by Robert Inman
A sweep of Morris’s hand took in Will, his disguise, his truck and trailer full of lawn care equipment. “And is this your other life?”
“I don’t know yet,” Will said. “First things first. Figure out how to make a living, then make a life. I’m open to possibilities. It’s sort of like bungee jumping, I imagine. I might crash to earth, or not. Right now I’m in free fall.”
“A little scary?” Morris asked.
“Sure. No idea how it’ll all turn out. Maybe when you die, whatever shape you’re in at the exact moment you draw your last breath…well, that’s how it turned out. Meanwhile, I guess I’m reinventing myself. But then, you of all people should know about that.”
Morris frowned and cocked his head to one side. “How do you mean?”
“You reinvent yourself about every six months or so, Morris. You’ve been doing it as long as I’ve known you.”
Morris seemed amused. “Would you call it reinvention or transformation?”
“What would you call it?” Will asked.
“A little of both, I suppose.”
“Why do you do it?”
“I get bored,” Morris said.
“Well, at least I’ve got a better reason.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t have any choice. And on the other hand, I have every choice in the world.”
“And is that, to use your word, ‘better?’”
Will finished his beer, placed the empty bottle on the teak table at his elbow, and rose to go. “Well, different. I shouldn’t judge.”
Morris stood and walked with him to the driveway. “As long as I’ve known you,” he said, “you’ve been a pretty earnest guy. Almost painfully so. And a little naïve. Over the years you’ve undergone a transformation of your own. Will Baggett, TV star. But it appears to me you’re still at heart an earnest guy. And still a little naïve.”
“I suppose. You were always a great deal more worldly-wise than me, Morris. Better able to see those things.”
He laid a fraternal hand on Will’s shoulder. “You’ve fucked some things up, Will.”
You asshole, Will thought, but he resisted the urge to lash out. “Sorry I can’t stay for dinner,” he said. “But I’ve got Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes waiting at home. Some other time.”
“You’re a piece of work, Will,” Morris said with an even smile. “You were just kidding about your rig.”
“Partly,” Will said. “I’m taking the pickup. Try to keep the neighborhood kids off my trailer, okay?”
TWENTY-ONE
It was Dahlia Spence who found their first real customer. In fact, three of them.
Will had outlined his venture as they sat in his kitchen having Sunday breakfast, to which he had invited her on a spur-of-the-moment whim Saturday evening while they stood talking in the back yard. He prepared coffee, eggs, bacon and English muffins and managed to bring the whole business off in more-or-less edible order by the time she arrived promptly at eight, already dressed in a bright print dress, hat and gloves for church services.
“So you’ve bought a lawnmower,” she said over a second cup of coffee.
He smiled, thinking of the hulking machine that sat on the trailer in Morris’s driveway. Was it making Morris a little crazy? He hoped so. “Yes ma’am, I certainly have bought a lawnmower.”
“You could have borrowed mine,” she said. “It’s a perfectly good mower. I thought you did a right nice job with it on my yard.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I thought I probably ought to have my own equipment.”
Dahlia nodded appreciatively. “I admire your entrepreneurial spirit. Have you been mulling over the idea of a lawn service for some time?”
“No ma’am,” Will said. “It just came to me all of a sudden. An impulse, I guess you’d call it. Wingfoot said I should act on impulse.”
He was sitting in his easy chair by the open window late that afternoon, reading over the manuals that had come with his power equipment and listening to the birds chatter in the back yard outside, when Dahlia’s voice floated up to him. “Mister Baggett…”
He looked out to see her standing at the top of her back steps. “I have something for you.”
What she had was three addresses. She had been on the telephone all afternoon, contacting members of her garden club. Did anyone need a lawn service? Well, she knew of a good one. “But,” Will mildly protested, “you don’t know whether I’m any good or not. What if I embarrass you by destroying somebody’s azalea bed or scalping a lawn?”
Dahlia gave him a slightly disgusted look. “Anybody can mow grass and stay out of the azaleas,” she said. “You seem like a nice man, Mr. Baggett, but I get the impression that you’re a trifle tenuous at times.”
“I guess I’m just trying to feel my way these days. I’ve been a little off balance.”
“Don’t pussyfoot through this life,” she commanded. “Go boldly. Occasionally, go impulsively.”
“As Wingfoot said.”
“Wingfoot is partly full of bull-hockey, but once in awhile he says something worth remembering.”
Will accepted the piece of scented note paper on which she had carefully written the names and addresses of his first customers. He gave her a little salute. “I’m grateful,” he said. “And henceforth, Mrs. Spence, I shall, as you say, go boldly.”
*****
He was up on Monday morning at five, feeling fit and fresh. He pushed back the furniture in his apartment and did some calisthenics: deep knee bends, side-straddle hops, trunk twisters, jogging in place. Being up, being vigorous this time of the day reminded him of college, the semester he had had an early-morning radio job. The guy who had the early shift before him got fired because he was chronically late to work. Will had no problem. He liked emerging from his apartment as the very first hint of light began to pale the sky above the trees across the street. He had felt lively and quick, at the very edge of something. It wasn’t the job. It was being up early, getting a good start, getting ahead of things. Here now, thumping about in his apartment, he remembered how it felt way back yonder before he had acquired the habit of late-sleeping. Again, he felt lively, if not quite as quick as he had been at twenty-one.
Exercises finished, Will showered and dressed in old jeans and tee-shirt and new work boots he had purchased at Wal-Mart. He drank three cups of coffee while he sat in the chair next to the window, glancing over the equipment manuals again. Then at six forty-five he fitted his Captain Saturday cap on his head and stepped out into the morning.
*****
Palmer was late. They had agreed to meet at McDonald’s at seven, have breakfast, and get on with the day’s work. But by seven-thirty, there was no sign of him. Will waited outside in the pickup, then finally went in, ordered two Egg McMuffins, hash browns and orange juice, and sat down at a table to eat. By seven-forty-five he was finished. Still no sign of Palmer. Will began to fret. Had he had car trouble? An accident? He had gone to Greensboro for the weekend and they hadn’t spoken since Friday evening. Palmer had Will’s new phone number, but there had been no call before he left the apartment. Will sat for awhile longer, but he hated to take up a table with the breakfast crowd bustling in and out, so he gathered up his trash and put it in the trash bin and went back to the pickup.
He sat there for several minutes, worry vying with irritation. Was this going to be a constant hassle all summer, Palmer late and grumpy and unreliable?
To distract himself, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the sheet of note paper with his first three customers’ addresses written on it. They were scattered all over town -- one in a neighborhood not far from Channel Seven, another just north of downtown, the third on Highway 64 past the Beltline. By the time he went to Morris’s house and picked up his trailer and got to the first location, it would be nine-thirty. If Palmer showed up right now. He craned his neck, looking down the street for some sign of the BMW. Nothing. He tucked the paper back in his pocket an
d sat for awhile longer, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
A lawn care rig pulled into the parking lot and joined the line of vehicles snaking toward the drive-in window. It was a boxy late-model Volvo truck with a large rear platform that held two big mowers and assorted other equipment and gear. Two young guys were inside. A neatly-lettered sign on the side of the cab read BUDDY’S LAWN SERVICE.
Will started going over in his mind how these guys would handle a lawn: one on a big mower, another edging and trimming, unless of course it was a really big stretch of grass and then they had the two big mowers that they probably handled as deftly as race car drivers on a road track. Zip, zip. Make quick work of the lawn, blow off the driveway and sidewalk, park the mowers back on the truck, collect the money, and then…
Collect the money? Collect how much money?
Will realized he hadn’t given a thought to what he would charge, how much he needed to charge to make a profit. Ask too much and you wouldn’t get the business. Don’t ask enough and you’re running in the red. But how much? There were all sorts of rigs like this running around Wake County, maybe hundreds of them, all vying for customers. And what did he have? Sixteen thousand dollars worth of brand-new equipment, the names of three members of Dahlia Spence’s garden club, and not the foggiest idea of what he should charge to mow their lawns.
And what else?
Insurance. What if his mower hit a rock and it smashed into the windshield of some guy’s Cadillac sitting in his driveway? What if a blade came off and decapitated some little old lady? What if Will himself were injured? His medical insurance had evaporated with his dismissal from Channel Seven. And insurance aside, these were big, powerful, potentially dangerous machines that he and his son were about to embark upon. His son. What if Palmer were maimed and unable to become the doctor he aspired to be? Will felt a sudden rush of nauseous panic. This truck he was sitting in and the equipment out there on the trailer in Morris’s driveway represented virtually all of his spendable resources. And more than that, his possibility.
Will scrambled out of his pickup and loped across the parking lot to the drive-in lane. “Hi,” he said as he reached the Volvo. “Which one of you fellows is Buddy?”
The two guys grinned at each other. They were in their late teens or early twenties, he guessed. They wore khaki uniform shirts with BUDDY’S LAWN SERVICE stenciled over the pocket. “Buddy’s the big man,” the driver said. “We’re just the hired help. Summer job.” He reached out the window and tapped the fender of the truck where it said UNIT 7 in small black letters.
“How many units are there?” Will asked.
“Eleven,” the driver said.
Good grief. A lawn care conglomerate, probably with its own maintenance facility and a huge customer base and a computer system and insurance and all of the other things that Will Baggett didn’t know doodly about. He was penny-ante, small potatoes, a tenant farmer in the presence of an agri-business giant.
“I was thinking about getting into the business myself,” Will said. The truck inched forward in the drive-in line, and Will walked along with it.
“Yeah?” the driver said, “well you probably oughta wait until next year.”
“Why’s that?”
“Most lawns are under contract by now.”
“Contract?”
“Buddy’s got about four hundred customers. Me and Duck,” he nodded at his co-worker, “hit about forty a week. They pay a flat fee every month, twelve months a year. That way it don’t cost ’em an arm and a leg when the grass is growing, and Buddy’s got income when it ain’t.”
“How much do you charge?”
“Depends on the size of the lawn.” He turned to Duck. “No harm in giving the man a price sheet, y’think?”
“Naw,” Duck said, and fished in the glove compartment for a piece of paper he handed out the window to Will.
“Thanks,” Will said.
“Good luck,” the driver said as he pulled away.
Will returned to his own truck and sat staring at the price sheet. Buddy’s Lawn Service, with its fleet of Volvos and its phalanx of equipment, offered a vast array of services. Buddy would not only see to the grooming of your lawn, he would aerate, fertilize, de-thatch, treat for lawn disease and weeds, prune your shrubs and trim your trees. Basic services were contracted. The rest was extra. The words and numbers marching down the page told the story of a lean, professional, highly efficient and obviously profitable operation. In short, Buddy knew what the hell he was doing.
What have I been thinking? He, Will Baggett of the well-planned and well-ordered life; he of the detailed thinking-ahead, whether it be a trip to the Argentine Pampas or a weathercast. What the hell was going on here? His thinking about all this had gotten to a certain point and simply stopped. He had left an enormous amount to chance, to fate, to possibility. Why? Had his troubles short-circuited something in his brain?
It occurred to him, out of the blue, that this sounded like something Tyler Baggett would have done back there in his golf-hustling days. Get up the game, then figure out how to win the money. My God.
“Act on impulse,” Wingfoot had said. “Go boldly,” Dahlia Spence had advised. Well, he had. Was he headed boldly for disaster? Could he get his money back?
“Dad…”
He stared out the window at Palmer. “I don’t know a fart from a hurricane where it comes to running a lawn service,” he blurted. Then, “Where the hell have you been?”
Palmer’s jaw tightened and he turned away with a jerk and started across the lot toward McDonald’s.
“Where are you going?” Will called after him.
“To get some breakfast,” Palmer threw over his shoulder.
Will caught him before he reached the door. “You’re an hour late,” he said. “Get whatever you’re gonna get and let’s go.”
Palmer whirled on him. “No, I’m not gonna get anything to go. I’m gonna sit down like a civilized person and eat breakfast.”
Will pulled the piece of note paper from his pocket. “We’ve got customers waiting.”
“Look,” Palmer said, backing away, “I drove all the way over here from Greensboro this morning.”
Greensboro. It set off a little explosion in the back of Will’s brain. “Why didn’t you drive back to Chapel Hill last night?”
“Because it was after seven when Daddy Sid and I got back from the club, and by the time I took a shower…they said just spend the night. So I did.”
The club.
Palmer started again toward the restaurant door.
“Well,” Will snapped, “I sure wouldn’t want you to do anything to upset the Greensboro folks.”
Palmer stopped in his tracks and stood there for a moment before he turned slowly back to Will. There was a strange look on his face. “Mom’s right,” he said. “You can’t stand ’em.”
“Not true,” Will said. “I’ve been married to ’em for twenty-five years. And I wasn’t the one who called it quits.”
“You can’t stand the fact that I spend time in Greensboro, that Daddy Sid pays for my education, that…”
“I’m not going to stand here in the parking lot of McDonald’s and discuss my in-laws. Go get your breakfast and let’s get moving.”
“No, goddammit! Let’s have it out, right here in the parking lot at McDonald’s.”
“All right,” Will barked. “Shoot.”
“You’re a snob, you know that Dad?”
“Me? I’m a snob?”
“A reverse snob.”
“And what in the hell does that mean?”
Palmer jerked an arm in the general direction of Brunswick County. “Your crazy family…you’ve got a chip on your shoulder because they’re a bunch of weirdos.”
“Is that what your mother said?”
“You’re jealous,” Palmer spat the word, “because Daddy Sid and Mama Consuela are regular people.”
“Regular? Hah! The only thing regular about them is
their bowel movements. Their bowels wouldn’t dare be anything but regular.”
They were fairly shouting at each other now, standing perhaps ten feet apart, the air between them crackling. Several people exited the McDonald’s, stopped and stared. A van rolled between Will and Palmer, headed for the drive-in lane, and stopped, momentarily blocking Will’s view. The scrawny man wearing the Durham Bulls baseball cap sitting in the passenger seat leaned out the window. “Hey, didn’t you used to be Will Baggett?” Will stared at him. He looked vaguely familiar. Then he saw the sign on the side of the van: CHRISTIAN RENOVATORS. “Go tear up somebody’s house!” he bellowed.
“Kiss my ass,” the guy fired back. The van jerked ahead, once again revealing Palmer -- glowering, fists clenched.
“You’ve been over there in Greensboro all weekend getting your head filled with crap,” Will said. “I’ll bet they told you not to mow lawns.”
“As a matter of fact, they said it’s nuts. I could get hurt.”
“And you might get your hands dirty.”
“Yeah. I might.”
“Well, to hell with it. Get in your car and go on back to Greensboro and spend the summer whacking around the golf course and lunching on petit fours. I don’t give a shit, Palmer.”
Palmer’s mouth curled in a snarl. “And if I do, you’ll tell. Right?”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because you think I owe you.”
“Maybe.”
“Well, you owe me too.”
“Maybe.”
Palmer slashed the air with his hand. “So, we’re even.”
Will threw up his hands. “Okay, I tried.”
“Damn!” Palmer yelped. “What did you think you were gonna do, Dad? Tie me to the back of a lawnmower all summer, captive audience, and we’d become good old buddies? Grease under our fingernails? Sweat in our eyes? Go drink a beer after work and have some laughs and make up for all the time you weren’t around? Well, to hell with that! Go ahead and tell. I don’t give a shit. They probably wouldn’t believe you anyway.”