My neighbor Mrs. Richardson explained over our back fence that the neighborhood only uses one yard man: Walter, a man in his late thirties who lives at the end of the block. The system is simple: Whenever Walter feels like it, usually around the end of the month, he’ll drag his mower out and take care of your lawn. You can’t call Walter to schedule an appointment, because he uses prepaid cell phones and is always changing numbers. It’s also difficult to decline lawn service, because you never know when he’ll come by. So everybody just keeps fifty dollars on hand for when he comes to your door to collect.I told Mrs. Richardson that didn’t sound like the best setup, and I might check around for something a little more reliable.
“Oh, please don’t,” she said. “We all use him. Walter lives with his poor mother, and he won’t get a real job. Only way she can get him to make money is by doin’ the yards. We do it to help her out.”
So I hired Walter. Gotta help his poor Mama.
I’m in the kitchen making dinner, which I do now because I’m home all day, and it’s important to have a few noticeable housekeeping things done when my fiancée gets home. Otherwise he begins to wonder what it is I’m doing. And I can’t say “I was writing,” because if I was actually writing all that time I’d have a novel longer than Gone With the Wind to show for it. In truth, I don’t do a lot of actual writing. But I spend a great deal of time staring at a blank document in Microsoft Word, begging my brain to actually come up with something. So then I’ll stop staring and have a cigarette or twelve, call my sister, maybe watch some clips of baby animals on YouTube. I love baby animal clips, particularly panda cubs climbing on things or sneezing. You wouldn’t think you can fill a whole afternoon watching those, but trust me, you totally can.
I can usually snap myself out of gazing at the screen slack-jawed about an hour before Preppy gets home, at which point I’ll start dinner and dust something in the living room. That’s key, because when he walks in the house and smells Lemon Pledge, his brain tells him I’ve been cleaning.
It also helps if I put a little Windex behind my ears, to complete the effect.
“I’ve been thinking,” says Preppy as I drain the pasta. “My domestic partner benefits provide the exact same coverage for both of us. Same health, dental, prescriptions, all of it. And I pay for that.”
“Oh-kaaay,” I say, not really sure where this is going, but really hoping it won’t interfere with my long-term plans to use these benefits to have all of my teeth capped. My ultimate goal is for it to look like someone’s turned on a fluorescent light when I open my mouth.
“So, if I pay for us to have identical benefits, how come you only let me have two movies on the Netflix queue, and you get four? Shouldn’t we each get three?”
Giving Preppy his own personal Netflix queue was a little gift from me last year. It didn’t cost that much more to upgrade my membership, and then he could pick out his own movies. I hadn’t thought of it as being in the same category as him providing my health insurance, but since the Netflix is considerably cheaper, I’m glad that’s how he sees it.
“I’ll fix it tomorrow,” I say, adding it to my to-do list. I’ve got a book coming out soon, at which point hopefully I’ll be financially stable again and Preppy won’t have to cover the bills. Until then, however, things are a little lean. I take pride in not having asked him for actual cash yet, but I had to take my change jar to the CoinStar at Kroger today, so that may be ending soon.
The next morning, the doorbell rings. It’s Walter the yard man, holding the check I’d given him the day before.
“I’m really sorry about this, Mr. Payne,” he said. “But the bank said they couldn’t cash this check.”
Well, shit. So much for having my own money.
“I’ve been thinking,” says Preppy as I drain the pasta. “My domestic partner benefits provide the exact same coverage for both of us. Same health, dental, prescriptions, all of it. And I pay for that.”
“Oh-kaaay,” I say, not really sure where this is going, but really hoping it won’t interfere with my long-term plans to use these benefits to have all of my teeth capped. My ultimate goal is for it to look like someone’s turned on a fluorescent light when I open my mouth.
“So, if I pay for us to have identical benefits, how come you only let me have two movies on the Netflix queue, and you get four? Shouldn’t we each get three?”
Giving Preppy his own personal Netflix queue was a little gift from me last year. It didn’t cost that much more to upgrade my membership, and then he could pick out his own movies. I hadn’t thought of it as being in the same category as him providing my health insurance, but since the Netflix is considerably cheaper, I’m glad that’s how he sees it.
“I’ll fix it tomorrow,” I say, adding it to my to-do list. I’ve got a book coming out soon, at which point hopefully I’ll be financially stable again and Preppy won’t have to cover the bills. Until then, however, things are a little lean. I take pride in not having asked him for actual cash yet, but I had to take my change jar to the CoinStar at Kroger today, so that may be ending soon.
The next morning, the doorbell rings. It’s Walter the yard man, holding the check I’d given him the day before.
“I’m really sorry about this, Mr. Payne,” he said. “But the bank said they couldn’t cash this check.”
Well, shit. So much for having my own money.
I go to my wallet and pull all the money I’d gotten from cashing in my change, and hand it over.
“I’m sorry about this, Walter. There must’ve been some mix-up and the bank.”
“Mm-hmm,” he says, giving me a look that lets me know he’s completely aware I’m full of shit, but willing to spare my dignity and play along.
And just like that, I’m broke. I am officially completely dependent on my partner. The leap of faith I took in leaving my day job now feels more like a stumble. I call around, and manage to get a gig babysitting the next afternoon. Despite Preppy’s assurances that I shouldn’t worry, everything will be fine, I know that I need to contribute more than just the smell of furniture polish to the house. I can just picture Mrs. Richardson leaning over the fence, talking to the neighbors.
“You don’t even have to read the book,” she’ll say. “But everybody’s buying a copy. He won’t get a real job, and the only way Preppy can get him to make money is by writing those books. So we do it to help his husband out.”
“I’m sorry about this, Walter. There must’ve been some mix-up and the bank.”
“Mm-hmm,” he says, giving me a look that lets me know he’s completely aware I’m full of shit, but willing to spare my dignity and play along.
And just like that, I’m broke. I am officially completely dependent on my partner. The leap of faith I took in leaving my day job now feels more like a stumble. I call around, and manage to get a gig babysitting the next afternoon. Despite Preppy’s assurances that I shouldn’t worry, everything will be fine, I know that I need to contribute more than just the smell of furniture polish to the house. I can just picture Mrs. Richardson leaning over the fence, talking to the neighbors.
“You don’t even have to read the book,” she’ll say. “But everybody’s buying a copy. He won’t get a real job, and the only way Preppy can get him to make money is by writing those books. So we do it to help his husband out.”
