Yellow Gold

For years I mowed Hans Spartavedt's lawn. Hans was the oldest living person in our neighborhood, but he called me Bud, and we were pals. I could barely understand what he was saying half of the time because he was from, "The Old Country." He'd point and say, "Bud" followed by some gibberish and I'd trim closer to the hedge, take a bushel basket full of grass clippings to the street, or just walk in circles with no clue. I like to think I helped Hans Spartaverdts have the nicest looking yard in town, even though he didn't have a pot to piss in. Or did he?

One day Hans said, "You good worker, Bud" and started walking back into the garage. I beamed as this was my first paying job and wondered if he was retrieving some valuable item from the Old Country to give to me as a special thank you.

But Hans called back, "I gotta take piss!" and disappeared deeper into his garage. I was sure hoping there was a toilet in there I didn't know about, but Hans had his own plan. "Gotta' find my pissin' boo-ket!" I'd finishing my yard duties and didn't want to see what Hans was going to pull out next either, but I hadn't been paid. So, I waited nervously while he clanked about in the back of the garage. He finally emerged with an aluminum sauce pan, leaned his cane against the car and proceeded to relieve himself right there in the driveway. Maybe this was how they did it in the Old Country, but it was beyond anything me or my friends would do.

I made a mental note of where he tossed the urine into the bush so I could avoid trimming that area next time. After he'd wiped his hand on his shirt, he reached into his pocket for my money. Now it was my turn to be relieved. Not just for getting paid so I could get the hell out of the there, but because Hans didn't have to go to the side door and call to his daughter to come take care of me. My friend Stacy and I, who had taken to calling each other "Bud," had this Penthouse Letters fueled fantasy that one day when there wouldn't be any cash in the house, Hans would offer up his daughter as payment. She looked to us to be about eighty with a mole showing for every year on the planet. To a couple of boys just reaching puberty it was too much for us to handle.

After I tired of my career in lawncare, Stacy managed to slide into the position. But not with the same results. Hans regularly yelled at him and Stacy walked more cicles with the bushel basket than in my entire career. Hans made it clear that he didn't think Stacy was a good worker. I think Stacy just couldn't understand his instructions. Or maybe he just feared that Hans would run out of cash.

-Submitted by a former Penthouse Letters reader who now lives in a condominium with lawn care provided.