“I’ve got this new community service worker at the jobsite, a woman. The weird thing is her paperwork says thirty-two hours, and I’ve never had anybody like that before.”
“That is weird. She’s not a drunk driver because fifty hours is the mandatory minimum by the state.” She spun in her chair and began clicking on her keyboard. “We should be able to find out. Community service sentences are public record.”
I gave her the name and went around her desk to look over her shoulder.
“Felony littering.”
“Since when is littering a felony?”
“I don’t know, but that’s what it says. Adjudication withheld…so if she completes her community service, makes restitution and pays a fine, her record is expunged.”
All of a sudden I didn’t like Mari Tirado, and didn’t care if she liked me. People who throw out their trash in public places are pigs. Self-centered, arrogant degenerates, which wasn’t all that far from my first impression of her when she’d held up a finger as if to say, “Don’t bother me, pissant. I’m on the phone with someone more important.”
What did I care if she got a stupid little blister? I didn’t care if her whole hand fell off. Well, maybe not something as bad as that. But she certainly didn’t deserve having anyone feel sorry for her, and I wish I hadn’t been suckered into waiving her orientation. I just played right into that game of hers, making her feel entitled.
Mari was in for a rude awakening on Saturday. If she thought hauling blocks was tough, wait till I sent her up on the roof with a hammer and a stack of shingles. In this heat, she’d melt after an hour.
Chapter Three
I was on the porch counting out T-shirts when the familiar white Porsche rumbled to a stop in front of the house. Mari got out right away, this time dressed in carpenter jeans, brand-new workboots and a skintight pale yellow T-shirt. A green cotton ball cap with a University of Miami logo hid her face from the sun, and her long dark ponytail swung freely from the hole in the back.
“Well, well. Looks like someone got the fashion memo.”
Bo looked up from the supplies he’d been sorting. “A woman like that looks good in just about anything.”
Especially handcuffs, I think to myself. At least I hope I thought it to myself. It’s not the sort of thing I meant to say out loud. Bo never cares what sorts of trouble our community service workers have gotten into, as long as they give it their all on the jobsite.
He went out to the driveway to meet up with the Total Bank volunteers while I waited for Mari, who marched straight up the steps and handed me a small brown bag from the hardware store.
“Sorry I ruined your gloves last week. I got you another pair.”
“Thanks, but you didn’t have to do that. I go through so many that I buy them in packs of a dozen.” In other words, I work all the time the way she did last week. “You may want to hold on to these.”
“Let me guess. They’re delivering a new load of blocks and you want them carted around to the backyard.” She never even cracked a smile and neither did I.
“The other volunteers are from Total Bank and they’re hanging drywall today. I showed them a video at work on Thursday so they’d know how to do it and since you missed that, I figured I’d get you started up on the roof.”
“The roof? I haven’t been on a roof since I was a kid.” She looked up dubiously, clearly thinking I had to be kidding. She was mistaken.
“Guess you won’t be able to say that again, will you?”
Nailing shingles was pretty easy once you got the hang of it, but we couldn’t let just any bozo walk around twelve feet above the ground.
“You’re not afraid of heights, are you?” I had to ask.
She shook her head but I could tell she was not happy.
One of the things we generally try to do with our volunteers is instill confidence. Many of them come out because they enjoy do-it-yourself projects, but others just want to learn and feel good about their contribution. We present every single task—no matter how much skill it requires—as something an average person can do. I’m living proof it works because I didn’t know the first thing about renovating when I started at the foundation and now I can do practically any job they give me, as long as it’s not something that requires a license.
“You can do this. Come on. I’ll get you started.”
The first thing I did was tie a nail belt around her waist. She smelled good, the definition of which is no perfume, no talc and no hints of food fragrances from her shampoo. I’ve never understood why anyone would want their hair to smell like strawberries, herbs or almonds. Why not hot dogs or pickled beets? Because food doesn’t belong in your hair.
As she filled the pockets with nails, I located a hammer and utility knife.
“Good choice on the carpenter pants, by the way.” I slid the hammer through the loop on her thigh so it dangled by her knee. Then I dropped the closed knife into the narrow pocket on the other side. “Now all you need is water.”
She’d brought her own reusable bottle, which I thought was pretty considerate for a convicted litterbug.
Once we scaled the ladder, I was glad to see Bo’s work crew had already nailed the first course in place and added the chalk lines needed to keep the rows straight. The learning curve on laying shingles was steep enough without the detail work.
“We start at the edge and work our way up. Six nails for every shingle. Some builders think four’s enough, but this is hurricane country. What you do up here could mean the difference between saving a house and losing it.”
It always sounds really dramatic but we drive that point home with everyone so they’ll understand how important their job is. Since Mari was nodding along seriously, I felt pretty sure she wouldn’t try to take any shortcuts.
I demonstrated where the nails went and how to cut the first row of shingles so the flaps were staggered, and then stepped back to watch her work. Her first few swats with the hammer reminded me of my own a couple of years ago, when it took me thirty swings to drive a three-inch nail through a two-by-four. I can do it in half that now, but guys like Bo do it in four. Roofing nails are only an inch long, and I had a feeling Mari would get it down to four or five before the day was over. Her work last week left me with the impression she wanted to be good at everything she did.
When she reached for her fifth shingle, I headed toward the ladder. “It’s going to get hot up here. Drink lots of water whether or not you feel like you need it, and make sure you yell for someone when you start down that ladder.”
Realistically, I couldn’t leave her up there for more than a couple of hours on account of the heat, but I didn’t mind having her think I would. And just to keep an eye on her, I decided it was a good time to paint the eaves on that side of the house, which is a lot harder than nailing shingles because I have to look up and stretch my arm out, all while balancing ten feet above the ground on a ladder. What mattered was that my head was almost even with the roofline so I could watch her every move.
Jenko, this would have been a better job for Mari. All she had to do was scoot around on her butt. If I traded with her now, she’d figure out pretty quick this was harder than that, and she’d think I couldn’t handle it. Righteous indignation was so complicated.
After about thirty minutes my neck was killing me.
“We ought to break for water soon.”
“I’m good,” she called, not even looking up. Show-off. She was near the end of her first row already. It was only a tiny fraction of what had yet to be done, but that’s what made roofing so tedious. I had to admit, she’d made pretty decent progress for a novice, and her work looked good.
“At least let me fill your water bottle. This heat sneaks up on you.”
I used my break not only to catch a drink but also to check on the paperwork for today’s volunteers. I’d forgotten to get Mari to sign in, and by the time I got back up to the roof with her freshly filled water bottle and the clipboard, Bo was
working behind her on row two. She’d probably called out to him to bring her a cold drink or come see about her poor little blister.
They barely acknowledged me, and I went back to work on the eaves, but within earshot so I could hear what sort of sob story she was peddling.
“You’re pretty good at this,” Bo told her.
“Believe it or not, I’ve actually had a little experience. I remember helping my uncle fix our neighbor’s roof after Hurricane Andrew. All I did was hand him shingles but it was fun.”
“I remember that time well. We all worked together for months to clean up—everybody all over the city. Where were you when it hit?”
“With mi abuela…at my grandmother’s house in the Gables. Eight of us crammed into the pantry because it didn’t have windows. I’ll never forget how scared we all were…passing around the rosary and praying we’d see the morning.”
“Tell me about it. I was living down at Homestead.”
“You guys got hammered.”
Right on cue, Bo sent six nails into a shingle with only twelve swings. “Fortunately I was renting. We lost half the roof, but the worst part was when somebody’s pickup truck blew right into the living room.”
“So many horrible stories, but we were lucky. And you’re right about how we all came together afterward. It gave us a sense of community.”
Yeah, and what did Mari do with that community? She dumped her trash on it. Felony littering! I looked it up—five hundred pounds of trash. She must have junked an old car in the Everglades or something. Those things take like a billion years to biodegrade.
Another forty minutes went by and I was ready to scream, not just at the cramping in my neck and arms, but at the Mister Rogers reminiscing going on between Bo and Mari. You’d think they were the only ones who’d ever faced adversity. I’d like to see either one of them dig out of one of those eight-foot snowdrifts like we had in New Hampshire!
Mari’s magical spell finally broke and Bo remembered his twelve bankers working inside the house.
“I better get down and see about the drywall. Say, Daph…your neck’s got to be killing you by now. Last time you did that, you went on about it for a month. Why don’t you jump on up here and give Mari a hand with the roof?”
Nice going, Bo. Now Mari thinks I’m a whiner.
“I’ll finish this side.” Even if it killed me. My neck felt like I was wearing a tractor tire for a necklace.
As I stepped up on the roof to let Bo use the ladder, Mari’s cell phone rang with one of those maddening salsa jingles. If I ever make it to hell, I’m sure they’ll be blasting that out of every speaker.
She looked at the number then at me. “Is it okay if I get this?”
“Sure.” I wasn’t her jailer.
Her hushed tones weren’t necessary since every word was in Spanish. For all I knew, she was plotting with someone to have me beaten up. Except I could tell she was pretty upset about something. Not angry…more like worried.
But then she hung up and went right back to work without a word.
I’d settled back on my perch at the top of the ladder, not three feet from where she was nailing shingles. The decent thing to do was ask if everything was okay, but it wasn’t as if Mari and I were friends. By all accounts, she didn’t even like me.
Not that I could blame her. As far as she knew, I was a slave-driving bitch who held a ridiculous grudge against her for getting to the site a few minutes late. It wasn’t her fault the rest of us didn’t have our watches set to Hispanic Time.
Okay, the real problem—Edith knew it and deep down so did I—is My Attitude, not hers. Miami isn’t going to bend to suit me. The only people who survive here are the ones who realize that and go with the flow.
Okay, but the real problem—I know, I just said that—is going with the flow means going against my nature. That’s what makes living here so difficult. I’m not the kind of person who runs around traffic to jump in front. Or the kind who keeps people waiting because I think my time is more important than theirs. Or blasts my own music on the beach because I don’t give a Jenko what anyone else wants to hear.
I fight those things inside me because civil society means living by rules for the common good.
Edith felt the same way but said she understood how it got to be that way. A lot of Miami’s Hispanics come from places where the roads have no stripes at all, and goods aren’t plentiful. Pushing to the front of the line is what they did to survive. Those who waited meekly in the back didn’t get any.
My conflict is internal. Doing things the Miami way throws me off-kilter.
I don’t like having to shout over people at the deli counter, but that’s what it takes if I want the clerk to notice me. But then every time I do it, I look around and see some other poor schmuck who’s being ignored because she’s politely waiting her turn. That kind of stuff makes me feel like a jerk.
Or when I run up on somebody’s bumper to keep another car from turning in front of me, like it would kill me to be nice and let him in. By the time I get to work I’m all worked up, not from fighting with the traffic, but from wondering if anyone ever let that poor guy squeeze in.
I guess the bottom line here is if I want Miami to be a nicer place, I can start with myself.
“Say, Mari. We’re going to break for lunch in about ten minutes. How about we look around for another job for this afternoon?”
“I don’t mind this one,” she answered, not even looking at me. “I like being up here and seeing it take shape.”
Right, and we’ll have to haul her off in an ambulance after she has heatstroke. I’d probably catch hell for that. “It’s getting pretty hot up here.”
“I’m used to the heat. I’ve lived here all my life.”
Apparently, she also lived to be obstinate. And those pointed jabs about how we “outsiders” couldn’t adapt wasn’t going to win her any points with me. She could boil up here for all I cared. “Suit yourself.”
“Wait.” When she stood up to her full height, it was like looking up from the bottom of a totem pole. “I was just trying to say this was okay with me, but I’ll do whatever job you want me to do. You’re the boss.”
Humility. I like that. And maybe a tiny bit of contrition.
“If you’re okay with it, that’s fine. Just don’t pass out and fall off the roof. It leaves a stain on the driveway.”
She almost smiled. Not quite though, because her dimple didn’t show up. I didn’t stare because I knew I’d smile back, and then she’d think I was kidding about the stain.
The lunch truck that canvassed construction sites pulled up out front and sounded its horn, which happened to be the first few bars of “La Cucaracha.” It never made sense to me why a song about cockroaches made people want to eat.
I clutched my paintbrush and bucket in one hand and started down the ladder. “Wait till I get to the bottom and I’ll hold the ladder for you,” I told Mari.
Except my foot slipped off the next to last step and when I reached the ground, I did so with my ass. No big deal on the ass part, but now there was white paint all over my chest and legs, to say nothing of a stain on the driveway.
Mari whirled onto the ladder like it was a fireman’s pole and was standing over me in three seconds flat. “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay.” Jenko, I had paint in my mouth. Then I went to wipe it and realized it was all over my hand too. Which meant it was now all over my face.
The whole crew must have heard the commotion because they all came running. Even the Cockroach driver had stopped his truck and joined them.
I almost wished I’d broken something, and I even considered faking it just to keep them from laughing. But no, I was fine, other than feeling more humiliated than I ever had in my life. And that’s without a mirror.
Mari still looked worried. “You want me to get a hose or something?”
I looked over at Bo hopefully, but his grim jaw gave away the bad news.
“T
hat’s too much paint,” he said. “We can’t wash it into the groundwater. I’ll go get some rags and a drop cloth.”
The only way to properly dispose of half a gallon of spilled latex paint is to scoop it up, let it dry and throw it out with the garbage. Then we’d have to scrub the driveway with soap and water.
Since I didn’t have a change of clothes in the car, Bo would have to wrap me in something that would keep the paint from getting all over everything. In other words, I’d be driving home in a toga. Mother Jenko.
The paint coated me from the knees up, so when Bo got back, we tried to mop up the biggest globs with paper towels. Next came the drop cloth, which was covered with so much dried paint, dust and cobwebs that it was totally, totally Gross. I stood mostly still while he and Mari wrapped it around me, including a loop through my crotch that made me feel like I was wearing a giant diaper.
In a show of either mercy or boredom, the bankers had followed Cockroach back to his truck for lunch. Only Mari stuck around to gawk at the spectacle.
“You sure you aren’t hurt? That was quite a fall.”
“I’ll probably have a bruise on my rear end, but it could have been a lot worse.”
“You should have called somebody to hold the ladder.”
It was all I could do not to parrot that back in a snippy voice. She was right, of course, but her observation was about as useful as a two-legged barstool.
Bo jumped in to save my sorry ass. “Sometimes we’re the worst offenders. We get caught up watching everybody else and forget to pay attention to our own selves. I guarantee you Daphne would a whole lot rather see this happen to her than one of our volunteers.”
Good thing he hadn’t said community service workers.
“Or community service workers,” he added. “You got everything you need?”
Playing With Fuego Page 3
