“The Cartiers?”
“All of them.”
“Will they survive?”
“Maybe. But left here, they’re only gonna get worse.”
“Listen, Mike. I’ve got a proposition for you.” Piggot was standing a little too close for comfort now. “How would you like to be my official groundskeeper?”
I looked around the place. Certainly, it could use me.
“Well, um, I guess I’d have to ask Doug. I’m supposed to be working next door. I mean, that’s what I’m getting paid for.”
“Whatever Doug Goble is paying you, add fifteen percent.”
I started doing the math. Apparently, Piggot mistook my numeric fumblings for deliberation.
“Make it twenty-five percent,” he hastened to add.
Let’s see, twenty-three divided by four, plus twenty-three . . .
“Fine, thirty percent,” said Piggot, who apparently shared my knack for negotiation. “You don’t have to make up your mind right now,” he said. “Come out to the party this Friday at the clubhouse, we’ll talk more about it. There will be young people there. What do you say?”
Twenty-nine ninety an hour! That was (let’s see, thirty, give or take, times forty, give or take, times fifty-two) over sixty grand a year! Holy smokes! What I could do with sixty grand a year! I’d rent my own house. I’d buy unlimited data. Health insurance. Dental.
“Bring your girlfriend,” said Piggot.
“I don’t have one.”
Piggot gave me a wink. “Ah,” he said. “Well, come stag, then. Maybe I can introduce you to someone.”
A Generous Offer
I left the country club feeling guilty. Here I was being offered my second substantial pay raise in a week, without hardly lifting a finger, and all I could think was that I’d be screwing over Goble if I took the job. Okay, Goble is kind of a douche bag—agreed. But he’d taken me into his confidence, taught me how to improve myself, given me sound professional advice, and bought me a bunch of beers. Not to mention the great money he was paying me—and the tips. Plus there was no denying that Goble and I had history, unresolved though it might have been. How could I turn my back on him?
All week long, as I worked the other accounts, I was anxious about the decision. I just didn’t have it in me to talk to Goble about it. If I was going to jump ship on Team Goble, I was going do it in the most cowardly fashion possible: take the money and cringe. Hide behind Piggot’s laurel hedge every time Goble came to check on his sign. I told myself Goble would do the same thing, at least the take-the-money part. Heck, he’d relish the opportunity to watch somebody fade to nothing in his rearview mirror. So what was wrong with me? Why was I still a slave to some loyal impulse that never seemed to benefit me? Why did I lack the impetus to get ahead? Christ, it’s like I wanted to be broke my whole life. I had to do this, I told myself. I had to suppress my pride, I had to ignore my instincts, I had to look out for number one. I had to play the Goble card and suck up to these wealthy fucks, get them to accept me, admire me even, so that I could move on up the ladder, so that if I ever managed to get a girlfriend or a wife, and we decided to squirt out a few kids, they wouldn’t be eating stale saltines in a library somewhere while we slaved away at our evening jobs. You’d think that would be motivation enough for old Mike Muñoz to take a job that could change his life, but, oh no, I continued to wrestle with the proposition.
In addition to the job dilemma, and all its traitorous implications, I was nervous about the party itself. What was I supposed to wear? What was I supposed to say to a bunch of wealthy people with whom I had nothing in common? My conception of a party was dirty jokes around a bonfire, flannel shirts, and Jägerbombs. Canned beer and pretzels. But this was going to be something different, and I wasn’t sure what. It should’ve been exciting, right? If only I could blend in, the way Goble managed to blend in, who knew what opportunities might become available to me. I just had to look and act the part.
Friday afternoon, I spent nearly an hour in front of the mirror trying to look the part. I tried on beige cotton Dockers and the same tie I wore job hunting, but I only looked like a manager at Starbucks. I tried black slacks and a white dress shirt, but I looked like a busboy. Dockers and white shirt, no tie, I looked like a guy trying to sell you a time-share. Dockers, dark shirt, tie, I looked like a strip-club doorman. Whatever combination I tried, I wound up looking not wealthy. Eventually, my efforts soured me. Fuck this party, I wasn’t going. I was gonna stick with Team Goble and quit trying to be something I wasn’t.
Fortunately, Freddy talked me down from the ledge.
“That tie is your problem, boy. Look like you goin’ to a trade show in Tukwila. Freddy got just the tie for you.”
Freddy had a tie, all right. It was midnight blue, about six inches wide, and had a hand-painted naked lady with torpedo tits, playing a harp.
“I can’t wear this, Freddy.”
“That’s art, boy. Hand painted. Wealthy folks love art.”
“Thanks, anyway,” I said.
I went with the busboy look. If nothing else, I’d blend in with the help.
I thought about inviting Remy, I really did. Maybe she would have been impressed. But what worried me was that seeing me around all those breezy, carefree wealthy people would only make her see me even more for what I was: unbreezy, uncarefree, unwealthy. The fact that I was driving the Team Goble truck to this clandestine affair and that Goble himself was conspicuously not invited only made me feel guiltier for considering Piggot’s proposition. On top of that, I took the magnetic Team Goble signs off both doors, and you can just imagine how Doug would have felt about that. The whole drive there, I was nervous and miserable. Look at me, moonlighting on the guy who gave me the best job of my life. The guy who towed my car out of the ditch. And it’s not like he didn’t appreciate me. He called me a genius—twice.
By the time I cleared security and arrived at the country club, I was resenting the place all over again. I parked about a half block down from the clubhouse and made my way toward the festivities with a heavy heart. Drawing nearer, swing music and laughter could be heard wafting on the warm evening air. It was all so goddamn idyllic. And still, I felt like a shitheel. Suddenly I wished I’d gone ahead and invited Remy. Maybe I would have felt more confident with her at my side, maybe coming to this party would have felt like the right decision.
There were a hundred or so people socializing in the clubhouse, an airy and effortlessly elegant structure, with a high ceiling, its bare rafters strung with white Christmas lights. Four or five couples danced before the grandstand, where six old fogies blew brass and woodwinds, while one dude with a shock of white hair was beating the drums and looking like he might have a heart attack.
Piggot stood poised by the bar, looking his breezy self, dressed in peach-colored slacks and a white dress shirt. Standing nearby, a formidable old woman with a proud bearing, wearing a half ton of makeup, patted her sculpted hair.
“Mary, I want you to meet Mike, my new yard man.” Wink wink.
“Pleased,” she said, holding out her palsied hand like she was Queen Victoria.
I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to kiss it or what, so I shook it limply, not wanting to crush it.
“Is this the writer?” she inquired.
I looked at Piggot for an explanation.
“Doug enlightened me regarding your literary ambitions,” he said.
“You talked to Goble?”
“Indeed, and he told me about your novel.”
“Uh, oh yeah.” I should have never told Goble I was writing a novel.
“Sounds ambitious,” he said.
“My nephew Richard wrote some poetry in college,” Mary informed us haughtily. “But nothing published, of course. Have you published?”
“Not yet.”
“Oh,” she said, averting her eyes and waving curtly at someone across the room.
“Grab yourself a drink, young man,” said Piggot.
&
nbsp; I moved about ten feet to the bar, delighted to discover the booze was free—cha-ching! Not that I was planning on getting drunk. Not with the company truck. Plus I needed to make a good impression on these people. They didn’t have Jäger, so I ordered a beer and a shot of whiskey. They didn’t have Old Crow or Wild Turkey or even Jack Daniel’s, so I ordered some shit called Bushmills. I tried to tip the bartender, but he told me they weren’t allowed to accept tips.
“Why not?”
“Don’t get me started,” he mumbled.
As I was tossing back my shot, an old sheepdog in a worn tuxedo muscled up next to me at the bar and ordered a scotch. His bow tie was hanging loose. He sported some ruddy cheeks and the shaggiest eyebrows I’ve ever seen. Tufts of gray hair sprouted from his ears.
“You must be the writer,” he said.
“Uh, yeah, I guess.”
“Anything published?”
“Not yet.”
“Ah, I see,” he said, arching a shaggy brow. “You know, my son Richard wrote a little poetry in college. Nothing published, of course. Eventually, he outgrew it.”
“I guess there’s hope for me,” I said.
He considered me briefly, like one might consider a doorless bathroom stall.
“Perhaps,” he said, taking his scotch without so much as a nod at the bartender. Then, just like that, the old sheepdog walked off toward the bandstand.
And here I thought wealthy people had good manners.
“That’s the guy who hired me,” the bartender said, his voice lowered. “Loaded as they come—old logging money or something. He’s a real grab-ass. You know all these people are related, right?”
“I didn’t know.”
“They inbreed so their money stays in the family. Check it out. They all kinda look alike—weak chins, thin lips, wide hips.”
To be honest, I hadn’t seen the resemblance up until that point, beyond the fact that they were all conspicuously white.
“Don’t bother sucking up to them. That’s not what they want from you.”
“Oh?”
“Me, they want to suck up. But not you.”
“What do they want from me?”
“They want you to be yourself. The more yourself you can be, the better. You’re an exotic.”
“Me? Exotic?”
“Yeah. Catholics, artists, Jews. They get a real kick out of them.”
Piggot approached the bar, dragging a young lady with a weak chin and thin lips.
“Mike, I want you to meet Kaitlin. Kaitlin studied English literature at Tufts. I thought you two might find something to talk about.”
“Hey,” I said.
“Pleased, I’m sure,” she said, but only after Piggot gave her a nudge.
No sooner did Piggot plant her at my side than he wandered off again. We stood there uncomfortably for a moment, me and the girl from Tufts, while the bartender withdrew to polish glasses.
“Uncle Jud says you’re a writer.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s kind of the consensus around here.”
“Have you published?”
“Not yet. First, I’ve just got to finish my novel.”
“Hmm,” she said. You could tell she wasn’t convinced. “What is the subject?”
“Landscaping.”
“Ah. You should talk to my cousin.”
“Is he a landscaper?”
“No. He used to write poetry. He wasn’t published, either.”
I didn’t really know where to go with the conversation, so we stood in silence for a minute longer.
“Well, nice meeting you,” she said at last. “Good luck on your publication.”
She left me standing there, holding my beer. I drifted off toward the rear of the clubhouse, Piggot patting my back on the way past.
“Enjoying yourself, young man?”
“Yessir.”
“Good, good,” he said, turning his back on me again.
God, I wanted to get out of there. I didn’t like being exotic. I weaved my way through the party toward the back patio to get some fresh air. There, I found a wrought-iron chair in the shadows and nursed my beer along, with half a mind to flee the country club altogether. These people were reptiles. The more I thought about taking the job, the more I appreciated Team Goble. At least Goble believed in some kind of racial equity, some kind of upward mobility. These people wanted to live in stasis, swilling gin and congratulating themselves for doing nothing.
It took me a couple minutes to realize I wasn’t alone in the shadows.
“You must be the writer.”
I turned to find a skinny guy in a rumpled seersucker jacket and bow tie, slumped in a chair behind me. He had a weak chin and thin lips—unmistakably one of them.
“Richard Freeman,” he slurred. “Call me Richie.”
“Mike,” I said.
“You know, I fancied myself a poet once. Back at Yale. Too many years ago to count. Of course, I never published anything.”
“I heard.”
“Of course you did. They’re supportive in their way. Financially, I mean.”
“Do you still write?”
“Gads, no.”
“Why not?”
“What’s the use? I was never any good. Everything I wrote was derivative. Nothing unique to write about, no noble instincts to draw upon. Never did anything of any real benefit to the world, or even myself. Started on third base and still couldn’t score. I suppose I must seem like a tragic—hic—figure to you.”
“Not really.”
“Well, I am. You’re looking at an unmitigated failure. I’ve foiled expectation at every turn. I’ve done nothing to distinguish myself, nothing on the strength of my own character. I’m a walking disappointment—to myself, to my family, to the world at large.”
“Take it easy, dude. Seems like you’re doing okay to me.”
“Yes, but you’re not a failure.”
“I’m not?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
“So are you.”
“Yes, but on different terms.”
“I don’t see how being here makes me a success. Couple of free drinks, a few pats on the back. It’s not like I’ve published anything.”
“Yes, but already you’re exceeding anybody’s expectation of you, am I right?”
He was right, of course. The bar was set pretty low for old Mike Muñoz.
“I see you two have met,” came Piggot’s voice. “Now it’s a bona fide literary roundtable.”
“Hic,” said Richie.
“Sorry to interrupt,” said Piggot.
“Are you?” said Richie.
Piggot ignored him and sat down beside me. “So, have you thought about my proposition?”
“Yessir. I’ve thought a lot about it.”
“And?”
“And I’m just not sure.”
“It’s thirty percent more money.”
“It’s a generous offer, sir. And I like the yard—er, the grounds, I mean. There’s a lot of work to be done. We could save those roses. We could maybe even save that bluff with a little help. It’s just that . . .”
“Yes?”
“I just don’t think I can do it, sir. As much as I appreciate the opportunity. I’m pretty happy where I am right now. I wouldn’t want to—”
“Take the—hic—money,” said Richie.
Piggot patted me on the shoulder and smiled knowingly. “C’mon, let’s get you a drink.”
The Art of Favoring
I’ll admit to feeling pretty proud of myself for doing the right thing, I mean by passing up Piggot’s job offer. With the dilemma resolved, I didn’t see the harm in telling Goble. In fact, I saw a distinct advantage in demonstrating my loyalty to Team Goble. Maybe he’d bump me up to $23.50.
So Monday, before reporting to the Baker Hill property, I met Goble at Starbucks and told him about the offer and that I’d turned it down.
“You what? Why the hell would you do that?”
“I would have never been in the position for the opportunity if it weren’t for you.”
“And?”
“Well, I didn’t want to screw you over.”
He ran his hands over his face. “Mike, do me a favor?”
“Direct or indirect?”
“What I mean is, do yourself a favor.”
“Don’t think I haven’t tried.”
“No, really, Mike. I’m not joking here. Look out for número uno, ¿comprendes? Just this once. I know you’ve got people, your retarded brother and that black dude and whoever. But that job will pay way more. That would be helpful, no?”
“He’s not actually retarded.”
“I meant retarded in a good way. Look, I appreciate your loyalty. But you better take this job, or I’m going to fire you. I don’t want to pay you twenty-three bucks an hour.”
“Uh, okay.”
“Good,” he said. “It’s settled, we’re in. Now, I need you to keep your ears open and your eyes open. Mouth shut. Don’t talk—that won’t help anybody. Just listen when they talk among themselves. If anybody starts talking about selling, I want to know. And by anybody, I especially mean Piggot.”
“Okay,” I said.
He searched deep in my brown eyes again and apparently saw no light there.
“Look, I wanna turn that neighborhood over. I wanna bring the country club up to date, so to speak. And I’m not talking about closeted gay ex-professors or reprobate judges. The clubbers love that stuff—that’s as close as they get to interesting. I’m talking about X people, self-made types: athletes, entertainers, rich people of color. I’ve got a potential black buyer, and that could really stir things up. A Seahawk. One felony arrest, couple of misdemeanors, but otherwise a good family man. I wanna get this guy and his family in there.”
“That’s cool. So I just . . . ?”
“You do recon. How do you think you got the job offer? I need some eyes and ears out there.”
“Wait, you got me the job offer?”
Lawn Boy Page 16
