Lawn Boy Returns: Chapters 5–8

The Code of Conduct for Dispute Resolution

I peeked out one of the garage door windows and saw Zed outside his camper, playing air guitar to the radio blasting from his pickup cab, a bag of lard -soaked, deep-fat-fried pork rinds and a six-pack of beer on the ground at his side.

“Hello, sponsor. You seem sad,” Joey said when I got to the gym. He leaped out of the ring. His agility is surprising, because he’s so big he makes gardening sheds seem tiny.

Grandma’s hair was red. Not red like Little Orphan Annie or Lucille Ball. Red like Bozo the Clown. Red like a fire truck. Red like all the red in the entire history of the whole universe had been concentrated on her head. Her hair glowed. And shimmered. When she moved, I could see...sparkles. The brightness made me wince.

She’d gone to take a nap, and—well, even for Grandma, who loves resting her eyes like most people love converting oxygen to carbon dioxide, that wasn’t an all-day proposition.

“What’s that?” I suspiciously eyed the spray bottle she pulled out of her purse.
“Diluted leftover dye. C’mere, sweetie, and let me spritz you so that you have Joey Pow red hair too.”
“No, thanks, I’m good with brown.”

“What’s that?” I suspiciously eyed the spray bottle she pulled out of her purse.
“Diluted leftover dye. C’mere, sweetie, and let me spritz you so that you have Joey Pow red hair too.”
“No, thanks, I’m good with brown.”

Brains Good, Brawn Sometimes Better

I turned around and saw Pasqual, Louis and Benny—who’d started working for us a week before and was fast becoming indispensable—and their wives.

After what felt like forever, the houselights went down and an announcer’s voice boomed through the auditorium, introducing the two fighters, who entered the arena from the locker rooms on opposite sides. In one spotlight, I saw Joey in his red robe and trunks. He was dragging Rock after him. Zed swaggered behind, bringing up the rear.

Grandma was standing on her chair, howling like a wolf, and Arnold was smiling and shaking hands with everyone in his vicinity.

The Detrimental Influence of Fame and the Loss of Privacy as a Result of Prosperity

The Detrimental Influence of Fame and the Loss of Privacy as a Result of Prosperity

“We’ve also gotten an offer from a national lawn fertilizer company for you to endorse their new organic mix. Who knew all poop wasn’t organic—they have plastic cows?..."

I turned back to Arnold, who was still talking.
“We’ve also gotten a call from an entrepreneur in Texas who wants to talk to you about the possibility of opening nationwide franchises.”

“What does that mean?”
“Like what you set up here with Pasqual. You lend your name to the company and they start up subdivisions of lawn care, shrub trimming, pool cleaning, sidewalk edging and garage cleaning services, from which you receive royalties and other fees.”

“Arnold. I don’t feel so well.”
“But this is groovy. Capitalism plus publicity equals monster commerce.”
“And that’s a good thing?”
“That’s a far-out, trippy thing.”

“Arnold. I don’t feel so well.”
“But this is groovy. Capitalism plus publicity equals monster commerce.”
“And that’s a good thing?”
“That’s a far-out, trippy thing.”

“Arnold. I don’t feel so well.”
“But this is groovy. Capitalism plus publicity equals monster commerce.”
“And that’s a good thing?”
“That’s a far-out, trippy thing.”

While sitting on the mower, I did some deep-breathing exercises we’d learned in gym class, until the panicky dread in my gut had subsided a little.

The Model of Capricious Development

The interview fallout picked up steam, and the next day Arnold insisted that I spend the day with him rather than working on lawns. He sent Kenny to take my place working with Pasqual and the guys.

Arnold made an offer on the building he thought I should buy to house our operations. And he hired a PR person named Kathy who answered and made and returned a lot of phone calls and then typed up itineraries for interviews and appearances.

Everyone had BlackBerrys pressed to their heads and there was a sea of cables underfoot for all the computers and printers and copiers they’d brought in. It was...well, groovy. If, of course, your definition of groovy is sensory overload.

Kathy took a bunch of pictures of me and sent Frank off to get shots of the work crews and Joey. She also took a couple of pictures of the girls waiting on the curb for me to sign autographs. “Content combined with visuals,” she explained, “makes for a captivating site.”