DYLAN'S VACATION BACK HOME
CHAPTER 33
by Donny Mumford
It's five o'clock Sunday afternoon and Chubby and I are in my living room watching preseason football on TV. My attention is only partially on the game because I can't stop thinking about Robby bumping into Danny at the Dairy Queen, and then both of them deciding to play in a pick-up softball game. It's quite the coincidence Danny bumping into Robby like that, especially considering my short and unexpected exchange with him outside Stop and Shop this morning.
Interrupting my musings, the Moms come in from an afternoon of shopping.
As usual, they're exuberant with their greeting, "Hi boys! Hope you've both had a wonderful day." Then in their bubbly manner they tell us about running into two of the waitresses they work with during their shopping trip, and about a very nice salesperson who waited on them, and about seeing two mothers with young boys that reminded them of going shopping with Chubby and me when we were little guys.
We're attentive, grinning, and nodding our heads until finally my Mom glances at the TV and goes, "Oh no, it's football season already?" She says, 'Oh no,' because their twin fiancés love NFL games and the moms occasionally endure watching the games with them. Chubby goes, "It is indeed football season, Dee. Actually, for the Patriots it's been football season pretty much all year." Both moms have a couple of shopping bags from Macy's that they've dropped on the kitchen table. After getting glasses of iced tea, they turn their attention to examining each new piece of clothing and together reaffirm that each item was the perfect purchase. Of course, they were together commiserating about each item before buying it, but still feel the need to do it again now that they're home. Chubby and I roll our eyes at this familiar ritual; one we'd rather not witness, but it would be rude of us to just get up and go downstairs to finish watching the game there, so we grin and bare it. The Moms are so obviously enjoying their lives, which allows us to fully enjoy ours too.
Finally putting aside their new purchases, Tris says, "Sorry to interrupt your game, but would you guys be willing to help Dee and I prepare Sunday dinner for our guys?" She means the four of us, plus Rider and Bud. Chubby says, "Sure, no problem, Mom. Dylan and I will run over to Stop & Shop and get something for dinner." I'm sprawled out on the sofa, suggesting, "How about the classic Sunday dinner of roast beef with mashed potatoes and gravy." Chubby nods his head, "Sure, we'll keep it simple with a salad and some dinner rolls." My Mom says, "That's perfect, but let's have asparagus too, if you don't mind. Our guys like asparagus." Chubby clicks off the TV and Tris gives him a fifty-dollar bill, asking, "Is this enough?" Chubby grins, glancing at me and telling his mom, "It's more than enough, Mom, I'll bring you the change." It's like this: We've been doing all the grocery shopping since getting our drivers licenses. It's been over three years now, and the moms haven't been in a supermarket in all that time, so they're not sure what things costs nowadays.
In the Jeep, Chubby says, "Um, isn't roast chicken the classic Sunday dinner, bro?" I give him a blank stare, then mutter, "Really? We're going to quibble about that?" He shrugs, mumbling, "Just saying..." I'm like, "I suggested roast beef because our moms can prepare something simple like that, and it's easier to carve than a whole chicken." Chubby goes, "Yeah, but I'll do the carving anyway, and you know as well as I that we'll determine the roast's cooking time, make the gravy, and the mashed potatoes." I add, "And cook the asparagus." He nods, "Uh huh. In other words, the Moms make the salad." I go, "They can do that no problem, but it easier and less trouble if we throw a salad together ourselves. Too many cooks can spoil the meal, or something like that."
The simple truth is the moms basically can't cook. Oh, they can scramble an egg for breakfast, although they rarely have more than coffee and a store bought muffin for breakfast. The exception being Sundays, off course, when Chubby and I usually do a big brunch. Except for Sundays our Moms haven't been home at dinner time for twenty years or so. Not since starting their waitressing jobs as teenagers. They eat dinner at the restaurant and therefore their lack of a need for culinary skills. It's a topic about which they
and their fiancés exchange light-hearted banter from time to time. The discussions always end the same way, after some gentle ribbing by the guys, they say it's no problem because the guys love to cook anyway, and they're good at it too. It's not a common practice, but there are husbands who do the cooking in their households, mostly because they like doing it. I like to cook, more than Chubby I think, although he's good at it too.
When we get back from grocery shopping the fiancés have arrived and they're having cocktails with our moms. We exchange smiling greetings, then Chubby gives his mom the change from the fifty-dollar bill, telling her, "We'll get the roast started so you guys can enjoy your drinks." Mom and Tris are their usual appreciative selves, and both fiancés ask, "Need any help, guys?" We tell them everything's under control. Chubby preheats the oven and puts the roast in a roasting pan. Then, while we wait for the oven to come up to temperature we prep the asparagus by cutting three inches off the ends, then peel the potatoes and get them in a pot of water.
After putting the roast in the oven there's nothing else we need to do right now, and since neither of us feels like a cocktail and we're bored with the preseason football game, we take a walk around the condo complex. The temperature's dropped enough late in the afternoon that it's kinda nice being outside. We're silently sharing a cigarette as we follow the brick path that meanders along the manicured front lawn of the condos. I'm dealing with a nagging suspicion that I've forgotten something that I was supposed to do today, then I remember it, and go, "Dammit! I knew it," and Chubby ask, "What?" I wave my hand, mumbling, "Oh it's not that big a deal, we've still got two weeks to take care of it, but Robby and I were supposed to drive to North Andover and sign papers for the college apartment today. We also need to know if you're joining us again this year." Chubby goes, "Oh man, it was a tough decision but like I hinted to you a while back, I've decided to try dormitory life. John Beverly and I already sent the form to 'housing' and, as juniors, we expect we'll get a room together. Living in a coed dorm we'll meet a lot more girls, ya know?" Disappointed I mumbles, "Oh yeah?"
and he goes, "That's basically the reason I'm willing to give it a try.
John has had great luck with the women the last two years, plus dorm living is cheaper than the apartment." I go, "Really? Huh! I'm disappointed, Chub.
I liked living with you a lot." He hugs my shoulders, "I'm sorry, Dylan, but I'll be hanging out at the apartment almost as much as when I lived there."
Obviously he's wrong about that; we won't see each other nearly as much with him living in one of the dormitories, and it hurts my feeling that he's doing this. It's because of John Beverly's influence on Chubby and I don't like it one bit! I'm too fucking old to pout though, which is my first inclination. In the good old days, a little pouting from me and Chubby would give in to anything. Now that I've lost my pouting weapon, I consider giving Chubby the silent treatment which would make him feel bad, except I don't want him to feel bad. Instead I act my age and say, "Well, that really sucks! Way to ruin my junior year, bro!" Hmmm, saying that was, I think, worst then pouting. He goes, "Oh c'mon, Dylan, please don't be like that. Ya know, I never mentioned it before, but at times last year I felt like a third wheel in the apartment. I mean with you and Rob being lovers and all." I shrug, feeling selfish now for not even considering he might have felt that way. To cover up my insensitivity in that regard, I say something ludicrous, "Well sure, I can see that, but it's all about me though, right? It'd be a bitch if I can't have my own way, don'cha think?" He chuckles, "Well, yeah, of course." I go, "So?" and he stops walking to take hold of my arm, saying, "I know you're kidding about that, Dylan, but be serious for a second.
If it's going to make you unhappy that I'm not sharing the apartment, then I'll go in with you and Rob again this year... no problem. I like John Beverly and we have a lot of laughs together and a lot of the same interests, but compared to my feelings for you, he'll simply need to find himself another roommate. I wouldn't do anything to make you unhappy."
Oh great! Now I feel like a shit. Still trying to backtrack, I put my arm across his shoulders, giving him a shoulder hug, saying, "You're the best brother ever, Chub, but I was just being my normal bratty self about the apartment. I didn't think you'd take it me seriously, so I'm sorry. Of course I'd rather have you with me, but it's not going to ruin anything if you're in the dorm." He goes, "Yeah? But now I don't feel good about it at all.
Fuck the dorm experience." I say, "No, no, no! I shouldn't have said anything! You already sent the form to Merrimack 'housing', and it's probably too late by now for John Beverly to get another roommate; one he likes anyway.
Do the dorm thing if for no other reason than I'm gonna love hearing your stories of the crazy shit you'll run into in the communal bathrooms." We start walking again with Chubby making a face, "Jeez, I didn't consider the communal bathroom. Hope the toilet stalls have doors." I go, "I think some of them do; the newer ones anyway." I'm just busting balls with that.
We walk a ways, then Chubby says, "Okay, but you need to tell me the honest truth, and swear it on our 'best friends the world has ever known' title.
Swear on our title that me living in a dorm will not mess you up." I go, "Hmmm, swear on our title as the best friends the world has ever seen, huh?"
He nods his head trying not to grin, as I mumble, "Ya got me there, bro! But okay, I swear it won't mess me up too much if you're not in the apartment, although I'm going to miss the comforting thought of you sleeping in the next room. You know, in case I need you to comfort me about something." He says, "Fortunately someone's invented the cell phone, so I'm only a text message away. You need comforting... I'll come running." I go, "Well, okay then, it's settled."
It's not the same though and we both know it. But hell, the truth is we've never lived together prior to the college apartment, and we won't be living together after college, so this is a good start preparing for the inevitable. I'm always bitching about getting older and leaving things behind; things that I really liked. Unfortunately that's just the way life is and I need to get with the program. Chubby and I began moving away from the closeness we enjoyed for seventeen years when we got separate jobs the summer after our junior year in high school, and now the separation is continuing in our junior year of college. Frankly I feel like having a good cry about the reality of that, and maybe I will, but not now. Chubby's telling me something about him and John Beverly requesting a room in one of the two brand new dormitories that were built over the summer. He goes, "So, if we get assigned one of those new dormitories we're basically right across the street from the Royal Crest apartments." I go, "Maybe we can have a string with a tin-can on each end from my apartment to your dorm room." He says, "Yeah, that'll definitely work."
Okay, we're back to joking about it and that's as it should be, but I feel my eyes stinging when I say, "Just so you know, Chub: the thought of my life without you in it is a very scary proposition for me." He squeezes my hand, saying, "I love that you get emotional about what we mean to each other, Dylan, but you're never going to have a life without me in it. Bro, I need you in my life too. You'll always be the most important part of it actually." I nod my head doing a big fake cough hoping to stem the tears, and it works pretty well. I swipe at my eyes, and it's all good.
We've walked completely around the condo complex and now were going down the alley towards the back of our condos. We go inside through the door to the basement hearing laughter coming from above. It's the moms and their fiancés. Chubby and I smile with him pointing up as he says, "That's a big concern we used to have that we can put to rest. The moms will be getting married eventually so when we move out for good it won't be some major traumatic event for them." I nod, "And we won't have guilt complexes like we're abandoning them." We go upstairs and Tris tells us Bud's joke that caused the laughter we heard a minute ago. It's this: 'What did the duck say to the bartender? Answer: 'Put it on my bill.' Chubby and I actually grin because that corny joke is so fucking bad it's almost worth a snicker... almost.
Realizing the corniness of the joke, Rider says to Chubby and me, "If you're going to be a comedian you need to know your audience," meaning our moms. I wonder if corny things seem funnier to older people than they do to us? Seriously.
In the kitchen Chubby turns the heat on under the potatoes, as mom's asking, "Won't you join us for a drink, boys," and to be polite Chubby and I have a beer and hang-out with our moms and step-dads to be. We've talked about it, but we can't decide who's getting the better step-dad and that's because they're identical twins and so alike in so many ways it's disconcerting at times. We're hoping those four are going to be as tight a family group in the future as our original four have been for twenty-one years and counting. That our moms are happily married will be a blessing for Chubby and me, but more importantly for the four of them.
For conversation we tell them about Chubby's decision to try dormitory life this year, and then the twins laughingly tell some stories about some of their college dormitory fiascos. Chubby and I exchange glances, rising our eyebrows. These guys apparently were not the goodie-two-shoes we thought they were, whatever the fuck goodie two shoes actually meant originally.
They basically experienced similar drunken frat parties and spring breaks as the ones Chubby and I have lived through. My brother and I have often mentioned how amazingly perfect the twins are for our moms; basically a fairytale romance that almost seems too good to be true. It's almost like two sets of identical twins marrying. Fingers crossed! When we finish our beers, Chubby takes the roast out of the oven and makes gravy from pan drippings while I mash the potatoes, then whip them with an electric beater adding cream and butter. The asparagus go into a pot of boiling water for a few minutes until just barely tender, then butter, salt and pepper are added. At the table, dinner rolls and the salad are passed around first, and dinner begins without anyone saying grace. I kinda miss hearing Ryan rattling off his memorized prayers. I'm not religious, but if we said grace before dinner like the Wilcoxs do I'd get to hold Chubby's hand since we sit next to each other across from the moms. The fiancés sit at each end of the table. It's how the four of our original family group decided the seating arrangement would be when the six of us ate together.
It's after seven o'clock by the time we're finished dinner. My thoughts turn to Robby and what he's been up to. On the balcony having a smoke with Chubby, I give Robby a call. He picks up right away, saying, "Oh, I was just about to text you, Dylan. I'm really tired, babe. Getting up at your place around five o'clock this morning, and then never going back to sleep wasn't too smart on my part. Um, do you mind if we don't have a date tonight? I'd like to get to bed early." I go, "No, that's okay. How was the soft ball game?" He says, "You really don't mind if we skip our date?" I'm like, "It's
okay. I can understand you being wicked tired. I'll see you tomorrow at work. I'll probably be staying in tonight myself." He goes, "Love you, babe.
See you tomorrow." Huh, he didn't want to talk about the soft ball game I guess. That's odd, and there was no mention of him riding off from the Dairy
Queen with Danny Monday either, who by the way, called me 'stuck up' when I turned his sexual proposal down. Isn't 'stuck-up' a phrase used primarily
in middle school. Ya just don't hear a lot of twenty-one year old guys using that particular phrase. Sure, 'asshole', or 'shit for brains'; ya hear that quite often, but 'stuck up'? Not really. And it's odd Robby never mentioned us supposedly signing for the apartment today, nor did he inquire about Chubby going in with us on this year's apartment. Curious, but he must have had something else on his mind. Maybe we both had Danny Monday on our minds, but for different reasons.
As I'm thinking about that, Chubby's iPhone buzzes and as he's taking it out of his pocket my phone goes off too. We shrug and grin at one another.
That's pretty cool: both our cellphone ringing almost at the same time.
From what Chubby says into his phone it's obvious he's talking to a girl. My caller ID reads, 'William W.' I wonder who that could be. I say, "Hey, Willie," and he goes, "Hi, Dylan! Ah, I'm hoping it isn't too soon to ask you to go out to dinner with me tomorrow night. I mean, it was just yesterday I stopped in to say hello, so I hope I'm not rushing things." I go, "Tomorrow night, huh? Hmmm, let me think?" Well, Robby has a planning business session every Monday night, so why not go out with Willie. Yeah, except I'm still feeling a little weird about my reaction when seeing him yesterday. I had this funny feeling low in my stomach, or maybe it was my groin area that was feeling jittery. Oh, what the hell, I go, "Rob has a business meeting on Monday nights, so yeah, why not? Let's catch up on our lives."
Yesterday Willie inferred that us having dinner together wouldn't mean anything more than just two old friends having dinner. In other words, they'll be no extra curricular activities of a sexual nature. I'm all in for not doing that, although I'd be lying to myself if the reemergence of Danny Monday wasn't on my mind, and because of that I could probably justify some extra curricular activity. That's if I had the inclination for it, which I don't. Anyway, I want to believe nothing happened between my boyfriend and Danny Monday, and honestly I don't think anything did. It seems a bit curious though: I mean, a couple hours after I turned down Danny he just happened to turn up where Robby and I were, and then off Robby goes to a soft ball game with him. Coincidences do happen of course, it's just that this one is slightly suspicious.
Willie and I discuss restaurants and agree that my favorite Italian restaurant is our best bet because he won't be twenty-one for a few more months, and we wants a cocktail before dinner. After ending our conversation I try analyzing my feelings for Willie. I'm cognizant of the fact he's been known to get me wrapped around his dominant little finger at times, but I think he's changed and overall I'm feeling good about him and our dinner date. I really like him, and the memories of things we've done together are pretty special when I think about them, especially since I tend to only remember the good memories.
When I click off from Willie, Chubby tells me his phone call was from Mary Jo. Huh, and mere hours ago she told Chubby to go fuck himself, then she calls him. The long and short of it is, they're going out tomorrow night on what Mary Jo is calling a trial date to see if Chubby's matured since their break-up. Chubby goes, "MJ says there's not going to be any hanky/panky during the trial period. Ha ha, no hanky/panky, my ass!" All I can do is chuckle at the way Chubby says things, then wonder if my brother might be hornier than me.
The rest of the night we watch a movie from Comcast's ON DEMAND. It's a recent action flick starring Denzel Washington who's in about half the movies ever made it seems. Him and Samuel L. Jackson. They're both excellent though so we don't mind. We watch the movie in my basement sharing the chaise lounge and not doing much talking. His physical closeness makes me feel good and I fall asleep with my head on his shoulder about the time Denzel blew-up his fourteenth bad guy.
Chubby wakes me by gently shaking my shoulder. I'm groggy and tired so I guess the last two days of odd sleeping patterns has finally caught up with me. We walk upstairs together hearing chatter from the moms and their guys from the balcony above us. So they moved their party to Chubby's balcony and are apparently making a night of it. Chubby and I hug and do our quick kiss goodnight, then he gives me an extra tight hug, murmuring, "I love you more than anything, Dylan," and I lean into him, mumbling, "Me too, Chubby."
He goes out the front door and up to his condo as I'm wondering how he's going to get to sleep with our four parents acting like college students at a frat party. It's always surprising to me that the moms and their guys party hardy, seemingly having as good a time as us younger guys. That bodes well for the future I guess. I do my usual bathroom stuff and then, grinning to myself, put on my just-washed Donald Duck jockey shorts in honor of my brother. Before falling asleep I'm thinking about Robby, and wondering what Danny Monday's latest intentions might be regarding my boyfriend.
The alarm goes off seemingly five minutes after I get in bed. Last night I set it for half an hour earlier than normal because I need to shower this morning, plus it's my turn to make Chubby's and my lunches this week.
Thinly sliced left-over roast beef from last night's dinner is what I plan on using for today's lunch. For each of us I'm making two roast beef sandwiches on Kaiser rolls with horseradish sauce, there's a bag of potato chips for each, and large Cokes, plus individual serving sizes of Tastykate peach pies for dessert. I've just finished making our sandwiches when Chubby lets himself in. After putting our lunch in a soft-sided cooler, Chubby and I do a quick hug and kiss. No time for a cigarette this morning so Chubby carries the cooler as we go down the steps to the Jeep with him chuckling and saying, "Can you believe our parents? They partied until after one o'clock this morning." I go, "Well, the moms don't need to get up until ten this morning so they'll get plenty of rest. Bud and Rider are the bosses of their own company so they can get to work whenever the hell they feel like it." At the Jeep, Chubby says, "I don't think it works that way when you're the business owner. You've gotta set the example, so they're probably getting ready for work right now with hangovers."
I drive us to work and when we get there we find the other guys in Robby's crew are already here, so it's fist bumping in the locker room along with lying tales of sexual conquests over the weekend, followed by taunts of, "Bull shit alert, you never..." In other words it's business as usual. When we're outside the locker room though there's a more formal, less playful atmosphere. Chubby's basically the acting boss of our crew with Robby keeping an eye on us, along with his other responsibilities of overseeing two of the other lawn cutting crews, and planning the weekly work schedule for all three crews. The fourth crew is different in that it's staffed by older, more experienced men who have worked for the company at least ten years.
When we're both wearing the t-shirt and baseball cap featuring the company's logo we're outside sharing a morning cigarette as Chubby rehashes his decision to experience dormitory life until Dallas calls him, probably something to do with Chubby dating Dallas' sister. They joke about that a lot.
As Chubby walks over to commiserate with Dallas, Robby saunters over to rub my shoulder, asking, "How ya feeling this morning, babe?" Some of the guys on the various crews know Robby and I are boyfriends, but not many, and on the job we obviously refrain from overt acts of affection. I tell him, "Well, I gotta admit it was awesome getting nine hours sleep last night." Then I tell him about Chubby and me making Sunday dinner and our folks partying like college students, then the movie Chubby and I watched. He goes, "It sure sounds like you had a sober, fun night alright. Have a good day too, babe." His boss, Rory White, calls to him and off he goes without sharing the details of his night. I know him well enough that I'm pretty sure he had something to tell me, but he never got around to it. I'm also pretty sure he has a cold because of the hoarseness in his voice.
Here, at work, it's extremely unusual for Robby to give me any extra attention like that private conversation we just had, so if I had a suspicious nature I might suspect him of having a guilty conscience about something.
The thing is, considering our agreed upon side-sex arrangement he shouldn't feel guilty even if he did do it with Danny, or someone else. We're still good as gold as long as we don't discuss details. For purposes of being open and above board I suppose I should have mentioned Willie calling me last night and our dinner date tonight. For some reason I didn't. Maybe because Robby looks a little under the weather. Well, he did tell me he was going to get to bed early last night, so it could be he's coming down with a cold for real.
Chubby calls the guys in our crew over, and we stand at the line painted on the blacktop for that purpose. Four landscaping crews in a row with a supervisor standing in front of each one. It's like an Army formation only with a lot less guys. As we stand here fidgeting, Robby talks to each supervisor for thirty seconds or so, handing out assignments. He talks to Chubby last, glancing up at me a second, and then he pats Chubby's shoulder and goes off to do whatever it is he does. Chubby turns to us, saying, "Um, Dylan, sorry about this, bro, but they need an extra man on Murphy's crew today.
They're apparently working a huge property, or some such shit, and we're lending them you. Murphy's that big dude..." I interrupt, "I know who he is, "
and start walking towards the other crew with Chubby saying to my back, "Only for today, Dylan." I wave my hand back at him so he knows I heard him, but continue on to Rex Murphy's crew. This summer, unlike other summers, it seems guys get switched around all the time, but be that as it may I'm still pissed off I need to be 'that guy' today, and on a Monday no less! Rex sees me coming and waves his arm at me, yelling, "A little hustle, huh?"
Nobody likes working with a different crew because you get the shit jobs the regular guys don't want to do. It's Robby who chooses the guy who'll work with basically strangers for a day or two, or even a week. Chubby didn't pick me to do it, so I don't know why I was kind of surly with him. Hey, maybe this is what Robby was going to tell me when he came over earlier, but then chickened out. If so his visit had nothing to do with Danny Monday like I thought it may have. Anyway, Rex Murphy's crew is sort of the elite crew as most of the guys have been working here for years. They've been here years before that first year Robby and I worked as rookies together on the lawn cutting crew. Rex's status is different than, say Chubby's. Chubby is Robby's assistant supervisor while Rex is a senior supervisor, the only one who doesn't report to Robby.
Anyway, I jog the ten yards past our crew and two other ones to Murphy's crew feeling self conscious because everyone's watching me do it; then I take a spot at the end of the five guys who are standing almost at attention.
Rex looks at his clipboard, then at me, and says, "Dan Newman, right?" I almost burst out laughing thinking about me being Daniel for two months in Georgia, but keep a straight face, muttering, "It's Dylan, not Dan." He says, "So sorry, dude, it just has a 'D' before your last name and I took a guess. You'll be working for Bull all day, er, Bull Bulnanski who's standing right next to you." I've seen the guy next to me in the locker room on and off as long as I've worked here, but was never introduced. He always seemed a brooding, unhappy person. He glances at me so I mutter, "How ya doing?"
without getting a response. Rex says to his crew, and me, "Okay, you've got your assignments, so sign-out the equipment you'll need and let's get a move on guys. Today's gonna be a busy one."
Robby told me last spring, after a business meeting his dad insisted Robby sit in on, that the company was raising the hourly wage of everyone in landscape and design, including the lawn cutting crews. As a consequence they want a more professional attitude from everyone and, as I noticed from my first day a few weeks ago, that means taking the job more seriously with more regimentation and hustle, and no goofing around with practical jokes and the like. With Robby's crew we still have a good time while maintaining enough of the professionalism his father expects. Our's is the youngest crew by far and we all like each other. The guys on Murphy's five-man crew are all older guys and most of them are full time employees working snow removal in the winter months, as well as whatever excavation jobs the company get hired to do. They don't goof around even a little bit 'cause this is their livelihood.
This guy, Bull, bumps my arm and says, "Lets go," and as we jog together towards the equipment garage, he tells me, "Try not to refer to me at all, but if you must, call me, Bull. " I shrug, frowning at him. He's like thirty-five years old with tattoos aplenty and he's built like a brick shit house, as the saying goes. Bull's nickname most likely came from his last name, but he's a muscle man about five feet, eight inches tall, sort of like a bull, so maybe that's where his nickname came from. His head's oversized, he's clean shaven except for a dark goatee, and he wears his hair in an extreme Marine type haircut. I'm betting he was in the military before this job.
Bottom line: Bull does not seem like a whole lot of fun. Comically, the Dickers & Son baseball cap sits on the back of his head like the yarmulke Jewish men wear on the crown of their heads in Temple. The hat is much too small for his big head, but maybe there's no such thing as a hat big enough for Bull's head.
Inside the equipment garage he tells me, "Get one of those hand trucks and bring it over to the equipment counter." The hand truck he pointed to is actually a five foot by three foot flatbed on wheels with a railing at one end that I use to push it. The wheels are like the wheels on a desk chair, they go in all directions so it's a challenge pushing one of these things. I wrestle it over to Bull as he's finishing signing-out equipment. He looks at me, then asks, "What are you waiting for? Put all this shit on the cart." All this shit consists of a wheel barrel, shovels, buckets, weed whacker, heavy duty plastic trash bags, and a chainsaw." As I'm loading everything he picks up a hoe and a pair of heavy work gloves, then drops them in the wheel barrel. I'm thinking, 'Don't over exert yourself!'. I mumble, "I guess we're not cutting grass today, huh?" He blows out an exhale, like he's annoyed, then mutters, "Brilliant deduction. For starters we're working on a severely overgrown arbor, and later you'll be dealing with plugged-up drainage pipes for a decorative pond. That'll keep you busy for the next three days and I'll tell you the rest then." I've no idea what all that means, but I know what 'the next three days' means and I don't like the sound of that at all.
He's double-checking the list he has, then a mumbled, "Okay, we got everything. Push all this shit to the truck in back. I'll meet you there," and he goes over to slap hands with a guy, saying something to him that makes them both do an overly boisterous laugh. Neither of them looks in my direction though, so I don't think I'm the brunt of their joke. I start pushing the cart towards the front door, and if there's a more unwieldy piece of equipment than this piece-of-shit flatbed carrier I can't imagine what it would be, plus it's overloaded. Trying to turn this thing out the door the shovel's handles gets caught in the door jam and pulls half the crap off the cart making a lot of noise. Cursing under my breath, I put everything back on the cart and then struggle mightily pushing it around to the back of the building. It ain't easy, and when I get there a guy's leaning against the truck smoking a cigar and looking at me funny-like, then he asks, "Why the fuck didn't you just push that down the middle isle of the equipment garage, and through the back door? There's big-ass doors on both sides of the building." I gawk at him like I'm an idiot, and he tries clarifying, "All I'm saying, kid, is ya didn't need to push it all the way around the outside of the building." Shrugging at him, I mumble, "I didn't know the garage had a back door," and he shakes his head chuckling, saying something under his breath. Asshole! Okay, if this is the truck we're using today, then where's Bull? Pushing this piece of shit cart around the truck I'm sweating like crazy and it's not even seven-thirty in the morning yet. I hear Bull bellowing from the other side of the asshole's truck, and now I see him. He asks, "Where the hell ya been, Newman?" So we've got our own pickup today. It would have been helpful if Bull had been a little more specific about what truck I was to push this cart to. Using a pickup truck today makes me think back to the special project I worked just before the Wildwood vacation. The one where I helped plant shrubs and other stuff at a town hall.
Bull and I load the stuff onto the bed of the pickup without either of us saying anything. When everything's on the bed of the pickup, he says, "Roll that thing back to where you got it. I'll drive around and meet you in front." Wiping my face, I mutter, "Got it," and start pushing toward the back door this time. The flatbed cart is even more unwieldy when it's empty, but it's a much shorter trip back.
When the cart's back in its spot, I go out front and there's Bull in the pickup talking to a guy who's standing next to the driver's side window. I jog up to the truck hearing Bull say to the guy, "Okay, here comes my flunky for the day, I'll catch you later, Ned." I get in the passenger seat and without even looking at me, never mind saying anything, he drives off the parking lot. The silence is killing me, so I finally ask, "How many years have you been with the company, Bull?" He glances at me, then with a little head shake he makes a rude snorting sound, then looks back at the road. So much for chit chap. It's a forty minute drive in rush hour traffic to one of the two richest towns in the state: Weston. Massachusetts. No talking, no radio, no nothing, so it's an awkward forty minutes for me. Obviously I don't try starting another conversation, not after that first one bombed-out.
Finally Bull turns onto a long driveway, then stops at a turnoff twenty yards before the mansion of a house. We sit idling next to Murphy's truck.
Bull and Murphy argue about something I can't hear as I watch the guys unloading the grass cutting equipment. The front yard is ridiculously large with pathways throughout the area, not unlike Ryan's front yard in Georgia. It's going to require an ungodly amount of edging with the weed whackers; so, if I need to work on this crew today, I think maybe I'm glad to be with grumpy Bull.
After saying a few words to Rex, Bull continues up the driveway giving a thumbs-up to his friends on the crew as we go by them. He drives right past the house to the backyard that's almost as big as the front yard. It's broken up into sections with gardens and patios, and a pool at the far side next to a tennis court. This reminds me of Willie's back yard except this one is bigger. We get out of the pickup and I take a chance asking Bull, "Is this the biggest property Dickers & Son services?" He says, "Yep," then he nods at the truck bed, "Get everything off," and he walks down to a section at the very end of the yard that doesn't seem to go with the rest of the back yard. At the entrance to this section is an arbor of latticework covered with climbing vines and other mysterious vegetation. It's so overgrown Bull can hardly squeeze through it. On either side of the arbor are high hedges, so to get through to the other side you need to go through the overgrown arbor itself.
I get everything off the truck and lay it out on the gravel road. Bull's back from his inspection of the project, saying, "Hand me the fucking chainsaw and follow me with the wheel barrel, shovel, and a rake." I pass the chainsaw to him and he walks toward the arbor as I load the rake and shovel in the wheel barrel, then follow him. It's about ten yards to the arbor and halfway there I hear the sound a chain saw makes, then it sputters out. As he walks, Bull pulls the rip cord again and the chainsaw roars its steady scary chainsaw noise. I hate chain saws. Bull begins cutting through the growth on the inside of the arbor as I stand back a few feet unsure of what I'm supposed to be doing. Bull attack the vegetation while I listen to five minutes of the lowering and rising sounds a chainsaw makes. When it cuts through the thick vines and other harder material the chainsaw makes a lower, slower noise as it fights its way through, then it makes a higher pitched noise cutting through lighter growth. It's all very disconcerting to me and I half expect to see one of Bull's hands dropping to the ground along with the other cut stuff.
After five minutes of cutting, Bull back away and clicks off the chain saw, saying, "Get in there and clear out what I've cut so far." Carrying the now silent chainsaw, as if it's light as a pillow, he goes back to sit on the pickup's bumper and lights a cigarette. I could tell him there's no smoking on a customer's property, but he already knows that and apparently doesn't give a shit. I roll the wheel barrel the rest of the way to the arbor and use the rake too start raking out all the pieces of vegetation created by the chain saw. Thirty seconds later bees are buzzing all around me; lots of them! I guess the chain saw scared them off and now they're returning to their beehive. I look back at Bull who's shaking his head looking disgusted, as if the bees are my fault. I yell, "BALLS!" as a bee stings the back of my hand. I'm backing away from the arbor with Bull yelling, "For chrissakes! Get the fucking spray, they're only bees." Jogging away from the arbor, totally pissed-off, I go, "What fucking spray?" He goes, "Bee Bopper spray of course, what else? It's in the fucking glove compartment," then he laughs muttering, "Shit." then adds, "And go easy with that spay can. A can of Bee bopper cost like $70." Thinking this sounds like a bullshit story similar to the left-handed-monkey-wrench ploy played on the 'new' guy. When I look in the glove compartment however, there is a red spray can of Bee Bopper. Huh! Never heard of it, but I take it with me and spray those fuckers like crazy. Some drop dead on the spot, but most disappear. I hear Bull chuckling, then saying, "Put it back where you got it, then clean out the arbor... chop, chop!"
This job really sucks because all around the arbor area there's like stuff floating in the air caused by the chain saw turning some plants into pollen or something, plus part of the cut branches are climbing rose bushes with big pointy thorns. Damn! I should have put on a pair of those heavy work gloves, but I'm not going to walk past that asshole again to get them. I rake the cut stuff out of the arbor, then shovel it into the wheel barrel.
After about fifteen minutes the wheel barrel is overloaded so I wheel it up to the pickup truck where Bull, who's chewing gum now with his mouth open, says, "Load it in those heavy black plastic bags, put the loaded bags in the back of the truck bed, then go back and get the rest." He gets up, mumbling, "I'm going to start chain-sawing from the other side." I'm still royally pissed off, so just barely nod my head at him with a sour expression on my face. Bull doesn't appear to give a shit about that either. He couldn't care less if I'm royally pissed off or not. He carries his chainsaw, pulling the cord and getting the machine making its scary noise as he's walking down to the arbor.
Putting on a pair of dirty work gloves I transfer the cut stuff into plastic bags getting cuts and scrapes on my arms and legs below my work shorts.
Filling one and a half bags, I put the full bag on the truck, and push the wheel barrel back to the arbor. Now I see the chain saw cutting through from the other side as I'm tentatively racking out the cut material. He moves the chain saw up, then down. I try not to be raking when he's bringing it down. This goes on for what seems like forever. Four wheel barrel loads and six filled black plastic bags later Bull's now meticulously evening out everything on the inside of the arbor so it looks like the vines and whatnot stop growing at the latticework. The arbor is at least six foot wide so it was a big job clearing out the opening. On the other side is a brick path with weeds between the bricks. The path leads to a man-made pond that's about twenty feet across with water that's a murky green color. It's ugly with disgusting looking algae growing in it.
When Bull's satisfied with the arbor, he mutters, "Fuck it," and checks his watch, saying, "Lunch time, kid." I make a face, just now remembering my lunch is in the cooler on the pickup truck. Bull looks at me, then says sarcastically, "You didn't bring your lunch, did you, ya dumb shit?" I yell, "Yeah, I brought my lunch! It's in the lunch cooler for the crew I work with." He shrugs, "Yeah? Well, it might have been a good idea if you took your lunch out of that cooler when you knew you wouldn't be working with that pussy crew." He's as sarcastic-sounding as I was when I told him that I did bring a lunch. Looking away, I mutter, "I didn't have the chance because Rex Murphy told me to hustle the fuck up." He makes a chuckling snorting sound, then gets his lunch cooler out from behind the pickup's front seat and sits in the shade opening his soft-sided cooler. I light a cigarette then smell the back of my bee-stung hand. Bull says, "Put that cigarette out! No smoking on customer's property." Fucking asshole! Walking back up the gravel road to get away from him, I'm like, 'Is that Robby's pickup driving towards me?' It's Robby's pickup alright. Now I'm wondering if I should act grouchy or be happy to see him. As he pulls up along side of me he looks apprehensive, asking, "What are you doing up here, Dylan?" I go, "Oh, it's lunch time and Bull eats with his mouth open making all those disgusting mouth sounds." He laughs, "Oh boy, you're royally pissed off, aren't you?" I make a face, and he says, "I swear I didn't know Murphy would put you on this job. I thought it was strictly lawn cutting."
Exhaling with my cheeks puffed out, I shrug again. He explains, "The project you and Bull are on was discussed last Friday night. Sorry, Dylan, I didn't know it was scheduled for today. I'm not involved with Rex's scheduling." I look at him blankly, and he says, cheerily, "I brought your lunch for you, and I'll eat with you if you're not too mad at me." I mumble, "A bee stung me," and always prepared Robby gets a first aid kit from someplace in the pickup. Hopping out, he cleans the back of my filthy hand with Handi-wipes, the same ones we've occasionally used cleaning-up after fucking in the pickup. Then he sprays something on the bee sting and squeezes my hand, murmuring, "Don't be mad." I snort out a laugh, "I'm not mad."
We eat under a huge tree sitting off the back of the pickup with the tailgate down. Robby tells me the homeowners for this property are in Europe until Labor Day. The Dickers' company has been renovating the grounds all summer, section by section. He says, "You and Bull are working on the final section. We've promised we'll have everything done before they return. I heard them discussing this project in the meeting. The pond is stagnant so we've got to clean out the large pipe that feeds it, then get the water circulating through a filter and put in some water plants to help keep the water fresh enough that fish can live in the pond. Then there's more landscaping to be done to totally beautify the area back to the way it used to be in the old days. The mansion is a hundred years old, but completely renovated inside and outside." I take a bite of my second roast beef sandwich not saying anything, just looking at Robby and thinking he's the best looking guy I've ever seen even if he does look pale today.
He grins at me, then eats the rest of his sandwich. Robby's got the sniffles and sounds hoarse. After drinking some iced tea, noticing I'm not saying very much, he says, "My lunch had a funny taste to it." I mumble, "Oh yeah? Maybe you have a cold and it makes things taste different." He sneezes, then says, "Anyway, Dad figured there'd be some haggling about the cost of doing this last section so he quoted high to start with. He tells them $35,000 for the work you and Bull are working on. No haggling, the owners just said do it. It's a one week job for two guys, plus additional landscaping, so there's a good profit to be made for the company." Yeah, nice if you're not one of the two guys making $13 an hour. I'm sure Bull makes a lot more than that, but I'm referring to moi.
Robby puts all the trash from our lunch in a bag, throws it over his shoulder into the back of his pickup, then asks, "Are you getting along with Bulnanski okay?" I go, "We're becoming best friends," and he laughs. After a glance around to see if Bull's watching, Robby gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, "I love you, Dylan, but I'm coming down with something and don't want to give it to you. And, I'll get you off this assignment tomorrow." I nod and hop off the tailgate. Robby follows, then gets in the pickup, and says, "Um, you know I'm working tonight, right?" I nod, "Yep," and he says, "You'll probably be here past our normal quitting time. I'll give you a ride home so Jeff doesn't have to wait for you." I nod, muttering, "Okay, thanks," and he smiles, saying, "Hang in there, baby," and backs out of the driveway. That would have been a good time for me to tell him I'm having dinner with Willie tonight, but then we didn't talk about Danny Monday, or the apartment at Merrimack, or whether Chubby's going in the apartment with us this year. I didn't feel like talking about anything serious.
Taking a deep breath I walk back to our pickup and see Bull smoking again.
He knows the property owners are away. He goes, "Having lunch with the boss's son, huh?" Ignoring that, I ask, "What now?" He goes, "Get the fucking weed whacker and clean out around every single brick in that path. I want to see dirt around every brick, not weeds. Then weed-whack the moss off the bricks." That little job takes the rest of the day with my arms and shoulders aching from holding the weed whacker for hours. While I'm doing that, he cuts the hedges surround this entire section. It's a long afternoon with frequent trips to the hose that's hooked up to an irrigation water pipe.
Gotta keep hydrated, but the water taste like a rubber hose. We finally leave at five o'clock earning me an hour's overtime, and that'll be paid at time-and-a-half, thank you very much. Bull's backing the pickup up the gravel road, and I'll be dammed but that area looks totally different now. It really looks good. We don't talk on the way back either. At the equipment shed, Bull says, "Clean everything before checking it back in with the kid at the desk." Yeah, well that's another hour of overtime for me. I'm hoping the 'kid' at the desk' is Seth, but it's some skinny older guy with a hair up his ass telling me I left debris in the wheel barrel. He pronounced it 'deb-bris', the way it's spelled.
I remembered to text Chubby around four o'clock telling him not to wait for me, that I've arranged a ride home with Robby who's normally here until six o'clock anyway. On Mondays Robby goes home for dinner with his dad, and then that night there's some sort of meeting at their house around eight o'clock. Whatever. Before I even finish cleaning the equipment though, Robby comes over apologizing again telling me he can't drive me home after all, but he's arranged for the skinny guy in the equipment shed; the one with a hair up his ass, to give me a ride home. That ride proves to be less than lovely. I'm trying to decide if Robby looked, I don't know, sickly? He didn't seem himself somehow. All the way home, the guy driving bitches about his job, and because he was ordered to drive me home he bitches about missing dinner and his wife, who's apparently going to be chewing his ass for missing dinner when he gets there. Taking a page out of Bull's book, I don't say a single word all the way to my place. Going up the steps I'm tired and dirty, and there's stinging little cuts on my hands, arms, and legs... in other
words, I feel like shit. The bee sting on the back of my hand is swelling up too. It's not until I'm standing in the kitchen gulping down a quart bottle of Gatorade while staring at my dirty fingernails that I remember my dinner date with Willie.
It's six thirty and he's picking me up at seven. Shaking my head, then taking a deep breath, I call his cellphone figuring I'll reschedule for another night. When he answers I hear traffic sounds coming over the connection even before he cheerfully says, "Hi, Dylan. Ya getting ready, my friend? I'll be there in a few minutes. I know I'm early, hope you don't mind." Jesus! He adds, "See how anxious and excited I am about us being best friends and going out to dinner together? I got all dressed up for you too." Balls!
to be continued... Donny Mumford thinat20@yahoo.com
donnymumford@outlook.com
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Hoping some readers may be interested, there are books of mine published and available on Amazon.com. Anyone who has Kindle can download them for next to nothing. The books are under ten dollars. They are about a 19 year old gay boy (Oliver) who has a far different life than Dylan's. And there is a new book, 'Mike, his Bike and Me'. Please at least check them out by typing my name on Amazon.com. Information about the story in the books can be found in some detail there. Thank you.
Donny Mumford
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