Chalk it up to nerves, but when we got on the subject of landscaping, I began to wax poetic and maybe carry on a little too long, though Remy seemed impressed through much of it. I pontificated on the attributes of native ground covers, decried the evil of invasive species, held forth on the expediency of the mulching mower, summarized the myriad advantages of the shade garden in the northwestern climate zone.

“Wow,” she said. “I wish I were that passionate about my job.”

After the leftover pizza was boxed to go, we stayed for another pitcher, during which Remy confessed her dissatisfaction with waitressing, a dissatisfaction I was, of course, well acquainted with.

“What could you do instead?”

“More.”

“More of what?”

“Just more. I don’t know, that’s the problem. Maybe I should go back to school and become a teacher.”

“Do you wanna teach?”

“Not really. But at least it has meaning. I feel like I have these qualities, and this energy and this desire, but I can’t find the wall to throw any of it at.”