Lawn Boy(67)

“So, where you living these days?” I inquired. Though from the bedroll, the pillow, the spit kit, the squashed loaf of bread, the fast-food bags, and the general disarray of the car’s interior, I’d say the answer was pretty obvious.

“Around,” he said.

A few bumps in the road? The guy was living in his car! You had to admire his grit and determination. Chaz had the American can-do spirit in spades. He simply refused to be defeated. Not even in defeat was he defeated. Yep, it seemed old Chaz still had a lesson or two to teach Mike Mu?oz.

Chaz activated the blow-and-go without my assistance.

“Been in the program now for two months,” he explained. “Feeling great. I haven’t seen things so clearly in years—personally, spiritually, financially. As a matter of fact, my sponsor Lamar and I are working on capitalizing something at the moment. Could be a real cash cow. Little start-up called Fried Chicken.”

“Like a restaurant?”

“No, e-commerce.”

“So, like online chicken?”

“Nothing to do with poultry. We just like the name. Import and distribution—mostly import. You know how to build a website?”

“No.”

“You know anybody who does?”

“Sorry, man. But if you ever need a pair of tires.”

Chaz began tapping triplets on the steering wheel, biting his lip in a pensive manner, eyes fixed straight ahead on the roadway.

“What about money? Got any?”

“Eight bucks.”

He stopped tapping the wheel. “Ah, well, had to ask. One way or another, we’ll get her done, don’t you worry. I’ve got a few leads. Gonna talk to my parole officer. And Lamar’s got a rich aunt who’s pushing ninety-five. Who knows, anything could happen with her. But just so you know, once I get this thing up and running, I’ve got a place for you on the ground floor.”

You laugh, but I believed him, and I still believe him. You wait and see, Chaz will pull through in the end. Good intentions often fail us, but not always. Chaz will stay in the game long enough, keep stepping into the fray and punching with enough grit and determination that he’s bound to make something happen eventually. It’s the American way.

When we arrived at the house, Chaz pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine.

“So, um, you wanna come in, and like, I don’t know, have a sandwich or a cup of coffee or something?”

“Can I use your shower?” he said.

“Yeah, that’d be cool, I think.”

Freddy and Nate were at the kitchen table playing Candy Land. It must have been a tense game, because neither one of them looked up from the board when we walked in, socks and sleeves hanging willy-nilly out of Chaz’s overstuffed duffel bag.

“Double green,” said Freddy. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about, big dog! Old Freddy just caught a free ride over Gumdrop Pass. Booyah! Peanut Acres, here I come.”

“Hey, this is Chaz,” I announced. “He needs to use the shower.”

Freddy looked up. “This mean you got your money?”

“No. But Chaz is starting a new business, and he’s gonna get me in on the ground floor.”

“It’s called Fried Chicken,” Chaz said.

“Mm. Like the sound of that,” said Freddy.

“Nothing to do with chicken, actually.”

“Well now, I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Import and export,” Chaz explained.

But Freddy ignored him, immediately turning his attention back to the game. “Your turn, dog.”

I know it seems like Freddy was being a dick, but he was only looking out for my best interests. And in the end, he let his true colors show. It was Freddy’s idea to let Chaz sleep in our driveway, just until he got Fried Chicken up and running. Say what you want about Freddy. He may be a little unorthodox, and maybe he’s not the most ambitious guy in the world, and yeah, maybe he’d do well to keep his nuts in his pants and quit smoking so much Blueberry Kush, but he’s a good man.





Legit




Ready for this? Further evidence that good things happen if you can somehow manage to hold out for what you want: three days after Chaz started using our driveway as the headquarters for Fried Chicken, I got a call from Tino.

“?Qué onda, Miguel?”

“Are you ever gonna stop calling me that?”

Tino laughed. “C’mon, ese, it’s a joke, man.”

“So, what up?”

“I got an offer for you, ese. You wanna have lunch?”

We met at Los Cazadores, a grubby little taqueria on the ass end of Viking Way. Tino ordered a tamale plate, so I figured “when in Rome” and ordered the same thing. Though I’m okay with most Mexican food, I’d always avoided tamales. I don’t know what all the fuss is about. It tasted like a wet loaf of corn bread to me. And I’m not really into the whole shucking-my-food thing.

I asked Tino how his family was doing, and he told me how little Izzy had potty-trained herself and how Emilio was the star of his soccer team, and Arturo was quite the young ladies’ man. I could see him trying to muster his pride, but really, he seemed as sad as hell the whole time he talked about them, like he’d lost them already.