It took five minutes to finally calm her down and disarm the gathering mob. It took another ten minutes to locate the mother, who was summoned from T.J Maxx, a sallow-faced woman with skin like mangy camel hide and two missing teeth. Honestly, she seemed to be the least concerned party involved, until she recognized the opportunity to make herself the center of attention, whereupon she yelled at Andrew and me, calling us “freaks” and “molesters.” She said we were no better than fucking Clint and that dirty whore Loretta, down in Florida. But apparently her outrage wasn’t very convincing. Even the sketcher cut us some slack.
“That skeez should not be a mom, yo,” he said, scratching his stubbly face. “Hey, you got two bucks?”
So maybe the protest wasn’t a huge success. Andrew meant well, I know he did. Maybe he didn’t exercise his best judgment in a delicate situation. But in my opinion, he took the setback harder than he should have. After we left the pet store, we walked down Silverdale Way, dragging our picket signs to a grubby little pho place in a different strip mall. The restaurant was maybe two hundred square feet and might have benefited from dimmer light. I didn’t want to assume Andrew was buying, so I just ordered a spring roll, because I only had four bucks and three of them were in quarters. Andrew ordered me the works, anyway, and insisted on paying. He was classy that way.
The instant the waitress left, he turned mopey, and I guess I couldn’t blame him.
“Who am I kidding, Michael? I’m a phony. All my lists are bullshit. All my talk, all my posturing, all my big ideals. No wonder my father’s ashamed of me and my mother’s embarrassed of me.”
“Dude, that’s not true. You’re an inspiration.”
“Michael, I traumatized that little girl. I ate a hot dog at the Walmart protest! I’m a complete hypocrite! Look at me: I wear leather shoes. I bank at Wells Fargo. I’ve never even had a dog. Who am I to decry puppy mills?”
“You’re somebody trying to make a difference.”
“I’m nobody trying to make a difference.”
“You’re a librarian. A librarian is a public treasure, a respected community resource. A goddamn saint in my book!”
“No, Michael, I’m a substitute library assistant. I don’t have a degree. I got that job off the bulletin board. I shelve books. On Thursdays they let me put the flag up and take it down if I’m working. I’m basically a lackey.”
“Well, at least you’re trying.”
“Am I? Oh, Michael, it’s vanity, that’s all. Like these stupid braces. I just want to look good, so I can feel better about myself and convince other people I’m somehow better than what I am or, even worse, better than what they are. I’m shallow, Michael, you may as well know it before we go any further. In fact, there are a lot of things you should know before we go further.”
“Where are we going?”
He looked at me searchingly, almost like he was asking me a question, then waved it off, smiling sadly.
“Oh, never mind,” he said. “Anyway, you’re sweet to say those things.”
“They’re true,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said, and I thought that sounded a little sad, too.
Following Up
Two days after the puppy mill protest, I ran into Goble outside Central Market. I was hoofing it from the bus stop on 305 when he whizzed past me on the frontage road at about forty miles per hour with the convertible top down, crappy pop music blaring. As always, his hair was impervious to the wind, and he was wearing one of those puffy ski jackets that somehow make people look skinny in spite of the fact that they’re puffy.
I watched, only slightly incredulous, as Goble blatantly cut off an old lady in an Oldsmobile and shoehorned in on her parking spot before closing his automatic convertible top. Hopping out of the car, he activated his car alarm over his shoulder with a stylish flick of the wrist. The audacious fucker waved at the old lady, flashing a saccharine smile.
Immediately, I realized that I wasn’t mad at Goble anymore. I’m not sure the guy could help himself. He wasn’t all terrible; almost nobody is, deep down, once you strip away all the terror and trauma and neurosis and bad conditioning. The thing with a guy like Goble was that he scratched and clawed to get where he was. Being a creep was an imperative to his way of thinking. Anything less was weak. Like me, Goble started on the ass end of an uneven playing field. But unlike me, he had a nose for the goal line. While I was perfectly happy to settle for a midrange field goal or even a punt, Goble drove ninety yards uphill into the jaws of his adversary (the world at large), scratching and clawing the whole way to the end zone. And here’s the thing: people who scratch and claw tend to be shortsighted.
Apparently, Goble was harboring no ill will toward me for outing him as a cocksucker to his neighbor, either. For whatever reason, he’d never admit what happened between us, and I just had to accept that. What did it really matter?
“How goes it, hombre? ¿Cómo estás, amigo? Mucho tiempo sin verte.”
“I have no idea what you’re saying. How’d it work out with your Seahawk, anyway?” I said. “Did he buy the place?”
Goble winced. “Yeah, well, turns out the team’s not gonna exercise his option. I guess I didn’t get the memo. Come to find out, they all live on the Eastside, anyway. Every last one of them.”
“Piggot must be relieved.”
“For now. But that old highballer is going down, sooner or later. I’ve got a close eye on his place. I think he took a pretty big hit in ’08. What about you? How’s unemployment working out?”
“Couple irons in the fire,” I said.
“Like what?”
“You know, just . . . irons.”
One of the irons was a bag boy application at Central Market, which I submitted last Thursday, upon which I was presently “following up.” But Goble didn’t need to know that. I figured the less Goble knew about me, the better our standing.
“Ah,” he said. “Well, as fate would have it, I have an opportunity for you, actually.”
“Nah, I’m good.”
“Full access to the truck,” he said.
“Thanks, anyway.”
“I’d take care of the payments.” Wink wink. “We could even talk about sweat equity if the arrangement works out.”
With nothing but bus fare in my pocket and dwindling possibilities ahead of me, I have to say, the offer was awfully tempting. Not that I thought for a second he’d ever actually deliver on the equity arrangement. But working for Goble definitely had its advantages.
“C’mon,” he said. “What do you say? Goble or go home.”
Yes, it was irresponsible of me to decline the opportunity. I see that. If nothing else, I should have said yes for everyone else’s sake—Mom, Nate, Freddy. But looking at Goble, with his bronzed skin and his orthodontically straightened pearly whites, standing next to his stupid luxury convertible, clutching his cell phone in the same hand that once clutched my penis, I just didn’t want any part of it, you know? I guess I was finally learning not to settle for less, even when it looked like more.
“Yeah, sorry,” I said. “I guess I’m gonna just ‘go home’ this time.”
I guess that expectation may have been a little naive, but my declining didn’t even faze him like I’d hoped it would.
“Well, suit yourself,” he said, firing off a text. “Hey, you know any good Mexicans?”
“What do you mean good?” I said.
“Cheap.”
“Nah, sorry.”
Maybe good things do happen when you don’t settle for less. Because the very same day Goble offered me a job, Nick called to offer me a job at Les Schwab. I didn’t mean to be rude, but I was almost out of cell minutes and I wanted to save them for prospective employers, and Andrew. And honestly, the very idea of working alongside Nick all day was too excruciating to even ponder. How many fag jokes would I have to endure? How many wrongheaded, misinformed opinions would I have to hear? I was trying really hard to tolerate the guy, in spite of his huge warts.
Sometimes you have that responsibility, or at least that’s how I’ve always felt. But at this point, being in close proximity to Nick for any substantial length of time would render that good intention patently impossible, and I saw that now.
“Thanks, anyway,” I said. “Not interested.”
“Dude, what do you mean you’re not interested? I pitched you hard to Whitehead. I told him you were a natural.”
“I appreciate that, Nick. I’m just looking to go in another direction.”
“You mean homelessness? You gotta get your own place, bro. Your mom and Freddy want you out of there. Besides, I can’t go back to Whitehead and say my friend’s not interested. I had to beg the fucker, and he loved every second of it. You gotta do this interview—and do not fuck it up, Michael. If you fuck this up, I’ll kill you. I put my ass on the line for you.”
“I don’t want the job, Nick.”
Two or three seconds of stunned silence followed before Nick finally responded. “You’re fucking stupid, you know that?”
“That may be the case. I’ll admit, there’s plenty of evidence to support it. But the thing is, I don’t want to work on tires, I just don’t. I don’t want to wear that uniform. Or smell popcorn and rubber all day. Or read four-year-old Auto Traders on my break. Or have to run out into the parking lot to greet everyone. Don’t get me wrong, I like that you guys do that, I think it’s really professional. I just don’t want to do it. And I’m tired of doing things I don’t want to do. I’ve gotta start doing things I don’t hate.”
Again, incredulous silence, followed by the slightest of gasps. “What the hell happened to you, dude? You sound like you’re from Bainbridge.”
It stung, but it was true. Why should it sting? That’s the part that still bugs me. Was I a traitor for empowering myself, for indulging a sense of self-worth? For finally holding out for something better than pumping air into tires and wearing a uniform five days a week? Or digging up roses for some racist old wealthy dude like Piggot? Or selling my soul to Team Goble just so I could drive a new truck? I’d way rather bag groceries, at least until I could get back to landscaping. Yes, I was leaching off my support system at the moment. But it’s not like I was leaving a big footprint. And six months ago, wasn’t I a veritable rock? Hadn’t I always been there for my family? Remember that big breakfast at the casino? All those Indian tacos at Chief Seattle Days? Was I presumptuous to believe that somehow, some way, I could get off the hamster wheel on my own terms? Even if my mom and her boyfriend wanted me out of the shed? Isn’t that just the sort of delusional psychology and unqualified confidence it takes to succeed in this world? And don’t you need it in greater measure when you’re a tenth-generation peasant with a Mexican last name, raised by a single mom on an Indian reservation?
The answer is yes.
Bumps
I was sitting with Andrew at the Starbucks in Poulsbo on his lunch hour, discussing various subjects, including, but not limited to, union busting, campaign reform, gun control, locally sourced beef, Pez dispensers, and Liza Minnelli’s big eyes. This is how our conversations usually ran: one minute we were railing on the Republican establishment and lamenting greenhouse gases, and the next minute we were discussing ’90s TV shows or tropical fruit. They were like no conversations I’d ever had before, and they energized me.
As I was bidding Andrew farewell outside of Starbucks, I spotted a familiar car in the Albertsons parking lot. I’ll give you a hint: it was a BMW. The driver was not so familiar, at least not right away. This guy was feral: unkempt beard, baggy clothing, flip-flops in the rain. If there would have been even a sliver of the patented optimism in his bearing, or maybe a vodka mini in his hand, I might have recognized Chaz sooner. I’ll be honest, and I’m not proud of this, but the first thing I thought of was the last paycheck he owed me.
“Chaz!” I called out.
He looked around a little dazedly.
“Chaz!” I cried again.
This time, I got his attention. I can’t blame him for looking a little startled, the way I charged across that parking lot, just as sure as if he was dangling a fourteen-hundred-dollar check with my name on it. He was visibly relieved when I didn’t tackle him. The instant he stopped flinching, he started demonstrating a little of the old exuberance.
“Muñoz!” he said. “How goes it? Have you been thinking big? Keeping your nose to the grindstone?”
“Giving it the old college try,” I said.
“Wow, you’re going to college now?”
“No.”
“Ah, right, figure of speech. You working?”
“Not so much.”
So as not to leave you in suspense, the instant I got a whiff of my old mentor (think vinegar and damp wool), it was readily apparent that I would not be seeing that final, fourteen-hundred-dollar paycheck anytime soon. I decided to just let it rest. I guess I believed that if Chaz had the money, he would’ve given it to me. I also suspected he would have given me the same pass. You really can’t ask for more than that, unless you want to be some kind of bloodsucker.
“How about you?” I said.
“Well, you know, a few bumps in the road,” he said. “A few twists and turns. Maybe a cliff or two. Nothing major. Where you headed?”
“Bus stop,” I said, flashing my transfer.
“C’mon,” said Chaz. “I’ll give you a ride. Like old times.”
The BMW was chaotic on the inside—shit strewn everywhere.
“So, where you living these days?” I inquired. Though from the bedroll, the pillow, the spit kit, the squashed loaf of bread, the fast-food bags, and the general disarray of the car’s interior, I’d say the answer was pretty obvious.
“Around,” he said.
A few bumps in the road? The guy was living in his car! You had to admire his grit and determination. Chaz had the American can-do spirit in spades. He simply refused to be defeated. Not even in defeat was he defeated. Yep, it seemed old Chaz still had a lesson or two to teach Mike Muñoz.
Chaz activated the blow-and-go without my assistance.
“Been in the program now for two months,” he explained. “Feeling great. I haven’t seen things so clearly in years—personally, spiritually, financially. As a matter of fact, my sponsor Lamar and I are working on capitalizing something at the moment. Could be a real cash cow. Little start-up called Fried Chicken.”
“Like a restaurant?”
“No, e-commerce.”
“So, like online chicken?”
“Nothing to do with poultry. We just like the name. Import and distribution—mostly import. You know how to build a website?”
“No.”
“You know anybody who does?”
“Sorry, man. But if you ever need a pair of tires.”
Chaz began tapping triplets on the steering wheel, biting his lip in a pensive manner, eyes fixed straight ahead on the roadway.
“What about money? Got any?”
“Eight bucks.”
He stopped tapping the wheel. “Ah, well, had to ask. One way or another, we’ll get her done, don’t you worry. I’ve got a few leads. Gonna talk to my parole officer. And Lamar’s got a rich aunt who’s pushing ninety-five. Who knows, anything could happen with her. But just so you know, once I get this thing up and running, I’ve got a place for you on the ground floor.”
You laugh, but I believed him, and I still believe him. You wait and see, Chaz will pull through in the end. Good intentions often fail us, but not always. Chaz will stay in the game long enough, keep stepping into the fray and punching with enough grit and determination that he’s bound to make something happen eventually. It’s the American way.
When we arrived at the house, Chaz pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine.
“So, um, you wanna come in, and like, I don’t know, have a sandwich or a cup of coffee or something?”
“Can I use your shower?” he said.
“Yeah, that’d be cool, I think.”
Fre
ddy and Nate were at the kitchen table playing Candy Land. It must have been a tense game, because neither one of them looked up from the board when we walked in, socks and sleeves hanging willy-nilly out of Chaz’s overstuffed duffel bag.
“Double green,” said Freddy. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about, big dog! Old Freddy just caught a free ride over Gumdrop Pass. Booyah! Peanut Acres, here I come.”
“Hey, this is Chaz,” I announced. “He needs to use the shower.”
Freddy looked up. “This mean you got your money?”
“No. But Chaz is starting a new business, and he’s gonna get me in on the ground floor.”
“It’s called Fried Chicken,” Chaz said.
“Mm. Like the sound of that,” said Freddy.
“Nothing to do with chicken, actually.”
“Well now, I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Import and export,” Chaz explained.
But Freddy ignored him, immediately turning his attention back to the game. “Your turn, dog.”
I know it seems like Freddy was being a dick, but he was only looking out for my best interests. And in the end, he let his true colors show. It was Freddy’s idea to let Chaz sleep in our driveway, just until he got Fried Chicken up and running. Say what you want about Freddy. He may be a little unorthodox, and maybe he’s not the most ambitious guy in the world, and yeah, maybe he’d do well to keep his nuts in his pants and quit smoking so much Blueberry Kush, but he’s a good man.
Legit
Ready for this? Further evidence that good things happen if you can somehow manage to hold out for what you want: three days after Chaz started using our driveway as the headquarters for Fried Chicken, I got a call from Tino.
“¿Qué onda, Miguel?”
“Are you ever gonna stop calling me that?”
Tino laughed. “C’mon, ese, it’s a joke, man.”
“So, what up?”
“I got an offer for you, ese. You wanna have lunch?”
We met at Los Cazadores, a grubby little taqueria on the ass end of Viking Way. Tino ordered a tamale plate, so I figured “when in Rome” and ordered the same thing. Though I’m okay with most Mexican food, I’d always avoided tamales. I don’t know what all the fuss is about. It tasted like a wet loaf of corn bread to me. And I’m not really into the whole shucking-my-food thing.
Lawn Boy Page 20
