Getting My Mow On
Just in case I seem like another disgruntled wage slave, don’t get the idea that I don’t actually like landscaping. Maybe it doesn’t pay a fortune, but I’m outside in the fresh air eight hours a day, seeing the immediate results of my labor. There’s a lot of satisfaction in that. Think about it: why else would all those old fogeys who retire do nothing but work in their gardens all day long? I’d way rather mow your lawn or deadhead your rhodies or even mulch your flower beds than do your taxes or make your sandwich. At least with grass, you get the last word. Not like a sandwich, where somebody eats it. And what’s more beautiful than a great green field of new-mown grass? What’s more pleasing than a tidy edge or the clean lines of scrupulously pruned boxwood? I’m not gonna get all nuanced about the art of landscaping or start in with any of that navel-gazing philosophical crap like they do in books—it’s not a metaphor for the human condition, it’s a fucking yard. Just know that I’m a guy who really enjoys maintaining them, generally speaking. And yeah, maybe someday I’ll write the Great American Landscaping Novel, but in the meantime, Tuesdays are a bitch.
All our Tuesday accounts are located across the Agate Passage on Bainbridge. We call the bridge the service entrance because virtually nobody on the island, as far as I can tell, mows their own lawn or maintains their own pool or cleans their own gutters. Nobody drives a broke-dick truck, either, unless it’s from 1957. Even the high-school kids —with names like Asher and Towner—drive new cars. They seem happy and healthy, if not a little bored. They all appear harmless enough on the surface, except that most of them don’t seem to realize how good they’ve got it or how people less fortunate than themselves have helped account for their good fortune, have even suffered, so that they can enjoy their wealth and security.
But like I said, one day I’m gonna get mine. It probably won’t be a Tuesday, though. Tuesdays start with a half day at Truman’s, a huge residence over on the east side of the island, with two hundred feet of high-bank waterfront on the sound, facing Ballard, all of it hemmed in by neat boxwood borders. There’s an acre of manicured lawn, which Truman makes us mow with an old rotary mower that he must’ve inherited from Fred Flintstone. No leaf blowers allowed at Truman’s, either. No radios, and especially no salsa music, which is fine by me. I guess when you’re a big rich, important person, sitting around on your ass, meditating on your big important, rich-guy thoughts, moving your money around in the “free market,” the one built on the backs of slaves and children, you can’t be bothered with noisy lawn mowers.
Truman is an uptight little bearded guy about five foot three, who’s always home on Tuesdays. I have no idea what he did to become so rich, but my guess is next to nothing. Whatever the case, he sure doesn’t know how to enjoy it. Every time you look up, the guy is watching you out a window, and he wants you to know it. You had best be raking or pruning when he looks out the window, or you might end up like Eduardo and Che, both of whom got fired due to Truman’s watchdogging. That’s why I usually hide behind the boxwood for a few hours, pruning.
With boxwood, it’s all about crisp edges and clearly defined boundaries, which are two things my life could use more of. So the work is pretty gratifying that way. It would be a hell of a lot more gratifying if I could make of that boxwood anything I chose. Not to brag, but I’m kind of a savant when it comes to topiary. Though I’m never called upon to do so professionally, I can coax zoo animals, naked chicks, or just your basic geometric shapes out of your garden-variety shrubs. Sometimes when I’m walking around, I’ll see a shapeless clutch of holly and imagine an obelisk or a spiral. Or I’ll see a line of yews and picture a Greek colonnade.
I do most of my creative work in our backyard, where nobody will complain about it. A cluster of mushrooms in the myrtle. A pair of pom-poms in the privet. In the barberry, a gnome eating a hot dog. But my masterpiece, liberated from the shapeless clusterfuck of Japanese holly behind the shed, was originally supposed to be a mermaid, in homage to the Little Mermaid. But ultimately, the shrub refused to submit to my artistic vision. One pesky limb in particular thwarted my efforts—one very proud and protruding limb. It was a teachable moment, really. I learned that sometimes it’s better to give in to the thing itself than to fight it. Which is to say, my masterpiece ended up being a merman with an erection. I guess you could say that the erection was already there, and I just freed it.
Working beside Tino is one of the bright spots on Tuesdays. I’ve learned a lot from Tino, but don’t tell him as much. I’m not saying I like the guy. He calls me puto five times a day, and his laughter grates on me. But he’s efficient and detail oriented, and he takes pride in his work. He’s got a good eye for the big picture: the lay of the yard, the importance of definition and balance, the subtle transitions in terrain that create flow. And he’s holy hell with a pole pruner.
But this Tuesday, Tino was out of sorts. One of his uncles had a birthday party the previous night. A gran fiesta, as he put it. Multiple barbecues, four cases of Tecate, three fifths of tequila, and 2:00 a.m. soccer in a parking lot. Bottom line, Tino didn’t look so good Tuesday morning: bleary eyed and kind of pale for a Mexican. You could smell the tequila coming out of his pores. Within a half hour of arriving at Truman’s, he chipped in the hostas, then blew chunks again on the flagstone walkway, not three feet from where I was working.
Well, guess who must have been peering out the window and soon came marching down the walkway?
“What exactly am I looking at?” Truman said, indicating the pile of chum.
Sheepishly, Tino began to ramble some kind of explanation in Spanish.
“No hablo español,” said Truman. “Did you do this? Is this yours?”
Tino looked at his feet.
“That was me,” I said. “I was just about to clean it up.”
Truman subjected me to a doubtful once-over.
“I ate some funky Indian last night,” I said. “Pretty sure it was the masala. But it sure looks like the paneer, doesn’t it?”
I’m not sure whether Truman bought it or not, but I’m pretty sure about this: the guy is a prick. If I were running this show, Truman wouldn’t even be a client. I’d have standards: no creeps, no ingrates, no busybodies, no racists. No clueless rich fucks. I’d also pay my crew more than twelve bucks an hour, but don’t get me started.
“Well, kindly take care of it,” Truman said.
Kindly, my ass.
And things only got worse from there. An hour later, my fat boss, Lacy, showed up on the work site. Not that I ever really liked him, but he’s changed in the past year. For starters, he never works alongside us anymore. He just delegates, usually by yelling on the phone. Back in the day, he used to always have good medicinal weed for his bad back. Black Rhino, Blueberry Kush, you name it. These days, safety meetings are strictly forbidden. In fact, if Lacy smells weed on you, he’ll send you home. But the worst part about Lacy is that he’s a social climber, and not a very good one. Basically, he’s just a brownnoser.
“What the fuck, Muñoz? I just got a call from Truman. Are you drunk?”
“No, I’m sick. Should I go home?”
“It’s too late now. You already puked.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“Fuck you. Look, I got a call from McClure,” he said. “You need to start picking up the dog shit on the back deck. Like now.”
“But you said—”
“It doesn’t matter what I said. We can’t afford to lose an account over some dog shit.”
“Why don’t they hire a—”
“A dog-shit picker-upper? I looked in the yellow pages, and guess what? I couldn’t find one. So that leaves you, Mike. Is this gonna be a problem? Because I know Tino’s cousin is looking for work.”
“But, Lacy, you said—”
“Look, every crew needs one, and it turns out you’re my dog-shit guy. Get the hell over there and clean the deck.”
I hate working at the McClures’ to begin with, but for different reasons than I hate working at Truman’s. If I were in charge, we’d dump the McClure account, too. They don’t want any pruning or bed maintenance, and the lawn is only about fifty square feet, hemmed in by shaggy cedars on all sides and riddled with roots everywhere. It’s awkward as hell to maintain. You can’t push the mower more than three lengths in any given direction before you’ve got to swing it around again, careful to keep the front wheels off the ground, or the mower will clip a root and stall. It’s perpetually shady as fuck, so the grass is wet in July—and it grows two inches every time you turn your back.
That’s not the real problem, though. The real problem is Duke, the McClures’ two-hundred-pound St. Bernard, who takes elephant-sized dumps everywhere. And I mean everywhere: on the gravel footpath and in the beds lining the walkway. And yes, on the deck. And guess who the McClures expect to pick up all those turds? I’ll give you a hint: not Hillary Clinton.
It was dumping rain by the time I got there. As usual, there were lawn cigars everywhere. The fucking dog had managed to shit in a pot of nasturtiums three feet off the ground. I couldn’t even get my brain around it. As always, the McClures were thoughtful enough to set out a little fireplace shovel on the deck for me, and let me tell you, the instrument is sorely deficient for the task.
First, I tried the spatula method, but no matter how firm they looked, the turds were too soft in the middle, like one of those lava cakes. To make matters worse, the only bag I had was paper. And meanwhile, the rain was running a rivulet down the crack of my ass, and the stink of Duke’s ass goblins was damn near unbearable. After about six waterlogged turds, the paper bag ruptured, in spite of my desperate attempt to stop the breach with my bare hands. The whole mess hit my boots like a rotten pumpkin. Seething, I glared up at the pitiless gray sky for a second before I lost it completely.
“Goddamn-fucking-cunt-fuck-shit-ass-fucker!” I yelled.
I flailed and stomped my boot in disgust as a dollop of shit hit the sliding glass door like refried beans. In a blind rage, I kicked the ruptured bag of shit across the deck, then marched down the steps to the lawn, where I began dragging my boot and wiping my hands in the wet grass.
“Shit-fucking-mother-of-fuck!”
I must have gotten old Duke’s attention, because he’d lumbered to his feet and was standing there behind the glass, gazing out impassively, both eyes milky with cataracts.
“Fuck you,” I said.
But Duke didn’t bat an eye. He just lay back down with his big square head on his paws, let out a sigh, and closed his eyes.
This was the final indignity. The McClures’ fucking dog had a better life than me. Sure, he was bored. But he was warm, dry, well fed, and he could shit anywhere he pleased, and some poor schlep like me would clean up after him. And here I was, disconsolate in the rain, with shit on my hands. Again, I’m not blaming Duke. But what the fuck is wrong with this picture?
I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice it to say, I spent a half hour trying to clean up the mess, and you can damn well bet I wasn’t happy about it. But without another bag, there was only so much I could do.
So I left.
Boldly, into the Future
Look, I’m not stupid. There was really no use in going to work the next day. I knew damn well I was a goner. But I wanted to see Lacy one more time and let him have it, let him know he could clean up his own dog shit if it was so important to him. I guess I needed to prove to myself that I did the right thing.
So the following day, Tino, Ramiro, Tomás, and I were lunching up at the top of Magnuson’s driveway on Hall’s Hill, when suddenly the three of them fell silent and went to skulking behind their tamales as Lacy pulled up in his white Econoline.
“Muñoz,” he said, climbing out. “I specifically told you to pick up the shit on McClures’ deck, did I not?”
“We talked about this from the beginning, Lacy. The dog shit was their responsibility. I was hired to mow the lawn and beat back the blackberries. I’m sick of people changing the rules on me. Promising me one thing, then giving me another. Maybe they think they’re too good to pick up their dog shit, but that’s their problem, not mine. You can hire a new dog-shit picker-upper, I’m out of here.”
“Nice try, but you’re fired,” said Lacy. “Pack up your gear and get out of here. I can’t believe you even showed up today.”
Tino and the guys were all averting their eyes as I slammed my tailgate shut. Tino gave me a little nod, and when Lacy wasn’t looking, he gave me a clap on the back as I climbed into the cab.
“Shit, ese, what you thinking, man?” he whispered.
“I’m a landscaper, not a shit picker-upper, that’s what I’m thinking.”
He shook his head, looking genuinely disappointed.
“You got to watch your temper, vato. Is only dog shit, right?”
“That’s plenty.”
“I keep my ears open for you, amigo. Maybe my cousin Sergio knows somebody. You cook?”
“Not really.”
“Construction?”
“Not so much.”
“Too bad. You gotta learn some other skills, homie. Don’t get me wrong, you good with a lawn mower, best I know. And you prune really good, too, Miguel, but—”
“Don’t call me Miguel.”
“What about cars? You fix cars?”
“No.”
“What about bikes?”
“Not really. I mean, maybe. Fuck, I don’t know.”
He shook his head solemnly. “I keep my eyes open, Miguel.”
As I pulled away, I flew Lacy a bird out the window.
Maybe I’m my own worst enemy. Maybe I made my own miserable bed.
But I can’t tell you how goddamn sick of the indignities I was, how fucking tired of Lacy’s petty, patronizing ways. The way he kept me in my place, the way he seemed to relish my humiliation. Nothing would have pleased Lacy more than to watch old Mike Muñoz pick up dog shit in the rain. And don’t get me started on some of the clients. Like the old lady in the wheelchair who treats me like her personal servant: always tasking me with fetching her an umbrella or moving boxes around in her three-car garage or dragging her garbage cans a half mile up the driveway. I don’t mind helping somebody with special needs—hell, I’ve been doing it my whole life. It’s the way the old lady expected it of me that made me want to wheel her off a cliff. The way she spoke to me, like I was beneath her. The way she never asked me how I was or even greeted me with a hello. Fuck the old lady and anybody like her. If I had my own outfit, I’d find clients that respected my work, people who appreciated my professionalism and my mad topiary skills and my immaculate edges. So, who knows, maybe getting fired was me turning a corner. Maybe this was Mike Muñoz finally sticking up for himself and asking for more.
At once dazed and energized, I watched my old life recede in the rearview mirror. Something had to happen now, right? Something had to give, my life had to begin. Didn’t it?
Drinking the Kool-Aid
I was in third grade when my mom took the job as the milk lady at our elementary school. Nate, who should’ve been in the sixth, repeated fifth grade, where he spent his days in the moldering portable out by the soccer field. I envied him, actually. He got to watch videos and screw around with finger paints and construction paper and eat paste all day long. Meanwhile, little Mike Muñoz, still wearing the same dirty coat with the fake-fur collar, stuck to the far end of the cafeteria at lunch, not drinking milk, clutching his free meal ticket tight as he inched his way through the line, pretending not to notice his mom waving at him from across the room.
Yeah, I know, it was a dick move, ignoring my mom. What can I say? I wasn’t exactly flush with social currency in third grade. Beyond Nick, I didn’t really have anyone I could call a friend. I was a scrubby, undersized half Mexican, whose brother was a freak of nature. My high water pants and my green lunch ticket were indignity enough. I couldn’t have my mom waving at me in the cafeteria.
After school, three nights a week, Mom went to her second job, waitressing at Campana’s in Poulsbo, which left me to take care of Nate. Since the library was about the easiest place to keep him occupied, we’d spend two or three hours a day there, Nate flipping through piles and piles of board books, sucking and twisting his shirt collar until it was heavy with spittle and hopelessly stretched out. He’d spend hours rapping his knuckles on the side of the aquarium so that the startled clown fish darted about crazily. Always nearby, I read White Fang or Treasure Island or Gulliver’s Travels, books with vivid settings far from my world and far from Nate.
Mom started taking us to a little Methodist church. The church was good to us. I’m not sure how much Mom believed in the gospel, or whether she prayed for our sins or knew the words to the hymns, but she believed in the church—as a resource, anyway. So on most Sundays she dressed us in our cleanest clothes, combed our hair, and we went to church, smelling of stale cigarette smoke. Mom stayed after the service and served coffee in the banquet room, and the married men chatted her up as Nate and I ate lemon bars and stale cookies and filled our pockets with sugar packets and creamers.
Thursday evenings, Nate and I went to the youth-group meeting at the church and played wholesome games designed to engender trust and communication and unwavering faith in God. We sang songs about building our houses on rocks and about how Jesus loved the little children. There were always snacks, of which we partook greedily: graham crackers and little paper cups full of grapes. I drank the Kool-Aid, but I didn’t drink the Kool-Aid, if you know what I mean. It’s not that I had anything against Jesus or God, I was just underwhelmed by the evidence.
I think those nights when we were at youth group were about the only break my mom ever got from us, an hour and a half a week on Thursday evenings. And you know where she spent it? At the Laundromat. These days, it may look like my mom’s not trying very hard, but then I consider how far she’s come and all the bullshit she’s had to endure, and I figure she’s doing all right.
As dull as the Bible study and singing were, I looked forward to Thursday nights. For one, I didn’t have to manage Nate. There was a teacher for that. It gave me a break for a while. All told, there were eight or nine other kids, including my hero, Doug Goble, long before he became the hottest real-estate agent in Kitsap County. It’s not that Doug Goble was particularly winsome or athletic or anything like that. He had a fetal cast to him, actually, like he wasn’t fully cooked when he came out of the oven. I’m not saying he was all curled up or anything, but his head had a lightbulb aspect to it, and his nose was flat and undersized. I think the appeal for me was that Doug Goble had confidence, charisma even, though he was poor like me and, like me, lived on the res in a manufactured home with dirty siding and a cluttered carport. Doug Goble could talk to girls and adults. He was decisive and self-assured, which made him persuasive. He possessed that quality I most associated with winners: certainty.
“You see this church?” he’d say. “Someday, I’m gonna live in a house twice as big as this dump. And the roof won’t leak. And it’ll be right in town, where everybody can see it. I’m gonna have a huge laundry room with a maid. And she’ll have big jugs, too.”
And I believed it, every word of it. I guess I needed to believe it. I would have done just about anything to impress Doug Goble. I laughed at his jokes, listened raptly to his plans of world domination, hoping that at the very least he’d let me ride on his coattails.
“It’s all just a big game of Monopoly. Dummies and nice guys always lose.”
God, how I wanted to be a winner. How I longed for that certainty, when everything in my life was so uncertain. Goble tolerated me for the most part, as long as I kept laughing and listening. Until one day, he just abandoned me with no explanation. I always reasoned it was because I was a loser or maybe just a sucker. Anyway, our lives took different trajectories after that. Goble grew into himself and became one of the popular kids who sat at the same table in the cafeteria with the other popular kids who, in retrospect, weren’t actually popular, just feared and admired, and mostly wealthy. Goble was forced to bluff on the wealthy part or to compensate with confidence and guile.
As early as sixth grade, Goble started distinguishing himself as an entrepreneur, trading in lunch tickets and selling his mom’s cigarettes to high-school freshmen, who lined up behind the bleachers before school. Sophomore year of high school, he somehow finagled the school into paying him five cents per tray for collecting lunch trays from the cafeteria and commons, then outsourced the job to Vic Burzycki for a penny per tray.
Goble always had a plan, always knew what he wanted, never lacked ambition or nerve. He was a worthy hero for little Mike Muñoz, while he lasted.