In the Weeds by Daniel Browne

Author:Daniel Browne
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781939430229
Publisher: Garrett County Press

Shovel Ready

There was a notable new addition to the decor at Rita’s: scattered across the communal tables was a herd of ceramic piggy banks, painted gold with Chinese characters on the side, probably bought in bulk at Pearl River Mart. A handwritten label stuck on our piggy’s flank said, “Don’t be such a tightwad. Help us build a kickass farm and bring REAL FOOD to the people!” I had questions, naturally—Did Elliot know? How much money had John raised? Where was the money? Was anybody keeping the books?—and I was in the mood for a principled confrontation to make up for our vaguely grubby negotiation with the landlord. John, however, was nowhere to be found. Instead, we got Greta, Tommy Brutti consigliere by day, rock-and-roll pizza slinger by night, only it was mid-afternoon and here she was in stonewash jeans and a muscle shirt so faded I couldn’t make out the band logo. Hard to tell if she was on the clock, and if so, for whom.

“I’m supposed to be meeting with John, but he’s too busy running shit,” she said. “That’s cool, though. I needed to talk to you guys anyway. Tommy’s not happy.”

This came as a surprise. On TV, Tommy always seemed happy, aggressively so.

“He wants to know what happened with the roof. He was very excited about the roof.”

We explained the situation: the thought of sequestering the farm high above the ground where average folk couldn’t reach made the Schlossers’ big hearts hurt. Fortunately, the handball court was turning out to be an exciting prospect; our partnership with Parks was adding another level of innovation and collaboration to the whole shebang. It was an impressive spin—at least I thought it was. Greta seemed unmoved.

“Reclaimed space, that was one of your major selling points.”

“The handball court is reclaimed space,” I said. “It’s abandoned.”

“It’s a reclaimed space. But how many abandoned handball courts could there be? We were talking about every school in the city having a rooftop farm. ‘Fuck the supply chain.’ Tommy loved that.”

I wanted to remind her that those were John’s words, not ours, but it didn’t seem like it would be helpful. I said once the pilot was up and running there was nothing to prevent us from replicating the model on rooftops.

“So maybe get back to us when you’re ready to take that step. Because that’s really Tommy’s interest here.”

“I thought his interest was helping kids.”

It was out before I could stop myself. Greta, to her credit, didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, her expression softened, and she adopted a gentler tone.

“Look, I’m sorry it has to be this way. It sucks. Normally, I’d try to fix this, but between you and me, he’s really pissed he didn’t hear it directly from you. He’s used to having a say.”

It hadn’t occurred to me to ask how he’d found out. I was about to, but Elliot stepped in, offering to apologize directly to Tommy if it would help.

Greta shook her head. “It won’t. Just this morning he was saying, ‘Their name is Raise the motherfucking Roof, for Christ’s sake.

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