River City Blues: Part III

River City Blues – Part III

3. Lawn Jockey

My father was a big believer in cottage industry, so while other kids spent their summers gorging on Twinkies in front of flashing TV screens as they played video games, or watching the girls in their bikinis at the beach, I pushed a cheap lawnmower up overgrown hills.

Most kids who mow lawns mow a couple a week—maybe their own and their grandparents’, maybe a neighbor or two. My father had me on a schedule of two to three lawns a day. He rigged up a trailer for my bike so I could haul the lawnmower around the neighborhood. Most of the lawns were owned by coworkers of his or people he odd-jobbed for. Some of them had kids, and at one or two places I would find myself watching classmates of mine lounging by their pools while I pushed the sputtering piece-of-crap lawnmower around their lawn.

The thing would break down every few days because it was the cheapest model you could buy, and Dad had bought it used, but the first thing he’d done was teach me how to take the thing apart and clean and fix most of it. Sometimes I’d be peddling down the street and see some kid with his mower flipped upside down, and I’d stop and help him fix his.

Summers in Memphis were close and damp. The river would drop a few feet, but the water wouldn’t go away; it would get sucked up into the air and spill out onto your forehead, your back. I must’ve worn half the Mississippi River on my shirt during those summers.

It had its perks, though. Dad made me save half the money I made, and he made me pay for school clothes with some of what remained, but about a quarter of it, he let me do with what I pleased.

“I want you to get hooked on a good income,” he said, “so you’ll know what work is for.”

So, even though Dad was too cheap to buy me much of anything, and my friends would make fun of me for having to work all the time, whenever a new video game came out, or a comic book, or whatever, and they couldn’t afford it, I usually could. And while I watched my classmates grow fat and lazy because of summer indolence, I stayed healthy and upbeat.

It was hard work, but there were other perks. Sometimes, on particularly hot days, after I mowed a lawn, the woman of the house would invite me in for lemonade or tea and cookies. Sometimes, they felt sorry for me, but as I grew older, I realized that they just wanted to talk. Their children would often be off at someone else’s house, and their husbands would be working. It didn’t really matter what I talked about, except video games. Their eyes would start to glaze over if I talked about video games. Mostly, at first, they wanted to talk about their kids, then they wanted to talk about me, then they wanted to talk about ‘how old I was getting,’ and ‘didn’t I get lonely out there, mowing lawns all summer, while other kids were playing.’ They didn’t mean that a bit, though; they wished their own kids were out there instead of me. I wished it too.

It usually took a couple times of me mowing their lawns and us talking before they’d get to what they really wanted to talk about: themselves. I’m not saying they were self-obsessed or anything, but mostly these women didn’t have much of a chance to talk about themselves. They’d sit in jogging pants that had never been worn jogging, in spotless kitchens, and talk about art exhibitions they wanted to see, but probably never would; they’d talk about places they wanted to go, but couldn’t afford.

Don’t get me wrong, every time one of them asked me inside, I thought she was going to jump my bones, but contrary to what pornography and my own fantasies would have me believe, middle-aged housewives aren’t that attracted to 15 year old boys dripping sweat and covered in grass clippings. I would try not to stare at their cleavage, and every so often one of them would give me a knowing smile that would make me shrink in my chair and blush for days, but that’s as far as it went. Sometimes, I’d watch them putter around the yard as I mowed. I tried to tell myself they were watching me the way I watched them. Ostensibly, they’d be weeding a flowerbed or cleaning something, but really they were watching to make sure I did a good job.

One woman, Mrs. Wilkens, lived about 8 blocks down from us. She liked to strut around in her bathing suit while I worked and complain about the guy who cleaned her pool. She was blonde and full-bodied with hefty breasts and creamy skin. Her legs were amazing—to this day, I can barely think of a more attractive woman.

I offered to clean her pool for her. It was easy work; I hardly broke a sweat. I’d skim the surface of the water, getting out the leaves and trash, and Mrs. Wilkens would strut out and lie down on a chair by the water with just the barest strips of cloth covering her. She’d arch her back and wiggle around to get comfortable and I’d drop the leaf skimmer.

“Adam,” she’d say, “can you come over here with me, and put some sunscreen on my back?”

I’d be there before she finished the sentence. I’d gather her hair, which smelled like flowers, and put it to the side, untie the strap of her bikini, and massage the cream into her back and shoulders. She’d make little noises of gratification.

“You have beautiful skin, Mrs. Wilkens,” I said, the first time.

“Thank you, Adam,” she said, “Call me Betsy.”

If it were possible for a person to lose his virginity without actually having sex, that would’ve done it for me.

It went like that for a couple weeks, her, perfect, sipping highballs and gin and tonics, me, in loose shorts. I laid awake at night, thinking about her.

I even asked Ms. Sandee for advice. “If you want to get someone to like you,” she said.

“Be honest and be yourself. And if that doesn’t work, it wasn’t meant to be.”

Finally, the next time Betsy asked me to rub suntan lotion on her back, I told her how I

felt. She was lying on her back, moaning as I rubbed the lotion on her skin. “Mrs. Wilkens. Betsy,” I said. “I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known”

She sat up, then. Her bikini slipped down and she pulled it up. She eyed me for a long moment. “Thank you, Adam,” she said. “I think you’re a handsome young man.”

She smiled and I leaned in to kiss her, but I lost my balance and fell on top of her instead. She made an “oof” sound, and I tried to get up, but she was slick from sunscreen, so it took me a second. She laughed the whole time. When I finally extricated myself, I could tell that the moment had passed.

After that, things changed between us. She didn’t hang out at the pool and ask me to rub lotion on her anymore, but instead, we’d talk.

“Do you know how to mix a highball?” she asked, one day. When I said that I didn’t, she took me inside and showed me. She taught me how to mix several kinds of drinks. I hardly touched the pool, anymore. I’d come over, mix drinks for Betsy, and we’d talk about world events or whatever. She taught me how to cook. She was a brilliant cook, but she had problems keeping track of what she was doing—she’d forget what she was making, or at which step in the preparation she was. I started passing up other jobs, or rushing through them, just to get to Betsy’s house. Sometimes, I’d knock and she’d just yell for me to open the door. She’d be sitting on the couch with a drink. She’d stay there and we’d just talk.

Her husband was never around. Her son was off at camp for the summer. Sometimes, she’d ask me to help her to her bedroom or the bathroom. I know it sounds naïve, but it really took me a few weeks before I realized what was really going on.

C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on Troubadour21