Lawn Boy(76)

No man is an island, even if Bainbridge Is.





Gravy




Well, old Mike Mu?oz could probably go on forever entertaining, enlightening, and edifying you. I could tell you how to vote and what books to read, how to spend your money, and all the rest of it. But it’s up to you to make your own lists. What the fuck do I know? I’ve got a fledgling business to operate. I’ve got bushes to carve into dragons and giraffes and dangling monkeys with big swinging balls. But since I may never actually write the Great American Landscaping Novel, the least I can do is circle back and begin wrapping up this story the way they do in most novels, before I hit you with the big finish.

So, here I am on Thanksgiving, eating a turkey leg. Except this time I’m not on the crapper, I’m seated at the head of the table, and Andrew is right beside me. My mom and Nate are directly across from me. And Freddy is here, too. And yes, my old friend Nick, warts and all, is seated right beside a clean-shaven Chaz, who is really close to getting back on his feet. Fried Chicken is just about to launch, whatever the hell it is.

Here is Mike Mu?oz, in the bosom of his ragged tribe. Maybe we’re not the Du Ponts or the De Beers or the Rockefellers or the Rothschilds, but at least we’re not perpetuating world domination, at least we’re not fracking, or drilling the Arctic, or hiding our money offshore, or bankrupting schools, or foreclosing on anyone for our own profit. Hell no, we’re just trying to make an honest living. And our numbers are growing. Tino and his roommates are swinging by later with a case of Tecate. Goble might even drop by for a little dessert, but I’m not holding my breath.

Just as I’m about to tear into my drumstick, Andrew taps his wineglass and clears his throat, and everybody lowers a fork out of respect.

“Friends,” Andrew says, the candlelight hitting his braces just so. “It’s true, we all rage. We all hate. We all fail. But . . .” And here, he raises a finger, pausing for dramatic effect, something he learned at his Toastmasters group. “That rage and contempt, that disappointment, that’s what makes us yearn so hard. Those deficits, they make us reach, they stretch us. They make us fight back when it matters.”

“Life shits on you, and you turn it into fertilizer,” I say.

“Exactly,” Andrew says. “And then there is this: Community. A village. A shining example of—”

“Yo, Mr. Jaws,” interjects Nick. “When you’re done with your little elocution over there, could you pass the fucking gravy?”

Did Nick just say elocution? You see, anything can thrive if you give it a chance.

So, whoever you are, whatever your last name is, wherever you came from, whichever way you swing, whatever is standing in your way, just remember: you’re bigger than that. Like the man said: you contain multitudes.





Today Is the Day I’m not going to tell you that the Days Inn in North Anaheim is some kind of paradise. As far as I know, the swimming pool in Paradise actually has water in it. And I’m pretty sure there isn’t a nail salon and a Qdoba across the street, but don’t quote me on that. I’m not going to tell you that the eighteen-hour drive to get here was anything less than hellish, what with the five of us crammed into a midsized rental and Nate suffering an acute gastric disturbance the entire way. I’m not going to lie and tell you that the weather in Anaheim—sixty-four degrees with a chance of showers—isn’t a little disappointing, or that the traffic doesn’t suck, or that the endless parking lot is not a clusterfuck from hell. I’m not going to tell you that the line to gain entrance is not soul crushing or that the admission is not overpriced.


“You bring the camera?” says Freddy.

“Got it,” says Andrew.

“What about the sunscreen?”

“It’s in Mom’s purse,” I say.

“What about the—”

“Freddy, relax.”

I’m not going to tell you that Freddy’s shorts provide sufficient cover for his nuts. Let’s just say I wouldn’t want to ride the Tea Cups with him.

What I am going to tell you is this: that standing here, fifty feet from the turnstile, my heart is in my throat, because already I can hear the children’s laughter. I can see the castle spire stretching skyward in the distance, and just beyond the gates of the Happiest Place on Earth, an outpouring of floral promise, red and white, and blue and yellow, in the thick of a great green expanse of new-mown grass.

Today is the day. I finally made it.





Acknowledgments


Big thanks to my early readers for their generosity and input: Jim Thomsen, Brock Dubbles, Willy Vlautin, Drew Perry, and Mara West. I’m forever indebted to Cassidy King for employing me all those years as a landscaper and being a great boss and a kind person. And Arnie Sarma, my old landscaping mentor, may you rest in peace, brother. Hardly a day goes by when I don’t think of you and your old Vanagon, and your cheap cigars, your stale raisin bread, your Braunschweiger liver sausage, your bourbon and coffees, your astrophysics lectures, and your landscape mastery.

I’d be nowhere without my beloved editor and honorary pops, Chuck Adams, always so instrumental and patient in helping me find my way and, in the case of this book, letting me draw from his personal experience to get there. One of the great blessings of my life as an artist has been working with the amazing team of publishers at Algonquin Books: Elisabeth Scharlatt, Craig Popelars, Ina Stern, Michael McKenzie, Brooke Csuka, Brunson Hoole, Jude Grant, Carol Schneider—you are all rock stars.