Not only am I a racist, but also I’m an unskilled, law-breaking,
guilt-ridden racist with minor wood rot in my soffits. That’s how I
wound up playing a 10-hour game of charades with a Mexican on my roof.
It started when I bemoaned the wood rot to a neighbor. Or, rather,
my wife did the bemoaning. I avoid talking to my neighbors because I
can’t recall their names. In addition to being a racist, I’m a bad
neighbor.
So when My Fair Lady mentioned to this neighbor that
we had some soffit issues, the neighbor said he knew a top-notch
handyman who did great work and charged only $10 per hour. There were
just a few drawbacks: he didn’t speak English, he had a nasty carbuncle
near his left ear, and he didn’t own a car or any tools.
Actually, he did have a hammer. And the neighbor might have neglected to mention the carbuncle.
But
here’s where my racism kicked in. Because any open-minded individual
would have said to himself, “No car, no tools, no English? And he
charges only $10 per hour? I bet he’s some sort of Earth First hippie
who rides a bicycle and was recently laid off from his telecom job
translating Hindi technical manuals into Spanish. He’s not the right
guy for a soffit job.” Me, on the other hand, I figured, “Those
itinerant illegals can do anything with a hammer. Sign him up.”
Then
came the guilt—and not just because my neighbor whose name I can’t
remember was kind enough to go get the Mexican and drive him to my
house and interpret for me as I explained what needed to be done. I
also felt guilty because, again, I’m a racist who waits until the fifth
or sixth reference to tell you that the Mexican’s name was Esteban. And
I’ve got health insurance to stave off carbuncles. And I have two cars and a maid and
a lawn guy (both Anglo, to lessen the guilt). Plus, I’m lazy, as
evidenced by my multitudinous domestic staff. And, on top of all that,
I am so stupid that even though I live in Texas, I took French instead
of Spanish because I thought it sounded cooler.
So I got what I
deserved. After we’d rounded up the necessary tools from other
neighborly neighbors whose names I don’t know—a pneumatic nail gun from
one, a reciprocating saw from another—my translator left us. I didn’t
know how to tell Esteban, “I’m going inside to watch football. You have
fun fixing my soffits.” Instead, I got roped into being his helpmate
for the entire day.
I held plywood while he hammered and sawed
it. I made seven trips to Home Depot. First for nails, then for the
right size of nails. I ran for molding, then for paint, then for Henry
No. 208 Wet Patch Roof Cement and, of course, Henry No. 209
Elastomastic. Esteban had a good laugh when he sent me for a 2-by-12
because they only sell 2-by-12s in 12-foot lengths, and I had to drive
home with about 9 feet of it sticking through the sunroof of my Jetta.
I also went for lunch and for rubbing alcohol when the carbuncle burst.
That was no bueno.
I was surprised by how much we
accomplished and how well we communicated using only sign language and
the 30 words of English that Esteban knew. Up on the roof, after he
took a call on his cell phone from his wife in Mexico, I learned that
she’s always asking him to send more money. His other wife, though, the
one in Dallas, is happy with whatever he brings home. That cracked me
up. Personally—and maybe this is a cultural thing—I think your wives
shouldn’t outnumber your cars. I taught him English for “reciprocating
saw.” He taught me how to swear in Spanish when you hit your thumb.
And, after 10 hours of work, we’d replaced the rotted soffits and
patched the leak that had ruined them.
We returned the tools,
and I paid him $100. Even considering that he wouldn’t pay any taxes,
it seemed a paltry sum for all the work he did. I mean, two wives to
support, all those international cell phone minutes. Not to mention the
desperately needed medical attention.
We shook hands, and he said, “Muchos gracias, Señor Tim.”
“Ce n’est pas rien, Esteban,” I said. But hey, at least I remembered his name.
