Gringo Red

It's a rare instance where the two of us
are riding together. Usually one follows
the other or we meet at the customer's house.
Today he's my passenger, or maybe it's more
that I'm his driver since he's the one sitting
on a thick wallet. That's how this system works--
the man with the green makes the rules, calls
the shots, decides how to handle the debriefing.
Capitalism's not afraid to get dirty. It lingers
in plumbing just the same as in sales.
My friend, most times my boss, is one of its agents.
He leans against the arm rest and points through
the window on his side of my truck. "I worked
at that house once. A Mexican almost died there."

It's not uncommon for unskilled labor to be injured.
They often don't take proper precautions to work
safely since time is of the essence when trying
to keep a job that a thousand other illegals would
give pints of blood to possess.
For conversation's sake I take the bait.
"Oh yeah? What happened?"

He turns his head and shoots me that sinister grin
that finds its way to his oldest boy's face
when he's about to drop a line.
My friend's fortunate for cloning himself.
He comes from good stock, or maybe he doesn't
but made his own fate and broke cycles.
"He was a carpenter's helper. They were tying off
a temporary scaffold and the Mexican slashed his
wrist by accident. Blood was spurting everywhere.
Major arterial bleeding." He pauses to take a sip
of his coffee as if to flex his hardened stomach.
I fail to see where the punch line is coming
but know that it's there from his tone.
"He refused to go to the hospital. Told his boss
he couldn't because he'd be deported. The guy
was going to bleed out and die on the jobsite
if no one did something quickly."

The corners of his mouth spread. I know
it's going to get interesting, but never
would guess what comes next.
"His boss decked him good. Knocked the little beaner
right out in one punch. We duct taped his arm
as best we could and carried him to the back of
the carpenter's truck. I held pressure on the wound
on the way to the hospital. That guy was lucky."

He shifts in his seat and waits for my commentary.
A good storyteller knows when to pause.
The lousy ones don't allow for digestion.
They fill the air with words like a canary
lines its cage with shit.

"So he made it?" I ask once my laughter subsides.

"Yeah, and they didn't send him back to his country.
That contractor made a tough call. He could've let him
die stubbornly, dumped his body in the river
and saved a few days' pay." He follows his statement
up with what we both know is a lie:
"I would've."

But a man who tapes an unconscious immigrant
day laborer's severed wrist, carries his limp body
to the bed of a truck, and fights against the pumping
of blood into daylight could never do such a thing.
Again, since he's paying, I let him play lead.
"Yeah. One less guy to cheat the system and
take an American's job," though we know
that's not always the case. It just sounds right.

We drive on in silence feeling sorry
for our fellow man who has to sell his soul
in order to make a living.
We only sell pipes and porcelain
and even that's debatable.
At the end of the day it's comfort
we peddle. Who in their right mind
won't pay for that? The luckiest among us
get it for free. My friend and I are blessed
and know it without saying. The saying
sometimes takes away from the doing
and we don't want to risk that loss.