I asked Tino how his family was doing, and he told me how little Izzy had potty-trained herself and how Emilio was the star of his soccer team, and Arturo was quite the young ladies’ man. I could see him trying to muster his pride, but really, he seemed as sad as hell the whole time he talked about them, like he’d lost them already.
“Every stinking day I think about them. Every week, they getting bigger, they growing further away from me. I feel like pinche Santa Claus, like some myth, you know? He lives up north, he sends gifts to the children. But don’t nobody ever see him. I tell you what, Miguel. Don’t have kids, don’t do it. They tear your pinche heart out. What about your family?”
I told him how Nate had lost a bunch of weight and how my mom was about the same as ever, except maybe a little happier. I asked him how things were at the trailer with Rocindo and Ramiro, and he said he was moving out, splitting a one-bedroom apartment with his cousin Sergio and his friend Ernesto in Silverdale, near the mall. I told him that sounded great, and that I was still living with my mom, but he didn’t make fun of me this time.
“Shit, Miguel, at least she don’t fart like Ernesto.”
Right around the time I was choking down the last of my tamale, we finally got around to business.
“So, what are we’re talking about here?” I said.
Tino looked me right in the eye and held my gaze.
“Look,” he said. “For three years, we doing all the work. Lacy, he’s no good, you know it. He used to be but no more. Most of the accounts, they don’t like him anymore. He pads the hours. He charges for product we don’t use. They not always happy. And the shit, it all roll downhill, you know?”
“So what are you saying?”
“On Sundays, I already been working my own accounts, old ones that dropped Lacy. Larsen, Buchholz, and sometimes Fetters. They not much, but they pay.”
“And?”
“And I wanna find more, ese. I want you to be my partner. T&M Landscaping—you know, for Tino and Miguel.”
“Mike,” I said. “Mike. And why would you want me to be your partner? I don’t even have a truck.”
“Because you the best, Holmes. Nobody mow like you. Your edges are muy bueno. Your pruning, it’s fantástico—like the best I’ve seen. You an artist, ese.”
“What about a truck?”
“I’ll get to that, amigo.”
“You got any money for start-up?”
“A little bit.”
As much as I wanted to believe I was some kind of lawn-mowing savant, I knew from experience there had to be more to this. Nobody ever complimented me without asking me for something.
“No, really, why me? Why not Rocindo or Ernesto or Che?”
Tino looked down at the bar top, softly drumming his fingers on it once before letting out a sigh.
“Because you’re not Rocindo or Ernesto or Che. Because you’re Mike, man, you’re white—whiter than me, anyway. The clients, they lowball me every time, ese. They think they can pay less for a Mexican. That’s just how it is. If you wanna get in touch with your inner Mexican, cut your salary in half.”
“No, thanks. Already been there.”
“Miguel, you could be like the face of the business. I give you fifty percent. And I be calling you Mike all the time. We can even put Mike first, if you want. You know, like M&T Landscaping.”
I don’t know why, but all I could think of was Goble and his shopping carts and how I never wanted to be the guy that leveraged himself at the cost of everything else. I didn’t want my life to be a negotiation, where the sole point was to come out on top of the other guy.
“I’ll take forty-five,” I said. “And T&M sounds better.”
Tino took a bite of tamale and chewed it deliberately as he searched my face.
“Nah, ese. I give you fifty. But you right, T&M sounds better.”
“Forty-five,” I said.
He stabbed his tamale a few times and mopped up some hot sauce with it, shaking his head side to side.
“But I came to you, Miguel.”
“Exactly.”
“I dunno, ese. Why you wanna take less? It don’t make no sense.”
“It’s how I negotiate,” I insisted. “Besides, you’ve already got accounts, you already laid some of the groundwork.”
“Yeah, ese, but you white. They pay you more. It gonna even out quick.”
“I’ll take forty-five,” I said. “And that’s my final offer.”
Tino did his best to act like he wasn’t altogether comfortable with the terms, but he couldn’t belie a sly little grin.
“Deal,” he said, extending a hand.
We made it official. Then I raised my Mexican soda, some flavor I’d never heard of called tamarindo, which, as far as I could tell, was a mix between orange soda and ditch water.
“To T&M Landscaping,” I said.
“We gonna kill it, ese.”
We clinked bottles, and suddenly my mind was racing with possibilities.
“You know, we should poach Knowlton,” I said. “Lacy never did move that pergola like he said he would.”
“Hell yes. And the old lady, we should take her, too.”
“Nah,” I said. “I’m done cleaning her garage and jockeying her cars around. Only the mellow ones for T&M.”
“If you say so, ese. Also, I got my eye on some new accounts, on this side of the bridge. Not so much competition over here. And Silverdale is caliente right now. They building like crazy—big yards!”
“I like it.”
“And my cousin Rodrigo, he got a Ford truck that look pretty good. He sell it to us for two thousand.”
“We can get some of those magnetic signs to put on the doors,” I said, thinking of Goble.
“Yeah, ese. ‘T&M Landscaping.’ We gonna be legit.”
I played it cool, but the truth is, I was over the moon. This was better than a winning scratch ticket, better than an all-you-can-eat-buffet, better than the $29.90 an hour I almost made working for Piggot, even better than getting in on the ground floor of Fried Chicken, whatever the hell that was. See, the thing is, I was telling the truth when I said I love to get my mow on. I love to prune and rake and edge. I’m good. Maybe not a genius, but I’m conscientious and efficient, and I’m getting better all the time.
To you, it probably looks like old Mike Muñoz is right back where he started, in work boots and a green sweatshirt, mowing your lawn. But see, here’s the thing you’re failing to understand: I’m mowing your lawn on my terms now. I’m making my own rules and punching my own clock. I’m blazing my own trail, yo! No cheapskate boss exploiting my ass. Nobody making me shovel turds when I don’t feel like it. That’s your Great American Landscaping Novel, right there. I even came up with a slogan for T&M Landscaping: “Saving the World, One Lawn at a Time.”
The minute I left the taqueria on foot, I used all but the very last of my cell minutes to phone Andrew on his lunch break and tell him the great news. He insisted we celebrate that night, and not at Tequila’s, either, but somewhere classy, like the Loft.
“Dinner and drinks on me,” he said. “Pick you up at five fifteen.”
Making It Official
Always punctual, Andrew knocked on my shed door at 5:12 p.m., wearing a pea-green cardigan over his PETA T-shirt and a pair of Levi’s so new that they still had that fuzzy sheen. Completing the look were Birkenstocks with white socks. Quintessentially northwestern. Having recently undergone some misguided attempt at subjugation, his hair remained suppressed for the moment, though it was beginning to show signs of imminent revolt in the back.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Small Business Owner,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder.
“Yeah, well,” I said.
“C’mon, Michael! This is huge,” he said, shepherding me around to the front of the house. “How can you be so matter of fact? This is amazing! Who knows, maybe some of your accounts will want topiary.”
“I doubt it.”
“You can�
�t think that way. You’ve got talent, Michael—I wish I had your talent. Your merman is sublime. And it’s fun. I’m telling you, you’ve gotta put yourself out there.”
In the enclosed space of the car, I could smell Andrew. He smelled like a library, like books and dust and photocopies and hand sanitizer. I was so grateful for him just then. It was so obvious that his excitement for me was genuine. He actually believed in me, apparently more than I believed in myself.
“Okay, so tell me the details,” he said.
I gave him the rundown, and he asked me some savvy business questions about T&M Landscaping along the way, stuff about bonding and licensing, insurance and payroll taxes, and the like. At just about every juncture, I told him I was pretty sure Tino was handling that end. I told him about the magnetic signs.
“Smart,” he said. “And cheap.”
I told him about the slogan.
“Brilliant,” he said.
When we were seated in a window booth at the Loft, looking out over the marina, Andrew beseeched me to order anything on the menu and then some, but I didn’t want to break the bank. The guy was a sub library assistant, after all. He bought me coffee and lunch almost daily. How many times had he hauled me all over town? I felt like I was taking advantage of him. The least I could do was go easy on him at the Loft. But Andrew wouldn’t hear of it.
“We’re celebrating, and you’re ordering a Caesar salad and water? C’mon! I’ve got my credit card.”
So I decided on the fish and chips at $13.95—still the cheapest thing not on the children’s menu. But Andrew made me order the Caesar salad, too, and insisted that we share some hummus and a cheese plate. He kept bringing up T&M and the exciting possibilities, and the importance of getting bonded and insured, since his uncle’s tree service in Belfair had failed to do either before felling a hundred-foot cedar on some rich guy’s garage. His uncle ended up living in his truck for six months after that.
“All I’m saying is, people who can afford to be are litigious. My other uncle was a contractor, and one time he did this big remodel for some lumber-baron guy, and not only did the guy refuse to pay him after he finished the whole ninety-five-thousand-dollar job, he also sued my uncle for finishing two weeks behind schedule, and all because the guy’s wife kept changing her mind about the floors. Not only did Uncle Pete have to eat the ninety-five grand, he had to pay the guy thirty grand in damages. Put him completely out of business for a while. Ah, but what am I saying? We’re supposed to be celebrating, and here all I can talk about is calamity! Eat, drink!”
I was about to spear another mozzarella ball when a woman at the bar caught my eye. I’ll give you a hint: it wasn’t Hillary Clinton. It was someone with a little skin tag on her arm that looked like a toasted Rice Krispie. She must have felt me staring, because she looked right back at me and smiled, giving me a wave. I’d hardly thought of Remy in weeks.
Andrew craned his neck. “Um, Michael, in case you didn’t notice, that girl is flirting with you big-time.”
“Nah,” I said. “She just knows me.”
“No, Michael, she’s hitting on you. It’s obvious. She’s been looking over for the past five minutes. Go on, go talk to her.”
“Nah.”
“What are you waiting for? Seriously, you have to go.”
“You think?”
“Yes, I know. Just go,” he said with a regretful sigh, as though my departure was something he’d already prepared himself for.
Even as he said it, I caught Remy glancing my way. And here’s the thing: I wasn’t scared and I wasn’t intimidated. If anything, I felt guilty. On a different night, in different company, I probably would’ve felt the way I usually felt: that I ought to be interested in Remy, that I ought to be compelled, that if I had any guts, I’d be over there chatting her up. Because maybe she really was the one.
“Go on,” Andrew said. “Don’t blow it.”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“Michael,” he said gravely.
I stood up and obediently made my way to the bar, glancing back at Andrew, who encouraged me along further with a little hurry-up gesture.
“Hey,” said Remy. “Long time.”
“Hey. What’s up?” I said.
“Just got off work. Thank God.”
“Here?”
“Yeah. Sandy cut me loose—too slow. Nobody’s sitting here,” she said, indicating the empty stool next to her.
“Oh,” I said, then nodded toward Andrew.
“Ah. Well, how have you been? Haven’t heard from you. How’s your brother?”
“He’s good. He’s lost twenty pounds so far.”
“Wow. Good for him. You look good,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said, still insecure about my missing teeth. “You, too.”
She caught me glancing back at Andrew again.
“Who’s your friend?”
“That’s Andrew.”
“Ah,” she said. She waved at Andrew, who manufactured a smile and waved back.
I should have invited Remy to join us—I think that’s what she was waiting for. But I couldn’t do that to Andrew. It would’ve been awkward.
“How’s your writing?” she said.
“Meh,” I said. “It pretty much sucks.”
“Geez, that’s a glowing endorsement.”
“Yeah, well. It’s true. I’ve been rethinking the whole writer thing. In terms of my art, I’m more into my topiary these days. How about you? What’ve you been up to?”
“Working, mostly.” She glanced at the stool, wondering if I would ever sit down. “Buy you a drink?” she said.
“I’ve got one,” I said, nodding toward Andrew, sitting solo with two beers.
“Oh, right,” she said.
How can I explain it? It had nothing to do with Remy. Remy was fine. Remy was great. Probably not “the one” but certainly the closest thing I’d encountered so far. She was nice and funny and down to earth. The thing is, I guess I didn’t feel like trying anymore. I felt like being myself. Rather than having to perform, I just wanted to celebrate with Andrew, he of the clunky braces and the organic lettuce and the freakishly clean automobile. Andrew, who changed my thinking about Walmart, who opened my eyes to the inhumanity of puppy mills. Andrew, who chose to believe in me, despite all the evidence against me. I looked back at him, alone at the table, a little forlorn, smiling sadly to make the best of it.
“Well,” I said.
“You’d better get back to your friend,” said Remy.
“Great seeing you.”
“You, too,” she said, and I thought she sounded a little disappointed.
“Text me,” I said.
I realize it makes zero sense, but more than anything, I felt relieved to be walking away from Remy.
“Struck out, huh?” said Andrew, upon my return.
“Pretty much.”
“Well, at least you tried.”
“Let’s do some shots,” I said.
Andrew submitted to a Jägerbomb, quickly followed by another. After the second, I saw Remy set her half-empty drink down and walk out of the restaurant, not in the highest spirits. My guilt bloomed anew, and I was a little confused that I could have such an effect on anybody. Andrew must have misinterpreted my concern.
“Forget about her,” he said.
And just like that, I did. There would be plenty of time to feel guilty later. Andrew and I proceeded to eat like lions, and talked in our familiar way of books and oral hygiene, and ancient aliens, politics and recycling, and rotisserie chicken.
After Andrew squared the tab—eighty-six bucks with tip—we ambled aimlessly down Front Street bumping shoulders, then cut back across the public lot toward the water and down the boardwalk to American Legion Park. You could feel the very last vestiges of summer in the not-so-cold air, but mostly you could feel fall.
We got weightless on the swings for a while, until my fish and chips started turning somersaults and I thought it best to sit.<
br />
We parked our butts on a picnic table in the dusk and shot the shit.
“When did you know you were an artist?” he said. “C’mon, don’t think about it too hard.”
So I told Andrew the story of my mermaid and how vividly her form insinuated itself on the holly, and how that one stupid limb refuse to submit, and how eventually I had no choice but to embrace it, and how the hard-on was there all along, and all I did was liberate it.
“Truth,” he said.
And we both laughed, and when we finally stopped, I noticed his upper lip had snagged on his braces and was bleeding. Without even thinking about it, I leaned forward to dab off the blood with my thumb, and he leaned into me, a little unsurely, until I felt his breath on my face and his clean-shaven chin against mine, and that’s when I pressed my lips into his lips, blood and all.
After a moment, he pulled away.
“Are you sure?”
It was a fair question, and I’m grateful that he asked. And the truth is, no, I wasn’t sure, not exactly. I was conflicted about a great number of things at that moment, but the act of kissing him was pretty low on the list.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes.”
And I pressed myself back into him without reservation.
And yeah, I guess that officially makes me a fag. Or maybe it doesn’t. I’m not big into labels at this point. All I know is that my life seemed to make a little more sense being with Andrew.
I won’t bore you with the particulars: how I staunched his bleeding lip with the pressure of my tongue, or how I cut my own lip on his braces, and how he stopped my bleeding lip, or the rest of that intimate stuff about our breath growing heavy and our hearts beating furiously and our man parts straining against our stout denim trousers. I’m not writing erotica here. I won’t give you any literary pretense, either. You don’t need to know about the aching ferocity of my tumescence or the cataract of guilt frothing weightlessly over the yawning precipice of my personal dawn, like that fucking even means anything. Yes, there was guilt, and there was ferocity. But all you need to know is that kissing Andrew made perfect sense at that moment. And I intended on kissing him as long as he’d let me, no matter how faggy that was.
Lawn Boy Page 21
