“You ever used this thing?” he said.
“Yeah, tons of times.”
I walked him through the process and got him his voucher. The kid only cleared four and a half bucks. How long he had to stare holes in his fret board, how many ham-fisted versions of “Aqualung” he had to struggle through to make four bucks and change, I couldn’t tell you, but I felt for him.
“Peace, bro,” he said, clutching his voucher.
By the time I emptied all my change onto the tray, scooped up the remainder, and cashed in my twenty-eight-dollar voucher, the kid was already back out front by the carts, butchering Steppenwolf. I watched him for a little longer than usual, until he finished “Magic Carpet Ride,” then started into something unrecognizable. When it felt like I had finally fulfilled my obligation to listen, I dropped three singles along with what was left of my change in the case.
“Right on,” he said. “Peace.”
The thing about the kid, the thing that made me a little melancholy as I hoofed it back to the bus stop with my twenty-five bucks, is that even though I don’t know him from Adam, I know his story without having to ask. All I have to do is smell that leather vest and see that broken tooth and those sad brown eyes and the desperate determination in his knit brow as he tries to make music, and I can guess roughly what the household he grew up in looked like. Probably a lot like mine. If he was lucky, he had a diabetic Aunt Genie somewhere. Or a mom and a brother. Or maybe not. Maybe he was on his own, trying to make music.
When I arrived home from the Coinstar, I was only halfway up the driveway before I noticed that something was amiss: my lawn mower was gone! Somebody had stolen it in broad daylight.
“Fuuuuuck!” I hollered, pounding the trunk of the dead Festiva. “Shit-fucking-suck-fuck-piss!”
Chest heaving, fist still clenched, I marched into the house.
“Well, I hope you’re happy,” I said to Mom. “My fucking mower is gone.”
“What happened to it?”
“Exactly what I told you would happen when we moved it out of the shed. Somebody stole it. Fuck, Mom. What if I get a fucking landscaping gig?”
“Honey, just cut out all the swearing. Every other word out of your mouth is ‘fuck.’ You’re smarter than that.”
“She’s right, you know,” said Freddy from the sofa, where he was smoking a joint. “Profanity is a class indicator.”
“Fuck you, Freddy. You live in a shed. You lay down bass riffs to old pornos. What does that indicate?”
“Those are original compositions.”
“Leave Freddy alone!” yelled Nate from the bathroom.
You see? This is what I’m up against. The whole world is conspiring to sink me. If it’s not some asshole stealing my lawn mower, it’s my own mother renting out my shed to a man who dispenses wisdom with one nut hanging out.
Three-Dollar Minimum
Sunday afternoon, when Freddy and Mom were both home with Nate, I took the opportunity to escape the house, hoofing it all the way out to the Masi with $2.39 to buy a tallboy of Schmidt Ice. I called in advance for a price check and had to hit up Freddy for sixteen cents.
As usual, the line was six deep when I finally got there, and the place smelled, as always, of corn dogs and gasoline. I realized that spending money on alcohol when I was totally broke was patently irresponsible. But like Freddy once said, “A man ain’t no good to the world until he finds some relief.”
Just when you thought old Freddy had dipped into his well of tired axioms one too many times, he dispensed a little pearl of wisdom like this one. The fact is, I was no good to the world, and I needed twenty-two ounces of relief.
Well, I never got it, not really. Because guess who got in line directly behind me at the Masi? I’ll give you a hint: she recently came within three feet from being brained by a saltshaker. At once mortified and ecstatic to see her, my scalp tightened.
“Uh, hey, Remy.”
“Oh, hey! What’s up? How’s your brother?”
“He’s doing great. He’s sort of got a new caregiver, which, you know, frees me up a bit. Dang, we haven’t been to Mitzel’s since, well, you know.”
She laughed. “Oh my God, that was hilarious,” she said. “I actually heard that thing whistle past my ears.”
“I thought you hated us after that,” I said.
“Not at all. I just didn’t think I could serve you guys without cracking up. Oh my God, that old man—he had no idea!”
“Next,” interjected the checker.
I set my tallboy on the counter.
“ID?” he said.
I pulled out my wallet and flashed my license. He checked the date and scanned my tallboy.
Stuffing the wallet back in my pocket, I started digging out my change. It was accounted for, every penny of it—all $2.39.
“Two seventy-one,” said the clerk.
“It’s two thirty-nine.”
“Tax.”
“I thought there was no tax on food.”
“Beer isn’t food.”
I started patting my pockets. “Ah man, I forgot my wallet.”
“I just carded you, remember? It’s in your back pocket.”
“Oh, right, duh.” I pulled out my wallet and handed him my debit card. “Just put the difference on the card.”
“The difference? You mean thirty-two cents?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry. There’s a three-dollar minimum.”
Here’s the thing. There was exactly $2.03 in that account, and I didn’t have overdraft protection. If that guy used my card, it would get declined for sure, and Remy would witness the indignity.
“Um, shoot, let me run out to my truck.”
You know, the truck sitting in impound.
“Or you could just buy a pack of gum,” said the clerk.
“Yeah, I don’t really like gum. . . .”
“Or a Slim Jim,” said the clerk.
“Not a big Slim Jim fan.”
The checker heaved a sigh. “Look, anything that costs thirty-two cents will put you over the three-dollar minimum.”
“I’ve got change,” said Remy, sparing me further embarrassment, sort of. She fished through her purse at length, looking for the difference.
Clearly, I was the biggest loser ever. There was the clerk, wearily holding all my nickels and dimes as the line stacked up behind us.
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll just run to my truck,” I said.
“No, no, I’ve got it,” she said, setting her ChapStick on the counter. “Just put it all together.”
We walked out of the store side by side, my heart beating in my throat.
“Where’s your truck?”
“Oh yeah, I totally spaced. I walked down here.”
“So you live close?”
“Just down the road two and a half miles.”
“C’mon, I’ll give you a ride.”
My knees almost gave out. Remy was inviting me into her car—Remy! I must have spent a thousand bucks eating rubbery steaks and powdered mashed potatoes just to get this woman’s attention. Now she was not only forgiving me for being a complete loser, she was actually willing to contribute to the cause. This should have been some kind of turning point for me, right?
“Nah, that’s cool,” I said. “I need the exercise.”
“Are you’re sure? You look sweaty. Let me give you a ride.”
“Nah, I’m good.”
“It’s like ninety degrees. I’m giving you a ride.”
In the car, she asked me what I did. I knew she meant what did I do for work, but I wasn’t about to tell her I was an unemployed landscaper.
“I’m a writer,” I said, regretting the lie immediately.
She looked impressed, or maybe just really surprised.
“That’s so cool. What do you write?”
It pains me to remember our conversation. All I know is, I didn’t want to blow it. I was desperate to redeem myself.
“Oh, you know,
Great American Novels. I’m currently working on something big.”
“What’s it about?”
“Well, it’s difficult to give you a synopsis. It’s pretty sprawling. A lot of the book is about class issues. Wealth inequity. Race. And a bunch of other things.”
“Like what?”
“Well, there’s some stuff about poultry.”
“Sounds amazing.”
“Well, I’m no Frank Norris, but it’s getting there.”
Remy seemed genuinely engaged by my psychobabble. She was actually buying it. Things were going inexplicably well, until the bottom fell out.
Suddenly, as we neared my neighborhood, I got panicky. I didn’t want her to see where I lived. If she saw where I lived, everything would fall apart. I’d get caught in all my idiotic lies. She’d see my truck not sitting in the driveway. She’d see our crappy double-wide. If she dared to venture inside, she’d soon see that I shared a room with Nate, that our beds were in fact two estranged halves of a single bunk bed. Mom would still be home, puffing away. Freddy would be scratching his taco on the sofa. The place would stink of Blueberry Kush and cigarette smoke. There would be no typewriter, no stack of pages. Who was I fooling thinking I could ever be with this girl? She’d see through me in two minutes flat. By the time we got to the abandoned grocery store, I had no choice.
“You can just drop me here.”
“I can take you all the way.”
“Nah, this is great. I wanna walk at least a few blocks.”
Without further ceremony, I opened the door and hopped out of the car.
“Great seeing you,” she said.
“Yeah, you, too.”
“Don’t forget your beer.”
I leaned back into the car and grabbed my tallboy off the dash.
“Come in and see me,” she said.
“I will.”
She winked. “You better. And bring your brother.”
“Well, I’m not sure about that,” I said.
When I walked away from Remy’s car, I didn’t even look back as I heard her circle halfway around the lot and give me a little honk.
What was I supposed to do, ask her out? Out where? With what? Christ, I didn’t even have wheels. She’d have to pick me up, and soon she’d realize that I’m just some unemployed, unenlightened wannabe trying to figure out who the hell he was. So, yeah, now you’re starting to get the picture. Maybe she liked me, maybe she saw something in me, but that’s because she didn’t know me. I’d rather she never see me again and maybe remember me as something I’m not. Like a writer or at least a guy with a job.
When I got home, things were as expected. Freddy and Nate on the couch. Mom in the kitchen, smoking cigarettes.
“Boy, shut that door, you lettin’ the heat in,” said Freddy.
I shut the door all right. I shut it good. I proceeded straight to the bathroom and locked the door, where I nearly put my fist through the wall.
“What the hell, boy?” Freddy shouted.
“Let me handle this, Freddy,” my mom said.
I heard the back steps creak as Freddy walked out to the shed. Mom was soon at the door, jiggling the knob.
“Honey, is everything okay?”
“I’m just taking a shower, I’m fine.”
“Why is the door locked?”
“Privacy, please! Jesus Christ, I’m twenty-two years old, can’t I lock the door?”
I heard the ice cubes in her tumbler slosh as she went away. I turned on the shower, and like an idiot, I broke down and sobbed as quietly as I could. And it wasn’t all about Remy, either, but a cumulative depression. The depression of experience. The futility of knowing I was stuck on a hamster wheel, and it would always be the same. Whatever I did, things were not going to get better. I’d always be living on this lousy street or some other lousy street. My mailbox would always be crooked and full of bills I couldn’t afford to pay. I’d always be broke.
Even if I could get Remy and somehow keep her, I’d only be dooming her. Maybe I could convince her to squirt out a few kids in a moment of weakness, and doom them, too. The futility of accepting that I couldn’t physically afford to plan ahead, I couldn’t even afford to look that direction.
Look, I’m not gonna lie. I was feeling sorry for myself. But beneath the self-pity seethed an anger, raw and abiding, hot and blind, an anger getting harder to suppress by the day. It just needed placing, needed focus, needed a voice.
“Mike,” Mom said, again outside the bathroom door. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Go away,” I said.
You’re Just You
After he moved out, I saw my old man once, maybe twice a year, until he disappeared completely when I was eleven. My mom must have known he was about to go AWOL, because she called Victor on the phone one Sunday morning after church, and though I wasn’t meant to, I heard her side of the conversation from my place in the living room, where I was reading an illustrated Bible aloud to Nate.
“Yes, I heard, Victor,” came my mom’s voice from the kitchen. “Of course you are, Victor, that’s what you’ve been doing all along, which is why you’re going to come over here, and . . . no, it is your responsibility . . . this has nothing to do with—Victor, Victor, you listen to me . . . no, no, you listen to me . . . he’s eleven years old . . . he hardly even knows you. He’s confused, you owe him some kind of an explanation for why you just—I don’t care what you think is best for you, you’re gonna do this, or—oh, no, no, no . . . why, Victor? Why? Because he’s just a boy. Because you haven’t been there to—wait, me? Me? Are you kidding? I’m the one who—oh, no you don’t . . . well then, how about I call my old friend Bud Ellingson, you know, your boss, and tell him how you and your girlfriend borrowed his—oh, no? How about I tell him about all the times—oh, you don’t think so? You don’t think I could get your butt fi—oh, really? Just watch me . . . you’re damn right, I’m serious . . . that’s right, Victor . . . now you’re getting the picture . . . yes, that’s right.”
What can I tell you about myself at eleven? I was awkward, insecure, mired in doubt about myself and the world around me. I was quiet, thoughtful, mostly afraid to ask questions, though very curious by nature. I was privy to more adult information than I cared to have access to. Given the choice, eleven-year-old Mike Muñoz would have just as soon been invisible than to have to confront uncertainty on a daily basis. He didn’t like conflict. He didn’t like excitement. As much as he loved books, he lived in mortal fear of real-life drama.
The day after my mom called to berate my dad, he picked me up in his dented green pickup truck and drove me unceremoniously out to McDonald’s by the junction, where instead of going inside, we ordered drive-thru, then parked in the lot facing the street, across from the auto-parts store.
I couldn’t wait to get that hot cheeseburger in my mouth. The whole cab smelled like french fries. But my stomach was in knots, because I knew something was coming.
“Look, Nate,” my dad said before we’d even unwrapped our food.
“I’m Mike.”
“Right. Look, I don’t want you to feel like anything was your fault—me leaving and the rest of it. It’s not your fault I couldn’t deal with you or your brother or your mom, that’s on me. You guys were probably fine, hell, I don’t know, you were kids. I just didn’t want you, okay? You’re not what I signed on for. And that’s not your fault.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Good,” said my dad. “See, no shame in not being wanted. It’s not like being unwanted.”
“It isn’t?”
“Of course not. There’s an old saying, but I don’t remember it. It has to do with being what you want to be, not what . . . anyway, I can’t remember. You didn’t do anything wrong, that’s the point here, and your mom wants you to remember that. You couldn’t help it. You’re just you.”
“Okay.”
“Good,” he said.
“Dad?”
“Don’t call me that.”
>
“Okay, but what about Nate?” I said. “Shouldn’t he know?”
“He probably wouldn’t understand. But you tell him if you want.”
“Okay.”
Then my dad tossed the bag of food onto my lap and turned the ignition.
“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s go. You can eat that on the way home.”
Do the Math
Just when things were coming to an impasse on the home front, I got a callback.
“You Mike?” a voice said.
“Yeah.”
“This is Chaz Linford. You applied for a production job with me.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re hired.”
“I am?”
“It’s a competitive position. I’m looking for a motivated candidate. It’s yours if you want it.”
“You’re sure?”
“What about you? You sure you want it?”
“Yeah, of course,” I said, though I wanted to ask him how he arrived at the conclusion that I was a motivated candidate. Surely, it wasn’t my four and a half years of landscaping experience. Could this be the opportunity I’d been pining for? A job whose only requirements were that I was strong, bright, willing, and motivated to learn? The sort of job the politicians were always yammering about creating? The job that paid seventeen bucks an hour?
The place is called Chaz Unlimited Limited, which sounds ambiguous, I get that. Anyway, we’re in the business of “production and assembly”—as in, we assemble promotional crap for other companies. By crap, I mean bobblehead dolls, novelty key chains, posters, and weird little Japanese dolls with puckered lips that sing “On Top of Old Smokey” when you squeeze their bellies. Think of me as a machine but human. I repeat the same tasks over and over, some days a thousand times. I didn’t even know this sort of job existed anymore this side of China.
Chaz Unlimited Limited is located on Bainbridge in a chichi new business park called Copper Top, across the street from the middle school. Our production warehouse and home office is surrounded by a boutique coffee roaster, a boutique brewery, a charcuterie slash deli, a wine-tasting room, and a yoga studio. Not a single nail studio or minimart. I guess that’s the difference between a business park and a strip mall.
Lawn Boy Page 6
