cheap, or free, I donât remember which.
Atlantaâs exurbs were exploding with zillions of housing developments, and we landed jobs on a landscaping crew that sodded fresh lawns at new houses that cost $70,000, $40,000, sometimes less. Around those still-unpopulated subdivisions it was just construction guys and us. The guy who ran our crew, Merritt, moved slowly and didnât talk much. He had red-brown hair, a full beard, ruddy skin from spending so much time in the sun, and the kind of physical presence that makes people say âa mountain of a manâ: at least six four, and while he was well over three hundred pounds, easy, his build wouldnât have looked fat if heâd weighed two-fifty. He insisted on steak for lunch every day, at whichever chain restaurant was closest. You could definitely picture Merritt in a pair of extra-extra-large overalls, but he wore a polo shirt with a collar every day, and this detail gave him a certain authority. The only physical work Merritt did was driving his tractor, and each day we followed behind it, raking out the stones and smoothing the broken sunbaked red clay dirt. When the ground was ready, you picked up coils of sod and rolled them out to form a tight carpet of new grass; dark gray sandlike soil drizzled onto your shorts and shirt as you did. There was a trick, using a shovel, to chomp down on adjoining sod strips so theyâd grow together to form an instalawn. Then you turned on sprinklers and moved on to the next house. Or, after plowing and raking, youâd strap something resembling a large flour sifter to your chest like an infant in a harness, then turn a crank to fling grass seed over the newly turned dirt. Afterward you spread wheat straw over the seed. I once asked Larry, a taciturn and tight-lipped man who appeared to be Merrittâs right-hand man, what the wheat straw did. He said it helped fertilize what we laid down. âLike with a man and a woman,â he said, and cracked a rare grin at his jokeâunnaturally, like someone twisted his arm to force it out of him. When he did, I saw a mouth full of empty space and tiny rotting teeth. I understood then why I never saw him smile.
I learned to be Southern on that job, if being Southern means moving slowly in the sun, and during those long, steamy days it was easy to drift off while we hauled sod or dug holes and think about riffs and songs and the next round of shows. Sometimes a summer falls into an easy, simple rhythm. I ate cereal for breakfast and fast food for lunch and dinner. I learned why drinking Coke for breakfast was a thing in the South, because when we awoke at seven for a day of working outdoors, it was already 93 degrees and hot coffee sounded like a bad joke. We woke, drove, worked. We practiced at Jhymnâs and afterward went to Krispy Kremeâthen a novelty found in only a few statesâand suffered intense sugar rushes and crashes from splitting a dozen hot doughnuts chased with water because we didnât want to spend money on milk. We didnât make new friends. We didnât go to any shows after the one we saw at Jhymnâs loft. We called clubs from pay phones during our lunch break, trying to line up gigs. I found Wuxtry, the one good record store near where we lived, where I bought the first two records by the growling, grimy, and hazy-sounding Australian trio feedtime, which I still listen to. I slept deeply each night, exhausted from all the work in the sun.
Practicing was all we really needed. A few evenings each week we rolled up to Jhymnâs un-air-conditioned loft as a dirty summer sun set slowly over the deserted downtown and pleasantly streamed through the front window while we played. The evenings were still so hot that you sweated just walking up the one flight of creaky wooden stairs, so we stripped off our shirts upon arriving before switching on fans and dragging our gear out from the alcoves and niches where weâd
Atlantaâs exurbs were exploding with zillions of housing developments, and we landed jobs on a landscaping crew that sodded fresh lawns at new houses that cost $70,000, $40,000, sometimes less. Around those still-unpopulated subdivisions it was just construction guys and us. The guy who ran our crew, Merritt, moved slowly and didnât talk much. He had red-brown hair, a full beard, ruddy skin from spending so much time in the sun, and the kind of physical presence that makes people say âa mountain of a manâ: at least six four, and while he was well over three hundred pounds, easy, his build wouldnât have looked fat if heâd weighed two-fifty. He insisted on steak for lunch every day, at whichever chain restaurant was closest. You could definitely picture Merritt in a pair of extra-extra-large overalls, but he wore a polo shirt with a collar every day, and this detail gave him a certain authority. The only physical work Merritt did was driving his tractor, and each day we followed behind it, raking out the stones and smoothing the broken sunbaked red clay dirt. When the ground was ready, you picked up coils of sod and rolled them out to form a tight carpet of new grass; dark gray sandlike soil drizzled onto your shorts and shirt as you did. There was a trick, using a shovel, to chomp down on adjoining sod strips so theyâd grow together to form an instalawn. Then you turned on sprinklers and moved on to the next house. Or, after plowing and raking, youâd strap something resembling a large flour sifter to your chest like an infant in a harness, then turn a crank to fling grass seed over the newly turned dirt. Afterward you spread wheat straw over the seed. I once asked Larry, a taciturn and tight-lipped man who appeared to be Merrittâs right-hand man, what the wheat straw did. He said it helped fertilize what we laid down. âLike with a man and a woman,â he said, and cracked a rare grin at his jokeâunnaturally, like someone twisted his arm to force it out of him. When he did, I saw a mouth full of empty space and tiny rotting teeth. I understood then why I never saw him smile.
I learned to be Southern on that job, if being Southern means moving slowly in the sun, and during those long, steamy days it was easy to drift off while we hauled sod or dug holes and think about riffs and songs and the next round of shows. Sometimes a summer falls into an easy, simple rhythm. I ate cereal for breakfast and fast food for lunch and dinner. I learned why drinking Coke for breakfast was a thing in the South, because when we awoke at seven for a day of working outdoors, it was already 93 degrees and hot coffee sounded like a bad joke. We woke, drove, worked. We practiced at Jhymnâs and afterward went to Krispy Kremeâthen a novelty found in only a few statesâand suffered intense sugar rushes and crashes from splitting a dozen hot doughnuts chased with water because we didnât want to spend money on milk. We didnât make new friends. We didnât go to any shows after the one we saw at Jhymnâs loft. We called clubs from pay phones during our lunch break, trying to line up gigs. I found Wuxtry, the one good record store near where we lived, where I bought the first two records by the growling, grimy, and hazy-sounding Australian trio feedtime, which I still listen to. I slept deeply each night, exhausted from all the work in the sun.
Practicing was all we really needed. A few evenings each week we rolled up to Jhymnâs un-air-conditioned loft as a dirty summer sun set slowly over the deserted downtown and pleasantly streamed through the front window while we played. The evenings were still so hot that you sweated just walking up the one flight of creaky wooden stairs, so we stripped off our shirts upon arriving before switching on fans and dragging our gear out from the alcoves and niches where weâd
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