Lawn Boy(51)

“Listen, Mike. I’ve got a proposition for you.” Piggot was standing a little too close for comfort now. “How would you like to be my official groundskeeper?”

I looked around the place. Certainly, it could use me.

“Well, um, I guess I’d have to ask Doug. I’m supposed to be working next door. I mean, that’s what I’m getting paid for.”

“Whatever Doug Goble is paying you, add fifteen percent.”

I started doing the math. Apparently, Piggot mistook my numeric fumblings for deliberation.

“Make it twenty-five percent,” he hastened to add.

Let’s see, twenty-three divided by four, plus twenty-three . . .

“Fine, thirty percent,” said Piggot, who apparently shared my knack for negotiation. “You don’t have to make up your mind right now,” he said. “Come out to the party this Friday at the clubhouse, we’ll talk more about it. There will be young people there. What do you say?”

Twenty-nine ninety an hour! That was (let’s see, thirty, give or take, times forty, give or take, times fifty-two) over sixty grand a year! Holy smokes! What I could do with sixty grand a year! I’d rent my own house. I’d buy unlimited data. Health insurance. Dental.

“Bring your girlfriend,” said Piggot.

“I don’t have one.”

Piggot gave me a wink. “Ah,” he said. “Well, come stag, then. Maybe I can introduce you to someone.”





A Generous Offer I left the country club feeling guilty. Here I was being offered my second substantial pay raise in a week, without hardly lifting a finger, and all I could think was that I’d be screwing over Goble if I took the job. Okay, Goble is kind of a douche bag—agreed. But he’d taken me into his confidence, taught me how to improve myself, given me sound professional advice, and bought me a bunch of beers. Not to mention the great money he was paying me—and the tips. Plus there was no denying that Goble and I had history, unresolved though it might have been. How could I turn my back on him?


All week long, as I worked the other accounts, I was anxious about the decision. I just didn’t have it in me to talk to Goble about it. If I was going to jump ship on Team Goble, I was going do it in the most cowardly fashion possible: take the money and cringe. Hide behind Piggot’s laurel hedge every time Goble came to check on his sign. I told myself Goble would do the same thing, at least the take-the-money part. Heck, he’d relish the opportunity to watch somebody fade to nothing in his rearview mirror. So what was wrong with me? Why was I still a slave to some loyal impulse that never seemed to benefit me? Why did I lack the impetus to get ahead? Christ, it’s like I wanted to be broke my whole life. I had to do this, I told myself. I had to suppress my pride, I had to ignore my instincts, I had to look out for number one. I had to play the Goble card and suck up to these wealthy fucks, get them to accept me, admire me even, so that I could move on up the ladder, so that if I ever managed to get a girlfriend or a wife, and we decided to squirt out a few kids, they wouldn’t be eating stale saltines in a library somewhere while we slaved away at our evening jobs. You’d think that would be motivation enough for old Mike Mu?oz to take a job that could change his life, but, oh no, I continued to wrestle with the proposition.

In addition to the job dilemma, and all its traitorous implications, I was nervous about the party itself. What was I supposed to wear? What was I supposed to say to a bunch of wealthy people with whom I had nothing in common? My conception of a party was dirty jokes around a bonfire, flannel shirts, and J?gerbombs. Canned beer and pretzels. But this was going to be something different, and I wasn’t sure what. It should’ve been exciting, right? If only I could blend in, the way Goble managed to blend in, who knew what opportunities might become available to me. I just had to look and act the part.

Friday afternoon, I spent nearly an hour in front of the mirror trying to look the part. I tried on beige cotton Dockers and the same tie I wore job hunting, but I only looked like a manager at Starbucks. I tried black slacks and a white dress shirt, but I looked like a busboy. Dockers and white shirt, no tie, I looked like a guy trying to sell you a time-share. Dockers, dark shirt, tie, I looked like a strip-club doorman. Whatever combination I tried, I wound up looking not wealthy. Eventually, my efforts soured me. Fuck this party, I wasn’t going. I was gonna stick with Team Goble and quit trying to be something I wasn’t.

Fortunately, Freddy talked me down from the ledge.

“That tie is your problem, boy. Look like you goin’ to a trade show in Tukwila. Freddy got just the tie for you.”

Freddy had a tie, all right. It was midnight blue, about six inches wide, and had a hand-painted naked lady with torpedo tits, playing a harp.

“I can’t wear this, Freddy.”

“That’s art, boy. Hand painted. Wealthy folks love art.”

“Thanks, anyway,” I said.

I went with the busboy look. If nothing else, I’d blend in with the help.

I thought about inviting Remy, I really did. Maybe she would have been impressed. But what worried me was that seeing me around all those breezy, carefree wealthy people would only make her see me even more for what I was: unbreezy, uncarefree, unwealthy. The fact that I was driving the Team Goble truck to this clandestine affair and that Goble himself was conspicuously not invited only made me feel guiltier for considering Piggot’s proposition. On top of that, I took the magnetic Team Goble signs off both doors, and you can just imagine how Doug would have felt about that. The whole drive there, I was nervous and miserable. Look at me, moonlighting on the guy who gave me the best job of my life. The guy who towed my car out of the ditch. And it’s not like he didn’t appreciate me. He called me a genius—twice.