A Self-Made Man

A humor romance short story

Photo by Ted Balmer on Unsplash

This story is my submission for the monthly Symposium of the Soaring Twenties Social Club. This month’s theme is “Resolutions.”

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Jonathan Alworth, Worthy to his friends, was sitting in The Presidio, the second most expensive restaurant in Rochester, and he was attempting to panic in secret.

Across from him sat Hannah Monroe, his future fiancée, a beautiful yet intense and severe blonde who, as heir to the Monroe tractor dealership fortune, was used to getting what she wanted, not because she was spoiled but rather because money was the air she breathed and the water in which she swam; it was expected. Monroe tractor dealerships dotted the countryside around Rochester, Illinois and every farmer within a hundred miles bought John Deere, Case, and Kubota from Hannah Monroe’s father, David.

Now, appetizers gone, halfway through the champagne, and with a 24 karat gold-topped Roquefort salad on its way for Hannah and surf and turf for him, Jonathan was sweating from his armpits to his knuckles since he had forty-seven dollars and sixteen cents in his pocket and no credit.

For Jonathan, funds were scarce. He was supported by occasional loans from his parents who, like most parents that are realistic about the demands of raising children, had no illusions about whether or not they would ever get the money back. Already low on funds due to a number of ill-timed cryptocurrency investments suggested by his erstwhile friend Mugsy DeWitt, he had spent the rest of his most recent loan from his parents on a power washer in the vain hope of starting a small business to make money, money—a career really—that he desperately needed to marry the lovely Hannah Monroe and secure his place in Rochester’s high society.

“I’ve had better calamari here before,” Hannah said. “I wonder if Felipe isn’t in the kitchen today.”

Jonathan grunted and nodded. “Could be.” He took a healthy swig of champagne then poured some more. He figured the bottle was already open so he might as well drink up.

Jonathan drifted back to the advice he had read online that starting a small service business was the way to success for the post-postmodern man in the post-postmodern economy and power washing was at the top of the list.

Everyone knew that everything everywhere could use a good clean and he was sure people would line up for a wash but it had all turned out to be harder than he had expected.

“This is nice,” Hannah said with a smile. “Just the two of us. I know mom and dad always seem to be supervising as if I’m not twenty-four.”

Jonathan returned the smile, trying not to think about how much better his wallet would have fared if Hannah had assented to his suggestions of Applebee’s or Ruby Tuesday for lunch but The Presidio, according to Hannah, was the only venue worthy of a celebration of Jonathan’s new business.

“I’m dying to know what your surprise business is. I know how your parents have been pushing for you to start a career and my parents definitely want the same for you so that we can move forward…” She trailed off.

Jonathan shifted in his chair. “I think it will be a surprise but a good surprise and I hope that success is just around the corner for me, just need to put in some hard work and it may take some time—”

“How much time?”

“Not long, not long,” Jonathan said, hoping he wasn’t lying.

“Will you just tell me what it is?” Hannah said, pouting.

“All good things, all good things.” He tried to sound playful but he really didn’t want to tell her because he was afraid of the response he might get—from her, from her parents, from his own parents.

The disappointment plus the inability to pay for lunch just might sink him for good.

He had two problems—the most immediate being the lunch issue—that he didn’t want to compound with the revelation of his power washing business—and he was casting about, avoiding Hannah’s gaze, and looking for anyone he knew that might be able to bail him out.

He spotted a familiar head of hair with a distinct swagger at the bar.

“Be right back,” he said, jumping up and ignoring Hannah’s muffled outcry.

“Hey, Mugsy,” Jonathan said to the owner of the head of hair.

The slicked hair swiveled revealing the person it was attached to: a thirty-something weasel-faced man with deep set eyes.

“Hey, Jonathan.”

Jonathan fought the anger rising in his spleen. “Mugsy. I know we didn’t leave things well the last time we spoke. I said some things, you said some things—”

“You said you’d shave my head and shove it up—”

“You said that Diamond Hands Hodl Coin was a sure thing. A sure thing, Mugsy!”

Mugsy shook his head. “You know there’s no such thing as a sure thing.”

“But—”

“I told you there were risks.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“You were there. I remember.”

“Well I don’t.”

“Agree to disagree. What do you want?”

“I need some money.”

Mugsy’s face turned sour like a weasel that you’ve just asked to pick you up from the airport.

“Just two hundred,” Jonathan said, “to cover lunch.”

“You can’t pay for lunch?”

Mugsy threw back his head to emit a barking, chortling laugh. As he wiped tears from his eyes he said, “Sorry. I’m sorry, that was mean.”

Noticing Hannah watching them, Jonathan was just deciding whether or not to pull a disappearing act and stick his future fiancée with the bill when he noticed his parents enter the restaurant.

Jonathan Alworth Sr. and Mrs. Julie Alworth were well-to-do but didn’t flaunt their wealth, hard earned as it was, like the Monroes did. The Alworths and Monroes had swum in the same circles for years and a marriage between Jonathan and Hannah had always seemed like a sure thing; not guaranteed, not arranged but a pretty good bet. Jonathan and Hannah had gone to high school together and when they returned home after college and no one had snapped up Hannah in the meantime, there was talk of the two tying the knot in due course.

Jonathan Sr. was a small, cantankerous man with round glasses while Mrs. Alworth was thin and willowy with large, wide-set eyes and a compassionate face. The two had combined to form Jonathan Jr. who nevertheless more closely resembled his mother than his father, in appearance and disposition.

Jonathan escaped from Mugsy without a word and made his way toward the restrooms. Outside the restroom door he flitted fitfully for several minutes while waiting for his mother to make her inevitable appearance. Mrs. Alworth, as devoted as she was to her husband, often took the opportunity when it presented itself to excuse herself from his presence to earn a well-deserved respite from his (Jonathan Sr.’s) endless ranting about his son’s (Jr.’s) ongoing failure.

Jonathan’s parents had been clear: he was to get only limited support after college; the expectation was that he would support himself now that he had a degree and had gotten a good start in life: the Alworths were rich, millions in the bank, but Mr. Alworth was a self-made man and he firmly believed his son should self-make himself. The trouble was, Jonathan had come back from Central Illinois University with degrees in philosophy and archaeology and there were few opportunities at philosophizing and archaeologizing in Rochester, Illinois. In fact, there were none.

Mrs. Alworth lit up when she saw her son.

“Jonathan, I didn’t know you were here.”

Jonathan smiled. He loved his mother very much and she seemed to be the only person that truly loved him for all his failings.

“Hannah and I are having lunch.”

“Celebrating?”

“Yes. My new business venture.”

Mrs. Alworth narrowed her eyes at her son. She indulged her son endlessly but she had no illusions about him. “You really put something together?”

Jonathan nodded.

Mrs. Alworth almost squealed. “I’m so proud of you, Johnny.”

Jonathan made a half-bow.

“What is it?”

“I’d rather not say. Yet. Wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“Hmm, okay,” Mrs. Alworth said, unconvinced. “I should go. Your father will be getting antsy. You know how he doesn’t like his meals being held up. Enjoy your lunch.”

She hugged him and as she turned to go Jonathan touched her arm.

Jonathan knew an opportunity when he saw one. That and Necessity was looming over him like an omen of death.

“Mama, you’ve always been so good to me. Could I trouble you for a measly two hundred? I put all the money you gave me into the business and there’s nothing left and Hannah, well, you know how much a nice lunch means to Hannah…” By which he meant, ‘you know how much money means to Hannah.’

Mrs. Alworth pursed her lips. “Oh, Jonathan. This is the last time. I mean it. I really do this time. I know I said that the last time but what if your father finds out? But the promise,” she pierced him with her wide-set green eyes, “the promise that you have put all the money I gave you into your business, well, that means a lot and I think you should be allowed to celebrate. Really though, dear, if you had just majored in engineering or gone pre-med none of this would be a problem, I don’t know what we were thinking,” and she handed four fifties from her purse and wandered off back to the dining room still muttering to herself. Jonathan caught words like ‘silly’ and ‘frivolous.’

Jonathan clutched the four bills like a life preserver handed down from the side of a sinking ship that he himself had somehow torpedoed. He was also on the ship in the metaphor. What I mean to say is the two hundred was a life saver. Not like the hard candy, though.

He stopped in the restroom, washed his hands, combed his hair, and marched confidently despite the inner knowledge that he had just been saved yet again by his mother.

Hannah pouted as he sat down. “Where have you been, Johnny? You left me just sitting here by myself.”

“Sorry, so sorry. I saw Mugsy at the bar and I had to talk to him about something. Then I ran into my parents too.”

“I know. I saw them come in. Your mom said you haven’t even told them what the business is.”

Of course she asked his mother. Jonathan was glad he hadn’t told his mom or anyone. How long could he keep it a secret? As long as it took to be a success but the way Hannah was looking at him, with those big eyes half begging, half accusing, he wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to hold out.

Thankfully the food arrived and he was able to change the subject to the quality of the food and speculation on whether or not Felipe was in the kitchen today.

Hannah sampled her salad delicately while Jonathan dove into his surf and turf with gusto. At least he could enjoy the meal now that he could pay for it.

“Are you sure you can’t tell me about the business?” Hannah said. “I don’t like you keeping secrets from me.”

“It’s not a secret. It’s just a surprise.”

He thought to himself that it would be a secret until it was a success and that it would be a surprise if it turned out to be a success.

“Let’s just say it’s a high tech business in a high pressure environment.”

The private joke tickled Jonathan but at least it made the business sound impressive and gave Hannah something to think about.

***

The next day as Jonathan Alworth sat on the front walk of Mrs. O’Leary’s house, soaking wet, dripping from his nose to his shoes, he reflected on his predicament.

He was wet. Not just wet but practically drowned, as if he had been among the ill-fated Egyptians on the muddy bed of the Red Sea when Moses let go of its contents. He also had a power washer he didn’t know how to use and was in imminent danger of failing his first job.

He had started walking around the neighborhood toting the power washer, the power washer hose and sprayer, the power washer sprayer attachments, and a gas can brimming with hope and overflowing with confidence (he was brimming and overflowing, not the gas can. That would be dangerous). A series of doors not necessarily slammed but less-than-politely closed in his face after he had spoken the words ‘Hi, my name’s—’ had left him with waning confidence in himself and his business. He had known it would be hard but hadn’t quite expected it to be altogether that hard.

He had also discovered that the cleanliness (or dirtiness) of someone’s home was a rather delicate subject to broach between strangers. Generally when you meet someone for the first time the first words out of your mouth aren’t ‘your house is really dirty, would you like to pay me to clean it for you’ or some other underhanded insult.

Nevertheless, Jonathan had persevered and at the forty-ninth house he struck oil. A kindly old lady with a Pekingese had said that due to her back she couldn’t clean the front walk anymore and yes, would he mind power washing said front walk? Jonathan had said he would gladly and quoted his price to which the lady agreed.

He had been feeling that things were taking a turn, but he hadn’t realized they were in fact taking a turn for the worse.

First he struggled through the brambles on the side of the house, which scratched him mercilessly, in order to get to the spigot which had a hose with an old rusted coupling already attached. It took more than ten minutes to get the coupling to turn at all and by the time he got it off his hands were already blistered and dirty. He managed to get the hose for the power washer attached to the spigot and then attached to the power washer itself. He wheeled the power washer over to the front walk and stood looking at it, realizing that he didn’t know how to start the thing.

There was a red handle, an on/off switch, a switch with a gas tank icon, and another switch with a line-and-circle icon, the meaning of which was a complete mystery. He put the switch to ‘on’ and pulled the red handle. Nothing happened. Harder. Nothing. Again. Nothing.

He toggled the gas switch and pulled the red handle. Nothing.

He toggled the mystery switch and pulled. The machine coughed.

That was something.

He pulled again. The power washer roared to life and chug-chug-chugged loudly like an asthmatic Rottweiler.

That was more like it. He was in business, ready to get to work and earn some money and clean some sidewalks.

He squeezed the trigger on the sprayer handle. A weak sprinkle of water squirted from the sprayer like an old dog struggling to pee. He pulled the trigger repeatedly then held it down. The water, which could be described as uncooperative at best, refused to perform for more than a half-second even though the engine chugged away, thrumming and vibrating like a hyperactive steam engine in first gear.

He examined the sprayer nozzle, wondering if something was stuck or if it wasn’t on correctly but it seemed okay. He fumbled with the hose connection to the handle. Maybe that was the problem.

The hose whipped out of his hand as the sprayer careened off the walk into the grass of the old lady’s front yard.

Pressurized in bursts by the laboring engine, the hose whipped up down around sending a shower of water all over the front walk and, most disconcerting for Jonathan, all over him. He chased after the hose trampling begonias and daffodils underfoot and smearing mud on the walk he was supposed to be cleaning.

He managed to catch the errant hose and bring it to heel by twisting it and putting a stubborn thumb over the end. Panting, he sat down on the muddy walk.

And that’s where Jonathan sat, stewing and bemoaning his fate when through the noise of the still-laboring engine a different sound reached his ears. He looked up.

“Do you need help?”

The angelic figure walking up the driveway toward him stopped him cold. She had dark hair, dark eyes, and a half-smile that suggested she just might be enjoying how silly he looked. She wore a navy blue t-shirt and jeans.

Jonathan wiped the water from his eyes. “Huh?”

“Do you need help?”

Her voice was like a warm breeze across the glassy surface of an arctic lake.

“No, no, what would make you think that?”

“Can you point that over there? I don’t want to get wet.”

“Oh, sorry, sorry.”

The woman walked over to the power washer and flipped the on/off switch to ‘off.’ It died coughing and sputtering.

“Are you Mrs. O’Leary’s grandson?”

“The lady? No, I’m Jonathan Alworth. I have a power washing business.”

She looked at him with skepticism.

“I’m trying to have a power washer business. I’ve been going around seeing if anyone needed their driveway or sidewalk or siding cleaned. She took me up on it. I was just getting started.”

“Can I show you what you did wrong?”

“Sure,” Jonathan said hesitantly.

She re-attached the sprayer to the hose then checked the connections on the power washer unit. “You need to turn the choke off after you start it. That’s this toggle switch here.” She indicated the switch denotated by the mysterious circle-and-line icon.

“What’s a choke?”

“It restricts the air to the engine so there’s more fuel. More fuel and it’s easier to start. But once you get the engine started it needs air otherwise it runs too rich. So you need to turn the choke off.”

“Oh. Thanks, I didn’t know.”

“No problem.” She smiled.

Jonathan’s heart turned to dust. He tried to swallow with a dry throat. “How—how do you know Mrs. O’Leary?”

“I do her yard. Leaves. Trim the trees.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder.

For the first time Jonathan noticed the white pickup truck parked out front. In cursive red script the door read, Angela’s Landscaping.

“You’re Angela?”

“That’s me. I was just next door and it looked like you might need some help.”

“I’m Jonathan.”

“Nice to meet you. Well, anyway. I gotta get back to work.”

“Oh, yeah. Me too. Thank you!” Jonathan said as Angela walked away.

“No problem.”

Jonathan stared after her feeling a mixture of gratitude and embarrassment: gratitude at having received help from anyone at all, in particular from a beautiful woman, and embarrassment at having been discovered to be hopelessly out of his depth in his new line of work.

Sprayer firmly in hand he turned the switch to ‘on,’ turned on the choke, and pulled the lever. The engine sputtered and turned over. Then, turning off the choke, the heaving engine settled into a healthy even thrumming.

Washing the walk up to Mrs. O’Leary’s front door, enjoying the fresh air and the cool early-autumn breeze, Jonathan found his mind wandering to Angela. He would glance over now and again to see her trimming the trees next door and bringing the branches to her truck. He glanced as quickly as possible in the hopes that she wouldn’t notice and he was almost successful until when he was watching her put the last load of branches in the back. She turned, caught his glance, and smiled and waved. At first self-conscious, Jonathan glanced away but then looked back. He too smiled and waved.

Then she got in her truck and drove away, the leaves swirling behind.

He felt a pang of loss, like a good friend had gone from his life, so uncommon was it for anyone—except for his mother—to show him basic decency with a simple and kind gesture. He resumed his work but his mind kept wandering back to her hair and her eyes and how one of her bottom front teeth was slightly crooked.

Jonathan finished the job, did his best to tidy the front garden he had trampled, and rang the doorbell.

Mrs. O’Leary came to the door.

“I’m all done, Mrs. O’Leary.”

“Thank you, Jonathan. It looks great. I’m glad you got the power washer to work,” she said, handing him a check.

He turned pink. “Ah…yes, just had a bit of trouble but it wasn’t a problem at all. Got it figured out. Have a nice day and thank you!”

Jonathan’s clothes attempted to dry as he walked around the neighborhood knocking on doors looking for more business, the precious check safely stowed in the now empty tupperware container he had used for his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but, still damp, the clothes clung to him as he got in his car to drive home.

His parents’ house, which he called home, was in one of the more upscale neighborhoods in Rochester called Brighton Ridge. It had large lots, sweeping green lawns, and upper class sensibilities. You wouldn’t hear fireworks on July 1st, 2nd, 3rd, or 5th in Brighton Ridge.

It was with real pride and joy that Jonathan walked through the front door at 4pm and presented to his parents the first check he had earned for forty-five dollars.

Mrs. Alworth beamed. “I knew you could do it, Johnny. Isn’t it great, Jon?”

Jonathan Sr., just having gotten home from work himself, grunted. “Not much but I guess it’s a start. Keep it up, son.”

Jonathan’s eyes met his mother’s, who smiled and raised her eyebrows. That was without a doubt high praise from his father.

“Are you staying for dinner?”

“No, I’m going to go by and see Hannah, make it official now that I’ve earned my first dollar. I’m just going to change first.”

Jonathan changed, texted Hannah, and made his way to her apartment. She had the entire third floor of a converted house near downtown Rochester complete with hardwood floors, wainscoting, a chef’s kitchen she didn’t use, and a balcony overlooking the river.

“Hey,” Hannah said, opening the door and letting Jonathan in. She wore an oversized sweater and leggings. “I was just going to order some dinner. What do you want?”

“I don’t know. What do you feel like?”

“Thai?”

“Okay.”

Eating their peanut-laden noodles in the dining room a half hour later, Jonathan’s heart was beating rapidly. Not because of the salt content of the noodles but because of his nerves. With a shaking hand he pulled Mrs. O’Leary’s check from his pocket and slid it across the table. He waited, hearing nothing but the sound of himself chewing.

“What’s that?”

“My first dollar. Well, first forty-five dollars.”

Her eyes gleamed. “Johnny! I’m so proud of you. Doing what?”

“I started a power washing company.”

Her face dropped. “Power washing? Like with a hose and…”

“A power washer?” Jonathan offered.

“Don’t you get all wet?”

“Only if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Ugh, power washing. I don’t know. Doesn’t that take a lot of work? Seems like a waste of time.”

This was not how he had envisioned the conversation going. He felt an inclination to apologize, suggest that it was a joke, sell the power washer and start over with something else. His nerves battled with his pride. Pride won.

“Not if you need to feed yourself. Or pay rent. Money has to come from somewhere.”

“Why couldn’t you start a digital marketing business or be like a stock broker or something?”

“I don’t know anything about digital marketing and I’d probably kill myself if I were a stock broker.”

“Johnny! There’s a lot of money in it.”

“In what?”

“Digital marketing.”

“Sounds like you should start a digital marketing business then.”

Hannah looked stunned.

Jonathan stood up. “I bet you look down on the farmers that buy their tractors from your dad too. Am I right? They paid for all this, you know.” He indicated the apartment with a sweeping gesture.

Hannah toyed with her noodles. “Well, that’s their business if they want to dig in the dirt all day, isn’t it.”

“I’m sorry, who do you think grew the wheat to make those noodles? You’re nuts. So I started a blue-collar service company. Who do you call when a pipe is leaking or the sink’s backed up? A digital marketer. No, you call a fifty-year-old guy named Bill with a beer belly and sciatica who could re-plumb your whole house with his eyes closed.”

“You’re one to talk, Mr. Useless Philosophy Degree.”

“You’re absolutely right. But at least I’m trying. Enjoy your noodles.”

Jonathan grabbed the check from the table and stormed out.

Sitting in his car in his parents’ driveway he did a quick search online and found the number he was looking for.

The line rang and rang and he was about to hang up when it stopped and a woman’s voice said, “Hello, Angela’s Landscaping.”

“Uh, Angela?”

“That’s me.”

“Uh, hi, it’s Jonathan. We met today.”

Silence.

“The power washer guy.”

“Oh, yeah. Hey, what’s up?”

“I didn’t think you’d answer.”

“Small business. No one’s going to have a landscaping emergency but I gotta be available in case any potential customers reach out.”

“Good idea. Listen, so, I just was thinking that, you know, since I’m starting this business and you seem like you’ve got things figured out pretty well and you’re running your own small business by yourself—or I guess you could have employees, I don’t really know, I wasn’t assuming anything—I was thinking maybe we could get together for coffee sometime and I could kind of pick your brain—sorry, that always sounds gross when you say it—about running a successful business, maybe? I mean, you seem very successful so I think I could learn a lot from you and apply it to my business as I expand and grow from—”

Anglea giggled. “From one client to two clients?”

“Haha, yes, yeah, I know. A little early to talk expansion and all that. I’m just figuring things out and you seem to have figured things out so I was wondering if we could figure things out together, well not together, just like I could ask you some questions over coffee—or tea or cider, I don’t know what you like to drink, I like coffee, could be coffee or not—and I just wanted to say I really appreciated your help today. I’m not that handy and it was almost a disaster for my first job so thanks.”

Jonathan drummed the steering wheel with his fingertips and waited.

“So coffee?” Angela said.

“Yeah, that works for me.”

“What are you doing?”

“Me? Like now? Nothing at all.”

“Do you know the Jittery Scholar downtown?”

“Uh, yeah. On State?”

“Yep. See you there in an hour?”

“Sure. Yes. See you there.”

Jonathan hung up the phone.

Things were looking up after all.

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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, strictly a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance, perceived resemblance, or similarity to any other fictional works, to actual events or persons, living or dead, and any perceived slights of people, places, or organizations are products of the reader’s imagination. This fiction is the result of a partnership between a human writer and the character(s) he accessed with his creative subconscious as he raced through the story with them. No AI of any kind, generative or otherwise, was used in any way to write this story.