Lawn Boy(65)

“Where are we going?”

He looked at me searchingly, almost like he was asking me a question, then waved it off, smiling sadly.

“Oh, never mind,” he said. “Anyway, you’re sweet to say those things.”

“They’re true,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said, and I thought that sounded a little sad, too.





Following Up




Two days after the puppy mill protest, I ran into Goble outside Central Market. I was hoofing it from the bus stop on 305 when he whizzed past me on the frontage road at about forty miles per hour with the convertible top down, crappy pop music blaring. As always, his hair was impervious to the wind, and he was wearing one of those puffy ski jackets that somehow make people look skinny in spite of the fact that they’re puffy.

I watched, only slightly incredulous, as Goble blatantly cut off an old lady in an Oldsmobile and shoehorned in on her parking spot before closing his automatic convertible top. Hopping out of the car, he activated his car alarm over his shoulder with a stylish flick of the wrist. The audacious fucker waved at the old lady, flashing a saccharine smile.

Immediately, I realized that I wasn’t mad at Goble anymore. I’m not sure the guy could help himself. He wasn’t all terrible; almost nobody is, deep down, once you strip away all the terror and trauma and neurosis and bad conditioning. The thing with a guy like Goble was that he scratched and clawed to get where he was. Being a creep was an imperative to his way of thinking. Anything less was weak. Like me, Goble started on the ass end of an uneven playing field. But unlike me, he had a nose for the goal line. While I was perfectly happy to settle for a midrange field goal or even a punt, Goble drove ninety yards uphill into the jaws of his adversary (the world at large), scratching and clawing the whole way to the end zone. And here’s the thing: people who scratch and claw tend to be shortsighted.

Apparently, Goble was harboring no ill will toward me for outing him as a cocksucker to his neighbor, either. For whatever reason, he’d never admit what happened between us, and I just had to accept that. What did it really matter?

“How goes it, hombre? ?Cómo estás, amigo? Mucho tiempo sin verte.”

“I have no idea what you’re saying. How’d it work out with your Seahawk, anyway?” I said. “Did he buy the place?”

Goble winced. “Yeah, well, turns out the team’s not gonna exercise his option. I guess I didn’t get the memo. Come to find out, they all live on the Eastside, anyway. Every last one of them.”

“Piggot must be relieved.”

“For now. But that old highballer is going down, sooner or later. I’ve got a close eye on his place. I think he took a pretty big hit in ’08. What about you? How’s unemployment working out?”

“Couple irons in the fire,” I said.

“Like what?”

“You know, just . . . irons.”

One of the irons was a bag boy application at Central Market, which I submitted last Thursday, upon which I was presently “following up.” But Goble didn’t need to know that. I figured the less Goble knew about me, the better our standing.

“Ah,” he said. “Well, as fate would have it, I have an opportunity for you, actually.”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Full access to the truck,” he said.

“Thanks, anyway.”

“I’d take care of the payments.” Wink wink. “We could even talk about sweat equity if the arrangement works out.”

With nothing but bus fare in my pocket and dwindling possibilities ahead of me, I have to say, the offer was awfully tempting. Not that I thought for a second he’d ever actually deliver on the equity arrangement. But working for Goble definitely had its advantages.

“C’mon,” he said. “What do you say? Goble or go home.”

Yes, it was irresponsible of me to decline the opportunity. I see that. If nothing else, I should have said yes for everyone else’s sake—Mom, Nate, Freddy. But looking at Goble, with his bronzed skin and his orthodontically straightened pearly whites, standing next to his stupid luxury convertible, clutching his cell phone in the same hand that once clutched my penis, I just didn’t want any part of it, you know? I guess I was finally learning not to settle for less, even when it looked like more.

“Yeah, sorry,” I said. “I guess I’m gonna just ‘go home’ this time.”

I guess that expectation may have been a little naive, but my declining didn’t even faze him like I’d hoped it would.

“Well, suit yourself,” he said, firing off a text. “Hey, you know any good Mexicans?”

“What do you mean good?” I said.

“Cheap.”

“Nah, sorry.”

Maybe good things do happen when you don’t settle for less. Because the very same day Goble offered me a job, Nick called to offer me a job at Les Schwab. I didn’t mean to be rude, but I was almost out of cell minutes and I wanted to save them for prospective employers, and Andrew. And honestly, the very idea of working alongside Nick all day was too excruciating to even ponder. How many fag jokes would I have to endure? How many wrongheaded, misinformed opinions would I have to hear? I was trying really hard to tolerate the guy, in spite of his huge warts. Sometimes you have that responsibility, or at least that’s how I’ve always felt. But at this point, being in close proximity to Nick for any substantial length of time would render that good intention patently impossible, and I saw that now.