Now, to tackle Problem Number One—where were we going to get a lawn mower?
My gaze drifted to his garage door.
It was worth a shot.
“Cliff?” said Aaron.
I approached the garage door and lifted. There was nothing holding it shut. In fact, the flimsy metal thing practically flew open.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” said Aaron. “What are you doing?”
“I’m just looking for a lawn mower,” I said.
Aaron rolled his eyes. “Of course you are. What else would you be doing?”
Contrary to the anarchy that was Spinelli’s lawn, the garage was actually organized—albeit covered in a blanket of dust.
A push mower was parked in the back corner.
I marched into Spinelli’s garage like I was the Queen of Sheba.
“You know,” said Aaron, “there’s a fine line between being a Good Samaritan and breaking and entering.”
I ignored Aaron. I unscrewed the gasoline lid and peeked inside. It was hard to gauge the gas level, but it looked a little on the low side. Definitely not enough to tackle the jungles of Congo that awaited. However, I didn’t need to look five feet to find the portable gasoline container on the dusty shelf beside me. I filled up the tank, screwed the lid on, and pushed the mower out onto the driveway. And then I pulled the starter cord.
Nothing.
“Well, that was fun,” said Aaron. “Now let’s get the hell—”
I pulled the cord again.
And again and again and again and again and again and—
VROOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
The lawn mower roared victory, and I added my own victory cry.
“Okay,” said Aaron. He flapped his arms at his side. “This is happening. Great. Awesome.”
I ignored Aaron and plowed into the wild Congo. But the thing about mowing grass this tall…is that lawn mowers can’t. They just can’t. The mower stalled within five feet.
“Guuuuuhhhhhhh!”
I backed the mower up, allowing it to regurgitate the mutilated grass chunks it couldn’t swallow. Then I pulled the cord again. Fortunately, the engine was warmed up, and it started effortlessly.
“THANK YOU,” I said.
I pushed the mower another five feet. Then it stalled again.
“GYEEEAAAAAAARRRGGGGHHHHH!!!!!”
I followed this abominable pattern for another seven stalls. But whether it was the grace of God or the lawn mower finally pulling its inanimate shit together and becoming the Little Engine That Could, stalling didn’t seem to be an issue.
Aaron, meanwhile, disappeared rather ominously into the garage.
When he came out, it was with a weed whacker in hand.
He stood there and revved it a couple of times, staring directly at me. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he wasn’t contemplating chopping me up into little pieces and burying me in Spinelli’s floorboards (I doubted Spinelli would be terribly opposed), but Aaron didn’t. He just weed-whacked—around the trees, corners, everywhere I couldn’t reach with the mower.
The mower didn’t have a bag attached, so it was just spitting obliterated grass dust out the side. However, that didn’t stop the lawn from looking approximately a bajillion times better. With our powers combined, the lawn was shaping up fast—or at least it didn’t look like the Ewok planet from Star Wars. I was moving in a diagonal pattern, and once I had annihilated half the rain forest, the visible improvement was its own reward.
Aaron, meanwhile, was apparently a weed-whacking samurai. He was mostly done—just touching up a few rough spots.
That’s when the front door swung open and Spinelli burst out. To no one’s surprise, he was still wearing nothing but a bathrobe and boxers.
“Who the…? What the…? Aaron? Cliff? Just what in the hell do you two think you’re doing?”
I stopped the mower, and Aaron stopped the weed whacker. We looked at Spinelli. We looked at each other. We looked at the lawn. And then we looked back at Spinelli again.
“What does it look like we’re doing?” I said.
“Get the hell off my property. No one asked you to mow my lawn.”
“Get the hell back in your house, Mr. Spinelli,” said Aaron. “No one wants to see you in your underwear.”
The mower and weed whacker roared/buzzed back to life, and we went back to work.
Spinelli’s face turned reddish-purplish, like the world’s largest beet. “IF YOU DON’T GET OFF MY PROPERTY RIGHT NOW, I’M CALLING THE COPS!”
Aaron stopped the weed whacker again. I stopped the mower. We exchanged a meaningful look. And then we laughed.
“You think the police will arrest us for mowing your shitty lawn?” said Aaron.
Spinelli didn’t have a response to that.
We went back to mowing/weed-whacking.
Spinelli stood on his porch watching us for a solid five minutes. Once he realized we were going nowhere, he grumbled unintelligible, possibly made-up profanities under his breath and marched into his house, slamming the door behind him. Aaron finished with the weed whacker and returned it to the garage. I continued mowing—sweaty, nasty, my legs covered in shredded grass.
I felt amazing.
I had nearly finished when Spinelli came back out wearing grass-stained jeans and a ratty flannel shirt. He veered into his garage and came back out with a rake and a heavy-duty trash bag. I finished the last unmowed strip of grass, stopped the mower, and watched him march out onto the finished grass.
“What are you doing?” I said.
“What am I doing? You think I’m just going to let some punk-ass kids do whatever the hell they want with my lawn? I’m cleaning up all this grassy shit you left everywhere. What does it look like I’m doing?”
Spinelli stopped.
He looked around.
“Where’d that Zimmerman kid go?”
Actually, that was an excellent question. I thought he had gone into the garage. Didn’t Spinelli see him?
At that moment, Spinelli’s front door opened. And out came Aaron. As ill-timed fate would have it, he also happened to be zipping up his fly at That. Exact. Moment.
Spinelli’s death glare caused Aaron to freeze against the closed door—like a pinned insect.
“Oh, hey,” said Aaron. “Sorry, I had to tinkle.”
Silence—as long and awkward as middle school.
Aaron shifted uncomfortably. So, as a disclaimer, he added: “But don’t worry, I got everything in the pot. I have the precision of a sniper.”
And he winked—like only Aaron Zimmerman could.
He quietly walked around the house and disappeared into the garage. Again. Spinelli’s head rotated 180 degrees—like an owl’s—following him every step of the way.
“What the hell are you doing in there, Zimmerman?”
Aaron exited the garage with another rake and a kooky grin on his face.
“No.” Spinelli shook his head. “Put that away. I don’t need your help.”
“Um, have you looked in the mirror lately?” said Aaron. “You’re like a hundred years old. Of course you need my help.”
Aaron joined Spinelli on the lawn, raking clumps of mutilated grass into small mountains. For a moment, I thought Spinelli might break his wood-handled rake in half. Instead, he raked—furiously—as if to punish the lawn for letting this happen.
I laughed as I pushed the lawn mower toward the driveway. “You guys are funny.”
Spinelli grumbled. “Scrape your shoes off before you walk on the cement. The last thing I need is a bunch of green footprints all over my goddamn driveway.”
“Yeah, Cliff,” said Aaron. “You uncivilized cretin.”
“Lick my anus, dickweasel,” I said—to Aaron, not Spinelli.
Spinelli just kept shaking his head.
I wasn’t exactly sure how to do this, since the only thing I could wipe my shoes on was the grass. So that’s what I did. Fortunately, I didn’t leave any footprints as I stepped out. I pushed the lawn mowe
r back into its corner in the garage.
Then I saw an edger hanging on the wall.
Hell yeah.
I pulled it down, filled up the gas, and started it. The edger was much more cooperative. It buzzed to life on the first go. I tested the trigger, and the little square blade became a sharp, spinning circle of precision.
As soon as I walked back out of the garage, Spinelli had dropped his rake and trash bag, staring at me like I was Leatherface about to go on a Montana Chainsaw Massacre, Better Homes and Gardens–style.
“No,” said Spinelli. He was shaking his head so hard, I thought it might topple off. “Hell no. Put that thing back where you found it, Cliff.”
“Hey, I’m the one with the sharp, spinning stick of death,” I said. “I think you better let me edge your lawn.”
Spinelli raked even more furiously. If he raked any harder, he might have ripped the grass right out of the ground.
I proceeded to edge Spinelli’s lawn, and fortunately, it wasn’t a complete train wreck. I managed to cut a (mostly) straight perimeter along the concrete. Considering what it looked like before—like some great green tentacled monstrosity spilling out of the ground—I might as well have been the Landscaping Messiah.
Three trash bags later, Aaron and Spinelli finished raking the lawn. They carried them into the garage, one by one. I finished edging around the same time. When we finished, the three of us stopped and stared at our work, and it was good—except for the traces of grass that my edging had left around the curb. I glanced back at the garage and saw the leaf blower. And then I saw Spinelli eyeing the leaf blower. And then I saw him seeing me see him eyeing the leaf blower.
We both raced into the garage.
“It’s mine!” said Spinelli.
“No way, José!” I said.
“Hey now, kids!” Aaron called after us. “You can either take turns with the blower, or no one gets to blow at all!”
I got to the blower first. But just barely. I practically swiped it out of Spinelli’s old, decrepit fingers. But that wasn’t good enough for Spinelli because he started walking at me, hands out, ready to mug me.
“Give me back my blower, asshole!”
“Sure thing, old man. After I use it. Now back off before you dislocate a hip.”
“Damn you!” Spinelli’s face was a cherry bomb. “You…you’re just like your fucking brother!”
I stopped. Moving, smiling, breathing…everything. Because how are you supposed to react when someone uses the person you love the most as an insult?
Spinelli stared at me. His eyes were cold, his face was hard, and he just stared—picking me apart with his eyes. Peeling me open.
Aaron, meanwhile, stared at us like we were an automobile accident.
“I’m sorry,” I said. My voice was hollow. “This was a mistake. We’ll go.”
I turned to leave. Spinelli grabbed my arm.
“Wait,” he said.
I looked at Spinelli.
“I…” he said. Hesitated. “I’m sorry. That was out of line. My wife would kill me if she ever…”
His voice drifted. Every tense knot of muscle in his hundred-year-old body seemed to unravel. His shoulders dropped, heavy with the weight of pure emptiness. His fist unspooled—palms open, fingers numb.
“Anyway,” he said, “I’m sorry.”
I nodded, slowly. But even my nod was a shadow of a reaction.
We parted ways.
We decided to regroup at Aaron’s house. Sweaty, covered in grass, and utterly dejected, we showered (again) and got ready for the day (again). Aaron let me use his bathroom while he used his parents’ upstairs. As I toweled off, got dressed, and felt every bead of moisture evaporate off my body, contributing to the frigid bathroom mist, I was harshly reminded that it was April in Montana with a high of fifty-something degrees. So I pulled my lucky hoodie on. I figured my luck was already at a low, and I dared an article of clothing to prove me otherwise.
Contrary to superstition, however, my luck seemed to be on the rise. For starters, Aaron beat me out of the shower and decided to do breakfast (again). After all that yardwork, both of our metabolisms had made the jump to hyperspace. Fortunately, he skipped the cereal shenanigans and went straight to cooking bacon on a long plug-in skillet. He didn’t even bother with that “balanced breakfast” nonsense. Just bacon on bacon with a side of bacon.
“I was going to ask you how many slices you wanted,” said Aaron, “but then I made a stereotypical assumption and decided to finish off the packet.”
“You are wise beyond your years,” I said.
“But just you know, we’re splitting this fifty-fifty.”
“Okay. But if you realize your poor little sissy tummy can’t handle all that delicious bacon…”
“Please.”
When Aaron finished with the bacon, he divvied up the slices judiciously (there was an odd number, so he broke the last piece in half), set the plates on the table, and we feasted.
“We have a sermon to prepare,” said Aaron in between bites. “Unless, of course, we want to look like dipshits.”
“I am in favor of not looking like a dipshit,” I said.
“Do you have any sermon ideas?”
“Hmmmmmmmmmm.” The sound effect of my thinking was drawn out for an uncomfortable length of time.
“C’mon. If you could say anything to Esther, what would it be?”
“I’d tell her that if people wanted to hear from an asshole, they’d fart.”
“That…is an idea. Hmm. Maybe if we had a committee for this…?”
“A committee?”
Aaron stood up from the table—a suddenly determined look on his face—and left. He crossed the living room and disappeared down the hall.
“I’m not following you,” I said.
No response.
“I’m finishing this delicious plate of bacon, and I’m going to enjoy it.”
Nothing.
“Cold bacon makes the heart cold.”
Nope.
“Dammit.” I abandoned my fried strips of juicy happiness and chased after him.
I followed the noise of shuffling papers. This led me to the bedroom of the legendary Aaron Zimmerman, which could be summarized in four words:
Sports. Illustrated. Swimsuit. Edition.
No kidding, there appeared to be a decade’s worth of the thought-provoking literature, and Aaron had wallpapered the walls with it—bronze skin, cleavage, and swimwear that covered the equivalent two-dimensional surface area of a dishrag.
“Nice décor,” I said.
Aaron ignored me. He was busy digging through his backpack and pulling out a week’s worth of schoolwork.
I’d left my bacon for this. I demanded attention. “When someone inserts the Book of Aaron in the Bible,” I said, “I hope they make it illustrated and include a picture of this bedroom. That would revolutionize church as we know it.”
Aaron transitioned to digging through his backpack with one hand while he casually extended his middle finger with the other.
“Aha, found it!” he said. He raised a rather thick stack of paper stapled together like it was the honest-to-god Book of Aaron made manifest.
“What is it?”
“The Happy Valley High student directory,” said Aaron. “Addresses, phone numbers, bra sizes…I’ve got all the confidential info right here.”
“Bra sizes? Hold on. You actually got Jack and Jill to print this out for you?”
“Sure. Let’s go with that.”
“Wait. You didn’t steal it from them, did you?”
“Steal is a strong word. I prefer ‘permanent borrowization via stealth tactics.’”
“You dirty thief!” I said. “So, like, what? Are we seriously gonna call a bunch of random people and tell them we’re organizing a committee to write a sermon?”
“Not random people. Just whoever we wanna call. I bet I know a particular person with a bra size who you might wanna call.”
/> And thus began the calling.
First, I called Tegan. Aaron called Niko. Then I called Jack Halbert, who informed me that he would invite his other half, Julian, as well.
All yesses so far. At this point, we were excited, and the momentum had us wanting to invite even more people.
“You should invite Lacey,” I said.
Even as I said it, I realized that Lacey would hardly be a meaningful contribution to our Sermon Showdown planning committee. After all, she was of the opinion that Aaron had a concussion, and the List was just a delusion of his damaged mind. However, first and foremost, I was Aaron’s friend. And, as his friend, I knew that he had to come clean with Lacey.
“You should invite your mom,” said Aaron.
“Come on, I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“You don’t even know who my mom is.”
“And you don’t know who Lacey is. There, we’ve eliminated two stupid possibilities. Moving on.”
“What do you mean, I don’t know Lacey?”
“You know of Lacey,” said Aaron. “But you don’t know Lacey. Tell me, what sort of person pretends they didn’t see you cheat on them with their best friend?”
“Someone who wants to salvage relationships?”
“No, Cliff. Someone who wants to salvage relationships tells you the truth—that they saw you cheat—and then, after they’ve had a fair amount of time to be pissed off and process what you’ve done, they forgive you—or tell you that they can’t. The other sort of person—the person Lacey is—is a time bomb.”
“Just last night, you said you might still be in love with her,” I said. “Now you’re saying she’s a time bomb? That makes no sense.”
“Look, Cliff, I’m not blaming Lacey for anything. This is my fault. I ruined our relationship, I’ve come to terms with it, and I’m moving on. There’s absolutely no reason for me to tell her I cheated on her. With her best friend. At her birthday party.”
“Other than that you might still be in love with her.”
“Forget I said that,” said Aaron. “It was late, and my brain was running through the Greatest Hits of all my fuckups. That just happens to top the chart. Lacey and I didn’t have closure, okay? That’s all. I’m not in love with her.”
I met Aaron’s gaze with the highest form of skepticism. Now I was no psychologist, but this sounded like denial, supersized, with a side of fries. But we had both said our piece, and I respected his right to be an idiot. I relinquished the argument.
Neanderthal Opens the Door to the Universe Page 14
