Lawn Boy by Jonathan Evison
When I finally got out of the truck, Goble was waiting for me, and I handed over the keys.
“Mike, what are you trying to prove here?”
“I just wanna mow lawns and prune shit, dude. I don’t want to be your secret agent. I don’t like that place. And I don’t like Piggot standing so close to me all the time. The guy’s got no boundaries. Next thing you know, he’ll be expecting me to walk his dogs and go to the dump for him. You want me, hire me back. I’ll do your properties.”
“Can’t do it, Mike. It’s coming on fall. Most of the gardening stuff takes care of itself. I’ll hire a Mexican with a leaf blower for ten bucks an hour. Unless you wanna do it for ten bucks an hour . . . ?”
“Fuck you.”
“I didn’t mean it as an insult. It’s just the reality, Mike.”
The smug little fucker. The sad thing is, it actually hurt my feelings. I really thought I had value in Goble’s eyes.
“It was your idea behind the parsonage,” I said.
“What are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“No, Mike, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about youth group.”
Goble checked his watch, then pulled out his cell and checked that, too.
“Youth group? You mean with the Bible songs and the crackers? What the hell? You’re fucking crazy, Mike. Good luck,” he said, without looking up. “Nice job on the Wardwell place.”
“Why won’t you admit we sucked each other’s dicks?”
He looked up from his phone. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Why won’t you just acknowledge it?”
“Mike, you’re talking nonsense. Did you forget to take your meds or something? Look, I gotta run. I’m doing an open house at one thirty.”
“Wow,” I said. “You are really in denial.”
“I don’t think so, Mike. But you may want see a psychiatrist.”
The fucking nerve of the guy! I wanted to punch him in the throat! How could he look me in the eye and just flat-out deny something we both knew was true?
“You hatched the plan, Goble, and you know it. You lured me behind the parsonage. We talked about girls. We shared a Hershey’s bar. Then you showed me your dick.”
“Whoa. What the hell are you talking about?”
“The next thing I know, it’s in my mouth.”
“Are you high?”
“I can’t believe you, Goble! Dude, you’re insane. We sucked each other’s dicks, and you’re pretending it didn’t happen.”
“Have a nice life, Mike,” he said, repocketing his phone.
And just like that, he turned and started walking toward his condo.
“You’re the one who needs a psychiatrist!” I yelled, practically foaming at the mouth. “You’re fucking crazy!”
He didn’t even look back, the cold-blooded little prick. That’s when I realized what I should have realized years ago: that there were people in this world who either had no conscience or just severe memory deficits, tailored to their convenience. I could see the advantage of either one immediately. Yet both ideas were abhorrent to me. Either you didn’t care, or you chose not to care. The way I see it, you’ve got to be accountable, or you’re nothing. Without personal accountability, you can talk yourself into anything. You can leave rubble in your wake and never look back. That could mean wars. Genocides. Ecological disasters. And what for? What was the advantage?
Fuck those guys, and their money and their power.
It was starting to sprinkle, and a wave of futility washed over me.
“Hey, wait!” I yelled after him, the logistics of my situation suddenly dawning on me. “What about my gear? You gotta drive me to my house!”
“Yeah, sorry,” he said. “Gotta freshen up for my open house. Good luck.”
The rain was picking up force, starting to blow in slantwise.
“This is bullshit!” I hollered. “You sucked my dick, you crazy fuck!”
Goble just kept walking. A little old lady on the second floor opened her window and peered out to see what all the shouting was about.
“Your neighbor Doug Goble likes to suck dick!” I yelled up to her. “And he doesn’t want anyone to know about it!”
Doug stopped his forward progress just long enough to give the old lady a little wave and a bemused shrug before she shut the window and abruptly lowered the blinds.
A Good Place to Start
Over the next week, I tried to be as invisible as possible on the home front. I started avoiding the house, mostly for the sake of everybody else, so I wasn’t using hot water or electricity, or eating other people’s food out of the refrigerator, or even taking up space. I must have lost five pounds that first week. When I wasn’t out fruitlessly submitting résumés—Safeway, Central Market, even Walmart—I found a warm place to sit and read, the only place where nobody gave me the stink eye about loitering.
One day at checkout, I got in Andrew’s line, even though it was longer than the other one. As usual, his thick, curly hair was all over the place. Bald guys must hate him. He was wearing one of his cardigan sweaters, a bile-colored affair, and a T-shirt that said COEXIST. The instant he opened his mouth I was confronted with a gleaming mouthful of braces—the big clunky kind that looked like you might get radio reception on them, the kind that always seemed to be digging into tender flesh. Normally a guy would look like a mouth breather or a dweeb with that much metal in his mouth. But Andrew didn’t appear to be self-conscious about it.
“Michael!” He sounded genuinely happy to see me. “I see you’re reading Timbuktu. I love that book.”
“Yeah, you recommended it.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
We talked for a minute about books, me looking back over my shoulder every ten seconds to make sure I wasn’t holding up the line.
“So, what do you do for work, anyway?”
“Look for it, mostly,” I said.
“What are you doing at three?”
“Nothing.”
“You wanna occupy Walmart?”
“What, you mean like buy stuff?”
“No, I mean picket.”
“Picket what?”
“Pfff. Where to begin? No paid rest, no meal breaks. Inhuman wages. Sexual discrimination, urban encroachment, union busting. Don’t even get me started on sweatshops.”
I didn’t have the guts to tell him about the job application I’d submitted to Walmart not two hours earlier. But what was there to lose? Let’s face it, I probably wouldn’t get the job, anyway. And deep down, desperate as I was, I didn’t really want to work at Walmart.
“Sure, I’m in.”
“Great,” he said. “Come back at three.”
I didn’t have anywhere to be, so I just waited at the library, scanning the fiction section aimlessly. At three o’clock, when Andrew’s shift ended, he led me briskly and purposefully from the library and across the parking lot.
“Hop in,” he said.
His red Subaru was old but scrupulously maintained. Not a speck of dust on the dash. No dog hair on the seats. No errant coffee cups or empty Burger King bags. In the backseat, a bunch of hand-drawn picket signs were stacked neatly alongside a pair of walkie-talkies, some yellow rope, a case of bottled water, and a Kinkos bag full of fliers.
“Ever occupied before?” he said as we swung onto the highway.
“No.”
“Well, this is a good place to start.”
I’d heard the talk about Walmart and its shady business practices. I’m not oblivious. I remember all the hemming and hawing when they moved into town, back when I was in high school. How they were gonna put everybody out of business with their aggressively low pricing. And, well, they did, pretty much. Coast to Coast Hardware, Schuck’s Auto Supply, Payless—they all went belly up within two years. But the truth is, I shop at Walmart quite a bit. It’s got a way of stretching your money—and when you do
But to hear Andrew tell it, Walmart was the evil overload, victimizing poor people by selling them cheap stuff. And I have to admit, he was pretty persuasive.
“The problem, as I see it,” he said, “is that a lot of people, and not just poor people, equate value with savings—like the two are synonymous. That value is measured in savings is a tenet of consumerism. It’s shoved down our throats. People forget what real value is. Money is not the only measure of value. What about quality of life? What about community? These things are more fundamental to our happiness than saving a buck.”
One eye on the road, he proceeded to explain how the value we equate with savings is only an illusion.
“Take a can of spray paint,” he said. “Say there was a hardware store next door—not that one could actually survive next door to Walmart, but just for the sake of argument. We’ll call it Richard’s Hardware.”
“Dick’s,” I said.
“Okay, Dick’s. Let’s say Dick’s and Walmart were selling the same can of spray paint.”
“What color?”
“Does it matter?”
“I guess not. But still, it helps me imagine the scenario.”
“Okay, black. The same can of black spray paint. Dick’s Hardware is selling it for three bucks.”
“Two ninety-nine,” I said. “They always get you with the nines.”
“Let’s just call it three, for the sake of argument,” he said, the slightest hint of impatience creeping into his tone. “Three bucks is reasonable. The markup is fair—not a rip-off at all.”
“Yeah, but you could probably get it for one ninety-nine at Walmart,” I said.
“I’m getting to that,” he said briskly. “The point is, the value doesn’t end there, with the savings. Let’s follow the exchange further. What happens to that extra buck? Well, for starters, Dick sponsors a Little League team. He’s also in the Kiwanis. Turns out, he votes for school levies. He has three kids that go to school with your kids. He lives right down the street from you, as a matter of fact. Once, he found your freaked-out beagle in a thunderstorm and brought it back to you. Dick shops local, he buys Girl Scout cookies, and he pays his employees a fair wage.”
“He sounds awesome.”
“He is awesome. But even if he’s not, the point is that the extra buck goes right back into the community. It keeps your sidewalks clean and your boulevards narrow. Do you want to live in a world of wide boulevards, no sidewalks, and nothing but box stores on all sides? A world where nobody walks? A world where one percent of the population accounts for eighty-five percent of the wealth?”
“Hell no.”
“Well, that’s why we’re doing this.”
Andrew made it sound like we were about to save the world. Like we were being the change we wanted. I didn’t need any more excuses to stick it to the man, believe me. Here was an opportunity to stand up and make a difference. And all I had to do was occupy space. I could do that.
Occupying Space
When we arrived at Walmart, there were seven or eight young guys, mostly with beards, and one middle-aged lady in sweatpants, loitering out front. A scruffy bunch, all told, signs dangling limply at their sides. One guy was texting. Another guy was holding a boom box. The lady in sweats was smoking a cigarette and talking on her cell phone. Surely a lone blast of pepper spray would end this flagging occupation and send this group of protesters scurrying like roaches. Immediately I could see that what this protest needed was a Goble-type personality to buoy them. Somebody to go around yelling, “Get those signs up!” Somebody with a vision. Somebody who could motivate and galvanize and all that. A politician, I guess. And so I took it upon myself, the best way I knew how.
“Shouldn’t they be holding those signs up a little?” I whispered. “You know, so people can read them?”
“Excellent point. Let’s get those signs up, brothers and sisters!” Andrew announced.
Up came the signs: POVERTY WAGES! STOP THE WAR ON WORKERS! One kid named Moses looked really stoned. He was wearing a beanie and held a sign that said STANDING FOR OUR JOBS!
“So, does he mean ‘Standing Up for Our Jobs’?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” Andrew said. “I guess.”
“Do any of these people work here?”
“No.”
“They used to work here?”
“Not that I know of.”
“None of them?”
“The people who work here can’t afford to protest, Mike. They’re too busy occupying their checkout stands or bagging your off-brand Doritos. They don’t even get breaks or lunches. We’re here as their advocates.”
He made it sound noble, standing around in a Walmart parking lot. At least I was finally doing something besides complaining about the system. I was actively striving to effect change. I was advocating. I was standing up and saying, “I’m not gonna take it anymore!” Or, more precisely, “He’s not gonna take it anymore!” In my small way, I was helping bring down the man or, at the very least, obstructing his progress.
And yeah, it felt pretty good.
One thing I learned in the Walmart parking lot was, hold a picket sign and nobody wants to go anywhere near you. They’re afraid you’re going to try and recruit them or make them sign a petition, when all they want is some cheap laundry detergent and a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew.
I whispered other suggestions to Andrew: Maybe we should spread out a little. Maybe the lady in sweats should quit smoking. Tell Moses to spell-check his signs next time. Maybe we need a chant. I was proving to be quite the field marshal. And Andrew saw to it that each and every one of my suggestions was implemented, except for the chant. We never thought of a good one.
If I was a little reticent to fully embrace my new revolutionary persona, it’s only because Poulsbo is so small. Even when you figure in Kingston and Suquamish and Indianola, and all the unincorporated areas, you’re not dealing with that many people. I routinely recognize faces at stoplights. Or standing in line at the DMV. Or strolling the aisles at Walmart. I suspected it was only a matter of time before I started running into people I knew: Nate’s physical therapist, my middle-school gym teacher, maybe even Remy.
And sure enough, around four thirty, as I was standing there holding my #1 IN EMPLOYEES NEEDING MEDICAID AND FOOD STAMPS sign, absorbing dirty looks from the morbidly obese and bitterly diabetic, not to mention a few hot soccer moms, I heard the unmistakable cadence of white-boy rap and its attending thump, and I spotted a familiar purple blur with spinning LED rims, cruising briskly past Home Depot toward Walmart.
I suppose I could’ve dodged Nick, though I’m pretty sure he spotted me. I’ll be honest, it took some wind out of my revolutionary sails. How was I supposed to convince people to change their ways when I was inextricably bound to my own? How was I supposed to change the world when my best friend acted like such a dick most of the time?
Nick was wearing his twelfth-man jersey, and a Les Schwab cap, his goatee neatly trimmed. His eyes looked a little bloodshot, and he was already trailing a fog of Jäger, so he must have got off work early.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he said.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“It looks like you’re just standing there.”
“Exactly. That’s what occupying is, Nick. You stand.”
“Occupying, huh? Gotcha. Looks like a bunch of Girl Scouts standing out front—but without the fucking cookies. Try occupying a job for a while, dude. I ran into Freddy at the Masi. He said you still haven’t found a job.”
“It’s only been a week.”
“I can’t believe you’re still living with your mom, bro.”
“Shhh,” I said.
“So, who’s this,” Nick said, acknowledging Andrew wit
I cast my eyes down. “Nick, Andrew. Andrew, Nick,” I mumbled.
Andrew stepped forward winningly and extended a hand, smiling so that his mouthful of braces were shining in all their glory for Nick.
Nick winced and shot me a look when Andrew released his grip.
“Go Hawks,” said Andrew.
“Yeah, whatever you say.”
Nick opened and closed his hand a few times like he was trying to regain some feeling in it.
“So, they payin’ you to protest? Payin’ your rent in slogans now, is that it?”
Why did he have to be that way? Why all the bravado, the constant razzing, the persistent alpha-male hectoring?
“Hey, so what’s with the auto-picks on fantasy last week? You fucking benched Matty Ice, bro. Guy threw for like four hundred fifty yards. You’ve got to get on the ball, man. Whitehead is killing everybody already.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“I can see that.”
“We gotta hang out, man. You’re like off the radar lately. You want to watch the game Sunday?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe, he says,” said Nick. “Pretty weak. Whatever you do, don’t bench Matty Ice again. And why the hell did you pick up Eddie Lacy?”
“Just a hunch.”
“His ankle is toast. Anyway, I’ve gotta buy some shit. Have fun with your little protest,” he said, pleased with himself as he sauntered off toward the entrance.
“Who was that?” said Andrew.
“Some jerk I went to high school with.”
“Nice guy,” he said.
“Yeah, he’s a prince.”
Nick was right, unfortunately: our protest was a flop. Nobody wanted an informational flier summarizing the insidious business practices of Walmart, except for one guy in rubber boots and a bicycle helmet covered with bumper stickers. Seemed like maybe he’d started wearing the helmet a little too late, if you know what I mean. And while it’s true that a few people paused long enough to read my sign, none of them seemed to comprehend it. The guy with the bike helmet bought Andrew and me a jumbo dog with sauerkraut, which was thoughtful and also sort of surprising, since he looked like he was homeless. I didn’t eat mine. I’d like to say that I didn’t eat it on principle, but the truth is, I couldn’t stop thinking about The Jungle. Even though Andrew usually didn’t eat red meat or support Walmart, I couldn’t blame him for inhaling his, being that he came straight from work and hadn’t eaten since lunch. So I wasn’t about to deprive him his nourishment by saying anything about the working conditions in meatpacking plants.