Page 8 of Behind the Lights

Mary wasn’t lying, not that she ever had, but the following Saturday she got Ricky and I out of bed early. After we ate breakfast, she grabbed the key to the shed out back off the hook by the door and led us outside.

“In here is everything you’ll need. Lawn mower, weed eater, waste bags, rakes, and shovels.” She pulled the mower out and proceeded to show us how to start it and how to operate the weed eater. “While one of you mows, the other edges with the weed eater. When the bag on the mower gets full, you take if off like so, dump it into the waste bag, and get back to work. Put the bags in the big trash bin at the side of the house when it’s full. Now, get to work,” Mary ordered before storming off.

An hour later we were covered in sweat, grass, and who knows what else and bitching like mad. Mary brought us each out a bottle of water and sure enough when we’d finished her yard, she fed us lunch before sending us over to my house to get our yard cleaned up. By late afternoon, we were done, tired and beyond cranky so we both went to our respective homes, showered and went straight to bed. We didn’t talk again until the next day.

When I woke the next morning, I came downstairs and found my dad sitting at the kitchen table thumbing through the Sunday paper. I grabbed a pop tart from the cupboard and poured a glass of milk.

“Did you have anything to do with our yard getting cleaned up?” he asked from behind the newspaper.

“Um, yeah. Ricky and I thought we’d help out a little more.” I bit my lip to keep from blurting out the truth. I hated lying, on any level, but chose to think of this one as a positive omission of truth since it helped my dad out. Not that there really was such a thing as a good lie…

“Well you boys did a great job, and I appreciate the help. So thank you,” he said.

“No problem, dad.” I leaned against the counter, inhaling my pop tart.

A couple weekends later, Ricky’s mom took us to see Uncle John’s band play at the farmer’s market. She called it, “Time off for good behavior.” They weren’t too bad, and even played some Ozzy and Jimi Hendrix so we at least knew a couple of the songs. Afterwards, she let Ricky and I walk around unsupervised to check it out. We got a couple of cones from the shaved ice cart before heading back to where the band was set up. They were breaking down their equipment, but off to the side we spotted Ricky’s mom talking to their guitar player.

Uncle John eyed us walking up and took us over to meet his band mates. One by one we shook hands as Ricky’s mom and the guitar player joined us.

“Hey guys,” his mom asked, “did you have fun?”

“It was pretty cool,” Ricky told her.

“This is Brett,” she said before turning back to face him, “Brett this is my son Ricky and his friend Joey.”

When we shook hands he asked, “You guys into music?”

“Yeah,” we both replied.

“What kind do you listen to?” Brett prodded.

“Rock, mostly metal,” Ricky answered.

“Which bands are your favorites?” his inquiry pursued.

“Uh, Korn, Slipknot.” I fidgeted with the hem of my shirt, answering him.

“Old Metallica, Disturbed, Marilyn Manson,” Ricky added to the list.

“Nice, you guys like it a little harder than we played today.” He smiled.

We nodded, ready to head out having already seen all we cared to see at this point.

Sensing our boredom, his mom suggested, “Why don’t you boys go on ahead to the car? I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.” She handed Ricky the keys.

We didn’t need to be told twice, hollering over our retreating shoulders, “Nice to meet you,” as we raced each other toward the parking lot yelling, “Shotgun!”

On the car ride home, we bantered back and forth about our favorite bands.

“We sooo have to go to Ozzfest this year,” I said, banging my hands on my lap to the beat of the song playing on the radio.

“Yeah, Korn, Marilyn Manson, Disturbed. It’s gonna be sick,” Ricky excitedly added.

“I’m not sure about that guys,” Mary jumped in, bursting our bubbles. “I’ve heard pretty bad things about some of those groups and what goes on at their shows.”

“Mom come on,” Ricky pleaded with her. “We’re almost thirteen. The kids we go to school with go to concerts all the time.” He plopped his head heavily against the headrest, scowling and crossing his arms over his chest in protest.

“Dude,” I leaned forward, whispering, “pouting like a two-year-old won’t win you any points with your mom.” I caught Mary’s reflection in the rear-view mirror. She winked at me.Crap, I thought I’d said that low enough that she wouldn’t hear me.

---