Percival Everett - Big Picture: Stories

The author wishes to express his gratitude to the editors of the following publications in which the stories below first appeared.

Squeeze was first published in Callaloo, Vol. 16, No. 3, 1993. Throwing Earth was first published in the Texas Review, Vol. XI, Nos. 3 & 4, 1990; and also in Thats What I Like About the South: Southern Short Fiction for the 1990s, Eds. George Garrett and Paul Ruffin, University of South Carolina Press, 1993. Turned Out (under the title Bull Does Nothing) was first published in Callaloo, Vol. 12, No. 1, 1989.

The front left wheel of the lawn mower looked like it was ready to fall off. The machines original blue was now rust red and brown and the writing on it that at one time had read WESTERN AUTO now said TERN AU. The wheel wobbled with a rhythmic squeak as the short man with the shaved spot on his head pushed the mower up the walk toward Gail and Michael. They were standing at their door, bags of groceries at their feet while Michael dug into his pockets for his keys. The man with the mower stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked up at them.

Michael looked at the man, then at Gail, then at his grass, which didnt appear to be in great need of cutting.

The man raised five fingers and pointed to the yard.

Five dollars? Michael asked.

The man nodded, then rubbed his nose while he looked away.

Michael turned to Gail, who shrugged. Michael studied the mans filthy jeans and his shirt, which appeared to be made of a fabric too heavy for the heat. Okay, he said. Five bucks.

The man didnt say anything. He turned and walked to the edge of the yard and started pulling the cord of his machines little motor.

Michael found his keys and got the door open. Inside, he and Gail set the sacks on the counter.

Are you sure that was a good idea? Gail asked, putting the milk into the refrigerator.

Its five dollars, Michael said.

I dont mean the money.

Michael sat at the table and watched as Gail put away a few things. I think its okay. He paused to listen to the motor outside. The grass doesnt really need to be mowed, so what can he mess up?

I dont mean that either, Gail said. She opened a new bottle of cranberry juice and poured a glass. What if he sees us as a soft touch?

We are a soft touch. Michael stood and walked to the window. It must be ninety degrees out there and hes wearing a wool shirt.

He can take it off if he wants, Gail said.

Well, hes not doing it. Hes sweating like crazy out there. What if he has a heat stroke while hes working for us? Michael considered that.

What is it? Gail asked.

Im going to give him one of my T-shirts. He went upstairs and into their bedroom. He pulled a light blue shirt from the shelf in the closet. The letters UNC were faded. He took the shirt back to the kitchen. Gail was still putting food away.

Youre not serious, she said.

If he keels over, we could be liable.

Gail paused. I suppose.

Im going to ask him to change into this. The sun was slicing into his back as Michael walked out the back door and across the yard toward the man. He waved to him when a few yards away. The man stopped pushing the mower and watched Michael approach. He didnt turn off the machine. I brought you this shirt, Michael said loudly.

The man looked at it, but didnt seem to understand.

Michael pointed to the mans soaked wool garment and then held the T-shirt out to him. The man nodded and unbuttoned what he was wearing. He took it off, handed it to Michael, and took the T-shirt. The wool was indeed soaked and Michael felt uncomfortable holding it. The man pulled the light blue shirt over his head, his hair wet from perspiration, and down over his soft, glistening belly. He nodded a thank you and went back to pushing the machine. Michael walked back to the house, and draped the wet shirt over the railing of the steps. Inside, he walked to the sink and washed his hands.

Gail was peering out the window over the sink. I see he put it on.

Michael dried his hands with a couple of paper towels. Yeah. He was sweating like a pig. Its unbelievable out there.

He asked to do it, Gail said. Do you think he cant talk?

Michael shrugged. You know, thats a big job for only five dollars.

Hes the one who asked for it, Gail said.

Yeah, but its sweltering out there. Itll take him a couple of hours. Hell use a bucks worth of gas at least. So, hes doing it for four dollars.

Have you ever heard the term bleeding heart?

Tell me it doesnt bother you, Michael said.

Of course it bothers me. Gail sat at the table with him. But I am glad you didnt bring that shirt in here.

Thats something else that bothered me. Michael leaned his head back and blew out a breath. I was really uncomfortable handling that thing after hed been wearing it.

Who wouldnt be? Gail laughed. Its soaked with sweat and who knows what else.

I know, but still

A couple of hours went by and there was a knock at the door. Michael found the man standing there, his lawn mower at the bottom of the steps. He had his wool shirt back on, but it was not buttoned. His chest hair was shining with sweat and moisture sat in the cracks of his belly. He held the blue T-shirt by his side.

All done? Michael asked.

The man nodded.

Michael put his hand in his pocket. Do you live around here?

Another nod.

Which way?

He pointed up the streeet toward the busy avenue.

Michael handed the man his money. Heres ten dollars. It was a bigger job than I thought at first.

The man looked at the ten, then fished a five out of his pocket and pushed it toward Michael.

No, its all for you, Michael said.

But the man shoved the five at him again. Michael felt obliged to take it and did. The man then handed Michael the sweaty, light blue T-shirt. Michael took it, and his fingers touched the slick, salty water from the mans body. He closed his hand around it and looked at the yard.

You did a fine job. Thank you.

The man stepped back down the steps, grabbed the handle of his mower, and walked away up the street.

Michael closed the door and felt the air conditioner switch on and pump coolness at him from above. He went into the back room and put the UNC T-shirt on top of the washing machine. While he was standing at the kitchen sink lathering up his hands Gail came in.

So, how much did you pay him? she asked.

Five dollars, he said, tearing off a couple of towels from the roll.

Im impressed.

I tried to give him a ten, but he gave me change. Still didnt say a word.

I wonder if he can hear, Gail said.

Dont know.

Ill bet he reads lips. And Ill bet thats how he can stand out there with that noisy machine for hours.

Possibly.

Whats wrong? Gail asked.

Nothing. Michael opened the refrigerator and just stared inside. Its really hot out there. You think he has a place to live?

Who knows, Gail said. Hand me a diet cola.

Michael grabbed a can and gave it to her. Opening the can she cut her finger and shook it in the air. She took a swallow. So, whos going to cook? she asked.

I will.

That was easy. Ill help.

Later that night, after dinner, Gail was watching television and nursing another diet soda. She sat in the overstuffed chair with her legs folded under her. Michael passed through on his way to the bookshelf against the far wall.

Theyre talking about the suicides at the Golden Gate Bridge, she said, referring to the program on the television. This guy is supposedly an expert on suicide. She laughed. How can you be an expert on suicide and still be alive?