santa ana winds

the world is a cruel place. i don't know why this is so hard for me to get. just when i can't remember it any more, it reminds me. the cycle of life-death-rebirth. the inequality among us. perhaps because i'm an idealist. perhaps because of my past. what other time would i live in? what other country? i rock along, self absorbed, and something comes along to awaken me.

they gave me a car. not an old car. not a ridge runner like i would have bought for myself, but a nice car. i cried. i said thank you. but something in me felt deserving. i needed that car. i'd taken the bus too long.

just yesterday J called in in sick. the warehouse was empty of him. his lonesome coyote howls singing out in spanish as he sewed cut hemmed grommeted. the fresh coffee when i walk in. the clean parking lot. the plants watered. things. just. handled.

his sassy broken-english personality...'escuse me...i'm in my break.'....'escuse me...i'm in my lonsch.'....'escuse me...i'm'a no sing no more, you laugh at my song.'

no. i'd never laugh at you, J. i'm laughing in delight. you are delightful.

the warehouse empty of him. and today he shows up at work with a new haircut. i knew that last month he asked for a raise. i suspected he hadn't heard back. i don't know why they don't cherish him like the saviour of work that he is...covering other people's flaws. bleeding for the customer's sake. always limping from a knee injury playing soccer with his young son. limping from stepping on a huarrache when he pulled a balloon from the blades of the fan in his daughter's room.

when i was taking the bus he drove me home twice...20 minutes the opposite direction from his home...2 hours after he could have clocked out and gone. he spoke rapid spanish to his wife, explaining why he'd be late yet again....all i understood was 'UPS cerritos.' i laughed...'so that's my nickname, eh?' i asked him, 'UPS cerritos?' and he laughed...'i better watch! you e'speak spani.'

no. i no e'speak. yo quiero hablar, pero no puedo.

so today he shows up with cut hair and a jut to his chin. a man who'd made a decision. i could see it in his shoulders. i went to him at the cutting table. 'quit looking for another job.' i said. his eyes flew open. 'how you know?'

'i know.' i said. si, conosco. leaving was written all over his face. i've watched enough men say goodbye.

so i asked him to tell me about the new place. he swore me to silence. you no say nothing (nut-ting). no. i won't say anything. never mess with a man's income. that's what one father told his son in 1940's mendocino...'don't pick blackberries in that spot...you know that's _______'s spot. never mess with a man's income.'

so it unfolded...the interview. how he sewed for the man. showed him his straight seams and how fast. wow. the man said. J swelled with pride. i could have told him that. how the new place is near his home...no more 3-hour commute. 'now i'm'a go home for a warm lunsch.' he rubs his belly in a circle. anticipates the plates that will be waiting for him just around the corner. 'i save in gas. iss more better.' of course. no more crazy commute in an old car that pours out exhaust. 'he pay me one dollar an hour less, but if he do what he say, i show him i work hard and in a couple month he pay me two, three dollars an hour more.' i pat his shoulder. i understand. 'it's closer.' i say, 'you'll save in gas. lunch at home.' i walk away.

later, i ask him, 'so how much is he going to pay you?' 'thirteen,' he answers. my sneaky way of finding out. my eyes widen. 'you only make fourteen dollars an hour here?!' i'm incredulous. 'jess.'

he's worked for the company fourteen years. one dollar for every year he's been there. several times his eyes tear up. 'i'm a sad to leave here. fourteen year.' he says...eyes watering. yes....you've worked here all your adult life. 'jess.' glad i understand...beyond language, the bond of time. the lure of the familiar. i ask him how many hours a week he works, secretly calculating if i could cover any of a raise out of my own pocket. and i know he wouldn't take a penny from me.

'think of your kids, mija, think of your kids.' he says it kizz. i like the way he says it.

and i think of the car they gave me. yeah, good job, white girl. and how proud he was for me. not an ounce of envy. i want to call them all...the owners of the company, my manager...i want to yell, to plead, anything. something. hand him my keys. and i see him shaking his head. no mija. no. think of your kids. just sing for me....sing me besame mucho. the song i always start that he always finishes.