Me: Apartment Manager. Hat Guy: tenant. Location: building’s front lawn.
“We need to get the gardener from across the street. Ours is for shit.”
Hat Guy, as the tenants had dubbed him. Made sense. He wore vintage hats. Today, a black fedora. He was always smoking cigarettes too and could just as easily have been called Nicotine Man or something of the sort.
“The owner wants his guy.”
“That’s bullshit. The lawn is turning YELLOW.”
“Sprinklers only go on twice a week. The drought.”
“Then we’ve got to go with a desert theme and tear out the grass. I can do it.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“Looks bad out there.”
After an uncomfortable silence, Hat Guy shook his head and trudged off.
* * *
As I topped the laundry room stairs, Hat Guy suddenly materialized—like Nightcrawler in X-2.
“You need to see this.” Hat Guy—grim—lit a cigarette, as he led me to the lawn; his purview, from where he observed the comings and goings at the building. The self-proclaimed Master of Human Behavior, ever vigilant, stood, a portrait in focus, overlooking his domain. If he was seeing something out of the ordinary, it eluded me.
“What’s up?”
“Gardener just left. Spent 30 minutes—tops.”
“He’s rushed. Our building’s out of his way.”
“See why we need a local crew for this?”
“Agreed… still… the owner…”
Hat Guy stubbed his cigarette out against the building’s façade and stuck the butt in his jeans pocket. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, sighed, and out it came.
“The gardener just BLOWS and goes. You need to turn the soil. All he does is BLOW the stuff around… BLOW it from one area to another… he hardly picks up anything. I sweep all the dirt, debris and leaves to the curb… put them in piles… he literally has a fifth of a trashcan filled. A FIFTH! He should be filling that up every week… he just BLOWS the rest into the street…
I was counting how many times Hat Guy used the word ‘BLOW’ when we locked eyes. Hat Guy had a wild look.
“I understand.” I didn’t.
“All that shit comes right back up on the sidewalk… gets pressed down, and STAINS it. Whatever, dude. He’s a frickin’ numbskull. I do all this pre-work…”
What the hell was pre-work? I wanted to know.
“…before the blow-and-goer comes over…”
As Hat Guy went on to detail the meaning of pre-work, I spaced. Running low on dental floss. Worth a trip to the store? Get a multi-pack next time. Vitamins. I should take some. C. My throat’s been scratchy. What else?
“…I’m spending 12 to 14 hours on the lawn every week. I’m out here every day… trimming this, doing that…”
Wait… wait… wait. He’s still talking about the lawn?
Hat Guy fished another cigarette out of his jeans pocket, bent over and, cupping his hands over the cigarette—even though there wasn’t the slightest breeze—lit it.
“Alright...” I tried to leave, but Hat Guy was quick. He crowded me, like some street thug in a B-movie, angled himself to cut off any escape routes back into the building, down the street, or across the lawn. I was trapped.
“They’re certain things we have to make sure of about the soil underneath, before we put in new turf…”
Here we go again. Hat Guy’s ultimate goal, his zero-sum game: rip out the hodge-podge of coral-like plants, the ineffective drip-system and all the plants and trees dying from the gardener’s benign neglect.
“Ronnie asked…” The home-and-garden Übermensch whom Hat Guy brought over to consult with on all things lawn and botany in general. “‘…How does it get water?’ I told him it’s a drip system. He wanted to know how old it is. They have it in artificial turf… have to irrigate it from underneath… have to replace it all the time.”
My mind went blank. I tried telling myself, You’re curious, here’s a chance to learn about home and gardening. Interesting as the subject might have been—under different circumstances—the level of detail was crushing. I began slipping into a faint depression.
“I’m the one keeping the lawn alive!”
Exhaled cigarette smoke blowing across my face brought me back to the current—perceived—crisis.
“It’s a thankless job.”
“Even Norm said this morning… ‘What’s the stuff all over your van?’ It’s resin… RESIN! It’s ruining the paint on my van. We need to cut down those trees…” Hat Guy looked like his head was about to explode. “…which are nearly dead anyway, that’s why they’re shedding.”
“Park somewhere else.” He ignored me.
“I shook the trees and all this stuff came down. It’s getting in the plants… bugs like sugar-based things…”
So, Pluto is definitely not a planet. What then? A dwarf planet? CVS has shoelaces. The right one on my sneaker is frayed. What are those things on the end called again? Eyelets are the holes on the shoes. Not sure.
Horrified by the thought of having to give Hat Guy mouth-to-mouth if he passed out, I hatched an immediate plan.
“I’ll call the city about trimming the trees.”
“They haven’t done shit in two years.” He panted. “Budget cuts.”
With his signature move, Hat Guy stubbed his cigarette out against the façade and pocketed it. “Anyway, I’ve gotta go call Ronnie. He’s been waiting.” Like I’d been keeping HIM. At least my ordeal was over.
* * *
Very next morning, reaching for elderly Norm’s paper—to spare him the stairs—Hat Guy was on me. He could have been lying in wait, since I knew he monitored my movements in and around the building. On the other hand, was he a human seismograph, skilled at recognizing the exact patterning, weight and velocity of footsteps?
“They laid down mulch!” Hat Guy was frantic, face beet red.
“What?” Why couldn’t I just pick up Norm’s paper in peace?
Oblivious to my indifference and inexplicably freaked out by this latest affront to botany, Hat Guy launched into it.
“Look at this!”
The mounds of sea-spore grass and towering plants that dotted the front lawn had been blanketed with mulch.
“Okay. So, what’s the problem?”
He visibly twitched. “Dude! The ground cover has BUGS in it. Know what’s gonna happen? What it’s gonna do?”
“No.”
“Man… this is treated wood. Blocks of wood, broom handles… you need to irrigate this, so it doesn’t get moldy. Your soil is turning into SAND! All the little shade palms are dying. The water has nowhere to go. It’s sitting up top. The sun burns them… the green plants will survive, the yellow ones will be eaten up by bugs, the shade plants will be dead...”
Hat Guy was panting and snorting like an overweight pug.
“Ronnie came by… he lives out in the Bakersfield area… he’s doing a schoolyard out here in La Cañada using fake grass… EasyTurf… for insurance purposes… kids can get infections… whatever…”
What this had to do with anything was beyond me. I decided to throw gas on the fire. “How’re the bushes doing along the driveway?”
“I don’t even know what to tell you about that, those branches are so brittle and dry, I don’t know whether that’s an irrigation issue or…” He pointed back at the mulch. “This isn’t ground cover. There’s ground cover for open areas. For plants you use bark or rocks… bark! Water will go in between… this is only soaking it up.”
He kicked a clod of soil.
“This is coming from Ronnie. A SPECIALIST.” Hat Guy looked me dead in the eye. “Who does this for a damn living. He’s the real deal... he’s my buddy, we talk all the time, he’s teaching me how to smoke meat, bratwurst… dammit… that is not the right ground cover…”
Bratwurst?
“Look at this. It’s too dry… you’ve got to get in here with a trowel and break up the soil… bushes will survive, they’re arid bushes…”
I needed to know more about this Ronnie dude. I love smoked meats.
“So, when’s Ronnie coming by?”
“Not soon enough… last time he was over we hung out… he came in for an A&W root beer and we were just kicking the shit… he thought the front ones looked okay… the little ones I manicured… they belong to the Japanese family… rock huggers… they’re meant to go up against rock and be trimmed… earth and ore together… a Zen kind of thing…”
With shaky fingers, Hat Guy pulled a cigarette from his jeans pocket. Snapped it in two.
“We need Ronnie.” I egged him on.
“I know, dude. The acacia trees are half-dead already. We NEED to get in touch with the owner and get this taken care of. It’s gonna be a hot summer. You have to fertilize the soil every year or two… there’s one hundred-plus plants. It is not low maintenance!”
Was Hat Guy gay? God knows he had a huge hard-on for Ronnie, with his smoked meats and mad gardening skills. Was this fanaticism all a ruse, a cover to spend time with Ronnie and me, establishing a rapport over what some would think of as a feminine subject? Just a thought.
“…that German chick who moved in…”
Perhaps reading that I might be on to him, Hat Guy switched things up.
“Astrid?”
“Five-five, medium-blonde, wears powder-blue track suits…”
“Yeah?”
“She’s got a roommate now.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“Yes, she does. Dude, I’m a master of human behavior.”
“Really?”
“I’m very observant. Details DO NOT escape me.”
I cut him off. “Anyway, Astrid doesn’t have a roommate.”
“Taller blonde, nice highlights, business-type… always clutching a briefcase in her hand… tight.”
“It’s Astrid in high heels and work clothes.”
“They’re two different people. Dude, I know what Astrid looks like, and that isn’t her.” He sniggered.
“Look, even if she does have a roommate…”
“…not ‘if.’”
“Whatever… no one’s complained about this phantom roommate…”
Hat Guy gave me an irritated look. “I’m telling you, there’s someone else living in that apartment… Dude, I wish I had time to discuss this with you all morning, but I’ve gotta go take a piss and text Ronnie.”
* * *
You would think by now that I’d have timed my mornings more prudently to avoid the never-ending loop of lawn dialogue. But, reaching for Norm’s paper…
“I followed her.”
“Who?”
“Astrid’s roommate.”
“You saw them together?”
“No. Just the roommate. Come on, track with me dude.”
Had Mystique from the X-Men moved in? Not likely.
“Let’s settle this.” I dialed Astrid’s number.
“Put it on speaker. And don’t let her off the hook until she fesses up.” Hat Guy had a smug look on his face, anticipating certain victory.
“I’ll do the talking.”
Hat Guy arched an eyebrow and crowded me. He smelled of freshly clipped grass and fertilizer.
Astrid picked up and I laid it out for her. She earnestly replied, “I would never do that without permission. And I have no desire to have a roommate. Can I ask what gave you that idea?”
“Well… one of the tenants raised a concern.”
“You mean the guy with the hat who’s been following me?”
I glared at Hat Guy. Clearly, his espionage skills were sub-par.
“I can’t believe she spotted the tail,” Hat Guy muttered under his breath, looking upset with himself.
“Yeah. He’s made building security a personal hobby. He’s harmless.”
“It’s making me uncomfortable.”
“Don’t blame you. I’ll tell him to back off.”
“Good.”
I tapped off and gave Hat Guy a look. “I told you there’s no roommate.”
“I’m confused. Hang tight. I’m gonna get to the bottom of this.” He stormed back into the building, probably dusting for prints on his way.
* * *
I’d agreed to join Hat Guy on the lawn, only because he’d provided bratwurst from Ronnie. Quite delicious. Powering down a third, LoKey—a man of style, as evidenced by the aplomb with which he wore his throw-back Clyde-the-Glide warm-up suit—strode onto the scene. He stood with a permanent lean and brought mellow vibes. LoKey was in fact, low-key. But now, I digress.
“Sup, bra?”
“Smoke?” Hat Guy offered a cigarette. They lit up.
As they dragged on their smokes, I went back to thinking about Pluto. Until Hat Guy started in…
“I saw her today.”
“Who?” But I knew.
“The roommate.”
“Whose roommate?” LoKey would regret participating.
“Astrid’s.”
“I didn’t know she had a roommate.”
“She doesn’t.” I insisted.
“Yes, she does.”
“I don’t understand this roommate thing.” LoKey couldn’t possibly follow.
“Dude, I totally saw her. She was waiting for the Blue Bus.”
“I’ve seen Astrid on the Blue Bus.” LoKey.
“Astrid has a car. Why would she take the Blue Bus?” I countered.
“My point exactly.” At this remark, I despaired.
* * *
A further, bleary morning, our paths crossed as Hat Guy shaped hedges.
“Have you seen this?”
“Seen what?”
“The bark hasn’t been treated. You need bark that doesn’t destroy plants, so they can breathe... dude, check this out. I bought a hand-held edge trimmer. They’re sharp and totally precise.” Hat Guy held it up with pride, and then leaned across me and clipped a few brown spots off a Juniper bush. “No more scissors, dude.”
“Neat…”
“Dammit! I told the gardener he needs to stake the bushes. They’re fucking dying. Not that he gives a shit. I’m gonna save these bushes myself.”
Hat Guy crushed his cigarette out against a paving stone, pocketed it and did a quick perusal of the lawn. He dug a toe under a pile of bark, kicked it, and turned to me.
“Let’s get this straight. They HAVE different colored bark… green-gray stuff that goes with wooden trellises… it’s the obvious choice… has to happen...”
With that, the front door opened, and Astrid emerged. Snubbed us. I quickly nudged Hat Guy. We both watched as she made her way to a green Geo, got in, and drove off.
“See. Now that was Astrid.”
“Of course, it was,” I agreed.
“The roommate has a blue Honda. I saw her park it last night.”
“Except the blue Honda is really a green Geo that Astrid parked there last night when she came home from work.”
“Dude. I know what blue looks like.”
“When was the last time you had a color-blindness test?”
“I’ll start tailing them more consistently. Ronnie can take Astrid and I’ll take the roommate. Then you’ll have to face the truth.”
I’d be driven to drink.
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