“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re still missing the point, Nick.”
“No, why wouldn’t a guy love me?”
“Never mind,” I said. “Just drop it.”
“You’re wrong, asswipe, I happen to know gay guys like me. I’ve caught them staring at me.”
“How’d you know they were gay?”
“They were gay.”
“How’d you know?”
“They were staring at me, dipshit. It was in the city. Of course, they were gay.”
“Okay, so assuming they were gay—” I said.
“Shhh!” he said, glancing up and down the bar.
“How did it make you feel?”
“Like kicking their asses.”
“C’mon, honestly. What did it feel like?”
He scratched his neck and looked vaguely in the other direction. “It didn’t feel like anything, Michael.”
“You were flattered, weren’t you? Admit it.”
“Fuck off.”
“Just admit it. It didn’t really make a difference, did it, if it was a dude or a woman? Either way, you felt good about yourself. You felt wanted.”
“You’re sick, you know that? There’s no way in hell you’re gonna make a fag out of me. Is that what you’re trying to do?”
“Is that what you think this is about? Believe me, Nick, even if I were gay, I’d have zero interest in you.”
“Good.”
“You hate women, you hate Mexicans, you hate gays—”
“I don’t hate women.”
“You hate these people because you’re scared, Nick.”
“Bullshit.”
“Because you’re insecure about your own intelligence, your own sexuality, your own measly job. Because you—”
And just like that, Nick stood up without a word and walked out of Tequila’s. The truth is, I was glad to see him go. But still, I couldn’t believe it. I’d never seen him leave a full pitcher like that.
Family
I was pretty shit-housed by the time the bus dropped me off a little after midnight. When I got home, I could hear Freddy in the shed, thumping away on his bass while watching, one could only assume, vintage porn. Mom was at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette. There was no sneaking past her, so I ducked my head into the kitchen.
“Hey, Ma.”
“Hi, honey.” She smiled, so I could see her conspicuously white crown. The shadows played hard on her face. Despite the weariness, I saw an old spark of genuine satisfaction, too.
“You want to sit down?” she said.
“Nah, I’m beat. How was work?”
“Not too busy,” she said. “How’s Nick?”
“He’s good.”
“Tell him to come around more often.”
I could tell she wanted me to hang around and talk for a while. But then I’d have to tell her about Nick walking out on me, and I didn’t want to disappoint her.
“Well, good night, Ma.”
She tapped her cigarette and picked up her tumbler. “Good night, honey. Could you remember to take a look under that sink?”
“You bet, Ma.”
I stumbled into the bedroom and plopped down on my half of the disembodied bunk bed without taking my clothes off. The room spun slowly counterclockwise, to the tune of Nate snoring.
I got to thinking of Nick, way back in seventh grade, when he practically lived with us. His mom and dad were fighting constantly. Two or three times, the cops showed up at their house, and once they even hauled his old man off to county. Nick never talked about it, but we all knew that his dad roughed him up regularly. Don Colavito was a mauler. I’m pretty sure it’s the reason Nick always tensed up when you touched him unexpectedly. I’m also certain it’s why Nick goes by his middle name, Nicholas, and not his first name, Donald.
My mom treated Nick like one of her own, even though she had more than she could handle already. He was one of us, eating bruised bananas and crackers in front the TV while Mom was at work. He’d still be there when she got home with pizza and breadsticks. Some nights he didn’t go home, and it was a rare night when anybody came looking for him.
And then there’s the fact that Nick’s been like a brother to Nate, too. He’s spent countless hours in front of the TV with him, eaten a gazillion Big Macs with him, read a million books to him, stuck up for him in high school, though Nick was younger and a hundred pounds lighter. And he’s never once run out of patience with Nate.
I’m not defending Nick, exactly. It’s just that no matter what a narrow-minded dickhead he is, he’s family. All these years, I’ve had no choice but to accept him, in spite of his bigotry and shallowness and willful ignorance. No matter how deep the infection runs, family is family. The only other choice is to cut them off like rotten limbs.
Like Butter
Having affixed my final bobblehead for the day, I was filing out the door behind Thing One and Thing Two when Chaz stopped me out front by the dead ficus. I assumed he needed me to start his car again.
“We need to talk,” he said.
My ears started burning.
“You got time for a beer?”
“Uh, maybe,” I said. “Let me call Freddy.”
“That your boyfriend?”
“No. Not at all. Kind of a roommate, I guess.”
“See what you can do, Muñoz. Razmachaz is heating up. I need to start getting you up to speed.”
Though Freddy let me know on no uncertain terms that he’d have to shuffle some things around (presumably his nuts), he was willing to cover me on one condition.
“Pick up some chips on your way home. The cheesy kind. None of this baked-rice shit.”
“Got it,” I said.
“And get some grape soda at the Masi.”
“They don’t carry it anymore.”
“Orange, then. The name brand.”
“There’s only one brand.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard, then, dog. Just don’t be late. I got shit on my plate.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“And remember: cheesy.”
I heard Nate going ape shit in the background.
“Gotta go,” said Freddy, hanging up.
Just as I’d suspected, Chaz needed me to start his car, the driver’s side of which was caked in dry mud.
“Yeah, I kinda got stuck the other night,” he said. “You got a license, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. You drive today.”
“You’re sure?”
“What the hell,” he said, riffling through the glove box for a mini.
Man, the transmission on that Bimmer was like butter. It was one thing to sit shotgun in the BMW. Driving it was something else. I truly felt like another person driving that car. I would’ve gladly driven all the way to Spokane right then if I’d had the chance, but Chaz directed me about a mile south and instructed me to park on a side street, where we climbed out and started walking toward the center of town.
After about four blocks, we stopped at a Mexican restaurant called Isla Bonita on the main drag and went straight for the bar.
Move a few walls around, get rid of the sombrero behind the bar, and Isla Bonita could’ve been the Tide’s Inn or Tequila’s. The stale air, the queasy light, the hoarse laughter. Within ten minutes, I’d be hearing Lynyrd Skynyrd. The bar patrons were a pretty rowdy crowd for five fifteen on a Monday afternoon. I recognized these people. They were not your characteristic islanders. They were my people. They hung Sheetrock and mowed lawns. They drove delivery trucks and repaired hot tubs. They lived fiercely and kept their blinders on and didn’t look much past their next paycheck. People with grease under their nails and name patches on their work shirts and deep worry lines at the corners of their eyes. People who lived for the promise of a little immediate satisfaction, when they could get it. And they could get it at Isla Bonita. It was a revelation that such a place existed on the island. Chaz must have been reading my mind.
/>
“Don’t let the McMansions and the Mercedes fool you, Muñoz. Who do you think put this place on the map? I’ll tell you: loggers, berry pickers, and shipbuilders. And they weren’t all Scandinavians, either. They were Japanese and Filipino and Indian. Look at the street names if you wanna know the real story. Forty years ago, it was nothing but mom-and-pops on this island. Yeakel’s shoes, Vern’s Winslow Drugs, the Country Mouse. This place was Mayberry R.F.D.—Christ, you probably don’t even know what that is. But there was no Safeway, no Subway, no Starbucks, nothing the modern world would call culture. There were three cops, and we knew them all by name. Not only that, we knew their secrets.”
“So, you’re from here?”
“Born and raised. Class of ’83. My dad sold insurance at Farmers, my mom sold baskets and decorative birdhouses. This place was a hippie haven, Muñoz. Artists, outliers, eccentrics. It was an island in the truest sense.”
“No man is an island, but Bainbridge Is.,” I said.
“How do you know about that?”
“My mom had the T-shirt. She’s almost as old as you. I know about Mayberry, too.”
“If you listen hard enough, you can still hear the heartbeat of that place—just barely. But don’t get me started. Look, I like your style, the way you keep your shoulder to the wheel and your ear to the ground.”
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t flattered by Chaz’s confidence in me. He was evasive concerning the precise nature of Razmachaz but kept assuring me that I was the man for the job. He was grooming me. I should be on my toes and ready to learn. Was I reliable? Was I ambitious? Did I want to escape that dump I was living in? It hadn’t yet occurred to me why on earth Chaz might have selected me to be his protégé, when Remy walked in and sat down in a booth. I felt the blood drain from my face.
“You okay, Muñoz? You’re not diabetic, are you?”
“I’ll be right back,” I said.
As bad as I wanted to run, I’m proud of myself for summoning the courage to proceed. I stood up and walked directly to Remy’s booth, convincing myself that I was capable of things I hadn’t been capable of the first time I sat down in her section. I was making seventeen bucks an hour now. I was the point man for Razmachaz LLC—whatever the hell it was. I was driving a BMW, sort of. And I had poetry in my heart, goddammit. But none of that mattered when the dude in the straight-brimmed Yankees cap and the big black gauges in his earlobes sat next to Remy, draping his arm around her. I immediately did an about-face, I hoped before she saw me.
I looked the other way for the next half hour, which is to say I looked at Chaz, which is to say Chaz had an audience. He told me about everything from floating payrolls, to tax credits, to money laundering. He told me how money didn’t matter, how it was just another tool, how finance should be all about freedom. Personal freedom. Freedom of choice, freedom of mobility, freedom to sit in your office and get drunk. It wasn’t that he was ambitious, more that he was lazy—and by his own admission. That’s why being an entrepreneur was the only life for Chaz. He could make his own hours. He could sleep at his desk. He could make businesses happen out of thin air, which is where credit came in.
“Hustling is overrated. It makes you bitter when things don’t work out. I’ve seen it. The key is to take risks and court luck. That way, when you fail, you haven’t got too much invested.”
Chaz then proceeded to tell me everything but the particulars of Razmachaz LLC, and where exactly the “point man” fit in, ordering numerous rounds while I watched in the mirror behind the bar as the guy in the Yankees cap kept his arm around Remy. Of course I was jealous. But more than that, I was embarrassed that it wasn’t me with my arm around Remy. It should have been.
Finally, Remy walked to the bathroom, and I ducked my head as she passed, determined to get out of there before she saw me.
“Let’s go,” I said.
Chaz tossed off his drink in a single slurp and left two twenties on the bar. I ducked my head again on the way out. I didn’t even glance at Remy as I whisked past.
“Mike!” I heard her say.
“Oh, hey,” I said, turning.
“Meet you out front,” said Chaz with a little wink.
Simultaneously disappointed and relieved not to have to introduce Chaz, I stood at the end of Remy’s booth, not knowing what to do or say next.
“This is my brother, Travis,” she said.
“Oh!” I said, a little too brightly. “Nice to meet you.”
“Right on,” he said. “Is this the guy?”
Remy socked him on the shoulder and blanched. I felt bad for her getting put on the spot like that, even though I couldn’t believe for a second that I was “the guy.”
“So, what’s up?” I said.
“You stopped coming around. You promised you’d come back and see me.”
“Well, after the whole saltshaker incident, I wasn’t sure if they really wanted us in there.”
“Anyway, I don’t work there anymore,” she said.
“Where do you work?”
“Nowhere right now. What about you?”
“I’m in production.”
“Ooh, like film?”
“More like bobbleheads.”
“That sounds cool. Better than waiting tables, anyway. How’s your novel?”
“Oh, you know, comin’ along,” I said. “Getting ready to publish it, actually.”
Goddammit, I was doing it again, digging myself a deeper hole, creating expectations I could never live up to. It’s like I wanted to fail.
“How exciting!” said Remy. “When can I read it?”
“Soon. Just needs some, you know, tuning up. Some editorial.”
“I can’t wait,” she said. “Hey, you wanna sit down?”
“Nah, my friend is waiting for me. I’ve gotta give him a lift. I better get going. It was great seeing you, though.”
I was about to make my exit, scalp tingling, heart clenched in self-contempt.
“Wait,” she said, fishing around in her purse. She located a pen and scribbled her number on a beer coaster.
“Call me,” she said.
“Uh, yeah, will do.”
I must have been smiling like an idiot when I walked out and found Chaz leaning against the wall.
He looked mildly impressed. “Funny, the whole time, I kinda figured you were gay,” he said.
“Why would I be gay?”
“I don’t know. Just a feeling I got.”
“Do I seem gay or something?”
“Not exactly. More like you don’t seem not gay.”
“Why, because I don’t have a girlfriend?”
“That could be it.”
“Well, where’s your girlfriend?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Are you gay?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Well, there you go. And besides,” I hastened to add, displaying my coaster with Remy’s number, the smiley face already beginning to smear with the sweat of my palm, “I got digits.”
“Not bad,” said Chaz.
Yes, I was pretty damned satisfied with myself as we walked the four blocks back to the car, Chaz lagging behind with uneven strides, stopping once to piss in a shrub. I felt like I was actually, finally, on the verge of something.
The Player
I treasured that coaster. I wore its edges smooth, contemplating the possibilities. I was really beginning to think Remy might be the one. She was engaging, quite attractive, and familiar enough to feel comfortable around. If I could only get close enough to Remy, I knew she would stir me in some special way, and I could get over the girlfriend hump.
But making the next move was a lot tougher than it should’ve been. Sad as it sounds, I actually wished I could’ve called Nick for advice, though I’m sure I knew exactly how that conversation would run:
“Generally speaking,” he’d say. “I’d give it a week before calling her. But in your case, I wouldn’t wait longer than three days.”
>
“Why in my case?”
“She might lose interest.”
“Geez, thanks.”
“Well, Michael. Maybe you’re just not alpha material, that’s all I’m sayin’. Maybe you’re one of those sensitive guys who’s just gotta be around all the time, drinking with her while she complains about other guys and confesses a bunch of stuff. Then, eventually, she drinks too much and gives into your sensitive-guy charms.”
“Dude,” I’d object weakly.
“So, assuming you’re that guy, Michael, and you probably are, I wouldn’t give it a whole week. You see my point?”
It was like having a conversation with my own ego.
In the end, I decided to wait until payday to call Remy. I did my best to dial her number breezily, as though there were absolutely nothing at stake. But the second she answered it, I went blank.
“Uh, hey, it’s me, Mike. You know, from Mitzel’s and . . .”
“Oh, hi.”
“So, uh, I was thinking like maybe we could, I dunno, grab some kind of food or something? Maybe some pizza. Or like maybe a drink? Like a cocktail or whatever.”
“Oh, I see. You wanna get me drunk, is that it?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Typical man. One thing on his mind.”
“No, really, I didn’t mean like—”
“And what happens once I’m tipsy? What’s your plan then, Mike?”
“I was just talking about—”
“Is that when you take advantage of me? Like in the back of your truck or something?”
“Look, I swear, I wasn’t trying to say—”
“Mike, I’m kidding,” she said. “I’d love to have a drink.”
“How about this weekend?”
“The thing is, I’m leaving for Wenatchee tomorrow to see my parents for a couple weeks.”
“Ah.”
“It’s sort of embarrassing, actually. I need to work at my dad’s hardware store and make a little money to hold me over. I’m totally broke.”
I found the news that Remy was broke thrilling. It released me from my own shame and potentially made me attractive, too, as a person who was not only gainfully employed but also soon to be the point man for Razmachaz LLC—whatever the fuck it was.
Lawn Boy Page 8
