Lawn Boy(72)

I picked up one of Andrew’s numerous empty notebooks and started dashing off a series of playful sketches: Bigfoot eating a triple-decker ice-cream cone; a big-headed alien wearing a cowboy hat, riding a unicorn. Two swans humping. I must have made a dozen sketches, and not one of them was trying to save the world. But any one of them would’ve made the world a slightly better place, at least in my opinion.

What if I started using mesh and wire? How much could I elevate my game? Think of what I could do with ivies, like all that Duck Foot in front of Bainbridge city hall. Imagine a sea serpent with arms, wearing a jean vest, shredding a solo on a Flying V guitar. He could be sticking his tongue out like Gene Simmons. I’d tilt the headstock up at 180 degrees, so he was obviously in the middle of a solo. And think of all that red sedum along the foundation, and imagine a roiling sea of blood. Oh, man, how cool would that be?

Or what about all that privet in front of the tribal center? I could do a bear on all fours, an eagle, a raven. I could sculpt a fishing party in a dugout canoe. And how about all that holly on the new traffic island on the south end of the Poulsbo junction? Imagine a Pegasus, muscular and proud as hell, a friendly ogre, a pair of gigantic cobras, and a group of enchanting rabbits. Damn, I was good. Andrew was right, I had to put myself out there.

Restless to create, I located a pair of scissors in Andrew’s desk and a couple of empty coat hangers from the closet, and retired to the kitchen, where I set about patiently to work reshaping his herb garden so that when Andrew arrived home from the library four hours later, he would discover on his windowsill Cupid shooting an arrow straight at the ass of a sumo wrestler, who was reaching out to touch a panda bear in a pirate hat, who was sitting next to an elf, who was swinging a golf club.





The Beginning I decided Freddy would be a relatively easy place to start. Freddy, who was rarely quick to judge. Freddy, who seemed willing to accept just about anything. When I finally came home from Andrew’s that second morning, I found Freddy in the kitchen, standing at the stove in his underwear, frying an egg.


“Look who’s back,” he said. “You want an egg, boss?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

I stood there silently a few seconds too long, watching Freddy until he glanced sidelong at me.

“What? You need to borrow money or somethin’?”

“Freddy, what if I told you I was gay?”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully, considering the information for a few seconds as his fried egg shimmied in the pan. “Are you tellin’ me you are?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmph,” he said. “Didn’t see that one comin’.”

Removing the skillet from the burner, he clapped me on the shoulder. “Look at the bright side: at least you ain’t black.”

I found Mom in the bathroom, a glacier-blue wad of paper towel in her clutches as she scrubbed toothpaste off the mirror.

“Michael,” she said. “I’ve been worried sick. Where have you been? Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

“Yeah, sorry, I’ve been at Andrew’s.”

“Ah,” she said. “The mysterious Andrew.”

It’s true, she’d never met Andrew. I’d never invited him to hang out at my house or tried to encourage any familiarity between my family and him. I’d sheltered them from Andrew, just as I’d sheltered Andrew from my home life.

Again, I just stood in place, letting the silence linger a little too long, until Mom turned and looked at me curiously.

“What is it?” she said.

“I’ve got some news,” I told her. “I’m going into business with Tino.”

“That’s wonderful,” she said. “Good for you, sweetie.”

“I’m going to be my own boss.”

“Lucky you.”

“Yeah,” I said. I let the silence settle in again until the only sound was the squeaking of her towel on the mirror.

“Mom, maybe you oughta sit down,” I said at last.

She paused in her scrubbing. “Michael, what’s wrong?”

“Well, uh, it turns out that, well . . .”

“That what?”

“Mom, I’m gay.”

Visibly relieved, she resumed scrubbing the mirror. “Oh, thank God. I thought you had a tumor.”

How could she be so matter of fact? Look at Andrew’s mom, all but estranged. His dad, who refused to even acknowledge him. How could my mom just go on scrubbing the bathroom mirror?

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” I said.

“What would you like me to say, Michael?”

“I don’t know. You’re not surprised or anything?”

“Are you?”

“Kind of, yeah, I guess.”

“You never knew?”

“You did?”

She narrowed her eyes and gave me a knowing look. “Well, I am your mother.”

“But how could you possibly know?”

“I can’t say exactly. Just a feeling.”

“A feeling? C’mon, how did you know?”

“Just a feeling, that’s all I can really call it. Ever since you were a boy. Before you ever dated anyone.”

“I didn’t date anyone.”