Chris McCormick - Desert Boys

I distinctly remember thinking, going into the job, that my mind would be free to wander while I worked, and that I might imagine some extraordinary thoughts to express to those adults on my “Pester” list — thoughts that would create in them a doubt in their belief that I was unable to change things without their help. But the truth was that nothing, not a single memorable moment of reflection or imagination, sprouted from or arrived at my head during my hours digging up that lawn. In every rare moment I caught myself thinking, the thought happened to be about the work in front of me. When I told Mr. Reuter about my surprise, he said, “That’s called pride, and that’s a great thing.” He taught me to laugh in the face of anyone who called physical labor “mindless” work.

A part of me already knew that. My father spent his entire life working, after all, and I’d never considered him a mindless man. But I wondered why he refused to talk about work. Boredom, maybe, but a lot of people say “boredom” when what they really mean is shame.

VI. MR. REUTER ASKS A FAVOR

When I finished turning up the dirt on the smaller side of the lawn, I allowed myself a minute to admire my work. There had been spots in the middle (my first attempts) that looked uneven, and I’d gone back to make them flush with the pavement. Since the lawn and driveway were at an angle from the house down toward the sidewalk, it was tricky to get the leveling just right. But I’d done it.

After a few knocks on the front door, Mr. Reuter emerged from the house. He saw the work I’d done, and put out his hand for a shake. I took it, the first earnest handshake of my life.

“You’re exceeding expectations,” he said.

My fingers twitched at the praise. That would have been enough to keep me working with pride, but he went one step further.

“In fact,” he said, “I think you’ve earned yourself a raise. One hundred dollars seems more fair for this kind of work, wouldn’t you say?”

I tried to keep the face of someone who’d earned something and knew it. But I must have said thank you for every extra dollar he’d just offered me.

“You just keep it up now, all right?”

“Yes sir,” I said. “I’ll do even better.”

“I’m sure you will,” he said.

“See you on Saturday,” I said. “And thanks again.”

“Saturday, yes,” he said.

I started back across the street. He called after me.

“One more thing,” he said. He tugged at the black rubber tips of his glasses, moving the frames up and down until they sat on his nose just right. “You still see Drew from time to time at school?”

His son was a seventh grader — a year ahead of me. I’d seen him at lunch from a distance, but we hadn’t spoken since he moved. We knew each other only from having lived across the street — we used to play with his wrestling action figures. Once he moved, our friendship changed. That’s how kids have relationships with people sometimes — they’re based on situations. Sometimes that’s how adults have relationships, too, but that’s a different story.

“Yeah,” I said. “I see him.”

“Oh, good. I’ve got a favor to ask of you.”

Still in the mode of praises and raises, I was in no spot to decline.

“Ask him to come help out with the digging. Your money won’t get divided, I promise. I’d ask him myself, but his mother won’t let me speak to him without her on the line, and she’d put a stop to it before he’d even get the chance. You see what I’m saying?”

“Got it,” I said.

“Great,” he said. “That’d be great.”

“Saturday, then,” I said.

“Saturday. With Drew, maybe?”

“Maybe,” I said.

VII. THE WATCHER, WATCHED

Memory is more a play than a book, a play in which the character of you is one of many. You piece together the furniture and the school halls and the people using details (some true, some unwittingly borrowed from other moments in your life, or the lives of others) and your imagination. Then you get to watch. You watch your memories, don’t you?

And the watcher knows — especially if the watcher happens to be a townie — that he is not the only one doing the watching. His stories, then, involve a great deal of the looming anxieties stemming from that quintessential doom-knowledge found in towns: That always you are being seen, that always you are being judged. Not by some force above the clouds, but by other people. And unlike in a city, where a person knows he may be seen by any number of people at any point in the day, this is a different sort of doom-knowledge. It’s the knowing that those who see and judge you are inevitably people who, in some way, matter. They’re people who know you or your family, or else the person with whom you’re interacting. They’re people you’ve let down in the past. They’re people who may have gone out of their way to watch you mess up.

I was aware that my involvement in Mr. Reuter’s plans hadn’t gone unnoticed. I’d looked up from my shovel’s blade from time to time as a car rode past. Every once in a while, I’d catch the eyes of the driver, or else the passenger. Sometimes there’d be that millisecond of recognition, and maybe even a reflexive wave from inside the car. One of those drivers or passengers must have been curious about my working on this particular man’s lawn. (My mother wasn’t the only one talking about him.) One of them must have seen the two of us talking near the mound of dirt I’d assembled near the green compost bin. One of them must have said something to a person who mattered to the story, because when I went to school after that conversation with his father, Drew Zelinski (formerly Drew Reuter) cornered me in the hallway.

VIII. THE CLOSEST I’D EVER BEEN TO A FISTFIGHT

I was small, I think I’ve mentioned. Drew happened not to be. His shoulders had spread away from his center like the geological birth of a valley. Only it happened overnight. Not two years before, when we sat on his front lawn screaming the names of wrestlers, we were about the same size. Something had changed for him, and before I remembered how this newfound strength might be used against me, I admit that it gave me great hope for my own physical potential to burgeon. (I’ll point out again that it would never happen for me.) He slid his thumbs behind the straps of his backpack and jutted out his elbows. With my backpack against the wall, I asked as casually as possible, “Are you about to hit me?”

“Are you going to keep being friends with my dad?”

“No,” I said. “I’m just working on his yard. For money.”

“He’s a piece of crap,” Drew said. “He’s a liar. Don’t fall for it.”

“I’m almost done with the job,” I said. “He said he’s getting some trees.”

“It’s all a lie,” Drew said. “He makes things up. He’s full of shit.”

The urge to defend Mr. Reuter came unexpectedly. I disassembled it, thinking of my vulnerable position.

“Look,” I said, “I’m almost done with the job.”

“Go ahead and finish it,” he said. “You don’t know him like I do. He only hired you because he thought we were still friends. He thought I’d come over to hang out with you. Trust me. Those trees aren’t on their way. That money isn’t on its way. He makes every-fucking-thing up.”

A moment passed where neither of us said anything. Kids walked by in groups of two and three. He backed up.

For some stupid reason, I said, “Thank you.”

IX. ADDING THE FORMER MRS. REUTER TO THE “PESTER” LIST

I added her in red because I assumed that Drew’s negative portrayal of his father stemmed from her own broken and cyclically reassessed misunderstanding of their relationship.