Lawn Boy(74)

I sat at the bar through one more Sprite, wishing I’d brought a book, so I could at least pretend to be reading it. When Remy’s shift finally ended, she stationed herself at the exact opposite end of the bar and tallied her receipts, never looking up to catch my eye. When she was done with her reckoning, she swept up her tips and her tickets and ducked into the office, reemerging moments later with her coat and her purse. Clearly, she had no intention of talking to me.

I caught her at the door on her way out.

“Hey,” I said.

I thought for a moment she was just going to walk around me, but she decided to indulge me momentarily.

“I want to apologize,” I said.

“For?”

“Sending you mixed signals, I guess. Not texting you back.”

“That seems pretty straightforward. Where does the mixed part come in?”

“The thing is, I was figuring some stuff out.”

“Okay.”

“I wasn’t really sure what I wanted, you know? I thought one thing was going on when really it was something else. What I’m trying to say is, it’s not you, it’s me.”

Remy rolled her eyes and buttoned up her coat and fished her car keys out of her purse.

“Look, Mike, you’re giving yourself way too much credit,” she said.

“What I mean is—Remy, I’m—”

“No, really,” she said.

And then she stepped past me, keys jingling, and walked out the door.





Baby Steps When I had all but decisively closed the book on my friendship with Nick, he called me early one Sunday morning in November.


“Dude, you actually did it! You beat Whitehead! I’m in second place now! Cha-ching!”

“That’s cool,” I said.

“How did you know Rawls would break out against Detroit? And benching Brady was genius! Dude, you may not finish in last.”

“That’s quite a distinction,” I said.

“Anyway, not why I’m calling. Remember this summer when I had a line on those tickets for the Arizona game?”

“Yeah.”

“The ones on the fifty yard line, from the big-shot contractor who I sold those all-season Toyos to?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I didn’t get them.”

“Bummer.”

“You wanna watch the game at the casino?”

“Yeah, sure.”

I had no idea that I’d feel so heartened by such an invitation. I didn’t want to lose Nick. He was family.

“Is it cool if Andrew comes?”

There was a brief silence in which I could feel Nick wanting to sigh. “Whatever, sure. As long as he doesn’t talk during the game.”

If you’re still wondering why I love Andrew, consider that he insisted on dropping me off at the casino, and begged off watching the game with Nick and me, sparing me the inevitable discomfort.

“If you guys need a ride home, call me,” he said. “Especially if you’re drinking.”

When he dropped me off out front, I almost leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek, but I chickened out.

Nick was waiting for me in a high-backed booth at the back of the bar, with a clear shot of the big screen.

“Dude, I got twenty-six points out of Antonio Brown this morning,” he said before I’d even sat down.

The Hawks jumped off to an early lead, and by midway through the second quarter it was clear they had the game under control. The Cards were shit without Palmer. Too bad the guy was made of glass.

At halftime, Nick ordered us both J?gerbombs, and we were about to hoist them when Nick turned serious.

“Look, bro. I got to thinking about it. And as much as it grosses me out, you sucking dick and the rest of it, I gotta admit you’re pretty fucking brave. It takes guts to be a fag—I couldn’t do it.”

“Is this some kind of an apology?”

“Look,” said Nick. “I don’t wanna sell tires the rest of my life, either. But it takes more balls than I’ve got to pass up a job when you’re flat broke, and your mom and her boyfriend want to kick you out, and you have no idea what your future looks like.”

“I know, it was a dumb move not taking the job.”

“No. It was risky, but it wasn’t dumb. That’s what I’m trying to say. Sucking dick is dumb—dicks are dirty, dude. Really dirty. Mine sure is.”

“Well, maybe you ought to wash it.”

“Ugh. Can we not talk about my dick?”

“You brought it up.”

“All I’m trying to say,” said Nick, “is that whatever it is you’re holding out for, I hope you get it. You deserve it, Michael, you actually do. Working for yourself, writing your dumb novel, making your stupid sculptures, all of it. And good luck with the sucking dicks. I don’t wanna hear about it, though.”

“Good.”

“And please,” he said. “Promise me you won’t get a sex change, Michael.”

“I’m gay, Nick, not transgender.”

“Same diff,” he said.

Baby steps, I keep reminding myself, baby steps.





The Good Life




Remember back when I used to carry on about how if I ran the show, I’d run things this way, and if I were the boss, I’d only service a certain kind of client? I’ll be honest, I wasn’t daydreaming, I was only grumbling. I never truly believed in the possibility, not for a minute. That would’ve required thinking big, and I didn’t know how to do that back then.