Lawn Boy

by Jonathan Evison

  “Why weren’t we doing this all along?” I said when we finally stopped for air.

  “I wasn’t sure you wanted to,” he whispered.

  Hours later, still flush from the action, still quickened and hyperalert from taking the leap, I sat in the kitchen of Andrew’s apartment and watched him make breakfast at two in the morning. Sitting there in my T-shirt and underwear, I tried to convince myself that I ought to be more anxious about the repercussions of what had just transpired, that I ought to just stop and reconsider my actions and save myself from . . . well, myself. Where was the ambiguity, the guilt, or the doubt in my decision? Why wasn’t I terrified? Part of the answer is that the stakes simply didn’t seem that high, which says a lot about my pitiful life up until that point. And I guess the rest of the answer is Andrew. Being with him on every level felt natural.

  He scrambled free-range eggs wearing boxer shorts and an apron, and we drank Equal Exchange coffee and talked just as easily as ever about melting glaciers and privatized education, but mostly we talked about the future of T&M Landscaping and my renewed passion for topiary, and the prospect of a more abundant life, one that didn’t involve me living in a shed behind my mom’s house.

  “Let’s make you a list,” he said.

  And so we made me a list. Things to do:

  Get bonded.

  Get licensed.

  Move out.

  And we made me another list. Places to go:

  New Zealand

  Disneyland

  Dentist

  And we made more lists: books to read, skills to learn, tools to develop. And it seemed like the more lists we made, the bigger my life felt by extension and the more possibilities that seemed to be out there for old Mike Muñoz, if he was only willing to think beyond the confines of his experience, if he could only summon the courage and the wherewithal to break the patterns that defined him, raze the walls that imprisoned him. If only he could believe in himself. And I was beginning to.

  The Day After

  When I awoke at dawn, Andrew was still fast asleep with his head on my shoulder, wheezing through chapped lips. Without moving a muscle, I stared at the ceiling and began to panic, harassed by doubt, hounded by guilt, tormented by my unknown future. My old life seemed irretrievable. What was I supposed to do now? Who would I be disappointing? Who would I be walking away from? Where was I going? Would I be with other men, or was this something specific to Andrew? What were the moral implications of changing my identity, of making my loved ones uncomfortable, of forcing them to accept me?

  In the darkness of Andrew’s bedroom, I tortured myself with such considerations, inching away from him so that the bare skin of our shoulders was no longer touching. I was on the verge of extricating myself completely from the mattress when Andrew woke up. And no sooner did he stretch, yawning his alfalfa breath directly into my face, than my anxiety quickly dissipated.

  “That was amazing,” he said.

  We lingered in bed without talking for a few minutes. Lying there beside him, I felt at home. But I knew that back in Suquamish, things were about to get complicated. I’d never been much good at asking for things, and now I had to ask the people I loved to reimagine me as somebody else.

  I didn’t go home that day. Long after Andrew left for work, I stayed in his apartment, lying in bed, flipping through books, and looking out the window. It wasn’t only that I was avoiding the world at large; it was also that I felt so comfortable at Andrew’s place. I could be whatever I wanted in that apartment. Everywhere I looked, something was daring me to be a more expansive and adventurous person. Whether it was Andrew’s lists, or his goading me to pursue every challenge and seize every opportunity, or the picket signs and stray protest fliers exalting me to make the world a better place, the expectation in that apartment was that Mike Muñoz be a bigger and better person.

  I picked up one of Andrew’s numerous empty notebooks and started dashing off a series of playful sketches: Bigfoot eating a triple-decker ice-cream cone; a big-headed alien wearing a cowboy hat, riding a unicorn. Two swans humping. I must have made a dozen sketches, and not one of them was trying to save the world. But any one of them would’ve made the world a slightly better place, at least in my opinion.

  What if I started using mesh and wire? How much could I elevate my game? Think of what I could do with ivies, like all that Duck Foot in front of Bainbridge city hall. Imagine a sea serpent with arms, wearing a jean vest, shredding a solo on a Flying V guitar. He could be sticking his tongue out like Gene Simmons. I’d tilt the headstock up at 180 degrees, so he was obviously in the middle of a solo. And think of all that red sedum along the foundation, and imagine a roiling sea of blood. Oh, man, how cool would that be?

  Or what about all that privet in front of the tribal center? I could do a bear on all fours, an eagle, a raven. I could sculpt a fishing party in a dugout canoe. And how about all that holly on the new traffic island on the south end of the Poulsbo junction? Imagine a Pegasus, muscular and proud as hell, a friendly ogre, a pair of gigantic cobras, and a group of enchanting rabbits. Damn, I was good. Andrew was right, I had to put myself out there.

  Restless to create, I located a pair of scissors in Andrew’s desk and a couple of empty coat hangers from the closet, and retired to the kitchen, where I set about patiently to work reshaping his herb garden so that when Andrew arrived home from the library four hours later, he would discover on his windowsill Cupid shooting an arrow straight at the ass of a sumo wrestler, who was reaching out to touch a panda bear in a pirate hat, who was sitting next to an elf, who was swinging a golf club.

  The Beginning

  I decided Freddy would be a relatively easy place to start. Freddy, who was rarely quick to judge. Freddy, who seemed willing to accept just about anything. When I finally came home from Andrew’s that second morning, I found Freddy in the kitchen, standing at the stove in his underwear, frying an egg.

  “Look who’s back,” he said. “You want an egg, boss?”

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  I stood there silently a few seconds too long, watching Freddy until he glanced sidelong at me.

  “What? You need to borrow money or somethin’?”

  “Freddy, what if I told you I was gay?”

  He pursed his lips thoughtfully, considering the information for a few seconds as his fried egg shimmied in the pan. “Are you tellin’ me you are?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hmph,” he said. “Didn’t see that one comin’.”

  Removing the skillet from the burner, he clapped me on the shoulder. “Look at the bright side: at least you ain’t black.”

  I found Mom in the bathroom, a glacier-blue wad of paper towel in her clutches as she scrubbed toothpaste off the mirror.

  “Michael,” she said. “I’ve been worried sick. Where have you been? Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

  “Yeah, sorry, I’ve been at Andrew’s.”

  “Ah,” she said. “The mysterious Andrew.”

  It’s true, she’d never met Andrew. I’d never invited him to hang out at my house or tried to encourage any familiarity between my family and him. I’d sheltered them from Andrew, just as I’d sheltered Andrew from my home life.

  Again, I just stood in place, letting the silence linger a little too long, until Mom turned and looked at me curiously.

  “What is it?” she said.

  “I’ve got some news,” I told her. “I’m going into business with Tino.”

  “That’s wonderful,” she said. “Good for you, sweetie.”

  “I’m going to be my own boss.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Yeah,” I said. I let the silence settle in again until the only sound was the squeaking of her towel on the mirror.

  “Mom, maybe you oughta sit down,” I said at last.

  She paused in her scrubbing. “Michael, what’s wrong?”

  “Well, uh, it turns out that, well . . .”

  “That what?”


  “Mom, I’m gay.”

  Visibly relieved, she resumed scrubbing the mirror. “Oh, thank God. I thought you had a tumor.”

  How could she be so matter of fact? Look at Andrew’s mom, all but estranged. His dad, who refused to even acknowledge him. How could my mom just go on scrubbing the bathroom mirror?

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” I said.

  “What would you like me to say, Michael?”

  “I don’t know. You’re not surprised or anything?”

  “Are you?”

  “Kind of, yeah, I guess.”

  “You never knew?”

  “You did?”

  She narrowed her eyes and gave me a knowing look. “Well, I am your mother.”

  “But how could you possibly know?”

  “I can’t say exactly. Just a feeling.”

  “A feeling? C’mon, how did you know?”

  “Just a feeling, that’s all I can really call it. Ever since you were a boy. Before you ever dated anyone.”

  “I didn’t date anyone.”

  “There was that, too.”

  “I guess that makes me feel pretty stupid,” I said.

  “Why should you feel stupid? If we’re lucky, Michael, we grow into ourselves.” Without looking, she threw the wad of paper towel toward the wastebasket and banked it in.

  “That makes you lucky,” she said.

  Dickless

  Finally, there was Nick. I’d saved the toughest for last. I wasn’t sure there was room in my life for both Nick and Andrew. The combination seemed irresolvable. They’d met only once for about thirty seconds at Walmart—thirty of the most uncomfortable seconds of my life. The idea of the three of us hanging out was pretty hard to imagine. Andrew was only a casual football fan. He didn’t know a cornerback from a safety, let alone a three-technique from an edge rusher or a cover 3 zone from a man defense. He deplored the Seahawks’ colors. He thought the cheerleaders were tacky. Andrew liked Russell Wilson’s wife because he thought she was courageous. He thought Bobby Wagner was sexy. He thought Kiko Alonso was a beautiful name, though he couldn’t remember whom he played for or what position he played.

  A future with both of them in it seemed unlikely. I’m ashamed to admit how easily I accepted this. It was with something of a heavy heart that I met Nick for a pitcher at Tequila’s.

  “Dude,” he said. “You benched Julio Jones last week? You think a sprained knee is gonna stop that guy? He’s a fucking monster! His catch radius is like a square mile! Carolina’s corner is what, five ten? Seriously, what were you thinking? Michael, you’re in fifth place! Dickless is using auto-pick every week, and he’s thirty points ahead of you.”

  “Who’s Dickless?”

  “Whitehead! His fucking auto-picks beat you head to head in week four. And it wasn’t even close. Might have helped if you hadn’t picked the Packers defense with Peppers and Matthews out. I swear, you must be high, Michael. This isn’t March Madness! You can’t just fill in your bracket and get lucky. You gotta manage your roster. You gotta pay attention. It’s a commitment—it’s a fucking discipline, Michael. How do you think I won three years ago—and two years before that? Honestly, dude, it’s a fucking miracle you got second place last year.”

  “I’m gay,” I announced.

  “News flash,” he said.

  “No, really.” I said. “Like actively.”

  “Yeah, I believe it. No wonder you picked the Packers.”

  I looked at him meaningfully. “Nick, I’m, like, actually gay.”

  To his credit, he didn’t looked repulsed, just confused, like his nose was bleeding and he didn’t know why.

  “It’s really no big deal,” I insisted.

  “It’s a pretty big deal, considering,” he said.

  “Considering what?”

  “That I’m your best friend for like how many years? And suddenly you’re gay. And I’m just hearing about it now?”

  “I’m just figuring things out now, Nick. It doesn’t change anything between us.”

  Nick put a hand up in a yield gesture and grimaced as though he were experiencing gastric reflux.

  “Ugh. Okay. Fuck,” he said. “Can we just play some darts and not talk about this?”

  And so we retreated awkwardly back to the machines, already the distance between us widening. We hardly spoke the whole time we played cricket. I welcomed the focus. I was money right out of the gate: trip twenty, triple nineteen. Near miss on eighteen. I closed eighteen and seventeen next time around as Nick watched on dazedly. The poor guy was reeling. He couldn’t hit a twenty to save his life. Under practically any other circumstance, I would have relished destroying Nick. But that night, I took little pleasure in winning.

  After the game, he drained his glass and consulted his phone.

  “I gotta bolt,” he said. “Good darts.”

  He didn’t clap me on the back or shake my hand or punch me affectionately on the shoulder on his way out.

  Watching him go, I told myself I really didn’t care if I ever saw him again. Already, Nick was starting to feel like someone from my past. Maybe loyalty was conditional, after all. Maybe my burgeoning sense of self, my developing identity as a socially engaged, newly gay, working-class half-Mexican topiary artist demanded such wholesale sacrifices as leaving my old friends in the dust.

  The Mixed Parts

  And what about Remy? Didn’t I owe her an apology? At least an explanation? Had I not willfully led her on all that time, buying all those crummy meals at Mitzel’s and having my water refilled every five minutes? Asking her out on dates, confessing my literary ambitions to her, texting her and not texting her, kissing her in two parking lots, and all the while sending her mixed messages, without ever understanding why myself? Suddenly it seemed cruel and fickle of me.

  Remy was still working when I arrived at the Loft. Rather than sit in her section, I took a place at the bar and ordered a Sprite. When Remy registered me there, she did a quick double take, though it was impossible to read her expression. Already, this was starting to feel like a mistake.

  Twice she passed me on her way to the kitchen and said nothing. On her third pass, she stopped at the bar for a drink order, flirting conspicuously with the bartender. When she caught me looking at her, she immediately cast her eyes down and started organizing tickets.

  I sat at the bar through one more Sprite, wishing I’d brought a book, so I could at least pretend to be reading it. When Remy’s shift finally ended, she stationed herself at the exact opposite end of the bar and tallied her receipts, never looking up to catch my eye. When she was done with her reckoning, she swept up her tips and her tickets and ducked into the office, reemerging moments later with her coat and her purse. Clearly, she had no intention of talking to me.

  I caught her at the door on her way out.

  “Hey,” I said.

  I thought for a moment she was just going to walk around me, but she decided to indulge me momentarily.

  “I want to apologize,” I said.

  “For?”

  “Sending you mixed signals, I guess. Not texting you back.”

  “That seems pretty straightforward. Where does the mixed part come in?”

  “The thing is, I was figuring some stuff out.”

  “Okay.”

  “I wasn’t really sure what I wanted, you know? I thought one thing was going on when really it was something else. What I’m trying to say is, it’s not you, it’s me.”

  Remy rolled her eyes and buttoned up her coat and fished her car keys out of her purse.

  “Look, Mike, you’re giving yourself way too much credit,” she said.

  “What I mean is—Remy, I’m—”

  “No, really,” she said.

  And then she stepped past me, keys jingling, and walked out the door.

  Baby Steps

  When I had all but decisively closed the book on my friendship with Nick, he called me early one Sunday morning in November.

/>   “Dude, you actually did it! You beat Whitehead! I’m in second place now! Cha-ching!”

  “That’s cool,” I said.

  “How did you know Rawls would break out against Detroit? And benching Brady was genius! Dude, you may not finish in last.”

  “That’s quite a distinction,” I said.

  “Anyway, not why I’m calling. Remember this summer when I had a line on those tickets for the Arizona game?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The ones on the fifty yard line, from the big-shot contractor who I sold those all-season Toyos to?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, I didn’t get them.”

  “Bummer.”

  “You wanna watch the game at the casino?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  I had no idea that I’d feel so heartened by such an invitation. I didn’t want to lose Nick. He was family.

  “Is it cool if Andrew comes?”

  There was a brief silence in which I could feel Nick wanting to sigh. “Whatever, sure. As long as he doesn’t talk during the game.”

  If you’re still wondering why I love Andrew, consider that he insisted on dropping me off at the casino, and begged off watching the game with Nick and me, sparing me the inevitable discomfort.

  “If you guys need a ride home, call me,” he said. “Especially if you’re drinking.”

  When he dropped me off out front, I almost leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek, but I chickened out.

  Nick was waiting for me in a high-backed booth at the back of the bar, with a clear shot of the big screen.

  “Dude, I got twenty-six points out of Antonio Brown this morning,” he said before I’d even sat down.