Lawn Boy(53)

“Hmm,” she said. You could tell she wasn’t convinced. “What is the subject?”

“Landscaping.”

“Ah. You should talk to my cousin.”

“Is he a landscaper?”

“No. He used to write poetry. He wasn’t published, either.”

I didn’t really know where to go with the conversation, so we stood in silence for a minute longer.

“Well, nice meeting you,” she said at last. “Good luck on your publication.”

She left me standing there, holding my beer. I drifted off toward the rear of the clubhouse, Piggot patting my back on the way past.

“Enjoying yourself, young man?”

“Yessir.”

“Good, good,” he said, turning his back on me again.

God, I wanted to get out of there. I didn’t like being exotic. I weaved my way through the party toward the back patio to get some fresh air. There, I found a wrought-iron chair in the shadows and nursed my beer along, with half a mind to flee the country club altogether. These people were reptiles. The more I thought about taking the job, the more I appreciated Team Goble. At least Goble believed in some kind of racial equity, some kind of upward mobility. These people wanted to live in stasis, swilling gin and congratulating themselves for doing nothing.

It took me a couple minutes to realize I wasn’t alone in the shadows.

“You must be the writer.”

I turned to find a skinny guy in a rumpled seersucker jacket and bow tie, slumped in a chair behind me. He had a weak chin and thin lips—unmistakably one of them.

“Richard Freeman,” he slurred. “Call me Richie.”

“Mike,” I said.

“You know, I fancied myself a poet once. Back at Yale. Too many years ago to count. Of course, I never published anything.”

“I heard.”

“Of course you did. They’re supportive in their way. Financially, I mean.”

“Do you still write?”

“Gads, no.”

“Why not?”

“What’s the use? I was never any good. Everything I wrote was derivative. Nothing unique to write about, no noble instincts to draw upon. Never did anything of any real benefit to the world, or even myself. Started on third base and still couldn’t score. I suppose I must seem like a tragic—hic—figure to you.”

“Not really.”

“Well, I am. You’re looking at an unmitigated failure. I’ve foiled expectation at every turn. I’ve done nothing to distinguish myself, nothing on the strength of my own character. I’m a walking disappointment—to myself, to my family, to the world at large.”

“Take it easy, dude. Seems like you’re doing okay to me.”

“Yes, but you’re not a failure.”

“I’m not?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

“So are you.”

“Yes, but on different terms.”

“I don’t see how being here makes me a success. Couple of free drinks, a few pats on the back. It’s not like I’ve published anything.”

“Yes, but already you’re exceeding anybody’s expectation of you, am I right?”

He was right, of course. The bar was set pretty low for old Mike Mu?oz.

“I see you two have met,” came Piggot’s voice. “Now it’s a bona fide literary roundtable.”

“Hic,” said Richie.

“Sorry to interrupt,” said Piggot.

“Are you?” said Richie.

Piggot ignored him and sat down beside me. “So, have you thought about my proposition?”

“Yessir. I’ve thought a lot about it.”

“And?”

“And I’m just not sure.”

“It’s thirty percent more money.”

“It’s a generous offer, sir. And I like the yard—er, the grounds, I mean. There’s a lot of work to be done. We could save those roses. We could maybe even save that bluff with a little help. It’s just that . . .”

“Yes?”

“I just don’t think I can do it, sir. As much as I appreciate the opportunity. I’m pretty happy where I am right now. I wouldn’t want to—”

“Take the—hic—money,” said Richie.

Piggot patted me on the shoulder and smiled knowingly. “C’mon, let’s get you a drink.”





The Art of Favoring I’ll admit to feeling pretty proud of myself for doing the right thing, I mean by passing up Piggot’s job offer. With the dilemma resolved, I didn’t see the harm in telling Goble. In fact, I saw a distinct advantage in demonstrating my loyalty to Team Goble. Maybe he’d bump me up to $23.50.


So Monday, before reporting to the Baker Hill property, I met Goble at Starbucks and told him about the offer and that I’d turned it down.

“You what? Why the hell would you do that?”

“I would have never been in the position for the opportunity if it weren’t for you.”

“And?”

“Well, I didn’t want to screw you over.”

He ran his hands over his face. “Mike, do me a favor?”

“Direct or indirect?”