“I got a couple men that can knock this out fast,” he said. “They won’t bother you none, either.”
“So that’s with the paint, too?” I asked, not believing this really low bid was possible.
“Yes, sir. Take ’em a day.”
“That’s fabulous.”
“You won’t mind they’re Mexican?”
His idea of Mexican ran as deep as his about music. “You’re asking a Mexican if he minds if you hire Mexicans?”
“Just making sure. There’s members of my church who do. They think they’re making things worse in this country.”
I was born and raised in El Paso. My grandfather was from Juárez, my grandmother from Parral. My father was a pachuco back in the day, and my mother barely stopped using a tortilla as her only eating utensil. I was the only one in the family of two brothers and two sisters and ten thousand cousins who journeyed away. The rest were within a ten-mile radius. Worse, I never took strangers, conversationally or otherwise, back there for a visit. Not even myself, for that matter.
“Sounds like that church needs some church lessons,” I said.
“It saved me,” Luke said, not noticing any criticism. “Been hard days, especially this last year. It’s when I started going again.”
“Bad out there for working people.”
“Least I’m feeling a little better now, and it’s because of the church. My wife up and left me and my daughter.” He spoke to me like we were good friends, like I already knew these details of his life, if vaguely. He was settling in. “I got lost there for years drinking and being irresponsible. Then I just started praying for goodness.”
I didn’t expect others to tell me about their lives, either. “So you found your religion.” I was simply polite.
“Came home,” he corrected me. He could have been choking up some, his voice cracking, but I realized that it was his teeth, some dental issue. “I was raised up so much in it I never paid no mind. Even my name’s proof. Didn’t have no fourth brother John because there was only Matthew, Mark, and me, Luke.”
I never talked to the Bible people who came to my door either.
He waited to see if I knew the answer. “That’s the first books of the New Testament.”
I knew, I told him I did, and he was encouraged.
“You ever want to come, you’d be welcome.”
“I’ll keep on as a lapsed Catholic.”
Either he didn’t know what that meant, or he really did just ignore it. “Church is good for healing. You’d see.”
“Kind of you to suggest, thanks for the offer,” I said, glad he was leaving.
A week later he was back at eight in the morning, bringing along tarps, rollers and pans, brushes, cans of paint, and the two men, a father and son, Carlos and Uriel. Carlos didn’t speak any English, so all the instructions from Luke went to Uriel. They were told to start in my bedroom, told how to move and cover the furniture, how not to spill the paint, where to use rollers and where brushes. They were talked to not only as though they might not know any of this, but as though they’d better remember once their boss left. When he finished his instructions, Luke met me by the front door. I wanted to be sure everything would be all right.
“I’ve fired Uriel five times now,” he said. It didn’t even occur to him to lower his voice any. “He’s a good worker when he listens and ain’t being lazy. Since Carlos is here, too, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“Sounds great,” I said.
“I’ll check in on them in a while,” he told me, missing any sarcasm from me and adding on to what I’d overheard. “I can bring a contract then if you want.”
“Not necessary. I’ll do it cash. Better for you, right? For taxes.”
He smiled. His teeth looked worse than they sounded. “Who wants to help this federal government, right?”
He used the words federal government with the same added inflection he did when he said Mexican before. And there was that familiarity with it he offered me, like I was a member of his church. I did not care for it.
“I’m real glad Bush is gone, too,” I said to mess with him.
He didn’t blink. “We’re working our asses off, and just look at where they got us at now.”
In lots of ways, Luke was what I liked about Austin when I first came here. Texas as I knew it growing up was what we just called Mexican, what the college-educated called Chicano. That was El Paso, where nobody had anything or learned much because nobody knew beyond what was visible, within an eye’s reach, which I learned young wasn’t enough. I didn’t know what happened to me or when it did or why, but I heard music that couldn’t be seen and wasn’t heard anywhere near home. And so I went until I was in Texas again: Now I had this gig in Austin, where even people like Luke liked people like me. And therefore I liked them back, these bigger-than-me country white boys, who drank beer as they smoked mota in their trucks and listened to Willie Nelson and got out to hear Dale Watson. When people visited, I’d take them to dinner at Threadgill’s and dancing at the Broken Spoke. A city where someone like me could come from El Paso and someone like Luke would nod his head wistfully and tell me, like no one from there ever did, how beautiful it was. That, at least, was Luke back when he didn’t have a paunch and rotting teeth and bad knees and not enough work.
Here was my dilemma: I was very happy about how little this job was going to cost me. I wasn’t rich, but I wanted to live like a classy musician. I wanted these walls in my house to get painted for the best price, inexpensive being my favorite. I didn’t want the paid work to involve talk of current events.
Once Luke was out the door, I went to see the men in my bedroom.
“¿Se fue? He leff?” Uriel asked. His father was covering the dresser, bed, and end table that had been pushed to the center of the room.
“Yeah, he took off,” I told him in Spanish.
“Good,” he said in Spanish, too, looking over to Carlos, who also stopped to acknowledge the change. “It’s much better when he’s not around.”
I really didn’t want to get into it. Uriel, more relaxed, looked at me now. “It looks beautiful, your house.”
“Thank you. I like it, too.”
“We’ll do it good,” said Carlos. “You don’t worry.”
Uriel had been taking down the art and photos I had on my bedroom walls. Like I’d never seen it, he showed me the portrait of Benito Juárez I had up, as well-known in Mexico as the classic one of Abraham Lincoln is here. I bought it framed, rustic, completely coated by fiberglass. It seemed particularly strange held in the air by this young mexicano in his faded, torn Dallas Cowboys T-shirt.
“A souvenir,” I explained. It was a knickknack, not more.
Both stared at me, wanting more. Uriel asked where I was born. I told him. “He said you were from Spain.”
I probably rolled my eyes, maybe shook my head. “No. Hardly.” I told them. “You?” I asked.
“Nuevo León,” said Carlos.
“Tamaulipas,” said Uriel.
“Reynosa,” said Carlos. He shook his head at his son. “We didn’t live there much.”
“How long you been in the States?” I asked.
“In Austin?” said Uriel. “Three years.”
“Me, almost one year,” said Carlos.
“It’s okay?”
“Not too good here, more worse there,” said Carlos.
“Hard everywhere now,” I said.
“I had a good job for a while,” said Uriel. “Now I have to work for this idiot.”
Carlos shook his head at his son again.
I didn’t want to go there. “Well, you need something, let me know.”
I went into my studio, which, before I’d lived here, was just a bedroom. I didn’t want to stay in the house, but I didn’t
feel I should leave, either. They didn’t have transportation—Luke had dropped them off—so it wasn’t even possible for them to grab goodies and run. I shut the door to be more private. Besides being where I practiced my music, the studio also served as my office. I went to my computer first, tried to read e-mail as well as I could, paid a couple bills online, called about an appointment, then finally gave in to some practicing that they would hear. I was perfecting “Fandango” by Joaquín Rodrigo for a recital in Chicago. I played for about an hour before I came out for air.
They weren’t finished, but I liked what I saw. Uriel was doing the rolling, and Carlos was way ahead with a brush, getting corners.
“Your playing was very cool,” Uriel told me.
“I have to practice,” I said. I buried my discomfort. It was the same response I had with my own family, probably because my job was so arty, so unlike ordinary life—their life. I was no different in front of overly dressed people at performances.
“You’re good,” Uriel said. “Is that what you do? For your living?”
Carlos stopped to hear this.
I said yes.
“Not at clubs,” he guessed, not knowing what else.
They both stared at me. “Like concerts, but me alone. With the guitar.”
“Muy padre,” said Uriel. “Where can we see you here?”
“Not much here.” They both had stopped and were listening intently. They wanted me to tell them. “Easier would be when I’m in Mexico. I’ve been to Xalapa, Monterrey, Guadalajara. Bellas Artes, the palace—you know that?” I waited. Neither said anything. “Mexico City. That was the best of all, you wouldn’t believe it.”
“La capital,” said Carlos. “Imagine it.”
“No words,” I said.
“Que padre,” said Uriel. “Wow.”
I didn’t want there to be too long a pause. “Is that other color all right, you think? For the finish?”
They agreed it would look good. I suggested water and brought them each a bottle, cold from the refrigerator. Both chugged. “I’ve got more,” I told Carlos as he finished. He shook his head. I went for another anyway, and Uriel followed.
“I’ve been thirsty since we got here,” he said.
“You should have said.”
We were at the refri’s door. “The boss doesn’t want us to bother nobody. A law.”
I gave him a new bottle and took another for Carlos.
“Lots of rules,” he said.
I didn’t respond. He’d stopped at the threshold of the living room. “Can I go in?”
How could I say no?
“I love your art,” he said. “I wanted to be an artist when I young.”
“Difficult life.”
“You did it, no? A musician?”
“With luck.” I wanted to say random luck—my being born on this side, not over there. I was as much aware of that fortune of nature as I was of my rarity in my own family.
“I don’t believe it.” He didn’t either. You could tell.
I told him about a few of the pieces. He’s from Los Angeles. He’s from Mexico City. She’s from L.A., too. She’s from Chicago. He’s from Oaxaca. I didn’t tell him they were artists I now knew. I didn’t think about it much either, but around someone like Uriel, it was hard for me to believe myself.
“Francisco Toledo, who lives in Oaxaca,” he said, excited. “You’ve heard of him?”
“One of the most famous in Mexico.”
He was proud of this information as if he owned it. “One time I saw an exhibit of his art.”
“Incredible, how cool.”
Uriel browsed my living room, staring at and even touching my collection of trinkets, respectfully, like a first time in a museum. When he’d done a full circle, we walked back to where Carlos was still rolling away before I gave him a fresh bottle of cold water.
By about one in the afternoon, I was done practicing and hungry. I opened the door and Carlos was right in the hallway with a roller and Uriel was brushing the last, farthest corner. He didn’t stop as I stood there.
“This room’s next, right?” Carlos said of my studio office.
“Yes, yes. I’m done. I’ll get out of your way.”
He took the long view of it, and I saw what he did—a ton of work to prep alone.
“Lots,” I said. “Sorry.”
He nodded tiredly. “Ni modo. We got it.” They both seemed in a stern work mood. I decided I would go pick up something for lunch and eat in the living room. I could make a couple of phone calls while they finished. I got my wallet and grabbed my keys. I went out the front door without explanation.
I drove to ¡Burrito Burrito!, not because it was so cheap but because of the food. It was as good as any restaurant charging at least twice as much for the same item. And I liked that it was a drive-through—a former burger joint misnamed Hotdog’s (one of the signs was still there)—and that the owner was aware of healthier food options. At least he told me he didn’t use lard anymore. I drove past the menu sign with the decade-ago-broken intercom mic and stopped next to the window.
The owner bent to show his face and greet me with the side of his hand. “Hola, boss. ¿Un bean an’ cheese sin mucho queso como siempre?”
It is what I almost always ordered. Never almost. “Porfa, sí,” I replied. It was the least expensive burrito they had, that was true, but it was what I liked. There was so much bean inside, it was like getting two anyway.
He told his cook the order a step away from the window, standing straight. On my side, I already had three dollars folded between my finger and thumb. I hadn’t been there much for a few years because my girlfriend then didn’t do drive-up. Once on my own again, I became as regular at the drive-up as he was. An older man, gray, even distinguished if not for the apron, I’d say he looked Hungarian, but only because he was stocky and balding, seemed ethnic and European. Friendly always, we sometimes talked a little, sometimes not at all. At the beginning, a year ago or even two by now, we’d talked more. But about him, never me, which was another plus for the place. He was from Tampico, and as I drove up on stifling hot South Austin days, he cooled me with nostalgic stories of the ocean and beach and wind. He looked like a cook, but he told me he was a retired pilot for an Iranian airline. He only worked here for his son, he said, to fill in. Over time I found he was never not there, and I never saw a son, and I wondered what the story really was. I sensed too much pride, and disappointment, involved—he didn’t dress for a fast food occupation. And the more I’d come, the quieter he’d gotten.
“Yes, leave a little bit for the poor,” I said as he put the dollars into his register. He’d taken my ones, and the final bill left three pennies. I never took them, but he always politely offered. I put leftover pennies in that tray by any restaurant’s cash register, not just here.
There was a car behind waiting, so when I got my burrito, I left quickly and was back at my house after a few turns. It was after one thirty and Carlos and Uriel were still working. Only then did it occur to me that they hadn’t stopped for lunch. The hall was done. They were in my studio, getting it ready to paint. When I asked, Uriel shook his head in irritation and looked away.
Carlos shrugged. “Soon.”
“But it’s almost two.” I still had the brown bag with a bean-and-cheese in my hand. “You’re not hungry?”
“Of course we’re hungry,” snapped Uriel. He wasn’t exactly answering me.
“You can’t stop? Take a break?”
“The boss brings us lunch,” Carlos said. “Then we eat lunch.”
“We have to do what the man says,” said Uriel.
Carlos turned his head away from that comment, as if grains of dirt would scratch his eyes.
I didn’t feel I could eat if they didn’t. I was sure they hadn
’t taken a break earlier either, that they’d been working straight since the morning. This wasn’t the most exhausting work, no doubt, but still, at least lunch. I decided I had to drive back to ¡Burrito Burrito!
While I waited behind two cars ahead of me, I ate most of the bean burrito.
“Buenas, boss. You forget the pennies?”
That threw me off a second or two, as though something whizzed by the back of my head, just missing. “Well, you know, maybe give me two of carne asada.”
Bent into the window, he stared at me curiously. “Tacos?”
I stared back at him, with curiosity. Of course he might have thought that I’d returned still hungry, but it didn’t seem only that.
“Or burritos?” He waited. I was about to say, then he went on. “It’s that the burritos are much bigger.”
Like I wouldn’t know the difference? I couldn’t locate the tone yet, either.
“And,” he finally said, attaching a smirk, “they cost much more than the tacos.”
“Burritos,” I said. I was about to explain, too, like I had to.
“Two? Really? You’re throwing it around today, aren’t you?”
He stood up and told his cook my order. Even that was with equal parts amusement and scorn that was too easy for me to hear.
“No drinks, right?” he asked.
“No . . .” I was about to tell him that I had bottled water.
“. . . No, of course,” he interrupted, sneering.
My body didn’t seem willing to believe what it was hearing.
He came back with the price. It was about eleven dollars. Fact? It was the most I’d ever spent there in about two years. Still, that was no excuse, was it?
The change was a quarter. He handed me that, then the bag with the two burritos. “Salsita roja inside, napkins, all there.” Then he offered me his gracias muchas, aquí para servirle with a bow, as always, gracefully, with a regal wave of the back of his hand.
Before the End, After the Beginning Page 8
