You sound like a horny little boy to me

For two years we lived in a big two story brown house in Ukiah.  The Forest Service owned property had a kitchen phone, basement phone, and a phone in the master upstairs bedroom.  Not only could you listen in to conversations, you could pick up, dial the house, and hear the other phones ring.

Like most of her teenaged lot, my older sister got bored in Ukiah, population 250.  Me, I had my own lawn mowing business.  No schmancy business name.  Word of mouth propelled success like "Hey, if you need your lawn mowed ask that pouty, vaguely creepy looking kid in glasses that mows my lawn".

Most the mowing jobs were in town proper.  Lehman Hot Springs a good dozen miles outside Ukiah represented the mamma jamma of outings - a fat $30 for a full day's work back in the summer of 1986. 

One day, the phone rang and some elderly Ukiah bird asked in as trembling a voice as possible if I was available to come mow her lawn.  

The frail old thing lived outside of town and the added ounce of logistics chilled my enthusiasm, but still, I always needed comic book money, and negotiations proceeded apace up to the point she said, "Well, I don't want you to mow my lawn.  You sound like a horny little boy to me." Click. 

I probably was a horny little boy, but like most of that sect, not acclimated to being called out on the fact. I'd answered the phone in the back of the house, and no doubt twitching if not outright shaking replaced the receiver in my parents' bedroom. Moments later, intruding on my moment of unreality, came the sound of my sister's laughter, trumpeting victory from the kitchen. My folks condemned her masterful ruse, at least publicly.    

Usually Julie wasn't that cruel.  I only remember one other incident from childhood, Julie watching in quiet Mengele-like contemplation as I tore through the local paper a dozen times, desperate to find the sister-spyed photograph of a bikini-clad Catherine Bach printed in that day's issue.

Henry in the forthcoming The Lipless Gods is me more or less.  Mows lawns.  Little Creek is Ukiah, updated to the 21rst century. 

Jenny Dayton - easily the best artist in the NW - conveys Henry in one image.  Hopefully I did half as well over the course of some 300 pages.