(48) Un Trabajo Del Amante

“I did not say that!” Charlotte declares as we exit the school parking lot, an unmistakable smile creeps into the corners of her mouth. She continues to fold her arms from where she sits next to me so that they lay across the thick cable knit lines of her blue cotton sweater. A tiny silver heart gleams from the sun pouring through the window where it hangs, encrusted in the small links draped upon her delicate wrist now resting at her side.

Britney’s pony tail tumbles down the top of her head like silk as she clutches her stomach with waves of uncontrollable laughter. She grasps the back of our seat with both hands for support, perfectly shaped nails painted with her signature color, strawberry parfait starkly contrasting with the agate cloth. I continue to peer out the window in silence, watching the fierce January wind catch the leaves and swirl them around in the sky like soaring robins. Then they scatter in all directions before falling slowly back down to land gracefully on the cold concrete of the road.

Somewhere amidst the confusion, I hear Patsy shout, “Well at least she could put a bowl of fruit back on the kitchen counter!” More howls of laughter soon follow cackles of enjoyment from past acts of stupidity. “You should have been there, Daria!” They tell me, still grasping the depths of their stomachs in pain. I laugh good naturedly, shaking my head and then return to longingly gaze outside. Though I don’t regret my absences at such reoccurring nights of alcoholic indulgence, I can’t help but feel distanced from these girls that have been my closest companions for most of my life. We used to be close, to care for each other, to be there for one another, now though the conversations have changed. No longer are they about things that matter, but have instead become repeated competitions for how foolish one of them was while being drunk the past weekend. It used to not be so bad, but now it’s all they plan for us to do. There’s just too much in life to waste every single weekend on getting smashed. I wish they could understand that.

Charissa presses her foot lightly on the brakes, as an oncoming light turns pale gold and then a fiery red. We pull to a stop next to a rusted red hued truck and are immediately greeted by five deeply tanned faces somehow fit inside the interior of the pickup. With astonishment we watch as they raise and lower thick brows and pucker thin lips in our direction. Soon every member of the car begins to giggle, and with out warning Britney screams, “Dirty Mexicans!” We continue to explode with uncontained howls. My eyes raise at such a label, but I can’t help but feel relief for the change of topic, finally finding a gap where I can squeeze in my own comments and not feel so left in the dark.

“That’s nothing!” I hear my voice cry. “On Saturday, Olivia and I were driving home from the gym and decided to pick up a movie to watch when we got home. So we went in with our workout clothes, and you know how skimpy Liv gets when she’s at the gym.” My friends glance at each other in understanding. “Well, we were in the new releases section, and all of a sudden these Spanish guys came over and start talking to my sister, asking for her number!” I continue my story by imitating their voices, receiving loud responses from the girls as they begin to roar in the car with laughter at my crude English.

“They are everywhere!” Patsy shouts, finally catching her breath and we nod our heads in unison. Just then the light transforms once again to green, and we zoom through the intersection, leaving the somewhat bewildered men in the truck behind. As we continue to coast down private roads, I think about what I have just heard. Dirty Mexicans, the very words make me cringe inside. What has started out as a specific classification has now transformed almost into a whole term of race. Besides, I think to myself, plenty of construction workers can be much worse.

Charissa soon turns onto my street, and begins climb the winding driveway. As the car approaches the house, I can make out the pale green station wagon parked near the garage, the paint peeling from age and continual use. The presence of such a vehicle can only mean one thing; Ramon is here. It must be Thursday. “Thanks for the ride, Char.” I tell her slinging my oversized backpack onto my weak shoulders. “Bye, guys.” I open the door, squeezing past Charlotte to hop down onto the pavement. As my friends zip back down the hill, I make my way into the house, entering to hear the moans of a vacuum cleaner from the upstairs hallway. Heading for the kitchen to satisfy my afternoon appetite, I almost bump into Carlos, Ramon’s aged father wiping down the counters with a damp purple rag.

“Señorita! Como estás?” He immediately stops what he is doing to beam in my direction, the happiness apparent on his leathery face and wrinkled smile of seeing me for another week. He steps lightly in his white sneakers on top of the light wooden floor , a spray bottle half full of glass cleaner hanging from the lip of this back jeans pocket. I watch it slosh against the sides of the container with each dancing move.

“Bien, gracias. Y Ud?” I reach for an apple quickly.

“Bien, bien.” He replies nodding his head. I smile politely and then turn to head up to my room. Before the past month or so, I could always find pleasure in sitting at the table, munching on a bowl of lucky charms while talking to Carlos after a long day of school. Happily I would concoct Spanish sentences from my past five years of learning the language, and in turn trying to piece together his rapid responses. Now though, I find myself brushing him off, replying with short sentences and forced cheerfulness before I hurry out of his company. I wonder if he notices.

Climbing the stairs, I pull my tired body up by the strength of the chestnut railing and stumble down the soft carpet until I find the clothes that had been strewn along the carpet now folded into stacks of neatly placed piles. Vacuum tracks line the off-white floor and my bed has been expertly made, the pillows fluffed and every wrinkle smoothed out of my cloud-patterned bedspread. Thursdays are wonderful, I sigh, sinking onto my bed and kicking off my clogs. Soon the realization of what a burden of homework lies before me enters into my conscience and slowly I raise myself up to begin the tiresome chore.

Opening my CD player, I am alarmed to find it naked, empty, and rid of my favorite mix of all time. “Olivia!” I slip on my favorite leopard print slippers and hurriedly patter toward her room at the opposite end of the hall. The light from the bathroom we share shines brightly, and thinking someone must have left it on from this morning, I turn towards it to click off the lamps. Before I reach for the switch though, I can make out a figure bent down underneath the countertop, next to the toilet. I stop, my hand frozen in midair, as I watch the man continue his task.

His small black shoes are almost hidden beneath him as Ramon kneels close to the white marble of the floor. Dragging a ragged yellow sponge along the tiles in great circular motions his face hovers inches from the surface so he can make sure that every stain, every drop of lost toothpaste or makeup is rubbed out. A steady and unmistakably aged hand rests upon it as well, where tight fingers fan out underneath a strong supporting arm that keeps him in such a position. I watch him intently, as his head bobs, the grey hairs not being few, and he begins to hum an unidentifiable melody in sync with his polishing motions.

I begin to think of the days before Ramon was a part of our lives My sister and I had to split the chores of tidying the house so that somehow they were equal between us. It would never be entirely equal though, because one of us would always have to end up being assigned the dreaded children’s bathroom. Then we would spend hours trying to finish all of the rooms in the house, scrubbing, sweeping, sweating. That was when we were in middle school, when we didn’t have such time-consuming responsibilities like we have now. After weeks of not cleaning the house, my parents decided to hire someone else to do it. Ramon now has become something else, someone else more than just an average maid service. He has become a dearly beloved member of our extended family, someone we all love and respect. He has given carefully chosen Christmas presents and has made us continually fall over with laughter with his stories and imitations of our neighbors. He has helped me with my Spanish homework and has listened to my romantic problems. As I watch the man turn his body towards the tub, and begin to scrub down its sides, I realize that he is a far better person than I am. My mother told me once while scurrying to finish a few errands, that Ramon was a far better housekeeper than she was because he kept not only his house in order but ours as well.

What my friends and I had discussed brought me immense sadness and guilt. Such men who work so hard and with such pride should be labeled Esteemed Mexicans if anything. Some of them are highly educated men, but the language barriers create other difficulties of acquiring a well-paying job. One man who painted our house turned out to be an electrical engineer in his home, Ecuador. Another gentleman from Nicaragua was the son of a successful executive of the Colgate toothpaste company, but when a war broke out the business men were kidnapped and had their homes attacked so that they had to move to the states for peace. These men fight hard and labor long to be able to give their kids a better life than what they have been given themselves. That’s not something to be looked down upon, but something to be admired. It is well known to our entire family of how Ramon gives all he has to his kids, the children here in Connecticut as well as his other children in Chile.

I gaze at the back of Ramon’s neatly pressed button down shirt with admiration and love. “Ramon!” I cry happily, “Que pasa!”

He turns his head in my direction and sends a silly grin my way. With seriousness etched into the lines of his face he asks, “Como está su novio?”

With an equally somber expression I reply, “Mi novio no existe, mi amigo.” I sit on the freshly vacuumed carpet outside the bathroom door and begin to talk to my dear friend of Thursday afternoons, as he washes and brings beauty to every room he passes through. I tell him of school, of my issues with my friends, of how Olivia and I seem to be growing closer since she’s going to college next year, and he listens as he wipes down sink nozzles and removes unsightly hair from clogged drains. I sit, contentedly in front of him, because I can’t afford to waste such precious time with such a glorious being of immense integrity. Continuing to laugh and chatter endlessly, I tell myself proudly, Ramon and Carlos will always be at the top.