Lawn Boy

by Jonathan Evison

  “How about the nineteenth?” she said. “It’s a Thursday.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “Where?”

  “You decide.”

  “Uhhh.”

  “You don’t have to decide now. Text me.”

  When I hung up the phone, I felt slightly changed. Like I’d just made some kind of major step. Granted, I was a little late in taking it, but still it was a confidence builder.

  All You Can Eat

  Three days later, Remy texted me, marking the beginning of a brief exchange:

  OMG. It’s soooo hot here. Ugh.

  LOL. Only 70 here.

  Lucky!

  I’m feeling lucky!

  Don’t do anything naughty . . .

  I’ll try not to!

  Again, on Thursday she texted:

  Looking forward to the 19th!

  Me, too! It’ll be fun!

  It better be! LOL.

  Is that a threat?

  Maybe.

  And again on Friday:

  I’m over Wenatchee. My dad is driving me nuts.

  Hang in there.

  Thanks. At least $$$ is good.

  That’s good.

  See you when I get back!

  Not only were we flirting, not only was Remy initiating it, but we were actually developing intimacy. These exchanges with Remy, the two of us perfect strangers, really, separated by 140 miles, were about the closest I’d ever come to having a bona fide girlfriend, pathetic as that may seem. And I must say, it had me feeling bullish.

  Saturday morning, Mom, Nate, Freddy, and I all squeezed into the Tercel and drove the two miles to the casino. They’ve got a huge breakfast buffet over there with an omelet bar and twelve toasters and the whole shebang. It’s called the Clearwater Buffet. We call it the Clearwallet Buffet, though. It’s the kind of thing where in order to bring Nate, you’ve got to have backup because there’s a high ape-shit probability. Too many choices, too much food. If you haven’t noticed, food is a big trigger for Nate.

  For all of Freddy’s faults, he’s really good with my brother, which I’m certain is the only reason my mom hasn’t kicked him out yet. Freddy is like Nate’s sensei. At the buffet, when Nate started working himself up into a state, Freddy remained calm and made eye contact with him.

  “Look here, boy: I feel your pain. They ain’t never enough blueberries in them waffles. Damn near drive a man crazy. But you a grown man, dog, remember that. Fact is, you a well-grown man. And sometimes a man gotta bear up in the face of adversity. They’s a truckload of waffles not fifty feet from here, and they’re all you can eat. You’ll get your fill of blueberries. You just relax now, boy.”

  Freddy’s silky baritone had an immediate calming effect on Nate. My brother was a pussycat the rest of the morning while we heaped our plates with bacon and potatoes, and eggs any way we wanted them. Tall glasses of orange juice and bottomless cups of coffee. We gorged ourselves on bear claws and dunkers and bagels with smoked salmon. We laughed, we grunted, we farted, we sighed. I felt like a king sitting at that table, seeing everybody so cheerful. Here was the Muñoz clan (and Freddy) on a sunny Saturday morning, with actual promise on the horizon. All the restaurant food we could eat and no anxiety or guilt about the expense. My mom looked ten years younger, sitting there with no cigarette between her fingers, no tumbler of wine, her crow’s-feet turning to laugh lines before my eyes. Freddy was in high spirits, too.

  “Mm-mm, I’ll tell you what, Mike Muñoz,” he said, snapping off half a crispy bacon strip. “Old Freddy could get used to this. A man grow weary of Rice Chex and instant oats, ain’t that right, Nate?”

  Indeed, Nate was lost happily somewhere between abstraction and diabetic shock. Things couldn’t have been nicer or more pleasant. And dammit, I was grateful, but a little guilty, too. I really should have invited Nick.

  Not Just Any Lawn Mower

  After the buffet, Mom had to pull an afternoon shift, so Freddy, Nate, and I walked out to 305 and caught a bus to Hansville for the flea market. I had fifty-nine bucks in my pocket, and as much as I’d been promising myself I’d show a little financial restraint, I was itching to get there.

  Flea markets are a glorious thing if you’re not a millionaire. There’s nothing quite like the pleasure of discovering lost treasures among life’s flotsam, unless it’s the pleasure of getting rid of rusty old shit and making a buck. It’s a win-win situation—kind of like recycling for poor people. It was a thirty-five-minute bus ride to Hansville, and the window wouldn’t open and Nate was a little gassy after the buffet. He’s not inhibited that way. On top of the drive, it was a half-mile walk to the flea market from the bus stop, a warm stretch of highway in August.

  Freddy’s corduroys kept riding up on him.

  “Goddamn,” he said, digging at his crotch. “It’s like a goddamn reuben sandwich down there.”

  “Spare us the details, please.”

  “You don’t understand, boy. I hail from warmer climes. A man’s privates gotta breathe.”

  “I didn’t realize Tacoma was so much warmer.”

  “I’m talking about Africa.”

  “Kind of a stretch, don’t you think?”

  “How’s that?”

  “That was like five generations ago.”

  “Uh-huh. And I suppose you ain’t Mexican?”

  “Technically, my dad was born in California.”

  “Uh-huh. You just keep tellin’ yourself that, Mike Muñoz. But far as anyone else is concerned, you Mexican. If it looks Mexican, and it has a Mexican name, it’s probably Mexican. Even if it don’t speak Mexican.”

  There must have been forty stalls spread out in roughly even rows on the dead grass, a couple of blue Honey Bucket outhouses on the far edge of the gravel parking lot. Most people don’t realize it, but a flea market is a whole social order. First, you’ve got your pros, the ones who might actually own a home of stick construction. Usually, they’re retired. Their stalls consist of foldout tables, the kind you see in church basements. The pros have canopies for shade. They have power strips and cash boxes. Their wares are varied and many, everything from pewter figurines to frilly, old lamps. Stamp collections, books, ceramic bowls, vintage postcards, Victorian doilies. Meanwhile, your rustics and fierce libertarians, the ones whose homes probably don’t have cement foundations, operate from their tailgates, amending them with saw horses and plywood to accommodate their inventory. Their wares are also many but less varied: carburetors, chain saws, winches, wedges, mauls, old license plates, ammunition, and knives. The next rung down is the broke-as-hell working-class stall. This is your classic fire-sale scenario—everything must go: blenders, 28k modems, Foreman grills. Crock-Pots, treadmills, and terrariums. Even toys, which sort of breaks your heart. Farther down the line, your hippies operate exclusively on blankets or tarps. Candles, dream catchers, and handmade drums. Maybe a wood carving of two bears fucking. Always a sad cardboard box of records—some America, some CCR, some scratched-to-hell Steppenwolf, and maybe an old Andy Williams or Mantovani album, which belonged to their parents. By the time you get all the way down to the tweakers, you’re almost to the Honey Buckets, and there’s no more shade. You have some heavily tattooed kid with an oversized baseball cap and his fourteen-year-old girlfriend. A towel, a pit bull, and some stolen DVDs. That’s where I usually start shopping. On this occasion, I scored a bunch of DVDs for Nate, including Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs and Scooby-Doo Wrestlemania Mystery 2.

  Farther up the line, I found a fishing rod for eight bucks and a tackle box for three fifty. Not that I fish, but I’ve been meaning to start one of these days. I always see Indians sitting on the dock downtown, with a can of beer in a brown bag, their fishing poles dangling over the edge. They never catch anything but bullheads, but it looks relaxing. I also bought another Leatherman for four bucks and, for five bucks, a Billy Bass wall hanging that lip-synched “Take Me to the River” and wagged its tail fin in perfect time. If you’ve ever seen one, you know they�
��re hilarious and quite lifelike.

  Yes, I realize I was spending immoderately. But dammit, I needed it. The fact is, I only bought one big-ticket item: a lawn mower for thirty-five bucks. I haggled the guy down from forty-five. Not just any lawn mower, either. A Snapper 3.5 horsepower mulching mower with a thirty-six-inch deck. Green, like my old one, but in better shape.

  It didn’t occur to me when I bought the mower that I’d have to push it all the way home. So, while Freddy and Nate bused back to the res, I began the journey on foot and started thumbing. After about eight steps I realized I should have sent the tackle box and the DVDs home on the bus with Freddy. Eventually, an old blue pickup with three dozen angry bumper stickers stopped for me. The driver, who wore a long white beard, watched me suspiciously in the side mirror, like a detective on a stakeout, as I hefted the mower into the bed. I was about to jump in back with the mower, but he waved me into the cab, where I squeezed in with a pair of overweight labs.

  “Del Jeffers,” he said, without extending a hand.

  “Mike,” I said.

  “That all? Just Mike?”

  “Mike Muñoz.”

  “Mexican, eh? Figured as much when I saw you pushing a lawn mower.”

  I was hot and tired and happy to have a ride. I wasn’t going to disappoint him by not being an actual Mexican, so I didn’t object.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, how does a fella find himself pushing a mower along the side of the highway?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Truck break down?”

  “Yeah, but not today.”

  Del considered the information to see if it fit anywhere. “You always take it fishin’ with you like that, the mower?”

  “I’m not fishing.”

  “Hmph. Well then, how is it that you got yourself a rod and a tackle box?”

  “I came from the flea market.”

  “Ah,” said Del. “So it’s all yours, huh? The mower, the rod, the tackle, all those there DVD videos.”

  “It is now. Like I said, I was at the flea market.”

  “Flea market, you say?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hmph. Just a coincidence, then, I reckon.”

  “What?”

  “Daughter’s brother-in-law got his mower stolen couple weeks back. Green, like that one. Turns out he’s quite the angler, too. Where’d you say you live?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Mind my askin’?”

  “The res.”

  Why is it people always ask you so many questions when they’ve already got their minds made up about you? Del kept interrogating me as we passed Little Boston and Crazy Corners, and a little ways past the Indianola signal, where he dropped me on the shoulder.

  “This is as far as I go,” he said.

  I was still a few miles from home, but I’ll be honest, I was relieved to get out of Del’s truck. He watched me intently in the side mirror as I wrestled the mower out.

  “You take care, Mike Muñoz of Suquamish,” he said out the window. “Stay out of trouble.”

  Changing of the Guard

  I knew Mom would not be happy with the arrangement, but I figured Freddy’s days were numbered, anyway, and since he spent most of his time in the house, we agreed to swap rooms.

  I’m not saying the shed’s a palace, but I made a desk out of eight cinder blocks and a half sheet of splintered plywood, and lined my books in even rows along the workbench, until the place started looking homey, in a third-world way.

  I hung up my Billy Bass and pushed it a few times. “Take Me to the River,” he sang, his big lips moving so lifelike, his tail fin wagging in rhythm.

  The biggest improvement was the solitude. Besides the thrumming of Freddy’s bass, the relentless screech of my neighbor Dale’s band saw deep into the night, and the occasional bottle rocket or M-80, it was pretty quiet out there. The first night, I settled into my air mattress and read this old French geezer, Céline, and boy, was he pissed off at the state of the world. I had to admire his spirit.

  In the morning, I walked into the house to eat a couple Eggos and make my lunch before work, and guess who walked out of my mom’s bedroom in his hopelessly stretched-out tighty-whities? I’ll give you a hint: it wasn’t Bernie Sanders.

  I was more stunned than anything else. “Freddy? Uhhh?”

  “Mornin’, Mike. How was the guest cottage?”

  “Where’s my mom?”

  “I’m right here, honey,” she said, walking out after him in her bathrobe.

  “Oh,” I said.

  And really, what else could I say?

  After breakfast, while I was scraping my plate into the garbage under the sink, I happened guiltily upon Freddy’s recent handiwork. And I have to admit, his fix was pretty ingenious. He’d replaced both the cracked drainpipe and the leaking elbow with the Festiva’s radiator hose and clamps. Cost: zero. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous that I’d never thought of it. That’s when I realized that there had been an official changing of the guard. My status as head of household had been usurped by a man who recorded homemade soundtracks to 1980s porn.

  Chief Seattle Days

  I guess you get used to seeing things a certain way, so that even when they change you stop noticing. Maybe that’s why I haven’t exactly raved about the res. Sure, there’s a beautiful new tribal center where the slab used to be, but I still think of it as the slab, a hoopless basketball court riddled with potholes. They’ve dolled up Chief Seattle’s grave, but the place remains largely forgotten in spite of the new infrastructure the casino dollars have provided. They’ve rebuilt the dock, but it still leads to the same old place. I suppose it might help if I were Indian; maybe that would imbue the res with a sense of heritage, maybe then I’d feel some vital connection to the place. But as it is, it just feels like the place I’ve been stuck my whole life.

  Except, that is, for a single weekend at the end of summer, when the whole res is transformed, and Suquamish feels like somewhere for once. For forty-eight hours, everyone puts their misery on hold. Old grudges are temporarily forgotten. The drumming and the dancing never cease. And the whole town is redolent with barbecue smoke. Some of my best childhood memories are of Chief Seattle Days. With the parade, the canoe races, the pageant, the salmon dinner, the softball tournament, and the vendors, it’s quite a powwow.

  Mom had to work doubles all weekend, but somehow Freddy managed to get the days off. Saturday, around noon, Nate, Freddy, and I trudged downtown into the thick of the festivities. It was eighty degrees, and people who shouldn’t wear shorts were wearing shorts, including Freddy. I bought us all Indian tacos and lavender lemonades and bottle rockets, and we listened to the drums and watched the dancing and ate more Indian tacos. We poked around the booths and watched part of a softball game and ate sno-cones and shot off our rockets. Then we rounded it all off with a salmon dinner for nine bucks a plate—my treat.

  In the evening, we bumped into Nick down by the tribal center. Considering we had not spoken since he walked out of Tequila’s a few weeks ago, it wasn’t that awkward. Familiarity trumps just about anything in the end. Why else would we keep making the same mistakes over and over?

  Nick had a bottle of Old Crow in his pack, and I staked us to a box of Henry’s Private Reserve, and we all walked down to the beach. At the bottom of the stairs by the boat ramp slumped the snaggle-toothed Indian kid, looking disconsolate with his beat-up guitar case and an old gray wire-haired dog sprawled at his feet.

  “Boy, can you play that ax?” said Freddy.

  The kid shrugged. “Some.”

  “Well, come on, then.”

  The kid stood up and fell in line with us, the old dog following along at a distance of ten or twenty feet, nose to the ground. We walked north under the bluff, away from what was left of the revelers, spreading out to collect firewood along the beach. Nick and I were side by side out of habit.

  “Dude, look, I’m sorry,” I said.

/>   “For being a fag?”

  “For being a jerk.”

  He took a slug of the whiskey and passed it to me.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “I’m a jerk, too, if you hadn’t noticed. But, dude, did you seriously put a guy’s dick in your mouth?”

  I passed the bottle back. “I was in fourth grade.”

  Nick immediately wiped the rim of the bottle off with his shirtsleeve. “That’s it? That was the last one?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Nick took a slug and handed the bottle back, considering me in the dusky light, like he was looking for a different Mike.

  “Fuck it,” he said. “I guess not. Just stop talking about it. So, you think our offensive line is going to be shit again?”

  “Depends on how things shake out with the draft and everything.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of. What the fuck makes anyone think Britt can play center? Couldn’t play guard, couldn’t play tackle, now he’s supposed to be the answer at center? Arizona scares me, bro. Fuck, I hate Arians. He looks so fucking stupid in that Kangol hat with his fucking red face. He reminds me of my dad.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Fuck that guy. I hope he drops dead.”

  “Arians or your dad?”

  “Both of them.”

  We all converged about a quarter mile down beach, away from the fireworks, our arms loaded with driftwood. Coaxing logs around to serve as benches, we started a fire under the bluff and commenced drinking beer and passing around the Old Crow. Now and then, somebody patted the dog’s head as we bullshitted and ate pretzels, and sometimes fell to silently watching the fire, hypnotized by the hiss and crackle of it. At one point, the kid’s dog started vigorously lapping at its own nuts, and we couldn’t help but pay attention.

  “Wish I could do that,” said Nick.

  “Better pet him first,” I said.