Catch up on chapter 1 before reading on…
Chapter 2: Tony learns the ropes
Tony woke up with a grunt and a cramp in his calf. The bed was too small, or maybe he was too big. Either way, his knees had curled up awkwardly in the night, and now one leg was tangled in the frayed wool blanket and the other dangled off the edge, sockless and cold.
Sunlight slanted through a narrow window, hitting dust motes that drifted lazily through the air. Somewhere below, a bird chirped. Somewhere even farther below, a lawnmower coughed to life. Tony scratched the side of his belly, yawned wide enough to pop his jaw, and blinked dumbly at the low ceiling.
“Whew,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “Dreamed I was wearing a tux or something. Heh. Dumb.”
His deep, chesty laugh bounced around in his gut and made his stomach jiggle like a bowl of custard. He pushed himself up and groaned. Everything creaked: the mattress springs, the old plank floor, his knees, his back, his everything. He was still all over.
Coveralls hung from a nail on the wall. They were brand new, too-stiff denim, size XXL, with a stitched patch on the breast that read TONY—GROUNDS. Beneath them, a thin brown undershirt and a pair of socks sat folded on a chair. Tony hauled himself up and scratched his armpit, still blinking the sleep away.
Getting dressed took effort. The socks nearly defeated him; he had to sit back down to put them on. Pulling the coveralls over his belly was an awkward dance of grunting, hopping, and tugging, until finally he got his arms through the sleeves and pulled the zip up to his collar. He gave his belly a casual pat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Looking good, Tone,” he said to no one. As he reached down to adjust himself, the cracked mirror on the back of the door caught him. He froze.
The man staring back was bald. Bald bald. His shiny, freshly waxed scalp sat above a horseshow ring of grizzled stubble. His face was round and jowly like a bulldog’s, his chest filled out the coveralls with a pair of bulky man boobs, and his gut strained against the zipper like it was trying to escape.
Tony leaned closer and squinted.
“Who the hell…”
Something flickered behind his eyes. He braced himself with a meaty palm against the wall and took a breath.
“I… I used to be—uh… uh huh… Tony digs holes!” he blurted out suddenly, and then cracked up, laughing a deep, wheezing, utterly stupid laugh that bent him over at the waist.
Whatever the thought had been, it was gone.
He slapped his belly again, harder this time. “Big ole Tony, ready to go!”
He waddled to the door, grabbing a dusty cap from the hook. On the brim, stitched in the same blocky font as his patch, was the Royal Estate’s crest. He jammed it over his head, tugged it low, and thudded his way down the narrow stairs, humming some wordless tune that looped in a lazy circle.
The air outside was thick with the scent of turned soil, warm grass, and lilac. Nearby, a sprinkler clicked rhythmically. The path that wound through the estate gardens was already damp and muddy in spots, and Tony’s boots made sticky squelches as he ambled toward the shed.
Then he saw him.
A big man, older than Tony, stood beside the greenhouse steps with one hand on his hip and the other nursing a thermos of coffee. He wore matching coveralls stretched even tighter than Tony’s, his gut hanging low like a sack of grain, the fabric worn and stained with years of honest labor. His face was broad and jolly, his cheeks were flushed, and his thick mustache curled over the corners of a permanent smirk. He smelled faintly of aftershave and compost.
“Morning, sunshine,” the man said.
Tony blinked. “Uh… hi?”
The man stepped closer, extended a hand, and then at the last second gave Tony’s belly a light slap instead. “I knew they’d send me a big one.”
Tony giggled. “Yeah, I’m, uh… Tony.”
“Of course you are.” He took a sip from his thermos. “Name’s Gus. I’ve been working these gardens since before your balls dropped.”
Tony laughed again, mostly because he didn’t know what else to do. “You’re funny.”
Gus handed him a rake. It took Tony a second to hold it the right way up.
“Alright, big guy. Let’s see what kind of mess you can make.” He nodded toward a small rosebed just past the fountain. “Start with the edges. Clear the leaves, but don’t touch the stems.”
Tony nodded solemnly. “Got it, boss.”
He did not get it.
With a grunt and a deep bend at the waist that nearly split his coveralls, Tony got to work. Within five minutes, he’d raked up half a bush, tangled the head of the rake in the roots, and scattered mulch across the path.
Gus watched with mild amusement, shaking his head slowly. “Gentle, now, son. These aren’t weeds, they’re the Queen’s roses.”
Tony scratched the back of his neck. “I guess I got carried away.”
“At least you didn’t sit on it,” Gus said with a wink.
They moved to the next patch together. Gus crouched beside Tony, showing him how to angle the rake, scooping instead of scraping. His big hand rested briefly on Tony’s wrist to guide the motion.
“Like this,” he said, soft and slow.
Tony nodded. “Okay. I’ll, uh… I’ll do better. I used to be good at…”
He trailed off. His brow furrowed. Something hovered at the edge of his mind. Gloves, or a ceremony, or… maybe music? He felt a sharp pressure behind his eyes, like a headache trying to form.
“I used to… I think I used to…”
Then the static hit. A wave of fuzz, a sudden dumb warmth in his belly, and out came a loud, wet laugh that knocked the thought straight out of his skull.
“I’m a gardener. Gardening is what I do.”
Gus chuckled, not unkindly. “That’s right, big guy.”
He gave Tony a firm pat on the shoulder, then left his hand there for just a beat longer than necessary.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s ruin something else.”
By midmorning, Tony was glistening. The coveralls clung damply to his back, the fabric dark with sweat in wide patches under his arms and across the belly. A smear of compost streaked one thigh where he’d fumbled a wheelbarrow. His scalp, bald and gleaming, caught the sun like polished leather.
“Easy, now,” Gus said from behind him. “That one’s got worms.”
Tony grunted and adjusted his grip, hauling the bloated sack of wet soil up onto the compost mound. It hit with a wet splat.
“Oof! That’s heavy,” he puffed.
“Not as heavy as you are,” Gus quipped.
Tony let out a wheezy giggle, his hands slapping his knees. His belly hung like a weighted apron. His undershirt was soaked and stuck to the soft rolls of his body underneath. Every movement made him jiggle just a little more than the one before.
The men moved in tandem through the garden maze, hauling, clipping, and raking, always close. Gus guided him with gentle nudges. When Tony bent to water the beds and nearly crushed a row of petunias, Gus pressed up behind him, reaching around to adjust the spout. His chest met Tony’s back like two couch cushions colliding.
“Like this,” Gus murmured, both hands gripping Tony’s.
Tony swallowed. “Oh. Uh. Yeah.”
Gus’ scent was more intense up close. He was earthy and masculine, musky with sweat and sun. Not dirty, exactly. Just ripe. Tony didn’t move right away.
They stood there for longer than they needed to. Then a creak beneath Tony’s foot, he shifted his weight, and squash—he’d tripped and landed squarely on a watering can. Both of them burst out laughing.
Later, they sat side by side on a low stone wall, shaded by a mighty oak tree. Their coveralls were unzipped halfway down, their bellies airing out. Between them sat a cooler full of thick sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, a jug of cloudy lemonade, and two sweating plastic cups. Tony ate like he was starving, devouring his sandwich in minutes and leaving mayonnaise and lettuce clinging to his chin. Gus ate more slowly, watching with a crooked grin and licking his thumb before reaching for his second. A soft breeze carried the faint, far-off smell of roses. Birds chirped in the hedges. The only real sound was chewing.
Tony leaned back with a groan, patting his gut. “Man,” he said, “I haven’t worked like this since, uh… well…” He scratched his scalp, eyes narrowing. “I feel like I… used to…”
His eyes lifted toward the palace, just barely visible above the treetops. Its white stone and gleaming glass were like Tony’s memory—just out of reach.
“I used to be something,” he said softly. “I think…”
Then he burped. Loud. The thought dissolved. He grinned, crumbs on his shirt. “Doesn’t matter.”
Gus, saying nothing, handed him another sandwich. Tony took it without thinking, unwrapped it clumsily, and bit down hard.
“Mmmmph,” he moaned. “S’good.”
Gus chuckled and leaned back beside him.
They sat together in the shade, two fat blue-collar oafs sweating through their shirts, crumbs on their chests, nothing important on their minds except the next bite and the next laugh.
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