Lawn Boy(5)

It’s not her fault if her uniform is a little frumpy, with its padded shoulders and baggy sleeves and shapeless black slacks, any more than it’s her fault that she always smells like pancake batter. That stuff is all superficial, anyway.

“Uh, this is my brother, Nate.”

“Hi, Nate,” she said.

“This one!” he demanded, pointing to the prime rib dip.

“Ah, okay,” she said, scribbling down the order as she shot me a sly little wink. So sympathetic, so understanding. She could tell right away that Nate had special needs. What was stopping me from asking this woman out?

“How about you?” she said.

“I’ll just have a side salad.”

“You’re sure?”

“And, uh, fries, I guess.”

“Anything to drink?”

“Soda!” said Nate.

“Just water for me.”

Nothing to set the world on fire, sure, but a successful exchange—or at least not a disastrous one. We were still getting to know each other. What was the big hurry?

When Remy delivered the food, I redoubled my efforts to develop intimacy.

“Wow. That’s a big salad,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s pretty big.”

“Really big,” I ventured.

“Yeah, I guess so. Can I bring you guys anything else?”

“I think we’re good. Thanks.”

I thought I saw a little spring in her step as she waltzed back down the aisle to the wait station.

About two minutes later, Nick came down the aisle, with his trimmed little goatee, which made him look like a NASCAR driver, and his twelfth-man jersey. Muscling into the booth, he immediately started plucking fries off my plate.

“Man Hands working?”

“Quit calling her that,” I said.

“Did you get her digits yet? Get it, digits? Like because of her big fingers.”

“Just shut up about it.”

Nick speared another fry off my plate and was eyeing Nate’s.

“Make a move already, Michael. It’s getting a little creepy, you eating here twice a week. No wonder you’re broke all the time.”

“Just get off my back for once, would you?”

“Jesus, why are you so sensitive? Speaking of fags: look at that homo by the window.”

“And lay off the fag stuff,” I said. “You don’t even know the guy.”

“Oh, are you a fag, too?”

“No, as a matter of fact, I’m not. It’s just that what difference does it make about somebody’s lifestyle or whatever. Fags are just people.”

“Yeah, people who stick shit up their butts.”

“You like The Rock, don’t you?” I said.

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

“Everybody knows he’s gay.”

“Fuck off! That’s the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard. The fucking Rock, gay. Pfff.”

Somewhere under all the bravado and the habitual bigotry and the general stupidity, Nick’s got a good heart, I swear. And he’s had my back many times, and Nate’s, too. I guess I’m a loyalist at the end of the day. Just about everybody lets you down sooner or later, so if you know anybody who hasn’t totally betrayed you, I figure you’re pretty smart to stick by them, warts and all.

But there’s one thing I’d never tell Nick in a million years, not that it really matters: in fourth grade, at a church youth-group meeting, out in the bushes behind the parsonage, I touched Doug Goble’s dick, and he touched mine. In fact, there were even some mouths involved. It’s not something I’d even think about all these years later, except that Goble is the hottest real-estate agent in Kitsap County. His face is all over town—signs, billboards, Christ, even on shopping carts. Do you know what I think three times a day when I see his picture? I wonder, all these years later, why he just kicked our friendship to the curb like that. Was it shame?

“How about you, Nathan?” Nick said. “How you holding up?”

Nate grunted through a mouthful of prime rib dip.

“Always the conversationalist,” said Nick, before turning his attention back to me.

“Dude, it’s just Man Hands. She’s not even hot. She’s like a five and a half. How much money are you gonna waste in this place? Ask her out right now.”

“Not with you here.”

“What, I’m gonna cramp your style? What about him?” he said, indicating Nate, his face slick with grease, his shirt front damp with au jus.

“Just leave me alone, okay?”

“Fine, whatever,” Nick said, snatching one last fry. “Anyway, I saw your truck in the lot and just dropped in to say hi. You wanna go down to Tequila’s later? I think the chick with the octopus tattoo is working.”

“It’s a giant squid, Nick, not an octopus. It’s called a kraken, it’s a legendary sea monster.”

“So who the fuck cares?”

“I care.”

“That figures.”

“Just go,” I said. “Please.”

Nick stood up. “Fine. Michael, I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, but you’ve got a real stick up your ass.”