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 Jägerbombs, 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.
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.
No man is an island, even if Bainbridge Is.
Gravy
Well, old Mike Muñoz could probably go on forever entertaining, enlightening, and edifying you. I could tell you how to vote and what books to read, how to s
pend 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 Muñoz, 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.
And while we’re on the subject of professional associates that rock: thanks to Jon Cassir at CAA for finding new audiences for my stories. As always, thanks to my stalwart agent and longtime champion, Mollie Glick, for her amazing guidance and stewardship, both editorially and professionally, and for her loyalty and friendship.
Lastly, thanks to my amazing wife, Lauren, for her endless patience, understanding, and support. Did I mention patience? Without her yin to my yang, I’d be even more of a hot mess than I already am.
Jonathan Evison is the author of four previous novels, including All About Lulu, West of Here, The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving, and This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance! He lives with his wife and family in Washington State.
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Published by
Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
Post Office Box 2225
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225
a division of
Workman Publishing
225 Varick Street
New York, New York 10014
© 2018 by Jonathan Evison.
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
eISBN 978-1-61620-825-7
Jonathan Evison, Lawn Boy
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