Lawn Boy(55)

Sunday night, I texted Remy:

Hope you’re good. We still need to have that beer!

A few hours later, she texted me back:

Long time no hear.

Been stupid busy. New job. How about that beer?

Pretty busy with a new job myself. But maybe soon.

On Monday morning, I suited up in my white coveralls and drove out to the country club, my intent being to tell Piggot that I’d changed my mind about the job. Recognizing the truck, they let me through at the gate. I parked in front of Piggot’s and rang the bell. I waited about thirty seconds, listening to the dogs wheeze and skitter around in the foyer. I was about to start poking around the side yard, when the door opened a crack and one of the pugs wiggled out and started customarily snuffling all around the cuff of my coveralls.

“Willoughby! Down!”

The pug ignored Piggot’s command. Just as the little fucker was mounting my ankle, Piggot gave him a kick, and this time he scurried off under the hedges.

“What brings you back here, Mike?”

“Well, sir, after further consideration, I’ve decided to take you up on your job offer.”

“Oh, that,” said Piggot. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid I can’t extend that offer at this point in the game.”

My heart sank. He must’ve have found somebody else. This is what happens when opportunity knocks and you hide in the bathroom.

“What I can offer you is fifteen dollars an hour.”

“But sir, that’s—”

“Yes, twenty-five percent less than what you were making for Mr. Goble, I realize that. He called me yesterday with the recommendation.”

“But you said—”

“Circumstances have changed, young man. You already had a job when I was courting you, did you not? Having discussed the matter with Mr. Goble, I’m given to understand that he can no longer afford your employ and that you’re currently in need of a position. He suggested fifteen dollars would suffice.”

“So, wait, you talked to Doug?”

“As I said, he called to recommend you.”

“And he told you to pay me less?”

“He made a recommendation.”

“That fucker,” I said.

You see how it is, people? The money grubbers of the world will collude and conspire, and they’ll stop at nothing to keep you down. They’ll trade your sorry ass like a commodity, then laugh about it over cigars. So get ready for that ride downriver.

“Do we have a deal?” said Piggot, extending a hand.

“This is bullshit,” I said, hating my white coveralls.

“Be that as it may, in light of all this, I’d say fifteen dollars an hour is a nice offer. So, what do you say?”

“Sixteen-fifty,” I said.

“Fourteen,” countered Piggot.

I could see where this negotiation was leading. Part of me wanted to turn and walk away.

“Okay, fine,” I said, shaking his hand.

Within the hour, I was clearing a spot on the bluff for the roses. But believe me, I wasn’t happy about it. Piggot donned a pair of navy-blue duck boots, as though he planned on working side by side with me. But he didn’t lift a finger. He only watched, always standing a little too close for my liking.

“I taught English for eight years at the university level,” he informed me. “Bet you didn’t know that.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m still on the board of directors at a certain prestigious university press.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “Could you please move?”

To my surprise, Piggot didn’t object to my tone, or didn’t notice. I couldn’t help it, I was irritated. Yes, fourteen bucks an hour was more than I was making with Lacy back when, but I felt cheated. It was considerably less than I was making yesterday. Fourteen bucks an hour left no room for my big plans. No beach cabins, no new cars for my mom. I’d be damned if I was going to suck up to Piggot for fourteen bucks an hour.

“I could be quite helpful, you know,” said Piggot from my back pocket.

“Then how about grabbing a wheelbarrow?”

“In your bid for publication, I mean. I have influence. God knows, you don’t want to end up like Richard.”

“Filthy rich and drunk? Sounds okay to me.”

Piggot smiled at that one. I think he liked me at fourteen bucks an hour.

“How about using your influence to pay me what you offered me in the first place?”

That one got a full-fledged chuckle out of him.

I couldn’t see what he was driving at with all this influence stuff, anyway. I really didn’t want to hear it. Anyway, how could he help me publish? I didn’t have anything to publish. The Great American Landscaping Novel was a Great American Joke. I had exactly eleven pages of overwrought, steaming dung. It was worse than the MFA crap I’d checked out at the library—at least they could write sentences.

I had no business transplanting those roses in September, but they were struggling and who knew what they’d look like come winter. I probably should have watered them for about a week first, and if I were making $29.90 per hour, like I should’ve been, I would have insisted on it. I would’ve pruned them back a week before I moved them, too. But I was only making half that, so fuck protocol. I dug each bush out to a depth of a foot and a half and moved them over to the bluff, four at a time in the wheelbarrow. I should have amended the soil, but that, too, seemed like a lot of effort for fourteen bucks an hour. At this point, I didn’t care if they lived or died.