Thursday, June 15, 2006

The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future in

Lawn Maintenance

Oh, hi kid--look, I know I promised to pay you on Saturday but I forgot the alimony had gone up after the court... oh--you're not here about the lawn? Ahh--well, I guess since you already kind of do the whole lawn thing, it makes sense. Let me see...

You'll quickly realize that your future in this business depends on first distinguishing yourself from the generic gardening and yard maintenance guys--you will be all about lawns, and nothing else. You'll get a truck with one of those ramp things, and a set of good mowers and you're on your way. You'll need a cell phone to run your business--the voicemail will have a recording that makes it clear you only do lawns so you don't have to bother mocking the idiot who still asks if you prune trees.

One problem with your job will be the lack of sick days. You may think since you're self-employed you can just take a day or two off whenever you want, but once you have that schedule in place, the folks in the rich neighborhoods won't care if your mother died or your mower shot a piece of glass into your leg; if the lawn starts looking a little shabby, they'll call the next guy in the phone book, and you can't afford that.

There won't be a big profit margin in the cutting--too much competition like there is in all unskilled, cheap-startup businesses. You need an edge, so you'll buy one of those spray-on grass planting systems, and add the top of the line aerator and a heavy-duty power rake. Of course, with more gear, you'll need a trailer and a bigger truck, but if you're credit rating's okay you may be able to manage that.

Even with the new gear, you still won't feel secure nor will the profits soar. You scrape together the fee to attend a convention in Kentucky run by a sod sales company, and there you get the advice that will take you to the next level: snob appeal.

The good clients are the ones in the privileged neighborhoods where elegant homes are surrounded by beautifully-manicured lawns spread across five-acre lots. The logo on your truck--a cartoon of a hayseed hillbilly chewing on a piece of grass in a straw hat while he pushes a lawn mower towards a pile of dog crap--just doesn't appeal to this clientele. You lose the logo, change your business name from "Terry the Turf Man" to "St. Alban's Green Maintenance", and you're on your way to becoming a regular fixture in neighborhoods where your leaf blower is outlawed due to noise regulations.

It goes well, and within a few months you're confident enough about the future to buy another truck and hire someone cheap--probably an illegal or a high school kid. You dream of a time when you can have a fleet of trucks and you won't actually have to cut the lawns yourself.

Sadly, the good times won't pan out. One night you'll get behind schedule--maybe a flat tire or a problem with a mower--and you'll cruise up to the bank manager's house later than usual. Normally, there's no one home, but since it's late, he's home from work and you spot him lounging beside his pool, a drink in one hand, while the other twists the hair of an attractive young woman you recognize as the one who staffs the bank's commercial transaction wicket.

You'll be running the weedeater around the edges of their rose garden when his wife's mercedes pulls up. The screaming match that follows is unpleasant, and you hear enough while loading your gear onto the truck to realize the wife hadn't been expected home for two more days. When you notice the bank manager push his wife into some lawn furniture, you take a few steps in their direction, unsure of what to do--normally the rich ones have an understanding with you; they pretend you don't exist, and you go along with being less than human to ensure good tips at Christmas.

The bank manager gives you a cold look, and you stop short. You really have no idea what you would do anyway, and he makes a show of helping his wife up, but she shakes off his hand and storms into the house. He looks toward you again, and you just go to your truck and drive away.

Three days later, you are shocked to see your chief competitor, "Lord Montague's Lawn Care", parked in front of the bank manager's home. You saunter over to ask him what he's doing there--the grass doesn't grow that fast--and he explains he was called in to do a small turf-replacement job. "Four rolls", he explains. "Nothing big. He had to dig up a pool drain or something and he needed a patch."

You are troubled. Four rolls--each roll is eight feet long and a foot wide. Plenty to cover the evidence of a crime. You decide to stop by the house on the way home, and have a look at the patch yourself. The layout of the turf rolls will either fuel or calm your suspicions about the possible disposal of a body.

It's really just your paranoia, fostered by the detective novels you read on breaks in your truck, that drives you to stand over the newly-laid turf by the wealthy banker's pool and contemplate whether he murdered his wife. Maybe if you had a partner--some daily human contact--you'd have realized you were overreacting.

Happily, though, the banker's wife will be alive, sitting by the pool, drinking to forget the pain of hearing her lawyer explain the the pre-nup will stand up in court. She'll have her handgun out, thinking how she'll frighten her husband with it when he gets home. When she spots you lurking by the new turf, it will only be dumb luck that makes her shot at what she fears is an assassin sent by her husband prove fatal.

The bank manager will send a lovely floral arrangement to your funeral.