Lawn Boy(66)

“Thanks, anyway,” I said. “Not interested.”

“Dude, what do you mean you’re not interested? I pitched you hard to Whitehead. I told him you were a natural.”

“I appreciate that, Nick. I’m just looking to go in another direction.”

“You mean homelessness? You gotta get your own place, bro. Your mom and Freddy want you out of there. Besides, I can’t go back to Whitehead and say my friend’s not interested. I had to beg the fucker, and he loved every second of it. You gotta do this interview—and do not fuck it up, Michael. If you fuck this up, I’ll kill you. I put my ass on the line for you.”

“I don’t want the job, Nick.”

Two or three seconds of stunned silence followed before Nick finally responded. “You’re fucking stupid, you know that?”

“That may be the case. I’ll admit, there’s plenty of evidence to support it. But the thing is, I don’t want to work on tires, I just don’t. I don’t want to wear that uniform. Or smell popcorn and rubber all day. Or read four-year-old Auto Traders on my break. Or have to run out into the parking lot to greet everyone. Don’t get me wrong, I like that you guys do that, I think it’s really professional. I just don’t want to do it. And I’m tired of doing things I don’t want to do. I’ve gotta start doing things I don’t hate.”

Again, incredulous silence, followed by the slightest of gasps. “What the hell happened to you, dude? You sound like you’re from Bainbridge.”

It stung, but it was true. Why should it sting? That’s the part that still bugs me. Was I a traitor for empowering myself, for indulging a sense of self-worth? For finally holding out for something better than pumping air into tires and wearing a uniform five days a week? Or digging up roses for some racist old wealthy dude like Piggot? Or selling my soul to Team Goble just so I could drive a new truck? I’d way rather bag groceries, at least until I could get back to landscaping. Yes, I was leaching off my support system at the moment. But it’s not like I was leaving a big footprint. And six months ago, wasn’t I a veritable rock? Hadn’t I always been there for my family? Remember that big breakfast at the casino? All those Indian tacos at Chief Seattle Days? Was I presumptuous to believe that somehow, some way, I could get off the hamster wheel on my own terms? Even if my mom and her boyfriend wanted me out of the shed? Isn’t that just the sort of delusional psychology and unqualified confidence it takes to succeed in this world? And don’t you need it in greater measure when you’re a tenth-generation peasant with a Mexican last name, raised by a single mom on an Indian reservation?

The answer is yes.





Bumps I was sitting with Andrew at the Starbucks in Poulsbo on his lunch hour, discussing various subjects, including, but not limited to, union busting, campaign reform, gun control, locally sourced beef, Pez dispensers, and Liza Minnelli’s big eyes. This is how our conversations usually ran: one minute we were railing on the Republican establishment and lamenting greenhouse gases, and the next minute we were discussing ’90s TV shows or tropical fruit. They were like no conversations I’d ever had before, and they energized me.


As I was bidding Andrew farewell outside of Starbucks, I spotted a familiar car in the Albertsons parking lot. I’ll give you a hint: it was a BMW. The driver was not so familiar, at least not right away. This guy was feral: unkempt beard, baggy clothing, flip-flops in the rain. If there would have been even a sliver of the patented optimism in his bearing, or maybe a vodka mini in his hand, I might have recognized Chaz sooner. I’ll be honest, and I’m not proud of this, but the first thing I thought of was the last paycheck he owed me.

“Chaz!” I called out.

He looked around a little dazedly.

“Chaz!” I cried again.

This time, I got his attention. I can’t blame him for looking a little startled, the way I charged across that parking lot, just as sure as if he was dangling a fourteen-hundred-dollar check with my name on it. He was visibly relieved when I didn’t tackle him. The instant he stopped flinching, he started demonstrating a little of the old exuberance.

“Mu?oz!” he said. “How goes it? Have you been thinking big? Keeping your nose to the grindstone?”

“Giving it the old college try,” I said.

“Wow, you’re going to college now?”

“No.”

“Ah, right, figure of speech. You working?”

“Not so much.”

So as not to leave you in suspense, the instant I got a whiff of my old mentor (think vinegar and damp wool), it was readily apparent that I would not be seeing that final, fourteen-hundred-dollar paycheck anytime soon. I decided to just let it rest. I guess I believed that if Chaz had the money, he would’ve given it to me. I also suspected he would have given me the same pass. You really can’t ask for more than that, unless you want to be some kind of bloodsucker.

“How about you?” I said.

“Well, you know, a few bumps in the road,” he said. “A few twists and turns. Maybe a cliff or two. Nothing major. Where you headed?”

“Bus stop,” I said, flashing my transfer.

“C’mon,” said Chaz. “I’ll give you a ride. Like old times.”

The BMW was chaotic on the inside—shit strewn everywhere.