Lawn Boy(75)

But this is now. Meet Russ Walcott, 9120 Lemolo Drive. Russ is single, as far as I can tell, midforties, by my guess. He’s got an acre-plus on the hillside, overlooking the bay, and it’s teeming with holly—a huge clutch of the stuff every fifteen feet, and you can see it all from the road, which is another perk, because Russ is going to let me put a tasteful little T&M Landscaping sign with a phone number out front when I’m all finished.

Russ gets me. Russ is a fan of my work, and by work, I mean topiary. Not that he doesn’t appreciate my sublime lawn mowing or my superlative edging, but Russ especially loves my creations. See, Russ is also an artist, which explains why he dresses like it’s 1993, but still doesn’t explain how he has any money at all, especially to hire a landscaper, let alone a guy to sculpt his bushes into knights and gladiators, but hey, none of my business. I don’t care if he sells coke, frankly. He always pays on time, and he never makes me clean his garage.

Today I’m putting some final touches on the centerpiece. It’s unseasonably warm. Folks are honking as they drive by on Lemolo, slowing to admire my work. It’s been this way all week. Wait until they see the finished product.

Every now and again, Tino waves to me from the little orchard, where he’s raking up the fallout from this weekend’s blow, his headphones blaring salsa. When he stoops to gather his load, I can see the crack of his ass, and somehow it makes me love him a little bit more.

I pause to oil my new Felcos, then take a step back to consider my next move. It’s all about work flow with a big piece like this, all about eating that elephant one bite at a time. If I want to get the flow and the movement right, everything has to develop organically. Should I do a final pass on the second sea horse? Is his dorsal fin too big? What about his snout? And what about the first knight, is it me, or is his helmet slightly oversized? Is the snorkel ambiguous? Should I make the shield smaller? How much of that limb can I utilize for the lance before I’ll need to extend it?

These are the problems I now face. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s not tough being an artist.

Maybe the biggest lesson I’ve learned, in art and in life, is that when the questions become too numerous and the considerations begin to feel a little overwhelming, you just have to look away for a minute and regather your vision for the thing, try to see it the way it originally came to you. Ask yourself, how did I arrive here? What was I trying to accomplish?

I take a step back, gazing up the hill toward the house, where I discover that Russ is watching me through the big picture window. Not like Truman used to watch me, though. Or like Piggot. No, Russ is grinning like a senator at a whorehouse, and he’s giving me a double thumbs-up.

God love the guy, even if he is gacked out of his mind.





My Knight in Shining Armor




I suppose you could make a good case that Andrew was my knight in shining armor, or shining braces, anyway. After all, not only did he help deliver me to my sexual identity, it was Andrew who drove me down to Verizon and staked me to thirty bucks’ worth of wireless minutes to help T&M Landscaping hit the ground running. It was Andrew who did all the research about business licensing and bonding and insurance, Andrew who helped Tino and me navigate the necessary evils of bureaucracy.

And you could make a very convincing argument that Tino was my savior for delivering me to my dream job (collections, cash flow, billing, payroll, and quarterly taxes aside). Tino, for coming to me with the greatest opportunity of my professional life so far: the chance to be my own boss.

And don’t forget Freddy. Old Freddy would also prove instrumental, as the world’s most unlikely investor. The morning after I gave him the news, he sat me down in the kitchen.

“Dog, I want to help bankroll this venture. I believe in you. Besides, the sooner we can get that guest cottage back, the better.”

“Thanks, Freddy. But we’re gonna need like four grand, at least.”

Freddy cleared his throat. “Well, it just so happens that Freddy’s got some savings tucked away.”

“Wait,” I said. “How do you have savings?”

“Ain’t always been a doorman, Michael. Used to be a licensed electrician. Made good money for eighteen years.”

“So, um, if you had money all along, why did you move into the shed?”

“All part of the plan, my man. Wasn’t shelter old Freddy was after. You think I couldn’t do better than no shed?”

So it was Freddy who lent Tino and me the money for the truck and the trailer and the riding mower. And my debts don’t end there. Chaz gave me something, too, even if I’ll never end up collecting my fourteen hundred bucks. Chaz taught me the imperative of thinking big, even when you couldn’t afford to—especially when you couldn’t afford to.

And even Doug Goble imparted some wisdom to me, if only in a cautionary way, about the trappings of ambition and the vacuum of the tireless pursuit. The fact is, everywhere I look, somebody has been giving me something. If I do an honest accounting, I owe just about all of my good fortune to someone else. And yeah, I realize my fortune isn’t measured in millions. But it’s my fortune, and I’m grateful for it. And I’m grateful for a lot of other stuff, too. My health, my family, tallboys. I’m grateful for the first goddamn caveman who ever gazed up at the stars and paused to wonder. I’m grateful for that ringing silence, that stillness in the Suquamish night when Freddy finally lays aside his bass and Dale calls it a day on his band saw and the last M80 has exploded, and I can finally lay my head down to sleep. And furthermore, it’s my opinion that those who claim their accomplishments all to themselves, those who are the heroes of their own stories, are liars.