At first glance Norman thought it was an ad for marijuana, which was why it caught his attention, because who sells illegal substances in the classifieds? But the rest was even stranger: "Grass for sale: 2ft. from Shea '69, yr. of Miracle Mets." Also listed were the price ($200), a phone number, and who to ask for: Billy. A scam. It had to be. Someone trying to dupe a few collection-crazy sports fans into purchasing sod he'd cut from his own backyard. Still, at lunch, he said to a coworker, "Didn't your father own a nursery?"
"Still does," said the coworker, a beefy brunette with a limp.
"So he might know about grasses then, like how to tell their age?"
"Age? No. It's not like trees, with rings you can add up. What's this about?"
"Nothing. That my piece or yours?"
* * *
Norman called the number anyway, when the office was sufficiently busy so no one would hear. It rang six times before a man's voice finally answered.
"Yeah?"
"Hello, I'm looking for Billy."
"You got him, Mac."
"Yes, I'm calling about your ad, the one in—"
"For the motorcycle or the grass?"
"The…the grass."
"It ain't pot I'm selling," Billy said. "You understand it ain't pot."
"I'm not interested in pot, sir. I'm interested in what you're selling. I'd like to know more about it."
"It's like the ad says. Two feet of turf from Shea."
"Square feet?"
"No, rectangular. You're a Mets fan, right? I ain't selling to anyone who ain't a Mets fan."
"My father. He used to live out there. It's for him." He nodded to one of the partners passing his desk. "Let me ask you this. How are you…authenticating this turf for potential buyers?"
"Authenticating? Oh, you mean how am I proving it's the real deal.”
"Correct."
"Listen, I'm kind of busy right now. Why don't you swing by my place tomorrow and I'll let you have a look at the goods, okay, Mac?"
* * *
"Two hundred dollars?" His wife was at the mirror, undoing her earrings. He had already undressed and was lying naked on the bed, waiting for her to join him. "How do you even know it's what he says it is?"
"He says he's got proof."
"What kind of proof?"
"I don't know. Ticket stubs maybe. He'll show me tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? You're going over there?"
"Couldn't hurt to have a look. Why?"
His wife shrugged. "It just seems like a lot for something your father may not want. I've never even heard him mention the Mets before, or baseball for that matter. I thought he liked football. Isn't that how you hurt your shoulder?"
"No, I—he'll like it, okay? He has to. The Mets were all he used to talk about until I was born."
"Until you were born? What does your birth have to do with it?"
"Nothing. I just want to get him something he'll appreciate for once."
His wife unzipped her dress and let it fall. She came over and lay down next to him, entangling her fingers in a tuft of hair on his chest. "I get that. But two hundred dollars? What are your sisters getting him?"
"I don't know. I just want to have a look. That's all."
"That's fine, I just don't want you getting your hopes up. Your father is who he is, and one gift's not going to change his opinion of you, as erroneous as that opinion may be." She kissed him and crawled on top. "Now let's forget about it. Time for sex."
* * *
It was in fact rectangular. Two feet long and one foot wide. Billy even brought out a yardstick and measured it, as if the dimensions might be a sticking point.
"Go ahead, Mac, run your fingers through it. Now how's that feel?"
"How come you grow it in here?"
"It's a sunroom, it's perfect. Like a greenery in here."
"Greenhouse."
"That's it, Mac. I knew green was in there somewhere. Speaking of which, you got the scratch?"
"There's still the matter of how you're authenticating—"
"Way ahead of you, Mac," and Billy ducked into the house. Quickly, Norman scanned the backyard for signs of corruption. But the lawn out there was a different species altogether, with a different texture and a different hue of green. Behind it there was a garden, well tended with peas and corn and what looked like pumpkins.
"Son of a—" Billy said upon his return.
"What?"
"I forgot to have you take off your shoes. The wife's adamant about her carpet. Ah, screw it, you're already in," and he handed over a yellowed newspaper, pointing to a picture on the front of the sports section. "That's my pops. Good looking fella, ain't he?"
Norman looked up. "You're father went to the game?"
"Tore out the first chunk. Least that's how he told it. But the grass is legit."
"Sounds like it has some sentimental value for you. How come you're selling it?"
"The wife's sick of watering anything that don't produce food. You've seen the garden."
"Yes, I see."
"Besides, I'm in to apparel now. Got my eyes on a Josh Hamilton jock strap. Something the matter, Mac?"
"No, it's…my father, he was supposed to go to the game too."
"Yeah? What happened?"
"My mother went in to labor."
* * *
Without telling him, Norman's sisters had pooled their money together and bought their father a hot tub for his hip. And trunks, to discourage him from using it in the nude. In light of this, Norman's present seemed even weirder.
"You bought him grass?" the first sister said.
"No, it's memorabilia."
"What's he supposed to do with it?" the second sister said.
"You know, appreciate it."
"But it's grass," the third sister said.
"Dad? What do you think?"
But his father said nothing. He was too busy weeping.
