Lawn Boy(57)

“No.”

“Are they circling the wagons?”

“Fuck, I don’t know. I just want a sandwich.”

“Mike, listen to me: if we can spread fear, we can bust this neighborhood wide open. We could clear huge dollars.”

“That’s you, man, that’s not me. I just want a sandwich. Personally, I’d like to bomb this neighborhood.”

“Shhh. Jesus, Mike, don’t blow this.”

Maybe I was just hungry, maybe my blood sugar was low. Certainly, I was disgruntled. Two hours in the company of Piggot, at fourteen per hour, had simply exhausted my goodwill. Something in me snapped—my tolerance, I guess. Suddenly I didn’t give a shit about the world in which I’d found myself hopelessly enmeshed, through no fault of my own. I didn’t care about the money or the truck or what happened to anybody involved. I just wanted to go back to Suquamish and read a book and eat a sandwich.

“I’m out of here,” I said, firing up the truck.

“What, you’re taking lunch?” said Goble, checking his watch.

“That, too.”

“Good, we can talk strategy. Leave the truck, so they have to look at my signage. We’ll take my car.”

“Get out,” I said.

“I’ll drop you back after lunch.”

“Out.”

“What’s got into you, Mike?”

“I’m not coming back, Doug. My work is done here.”

He checked his watch again. “But it’s only noon.”

“I’m quitting.”

“You can’t quit, Mike.”

“Watch me.”

“But you still owe me.”

“Out of the truck, Doug.”

“You can’t take this truck. It belongs to me.”

“Then give me my five hundred bucks.”

“That was a deposit. To protect myself from a situation exactly like this one, Mike.”

I started pulling out of the driveway.

“Stop the truck, Mike, I mean it.”

I stopped with a lurch. In the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of Piggot prairie-dogging behind the Japanese holly. Fucking weirdo.

Goble leveled a meaningful gaze at me. “You’re not taking this truck.”

“Give me my five hundred bucks.”

“The truck belongs to me, Mike. You’d be stealing it.”

“Fine,” I said, swinging my door open and stepping out of the cab.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m not taking the truck.”

“Well, who’s going to drive it back to town?”

“Fuck if I know. But if I don’t see my five hundred bucks by the end of the week, I’m gonna tell anyone who will listen about how you put a dick in your mouth.”

“Jesus, what the hell are you talking about? Get back in the truck.”

I made a little cock-sucking gesture and turned so Piggot could see it from behind the holly.

“Get back in the truck! You’re making a scene.”

“It was your idea, Doug. Remember? Out behind the parsonage.”

“Jesus, Mike, you’re seriously losing it here.”

“Let’s talk about favors, Goble. Let’s talk about me putting your dick in my—”

“Stop!” he hollered, reaching for his wallet. He started rifling through bills. “I’ve only got one eighty here.”

I grabbed for the cash.

“I’ll get you the rest next month,” he said.

I narrowed my eyes menacingly and shook my head.

“Ugh, fine,” he conceded.

I followed Goble directly to the cash machine and collected my three hundred twenty bucks. It killed him to part with it, believe me. Then I followed him to his condo and parked the truck, lingering in the cab in wistful silence for a moment. What was I giving up here? Sure, it was only fourteen bucks an hour, but it was bound to go up if Piggot wanted to keep me. And losing the truck, that hurt. After months of limited transportation, months of schlepping around Kitsap County on the shame train, I hated giving up that truck. But I had to. It was an imperative. I couldn’t be around Goble or Piggot anymore. Goble wore too many faces, and Piggot probably collected Nazi paraphernalia. I’m telling you, Tino and his cousins never looked so good.

When I finally got out of the truck, Goble was waiting for me, and I handed over the keys.

“Mike, what are you trying to prove here?”

“I just wanna mow lawns and prune shit, dude. I don’t want to be your secret agent. I don’t like that place. And I don’t like Piggot standing so close to me all the time. The guy’s got no boundaries. Next thing you know, he’ll be expecting me to walk his dogs and go to the dump for him. You want me, hire me back. I’ll do your properties.”

“Can’t do it, Mike. It’s coming on fall. Most of the gardening stuff takes care of itself. I’ll hire a Mexican with a leaf blower for ten bucks an hour. Unless you wanna do it for ten bucks an hour . . . ?”

“Fuck you.”

“I didn’t mean it as an insult. It’s just the reality, Mike.”

The smug little fucker. The sad thing is, it actually hurt my feelings. I really thought I had value in Goble’s eyes.