Lawn Boy

by Gary Paulsen

  “What do you mean?” I suddenly remembered something Arnold had said. “You said something about this being a small amount of money. Is that what you said? I don't know what you're used to having, but I can't think of eight thousand dollars as a small amount.”

  “Everything,” Arnold said, “is relative. Taken in the whole scheme of things, eight thousand dollars, though significant, is not all that large. If Bill Gates, who owns Microsoft, for instance, could hold all his wealth in his hands and he suddenly dropped it, just on the way to the ground it would make over forty thousand dollars in interest.”

  “Hunh?” I tried to picture that. “Look, I understand that I don't have as much as Bill Gates. Still, I'm very satisfied with what I have. I honestly don't know what I would do with more money than that.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Absolutely. It's more money than I could even think of having. It wasn't that long ago I was wondering where to get enough money to buy an inner tube for my ten-speed. Now I could buy a whole new bike. I could buy a bunch of them.”

  “Well then”—Arnold shrugged and sighed— “we have a bit of a problem.”

  “Your problem,” Arnold said, “is both simple and a bit complex. More tea?”

  “No. I'm fine.” Outside, the rain seemed to let up a bit, then came down harder. I could hear thunder way off somewhere. “What are you talking about?”

  He took a sip of tea. “Man, I like this tea. It comes straight from India, you know. All the yogis drink it. I hear the Beatles used to drink it all the time.”

  “Arnold …”

  “Oh. Well, let's go back to when all this started, all right?”

  “You bet. Please.”

  “You remember that I had a cash-flow problem then and instead of paying you cash I started an account for you under my own name because you're too young to have an account.”

  “Yes.”

  “And we bought eighty shares of a coffin manufacturing firm for fifty cents a share.”

  I nodded. “I'm still with you.”

  “There's some risk, of course, with buying what they call penny stocks, which these were, but I thought with just forty dollars invested even if the company went belly-up the loss rate would not be unbearable.”

  “I'm still here.”

  “Well, the stock did not lose. After the second quarter of the year, it turned out the company had a great deal of land in northern Minnesota—upwards of two thousand acres of hardwoods—that they planned to use to make the coffins.”

  Another sip of tea. I waited.

  “This had not been reported initially, but the land with the valuable hardwoods was free and clear and belonged to the company; it was part of their net worth that nobody knew about, and when word got out the stock rose dramatically.”

  “How dramatically?”

  “Normally I dislike these things because they give a wrong impression about the stock market. Ten, twelve percent a year is a good figure to think about making in the market. These explosions are very unpredictable and there is always an element of risk and one shouldn't plan on—”

  “How big an explosion?”

  “The first day it jumped to just over ten dollars and I thought of selling. Stock purchased at fifty cents and sold for ten dollars gives an excellent return. But the sudden surge caused a lot of interest and people started wanting to buy the stock and that drove the price up further, and still further, and I finally sold at a hundred dollars and ten cents a share. So your forty-dollar investment brought you just over eight thousand dollars, less my five percent commission.”

  “You mean I have eight thousand dollars on top of the other eight thousand?” I dumped them together in my head. Eight and eight is sixteen. Sixteen thousand dollars. Less commissions and those other things. Taxes. Less taxes. Sixteen thousand dollars.

  “Well, not exactly. I assumed I had a rather free hand with your investment so I reinvested it and some of the other money you've been giving me, and frankly, I took a daring risk with one stock. I invested my own money at the same time and took the same risk.”

  “What did you invest it in?”

  “It was one of those freak software things. Believe me, normally I wouldn't give it a second thought—they're just too big a gamble. But the quarterly earnings looked good, they had a new idea about nationwide Internet use, something to do with vastly improving the speed. A company called Walleye. I bought you three thousand shares at sixty cents a share.”

  “And we lost?”

  “Oh my, no. The new Internet system they evolved swept the country and the stock jumped to ten dollars and split, which gave you six thousand shares at five, then went back up to ten dollars and split again, which gave you twelve thousand shares, which climbed back up to five-fifty a share, hung there and flattened out. So I sold when it went back down to four dollars.”

  He had, as they say, gone past my knowledge envelope about the stock market. “So you sold my three thousand shares for four dollars?”

  “No, no.” He shook his head. “It had split and then resplit—you had twelve thousand shares at four dollars a share. I must point out that this kind of growth is unprecedented.”

  The numbers were there. I knew they were, but they didn't register. It was just too much to understand, to believe.

  I was twelve.

  That morning my parents were having trouble deciding if they could afford a newer used car.

  Five weeks earlier my grandmother had given me her old riding lawn mower and I'd started mowing lawns.

  I was only twelve and Arnold had sold twelve thousand shares of Walleye for four dollars a share.

  “Forty-eight thousand dollars? Is that right?”

  “Well, less commission, of course.”

  “Of course. Sure. Right. Uh … let me get this straight….”

  “Sure. I know it's all kind of far-out.”

  “No, wait. You're telling me that I started with an old lawn mower and I now have … what do I have?”

  “Well, from all of your stocks and bonds right now, over fifty thousand dollars. It's less because I took out my commission, but I will of course reinvest it.”

  “Of course.”

  “All in solid, safe blue-chip stocks and government bonds.” He smiled. “Perhaps you'd better take a few deep breaths…. You seem to be weaving a bit.”

  “I have fifty thousand dollars?”

  “And change, plus the eight thousand from mowing.”

  “And change?”

  “You,” he said, smiling, “have had a very groovy month …”

  But I didn't hear him finish the sentence.

  I had fainted.

  When I came to, there was a damp paper towel over my face.

  “I'm sorry,” Arnold said. “I thought I eased into it but I guess the shock …”

  I thought of a really important question.

  “I …” I was still woozy. “I'm still not sure I heard you right. Did you say I now have over fifty thousand dollars?”

  “Are you going to faint again?”

  “No. I don't think so.”

  “Then yes. You are now worth that.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In your account. Under my name, but in your special account.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Of course. I have your account information on the computer.” He turned to his keyboard and tapped a few keys.

  “No. The money. Can I see the money?”

  He shook his head. “It's not like that. First you'd have to sell all your investments and get a check, then you'd have to take the check to the bank and cash it, and then, yes, you could see the money. And when you sell, you then owe taxes on your capital gains. At the end of the year, capital gains is what they call the profit you made from your initial investment.”

  “Oh.” I didn't quite follow all that.

  I thought.

  “So I don't really have the money,” I said slowly. “I have a computer scre
en and numbers and stocks and things … but not the actual money.”

  “That's right. That's how it works. You—or I, acting for you—will reinvest the money in safe stocks, which will give you what's called a diversified portfolio—so if one thing goes down another might go up—to cover you. But it's all there, and you can cash it in anytime you want. Except …”

  “Except what?” I smelled a rat.

  “Right now the money appears to be mine because legally you can't invest in the market because you're too young. You have to go through an adult. And I'm a little uncomfortable with this because first of all, I'm not your legal guardian, and second, since the money appears to be mine the government will want me to pay taxes on it and that shouldn't be my responsibility—to pay taxes on your money.”

  “So what do we do?

  “Soon, very soon, we talk to your parents and get them involved.”

  Mom, I thought, Dad, I have something to tell you. I've been mowing lawns … I've been mowing a lot of lawns and I have fifty thousand …

  Please pass the green beans and by the way I have fifty thousand …

  Breakfast. Over toast.

  Mom, Dad, you know how I've been mowing lawns every day? Well, guess what? I have—no, we have—something like fifty thousand … and change.

  “There's something else.”

  What on earth could it be? How could anything in the world top this? “What is it?”

  “As I said, I put your money into this Walleye stock, but I should remind you not all your money. I thought it might be good to do some investing for fun.”

  It isn't fun, I thought, to have over fifty thousand dollars?

  “So there was this kind of fund for people interested in sports and I thought you might like to invest in that….”

  He trailed off and I studied him. “Is something wrong?”

  He shook his head, looked out at the rain. I couldn't believe it was still raining, that it was the same day, that we had only been talking for an hour or so. Part of me was listening and part of me was imagining what the money would do to help my parents, what it would buy.

  “I misread the explanation on the fund,” he said, and sighed. “Usually, in this kind of fund, a lot of investors pool their money and perhaps buy a baseball team, or help to build a stadium. But it didn't turn out that way.”

  “How, exactly, did it turn out?”

  “It turns out that you own one-hundred-percent interest in a heavyweight boxer who lives nearby.”

  “I own him?”

  “Not really the person, of course. You're sponsoring him, and if he does well you split the purse.”

  “He has a purse? What kind of prizefighter carries a purse?”

  “That's a figure of speech. The purse is the prize money. His winnings.”

  “What's his name?”

  “Joseph,” Arnold said. “Joseph Powdermilk, Jr. I have the specs in the computer and can run you a printout if you like.”

  “Sure. I'd like to know more about him.”

  “Good, because he's due here in about fifteen minutes. He called last night and wants to meet his sponsor and thank him.” Arnold shook his head. “Look, I'm really sorry about this. If you lose I'll cover it, all right? And as for meeting him, well, he asked about his sponsor and without thinking I gave this address, so if you want you can leave right now and miss it.”

  I shook my head. “No. And if we lose on this it's not your fault. Five, six weeks ago I was sitting in my yard wondering about an inner tube. Now I'm a thousandaire. Or something. You think I'm going to complain?”

  “Some would.” He sighed. “Some have. What if we'd lost?”

  “Then we would have lost forty dollars. That's what we started with, right? We lose the whole Walleye thing and all we've really lost is that, the original forty dollars.”

  “Well, that's a healthy way to look at it.”

  There was a sudden clatter in front of the house and an old station wagon rumbled to a stop.

  It sat almost wheezing, then the driver's-side door opened and with a great deal of difficulty a man got out. I say man, but this person looked more like a living mountain than a man.

  “I see it,” Arnold said, “but I don't believe it. How did he get in the car?”

  He was wearing a big sweatshirt and sweatpants and as he moved up the sidewalk to the door his step was amazingly light for someone his size. Almost like a really big cat.

  Even though he could see us through the screen of the porch, he knocked on the screen door.

  “Please,” Arnold said. “Come in.”

  A quick motion, a sideslip, and he was in the door and standing in front of Arnold.

  “I am Joseph Powdermilk and I would like to thank you for being my sponsor.” He faced Arnold and held out his hand.

  I have never heard such a voice. It sounded like thunder a long way off. Muted, but deep, rumbling.

  “Sorry,” Arnold said, “wrong sponsor.” He pointed to me. “This is him.”

  He turned, a mountain turning. “I am Joseph Powdermilk and I would like to thank you for being my sponsor.”

  He held out a hand as big as a whole ham. I put my hand out—it disappeared completely in his— and we shook. His touch was gentle.

  “It's nice to meet you,” I said. “My name is—”

  Just then Pasqual's truck streaked up behind Joseph Powdermilk's station wagon and came to a screeching halt. Pasqual came running up to the porch.

  I knew it must be serious because it was daylight. Pasqual never came out in daylight.

  “Come right away!”

  I got up. “What's the matter?”

  “His name is Rock. He has two … guys … with him. He says we've got to pay him or he'll harm our workers. He plans to take over the business.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Come! If Rock doesn't meet the boss he'll cause a lot of trouble. Come now.”

  I hadn't taken a step before I saw Joseph Powder milk move with me.

  “I'll help,” he rumbled. “I'm good at this.”

  I was out the door. “Good at what?”

  “Trouble.”

  Pasqual, Joseph and I jammed into Pasqual's truck. Arnold had said he would follow in his car, but Joseph said, “You don't need to come. I'm sure it will be all right.”

  I sat in the middle of the front seat and Joseph sat on the right. Pasqual hadn't seen Joseph before but seemed to accept that he would be coming with us. He looked at Joseph once, briefly, when Joseph squeezed into the cab of the truck and the whole truck leaned so I thought it would tip over. But then we were on our way.

  The house where Pasqual's relatives lived was more or less a big box, with a good yard because they worked on it when they had time off. There were four trucks parked in front under the huge elm trees that stood along the street.

  The first three trucks I recognized. The fourth one was a red pickup angled into the curb, not parked parallel like the others. A man was sitting behind the wheel with the driver's-side window open and two men were leaning against the end of the truck. One of them was pretending to clean his fingernails with a knife. Several of Pasqual's family members were standing around by the door of the house. They seemed a little afraid, maybe, but mostly confused.

  “The one in the truck is Rock,” Pasqual said, stopping.

  Joseph opened the door and slid out. The truck rose visibly when his weight was gone. He shrugged as if to loosen his shoulders, strode up to the driver's side of the red truck, reached in and grabbed Rock by the neck and pulled him out through the window. Then, holding Rock by the neck and crotch, Joseph power-drove him through the window into the truck headfirst.

  This happened fast. The man with the knife was still cleaning his fingernails when Joseph moved around the front of the truck, grabbed the arm with the knife and shook the guy like a dog shaking a snake.

  The knife flew through the air and Joseph picked this man up by the neck and the crotch and threw him int
o the third man, knocking him sprawling.

  Then Joseph picked them up one at a time and speared one into the passenger side through the window and the other into the back of the truck. He went back to the driver's side and stood over Rock, who had tried to scramble around but still had one leg hanging out the window.

  “Don't hurt the boy who's my sponsor,” Joseph rumbled, “or any of these people who work with him. If you do, I'll know and I'll come and pinch your head. Do you understand?”

  “You're crazy!” Rock said.

  “All that matters is that you do not hurt my sponsor or any of the people who work with him and you do not ask them for money. If you do I'll know and come and pinch your head. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah, yeah! But this isn't over!”

  “That doesn't matter. Only what I said matters. Start your engine and drive away.”

  Rock scrabbled to get the key turned in the ignition, slapped the shift lever down and tore away with one leg still sticking out the window and the other two men with their legs hanging out the passenger side and the back of the truck.

  Pasqual's relations started a slow applause and soft whistles as Joseph came back to our truck. It had happened so fast that Pasqual and I hadn't had time to get out.

  Joseph moved his bulk back onto the seat and the springs creaked as he sat down.

  “Maybe,” I said, slowly, “we should have talked to them first. You know, before you … well, just maybe we should have talked.”

  “We did talk,” Joseph said. “Before we came, they talked and asked for money. Then, after I put them in the truck, I talked. Then they drove away. That's the best way. First talk, then handle the problem, then watch them go away.”

  “I'll remember that,” I said.

  Joseph nodded. “Some things are hard to remember but this one is easy.”

  I nodded. “Still, maybe next time, if there is a next time, we could talk a little longer first.” “Maybe.” He sighed. “Maybe not. Each time is different.”

  Pasqual drove off but I saw that he was looking at Joseph out of the corner of his eye and he said something under his breath.