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A Cape Cod with London

carview.php?tsp= — “The Ex-Executive Assistant” is a separate story from “Lawn Clippings.” It’s about a young man who loses his job and his girlfriend — both on the same day. Installments will be published as a limited series, after which posts specific to “Lawn Clippings” will resume.

Recap: When we last met Lyle, he had just come home from losing his job to discover his girlfriend, Annabelle, in bed with his best friend, Brent. After chasing Brent out of the apartment (Spiderman underwear and all), Lyle decides to go downstairs to the neighborhood bar.

Lyle walked from his apartment complex to the shopping center next door. He aimed straight for the Silver Tavern, his favorite after-hours (and now, during-normal-business-hours) hangout.

The place was small, dim and musty, with wood finishing on the walls and neon signs casting rainbow colors across the darkness. A big-screen TV blared from one wall, while pool tables clacked along the other. It was a community man cave: a hub of rugged masculinity where men could loaf around, throw back a few drinks and discuss manly subjects with their manly brethren (when their wives and girlfriends let them, that is).

Except for a couple of older guys in a corner, the bar was deserted. Lyle sauntered inside and perched himself upon a stool at the center of the bar.

“Hey, Charlie,” he said to the mustached man behind the counter. “Get me the usual, will you? In fact, bring me two of the usual to get started. I don’t usually start with two, but I had an unusually hard morning.”

“Sure thing,” Charlie said. “What can I get you?”

Lyle looked at him, blinking. “What else? The usual.”

Charlie looked back at him, unblinking. “And what might that be?”

“You mean you don’t know by now?” Lyle asked, frowning. “I come in here at least a few times a week. I’m always here on Friday nights. I live right here in the neighborhood.”

Charlie shrugged. “Sorry, I wouldn’t know. I commute from Sparks … and I stopped working Fridays.”

Lyle glared. “I thought this was one of those places where everyone’s supposed to know your name?”

Three Is A Complicated Number

Recap: In the last chapter, Lyle came home after losing his job as an executive-assistant to find his girlfriend, Annabelle, in the kitchen with no pants. When he saw that the bedroom door was closed, his suspicion got the better of him….

Lyle turned the knob and flung open the door. His best friend, Brent, sat in his underwear atop the unmade bed, the tattered sheets bunched up around him.

“Hey, buddy!” Brent said. He tried to grin, but it came out as more of a grimace. “I know what you’re thinking, and let me assure you, this is not what it looks like.”

“Brent, don’t even try,” Annabelle said. “Lyle’s not stupid. This is exactly what it looks like, and you know it.”

“Yeah,” Lyle said. “And besides, I’m a trained journalist. There’s no escaping my laser-like intuition.”

He turned to Annabelle, who had cautiously approached from behind and now stood beside him in the doorway. “My best friend? Really?”

Annabelle shrugged, looking at the floor. “I don’t know what to say, Lyle. I’m so sorry.”

Brent coughed, gently. “If it means anything, we didn’t want you to get hurt. That’s why we kept this from you for as long as possible.”

“Oh, is that why?” Lyle asked, crossing his arms and frowning.

“It’s true,” Brent said. “You got to believe me. Annabelle and I want nothing but the best for you.”

“It’s nice of you two to put my feelings first.”

“He’s telling the truth, Lyle,” Annabelle said. “None of this was planned. It just sort of happened. One thing led to another, and before we knew it, we were … involved.”

Lyle raised an eyebrow. “So you’re together? Just like that?”

“Not ‘just like that,’” Brent said. “Our relationship developed over a period of months. Isn’t that right, Annabelle?”

“Brent.” Annabelle shook her head. “You’re not helping.”

The Ex-Executive Assistant

Monday morning, ten-thirty. Lyle opened the door to his one-bedroom apartment just as his girlfriend, Annabelle, was emerging from the kitchen wearing only a T-shirt and underwear.

“Oh my god!” Annabelle screamed, jumping backward.

“Oh my god!” Lyle screamed, jumping backward.

Annabelle pulled her t-shirt to her knees. “What are you doing here?”

Lyle stood in the doorway, frowning. “Me? What are you doing here?”

Annabelle looked at him, her mouth open. Finally, she said, “I asked you first.”

“I lost my job.”

“You lost your job?”

“I lost my job. Melinda called me into her office this morning, said my position had been eliminated. It was an across-the-board, 30 percent reduction in staff.”

Annabelle’s mouth dropped open. “They eliminated 30 percent of their workers?”

“Yep. And of that 30 percent, only 5 percent were given the option of accepting a lower-paying position in another department. The odds weren’t in my favor.”

Announcing ‘The Ex-Executive Assistant,’ a limited series

Jan. 26 – March 30

A new Lawn Clippings will be posted April 1 (No fooling.)

A mental-health day

It was early in the morning. Francisco and I were in the shop, loading tools into the trailer, when Crew Leader Carl approached us.

“Stan’s not coming in today,” he said.

“Let me guess,” I said, laying a couple of turf rakes next to the ride-on mower. “He’s stressed out from all the lawns he’s had to mow lately, and he needs a mental-health day?”

Francisco frowned. “Why would he be stressed out from mowing lawns?”

“Because mowing lawns is like delivering the mail,” I said. “No matter how hard you work, there’s always more. You’re never done. It’s this never-ending, purgatory-like nightmare where you’re living out the same soul-crushing routine day after day after day. It gets to the point where you hear lawnmowers in your sleep, and every time you close your eyes, you see millions of tiny lawn clippings fluttering down like snowflakes. It’s horrific. I wouldn’t wish it on anybody.”

“Wow.” Francisco rubbed his neck. “Now I’m wondering if I need a mental-health day.”

The toilet-paper shortage

My Aunt Sharon and I were at my 91-year-old grandfather’s house for dinner. Currently, we were all in the living room. I was sitting erect in an uncomfortable, antique chair, and Grandpa and Sharon were sitting together on the couch. A scattered mess of papers lay on the coffee table before them.

“Are those my college assignments?” I asked, placing my palms on my legs and leaning forward.

“Yep.” Aunt Sharon picked up a term paper, tapping the large “A” written on it in red ink. “We were admiring it before you got here.”

I looked at Grandpa, frowning. “How in the world did you get my college assignments?”

“I didn’t steal them!” he said, taking a large sip from his sloshing goblet of wine.

“Are you sure?” I asked, tilting my head. “Because you sounded almost guilty just now. That was sort of an inexplicable, knee-jerk declaration of denial — don’t you think?”

He waved at me dismissively. “Your parents asked me if they could store some things here before they moved away to Florida.”

Confronting the real world

It was early in the evening, and I was at my 91-year-old grandfather’s house for dinner. My Aunt Sharon had been invited, too.

Currently, we were all sitting in the sunken living room. I was perched on a hard, scratchy antique chair. My arms were planted firmly on the rests, and my spine was pressed rigidly against the back. All I needed was a set of manacles and a shroud, and I would have looked like a condemned man. (Well, more so than I already was, having to eat dinner at my grandpa’s and all.)

My grandpa and Aunt Sharon were sitting on the couch across from me. Each was holding a heaping goblet of red wine, and a mess of papers was spread out on the coffee table before them.

“Did you get a drink, Peter?” my grandpa asked.

“Not yet,” I said. “I’ll pour myself a club soda with dinner.”

“You might as well pour it now. We haven’t ordered dinner yet.”

“We’re ordering in?” I asked.

“Well, who do I look like to you?” Grandpa asked. “Emeril Lagasse? I’m 91 years old! I’m not going to my spend my winter years chopping and cutting and standing over a hot stove!”

Short-tempered bellows

It was early evening when I arrived at my grandpa’s house for dinner. He lived in a ritzy, palatial McMansion nestled in a luxurious golf-course community.

I made sure to park at the curb, so that my beat-up old car wouldn’t drip oil on my grandpa’s driveway. A faint stain still remained from my last visit (as well as a faint bruise on my right arm, from when my grandpa had violently assaulted me with his cane).

As I skulked up the walkway, I noticed that my Aunt Sharon’s brand-new BMW was parked in front of the garage. Apparently, she’d been invited to dinner, as well.

I skipped up the steep staircase, which was flanked by two marble columns, and crossed the sprawling front porch to the double front doors. Thick ivy spiraled around the columns and curtained the front wall.

I rang the doorbell and took a step backward, clasping my hands behind my back and humming the Scooby Doo theme to myself while I waited.

Nobody answered.

Owning a dragon

It was just after dawn, with a tiny sliver of sunlight peeking over the horizon. I was out in the company yard, shoveling powdery gravel into a rusted trailer.

“Hey, Pete!”

I kept working, with clouds of dust billowing around me.

“Hey, Pete! Petey!”

I continued to shovel, not looking up.

“Hey!” Santiago from the construction crew approached me from behind, tapping me on the shoulder. He coughed, waving away the dust.

I set down my shovel and turned around, smiling politely. “Yes?”

Establishing priorities

We were working in a shabby, overgrown yard in an older neighborhood. While Stan pushed a mower up and down the small, square patch of lawn out front, I was using loppers to trim back a ragtag clump of bushes.

As I snipped away, happily humming the Sesame Street theme song to myself, Crew Leader Carl came tromping around the corner from the backyard.

“Hey, Peter,” he said. “I need you to stop what you’re doing and go to the truck and get a rake and a shovel and a trashcan and head to the backyard and start gathering up all the wet leaves that have piled up near the deck and haul them away to the trailer and dump them in with the lawn clippings. Got it?”

“Um … OK, Cormac McCarthy,” I said, putting down my loppers. “How’s that extra cup of coffee treating you this morning?”

About the Site

Meet Peter, a recent college graduate with a journalism degree. Unable to find a job in his chosen field, he accepts a laborer position on a lawn-care crew, where his book smarts are put to use pushing lawnmowers and pulling weeds.

Stuck in a dead-end job with a deadbeat boss, Peter’s life has become a minimum-wage purgatory. Overeducated and underemployed, all he can do is keep a shovel in his hand and a smile on his face — all while daydreaming of a job that provides air conditioning.

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