Pete Murray

Pete Murray is 36, lives in Atlantic Canada, and works for a small landscaping company where he has spent twelve years trying to convince customers that a newly planted tree needs watering even when it looks perfectly happy.

He likes the work. There’s something satisfying about leaving a place greener than he found it, and he enjoys returning to gardens he helped establish years ago. He remembers which trees he planted. He’s less reliable with the names of the people who own them.

At seven feet tall, Pete has strong opinions about ceiling fans, showerheads, and the phrase “one size fits all.” His pickup is old enough to vote, but the seat fits him, so he intends to keep it running until replacement parts become an archaeological matter.

He’s easy company: sociable, a little nosy, and always willing to stay for another coffee. He tells a decent story, occasionally ruins it by laughing before the good bit, and can turn a quick visit into an entire afternoon without either person quite noticing. He’ll happily help you move a sofa, although you’ll hear about the time you said it would “only take twenty minutes” for the next several years.

His small backyard is packed with plants, most of them rescued from jobs where a customer wanted everything ripped out. He claims he’s going to sell the surplus. Instead, visitors leave carrying pots.

He’s patient with nervous people, impatient with people who mistreat staff, and surprisingly competitive at pub trivia.