10:39 p.m. - 2004-10-11
luchador
When I asked Jose (my highly-skilled, totally-illegal, helper back on the mainland) why his English was so rough after living in the 'States for 7 years, he told me it had something to do with his old job, back in Mexico. Some word in Spanish that I didn't understand, accompanied by a pantomime of him striking a blow to his own skull.
"Whuh? You used to hit your head a lot at work?"
He nodded, frustrated, as his mind searched for the translation, "Um, booxer?"
"You were boxer?" my skepticism was evident. Jose would have been the shortest heavyweight in history, "Like Oscar de la Hoya?"
"Oh no, no! Como usted la dice, um..." His expression grew serious as he pantomimed pulling something over his head and assumed a classic grappling stance.
"Get the fuck out of town! You used to be a pro wrestler?"
"Si, si! I hit my head many times when we have a match! I don' remember so good, everything. My English...is no good for remember."
"And you wore a wrestling mask?"
"Oh yes, a mask!" He smiled wide, showing all his tooth.
"That totally rules, you know?"
"Si boss, I know". Then he turned his attention back to spreading stucco
(A more humble craft than 'masked luchador', certainly, but easier on the cabesa and a more reliable source of american dollars; necessary for feeding your 4 American children and outfitting your beater American mini-van with a proper, gold-plated, running board).
I sure was missing ol' Jose today. And Manuel and Jorge and the rest of the Home Depot Parking Lot All-Stars. Today it was made clear just how radically my effectiveness as a builder is diminished without a horchata-swillin' gang of stoics in my employ. Quite radically diminished, indeed.
I need to be doing more bong hits out of coconuts and frolicking with sea turtles and less hanging of drywall, yo.
Especially since there exists, I believe, a small chance that I may be going back to "county" when I return to the mainland, after my court date on 11/9. I don't really know, to tell you the truth, but I'm not that worried, either. Because the worst part of being in jail last time wasn't dealing with the other prisoners, as most of my buddies ("how many dudes did you have to scrap, dude?") assumed. I mean, I work on construction sites and spend the rest of my time in serious drinker's bars; these are my people. And the sadistic wardens and the roaches and the lack of sunshine, these things can be endured. It was coming to terms w/how abject I had allowed myself to become, and the sickening realization that my life outside held little more promise than was afforded these more literal prisoners. That's what nearly broke me. But things have changed for the better since then. Incarcerated today, I'd be impatient to get out, obviously, but confident and excited by the life I would be returning to.
So if I go, don't worry. I will totally Nelson Mandela that shit, and then we'll have a big party w/beer in glasses and fancy sandwiches and everything will be great I promise.
Ps- Around 4 PM today, I put on a Miles Davis tape, "Kind of Blue". It was hot and humid and I'd been toiling hard on a rather bitchy project. Right after the bass and piano intro on the first song, as Miles launches in w/the horn, it started raining cool rain everywhere.
