Job 5: It's greener
Long Island used to be the land of fishermen and potato farms. There are still a few fisherman, but most of the potato farms went the way of the telegraph or have been converted into sod farms. Long Islanders love their grass, and god forbid they wait for seed to germinate. This great love of lawn creates a need for people to mow them. Fortunately for the lazy and wealthy, Long Island has an abundance of Latin Americans and pot head teenagers.
The summer after my career in pianos ended my next door neighbor was looking for an additional crewman for his landscape company. He had no potheads or Latinos on his crew, so I felt obligated to help him.
Landscaping isn't a bad gig. It's hard work, but you're outside, and it pays well. Frank, my boss and the F in F.P.D, paid in cash. He informed me how this benefited me, because I would not have to pay taxes. I thought it was a great idea at the time. Sure, I didn't get insurance, workmans comp, or any benefits whatsoever, but it was like making another .75 ¢ an hour. How could I refuse.
We mowed acres and acres of grass. The sun would beat down on my back turning it dark brown and leaving my underbelly a much lighter shade. By the end of the summer I resembled a frosted mini wheat. Sometimes we would stand around with the leaf blowers on our backs. They can sound like honey bees on steroids from a distance. We would adjust the throttles so the blowers would whine in tune, and then slowly oscillate them a little out of tune and then back again. It sounded like a satanic version of The Flight of the Bumble Bee.
The rest of the crew were Franky's highschool buddies, and they had very little of what was required to be a landscaper. They were white, and did not smoke pot. They were the type of guys that would turn up the radio when Billy Joel was playing. They talked mainly about beer and girls. Every monday morning I would hear about their sexual exploits from the weekend, or how so and so puked in the back of their dad's Caddie. They had names like Tony, Franky, Bobby, Al and Tony. They were big, and what they lacked in smarts they made up for in muscle. Landscaping was a way for them to get beer money, or to make payments on their IROC-Z28s. I like to refer to them as the yo-yos. "Yo Frank, wheres you want me to put this mowa," Tony would exclaimed while untangling his gold chain from his chest hair. "Yo Mark, when you gonna cut your fringin' hai, you look like a fuckin' freak," Al said lovingly as we drove to the local dump. Good times.
