The Husband

Planting purple impatiens, Mitch said, “How would you know? You ever asked a lion?”

“I don’t have to ask one. I am a lion.”

“You’re a hopeless boardhead.”

“And proud of it. I’m glad you found Holly. She’s a great lady. But I’ve got my freedom.”

“Good for you, Iggy. And what do you do with it?”

“Do with what?”

“Your freedom. What do you do with your freedom?”

“Anything I want.”

“Like, for example?”

“Anything. Like, if I want sausage pizza for dinner, I don’t have to ask anyone what she wants.”

“Radical.”

“If I want to go to Rolling Thunder for a few beers, there’s nobody to bitch at me.”

“Holly doesn’t bitch.”

“I can get beer-slammed every night if I want, and nobody’s gonna be calling to ask when am I coming home.”

Mitch began to whistle “Born Free.”

“Some wahine comes on to me,” Iggy said, “I’m free to rock and roll.”

“They’re coming on to you all the time—are they?—those sexy wahines?”

“Women are bold these days, boss. They see what they want, they just take it.”

Mitch said, “Iggy, the last time you got laid, John Kerry thought he was going to be president.”

“That’s not so long ago.”

“So what happened to Ralph?”

“Ralph who?”

“Mickey Gandhi’s brother.”

“Oh, yeah. An iguana bit off his nose.”

“Nasty.”

“Some fully macking ten-footers were breaking, so Ralph and some guys went night-riding at the Wedge.”

The Wedge was a famous surfing spot at the end of the Balboa Peninsula, in Newport Beach.

Iggy said, “They packed coolers full of submarine sandwiches and beer, and one of them brought Ming.”

“Ming?”

“That’s the iguana.”

“So it was a pet?”

“Ming, he’d always been sweet before.”

“I’d expect iguanas to be moody.”

“No, they’re affectionate. What happened was some wanker, not even a surfer, just a wannabe tag-along, slipped Ming a quarter-dose of meth in a piece of salami.”

“Reptiles on speed,” Mitch said, “is a bad idea.”

“Meth Ming was a whole different animal from clean-and-sober Ming,” Iggy confirmed.

Putting down his trowel, sitting back on the heels of his work shoes, Mitch said, “So now Ralph Gandhi is noseless?”

“Ming didn’t eat the nose. He just bit it off and spit it out.”

“Maybe he didn’t like Indian food.”

“They had a big cooler full of ice water and beer. They put the nose in the cooler and rushed it to the hospital.”

“Did they take Ralph, too?”

“They had to take Ralph. It was his nose.”

“Well,” Mitch said, “we are talking about board-heads.”

“They said it was kinda blue when they fished it out of the ice water, but a plastic surgeon sewed it back on, and now it’s not blue anymore.”

“What happened to Ming?”

“He crashed. He was totally amped-out for a day. Now he’s his old self.”

“That’s good. It’s probably hard to find a clinic that’ll do iguana rehab.”

Mitch got to his feet and retrieved three dozen empty plastic plant pots. He carried them to his extended-bed pickup.

The truck stood at the curb, in the shade of an Indian laurel. Although the neighborhood had been built-out only five years earlier, the big tree had already lifted the sidewalk. Eventually the insistent roots would block lawn drains and invade the sewer system.

The developer’s decision to save one hundred dollars by not installing a root barrier would produce tens of thousands in repair work for plumbers, landscapers, and concrete contractors.