Lawn Boy(69)

“And my cousin Rodrigo, he got a Ford truck that look pretty good. He sell it to us for two thousand.”

“We can get some of those magnetic signs to put on the doors,” I said, thinking of Goble.

“Yeah, ese. ‘T&M Landscaping.’ We gonna be legit.”

I played it cool, but the truth is, I was over the moon. This was better than a winning scratch ticket, better than an all-you-can-eat-buffet, better than the $29.90 an hour I almost made working for Piggot, even better than getting in on the ground floor of Fried Chicken, whatever the hell that was. See, the thing is, I was telling the truth when I said I love to get my mow on. I love to prune and rake and edge. I’m good. Maybe not a genius, but I’m conscientious and efficient, and I’m getting better all the time.

To you, it probably looks like old Mike Mu?oz is right back where he started, in work boots and a green sweatshirt, mowing your lawn. But see, here’s the thing you’re failing to understand: I’m mowing your lawn on my terms now. I’m making my own rules and punching my own clock. I’m blazing my own trail, yo! No cheapskate boss exploiting my ass. Nobody making me shovel turds when I don’t feel like it. That’s your Great American Landscaping Novel, right there. I even came up with a slogan for T&M Landscaping: “Saving the World, One Lawn at a Time.”

The minute I left the taqueria on foot, I used all but the very last of my cell minutes to phone Andrew on his lunch break and tell him the great news. He insisted we celebrate that night, and not at Tequila’s, either, but somewhere classy, like the Loft.

“Dinner and drinks on me,” he said. “Pick you up at five fifteen.”





Making It Official Always punctual, Andrew knocked on my shed door at 5:12 p.m., wearing a pea-green cardigan over his PETA T-shirt and a pair of Levi’s so new that they still had that fuzzy sheen. Completing the look were Birkenstocks with white socks. Quintessentially northwestern. Having recently undergone some misguided attempt at subjugation, his hair remained suppressed for the moment, though it was beginning to show signs of imminent revolt in the back.


“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Small Business Owner,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder.

“Yeah, well,” I said.

“C’mon, Michael! This is huge,” he said, shepherding me around to the front of the house. “How can you be so matter of fact? This is amazing! Who knows, maybe some of your accounts will want topiary.”

“I doubt it.”

“You can’t think that way. You’ve got talent, Michael—I wish I had your talent. Your merman is sublime. And it’s fun. I’m telling you, you’ve gotta put yourself out there.”

In the enclosed space of the car, I could smell Andrew. He smelled like a library, like books and dust and photocopies and hand sanitizer. I was so grateful for him just then. It was so obvious that his excitement for me was genuine. He actually believed in me, apparently more than I believed in myself.

“Okay, so tell me the details,” he said.

I gave him the rundown, and he asked me some savvy business questions about T&M Landscaping along the way, stuff about bonding and licensing, insurance and payroll taxes, and the like. At just about every juncture, I told him I was pretty sure Tino was handling that end. I told him about the magnetic signs.

“Smart,” he said. “And cheap.”

I told him about the slogan.

“Brilliant,” he said.

When we were seated in a window booth at the Loft, looking out over the marina, Andrew beseeched me to order anything on the menu and then some, but I didn’t want to break the bank. The guy was a sub library assistant, after all. He bought me coffee and lunch almost daily. How many times had he hauled me all over town? I felt like I was taking advantage of him. The least I could do was go easy on him at the Loft. But Andrew wouldn’t hear of it.

“We’re celebrating, and you’re ordering a Caesar salad and water? C’mon! I’ve got my credit card.”

So I decided on the fish and chips at $13.95—still the cheapest thing not on the children’s menu. But Andrew made me order the Caesar salad, too, and insisted that we share some hummus and a cheese plate. He kept bringing up T&M and the exciting possibilities, and the importance of getting bonded and insured, since his uncle’s tree service in Belfair had failed to do either before felling a hundred-foot cedar on some rich guy’s garage. His uncle ended up living in his truck for six months after that.

“All I’m saying is, people who can afford to be are litigious. My other uncle was a contractor, and one time he did this big remodel for some lumber-baron guy, and not only did the guy refuse to pay him after he finished the whole ninety-five-thousand-dollar job, he also sued my uncle for finishing two weeks behind schedule, and all because the guy’s wife kept changing her mind about the floors. Not only did Uncle Pete have to eat the ninety-five grand, he had to pay the guy thirty grand in damages. Put him completely out of business for a while. Ah, but what am I saying? We’re supposed to be celebrating, and here all I can talk about is calamity! Eat, drink!”

I was about to spear another mozzarella ball when a woman at the bar caught my eye. I’ll give you a hint: it wasn’t Hillary Clinton. It was someone with a little skin tag on her arm that looked like a toasted Rice Krispie. She must have felt me staring, because she looked right back at me and smiled, giving me a wave. I’d hardly thought of Remy in weeks.