The Lawn-Cutting Crew

We had a new guy on the crew — a kid right out of high school named Switchblade. (I assumed that was his nickname, and not his legal name.)

Switchblade had dyed hair, multiple piercings and tattoos on every exposed surface. His pants sagged to his knees, so when he was mowing lawns, he had to push the mower with one hand and hold up his pants with the other.

“Damn kid’s got more metal in him than the Terminator,” Crew Leader Carl said, shaking his head and blowing a stream of cigarette smoke.

As we were driving one day, Carl made an announcement:

“We got a special job today,” he said. “A lady called and said the retaining wall in her back yard was vandalized. She’s not one of our regular customers, so it’s a one-time gig.”

“We don’t normally fix block walls,” I said. 

“We’re not repairing the wall itself,” Carl said. “Here, we’re almost there. I’ll show you.”

We pulled into a small neighborhood where all the houses were close together. Carl stopped in front of a house that sat near the neighborhood’s entrance. The homes on this side of the street had backyards that faced the highway. 

Carl guided us to the backyard. A block retaining wall separated the yard from the street. 

We walked through a gateway to the other side of the wall. 

“This is what we’re cleaning,” Carl said, motioning to the wall. Its surface was covered with a mural of fresh graffiti. 

“Ah, man,” Switchblade said.

“I know,” Carl said. “It’s going to take forever to scrub this, so the sooner we get started, the better.”

“Not that,” Switchblade said. “I just put all this stuff up, man. And now I got to take it down? Seriously?”

It was only mid-morning, and it was already warm. 

I wasn’t working on the maintenance crew today. The owner, Benito, had paired me with the irrigation specialist, Bryce. Together, we were driving to different jobs and doing repairs.

We had arrived at a home in an older neighborhood to find the front yard saturated. There was an irrigation box near the front of the house, and the ground around it squished like a bog.

“I bet there’s a busted water pipe underground,” Bryce said, spitting a wad of tobacco.

I looked at him, my arms crossed. “You think so?”

“Only one way to find out.” Bryce handed me a shovel.

“How come I always have to dig?” I asked.

“Because you’re the laborer,” Bryce said. “Once you expose the break, I’ll repair the pipe. That’s how it works.”

“Any chance I can aspire to your job one day?” I asked.

Bryce shrugged. “Watch and learn, my friend. Watch and learn. I’m a wealth of knowledge.”

And with that, he sat under a nearby tree and pulled his hat over his eyes.

I dug relentlessly for an hour and a half. The pipe was buried deep underground. As I heaved out soggy shovelfuls of mud, water trickled back into the hole, pooling at my feet. My shoes sank into the muck, and it was almost impossible to move. The mud held me like concrete. 

I stabbed at the ground, and the blade of my shovel wedged into a block of wood.

“There’s a tree root the size of a stump down here,” I called.

“There’s a digging bar and a saw in the truck,” Bryce said. He was lying on his back under the tree with his hat covering his face.

“Any chance you can fetch them for me?” I called.

Bryce lay there, snoozing.

“Thanks,” I said. “Jerk.” 

I continued to dig and finally found the break. Water was gushing from ancient galvanized pipe entangled by roots. 

“Found it!” I called.

Bryce stirred and sauntered over. “Awesome. Nice work. Hop out of there, and I’ll use the pump to suck out some of the water. That hole’s filling up fast.”

I clambered onto dry land and handed Bryce the pump, which was lying alongside the pile of dirt I’d created. He started to pump while I stood there and watched.

At that moment, Benito, the company owner, pulled up in his truck. 

“Hey!” he screamed, slamming his door and marching toward me, pointing. “You lazy good-for-nothing punk! Don’t just stand there and watch while he work! I no pay you to do nothing!” 

“Yeah, Peter,” Bryce said, holding the pump. “Don’t just stand there. Find something to do.”

I glowered at him, my eyes narrowed to slits. “You unimaginable bastard,” I said. 

We were all in the truck, driving between jobs. My lunchbox was nestled at my feet, so I reached in a grabbed a Perrier.

Crew Leader Carl glared at me through the rearview mirror. “What in the world is that?”

I held up the can. “A lime-flavored Perrier.”

“Perrier?” he said, blowing a stream of cigarette smoke. “You actually drink that frilly stuff?”

“It’s good,” I said. “It’s carbonated. It’s lime. It’s delicious.”

Carl glowered. “It’s wuss water. Why can’t you drink regular water like a man?”

“I do drink regular water,” I said. “But this has an extra kick to it that’s deeply refreshing. It’s like drinking a soda, but without all the sugar and calories.”

“What are you, a woman?” Carl asked. “Who cares about sugar and calories?”

“I do! I want to stay physically fit.”

“You stay physically fit by working. Look at me! I drink a case of beer each night, and I’m in awesome shape.”

“You were retching in the shop bathroom this morning before work,” I pointed out.

“I wasn’t retching!” Carl said. “I was clearing my throat. I was hoarse when I woke up this morning.”

“Probably from all that retching,” I said. 

In an instant, Carl reached behind the seat, wrenched the Perrier from my hands, and chucked it out the window.

I sat there for a moment, stunned. We continued to drive in silence.

It took me a moment to get my bearings. “What did you do that for?”

“Shut up, you whiny pipsqueak,” Carl said.

“You threw my drink out the window!” I said. “What gives? Are you moody because you’re hung over? Is that it?”

“So what if I am?” Carl asked. “What are you going to do about it?” 

I stared at him with my mouth hanging open.

“That’s right — nothing!” He turned in his seat. “And that just proves my point. You’re a wuss!” 

We drove in silence for a couple of moments.

“Yeah,” I said finally, shaking some sense into myself. “I can form no rebuttal to overcome your ironclad argument.”

“That’s because you’re a wuss,” Carl said. 

It was late Friday afternoon, and we had returned to the shop after completing all our accounts. Crew Leader Carl backed the truck and trailer into the shop, and the guys and I unloaded the garbage from the back.

As we were clocking out, Carl appeared behind me.

“Hey,” he said, whacking me on the shoulder, “it’s been a long week. Let’s go do some drinking.”

“Actually, I was going to meet my girlfriend tonight,” I said. “We were going to get dinner.”

“We’ll meet to the Stardust,” Carl said. “I might need a ride back. I plan on having a few.”

I turned to Francisco. “Does he not hear me when I speak?”

So Francisco and I both met Carl at the Stardust. It was a grungy, smoke-filled dive with ultra-dim lighting and a couple of pool tables. Neon Budweiser signs buzzed from the cobwebbed windows.

“As a young man, I never imagined that one day I would lead a crew,” Carl said, throwing back a couple of shots and sipping his beer. “You’re not the brightest pencils in the sharpener, but it’s my honor to lead and mentor you.”

I turned to Francisco. “How long have we been here?”

Twenty minutes, he mouthed. 

An old floozy approached us, holding a cigarette. “Got a light, sonny?” she asked. Her voice sounded like Vin Diesel. 

“I need another shot!” Carl said. “Who’s buying? I bought the last round.”

“Actually, Boss,” I said, “I bought the last round.”

“Oh,” Carl said. He threw back his head, chugged the remainder of his beer, and slammed the bottle on the counter. He slapped me on the back hard enough to knock me forward. “Well, then, Peter, you go ahead and buy this round. Be a pal.”

I looked at Francisco. “How long have we been here?”

Twenty-one minutes, he mouthed.

As the evening wore on, the place started to fill up. Cigarette smoke saturated the air. Old rock blasted from the jukebox.

A row of empty bottles and shot glasses lined the counter in front of Crew Leader Carl.

“I love you guys,” he said. “Do you know that? You’re my crew! My crew! I’m proud of you. Each and every one of you!”

He squinted, peering at me. “And I’m especially proud of you. I hope you know that … even though I can’t seem to remember your name at the moment.” 

I looked at Francisco, and he nodded.

“OK, Boss,” I said, standing up. Francisco did the same. “It’s time to hit the road. You’re officially drunk.”

Carl tilted his head back, his eyes rolling. “Huh? Why do you say that?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” I asked. “You’re saying kind things about us! That’s our tipoff right there.”