Lawn Boy(60)

“Shouldn’t they be holding those signs up a little?” I whispered. “You know, so people can read them?”

“Excellent point. Let’s get those signs up, brothers and sisters!” Andrew announced.

Up came the signs: POVERTY WAGES! STOP THE WAR ON WORKERS! One kid named Moses looked really stoned. He was wearing a beanie and held a sign that said STANDING FOR OUR JOBS!

“So, does he mean ‘Standing Up for Our Jobs’?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” Andrew said. “I guess.”

“Do any of these people work here?”

“No.”

“They used to work here?”

“Not that I know of.”

“None of them?”

“The people who work here can’t afford to protest, Mike. They’re too busy occupying their checkout stands or bagging your off-brand Doritos. They don’t even get breaks or lunches. We’re here as their advocates.”

He made it sound noble, standing around in a Walmart parking lot. At least I was finally doing something besides complaining about the system. I was actively striving to effect change. I was advocating. I was standing up and saying, “I’m not gonna take it anymore!” Or, more precisely, “He’s not gonna take it anymore!” In my small way, I was helping bring down the man or, at the very least, obstructing his progress.

And yeah, it felt pretty good.

One thing I learned in the Walmart parking lot was, hold a picket sign and nobody wants to go anywhere near you. They’re afraid you’re going to try and recruit them or make them sign a petition, when all they want is some cheap laundry detergent and a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew.

I whispered other suggestions to Andrew: Maybe we should spread out a little. Maybe the lady in sweats should quit smoking. Tell Moses to spell-check his signs next time. Maybe we need a chant. I was proving to be quite the field marshal. And Andrew saw to it that each and every one of my suggestions was implemented, except for the chant. We never thought of a good one.

If I was a little reticent to fully embrace my new revolutionary persona, it’s only because Poulsbo is so small. Even when you figure in Kingston and Suquamish and Indianola, and all the unincorporated areas, you’re not dealing with that many people. I routinely recognize faces at stoplights. Or standing in line at the DMV. Or strolling the aisles at Walmart. I suspected it was only a matter of time before I started running into people I knew: Nate’s physical therapist, my middle-school gym teacher, maybe even Remy.

And sure enough, around four thirty, as I was standing there holding my #1 IN EMPLOYEES NEEDING MEDICAID AND FOOD STAMPS sign, absorbing dirty looks from the morbidly obese and bitterly diabetic, not to mention a few hot soccer moms, I heard the unmistakable cadence of white-boy rap and its attending thump, and I spotted a familiar purple blur with spinning LED rims, cruising briskly past Home Depot toward Walmart.

I suppose I could’ve dodged Nick, though I’m pretty sure he spotted me. I’ll be honest, it took some wind out of my revolutionary sails. How was I supposed to convince people to change their ways when I was inextricably bound to my own? How was I supposed to change the world when my best friend acted like such a dick most of the time?

Nick was wearing his twelfth-man jersey, and a Les Schwab cap, his goatee neatly trimmed. His eyes looked a little bloodshot, and he was already trailing a fog of J?ger, so he must have got off work early.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he said.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks like you’re just standing there.”

“Exactly. That’s what occupying is, Nick. You stand.”

“Occupying, huh? Gotcha. Looks like a bunch of Girl Scouts standing out front—but without the fucking cookies. Try occupying a job for a while, dude. I ran into Freddy at the Masi. He said you still haven’t found a job.”

“It’s only been a week.”

“I can’t believe you’re still living with your mom, bro.”

“Shhh,” I said.

“So, who’s this,” Nick said, acknowledging Andrew with a nod. “Your new boyfriend?”

I cast my eyes down. “Nick, Andrew. Andrew, Nick,” I mumbled.

Andrew stepped forward winningly and extended a hand, smiling so that his mouthful of braces were shining in all their glory for Nick.

Nick winced and shot me a look when Andrew released his grip.

“Go Hawks,” said Andrew.

“Yeah, whatever you say.”

Nick opened and closed his hand a few times like he was trying to regain some feeling in it.

“So, they payin’ you to protest? Payin’ your rent in slogans now, is that it?”

Why did he have to be that way? Why all the bravado, the constant razzing, the persistent alpha-male hectoring?

“Hey, so what’s with the auto-picks on fantasy last week? You fucking benched Matty Ice, bro. Guy threw for like four hundred fifty yards. You’ve got to get on the ball, man. Whitehead is killing everybody already.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“I can see that.”

“We gotta hang out, man. You’re like off the radar lately. You want to watch the game Sunday?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe, he says,” said Nick. “Pretty weak. Whatever you do, don’t bench Matty Ice again. And why the hell did you pick up Eddie Lacy?”