FAST, FUN, FRIENDLY

27 Jul FAST, FUN, FRIENDLY

His shirt isn’t red. Maybe burgundy or maroon. But certainly not red. This means nothing as the night crew files in assembly, red poppies in the midst of decay. No one is young anymore. At 18, the boys are 50. Back braces their only companions as they shoulder the weight of windshield wiper fluid and 1500 boxes of Cheerios. And everyone speaks Spanglish, courtesy of Esta Noche and Casos de Familia. It helps since the cleaning crew only knows to say yes and no. Sometimes they nod their head. Other times, complete silence. Everyone has offered a reason, a stoic excuse. “It fits my schedule,” “I’m a night owl,” “I love the camaraderie (a word they can barely pronounce).” But I wonder how we got here, Domingo spreading vibrant shades of rouges across the back of his blotchy palms. Domingo grinning with his failing heart and talking with those wretched hands, fingers aged, decrepit. Broken down from years of delving in waste. Though he spends seven hours collecting discarded boxes, his shirt, tucked in khakis, is the rarest shade of vermillion. I wish he knew how much I love him. How he gracefully nods at every demeaning demand. How his head droops. Shoulders slump, each time a battered box dies in the incinerator. I love his gallant walk and the 75 strands, slicked back against his glossy head. I simply love him. All of them with their charming quirks and errant smiles. Rosalba with her memory lapses and obsession with one-sided conversations. Miriam with dead fingertips, black and navy from too many car doors slammed without warning. But most of all. I love how they think themselves immortal. How they love life in the way that they knock back bottles of Coke and scoff powdered, glazed, chocolate covered crème honey buns. It’s their fruit of life. While I sip green tea, they observe French Fry Fridays and Ice Cream Sundays (our religious mass). And rejoice when the boss announces Tea and Scones Night. But these wilted flowers, once dying, always bloom. Maybe it’s the taste of 1700 calories or diabetic shock from high fructose corn syrup. Either way, when they come from break, they forget that this is Target. That Nacho, whose name is probably Pedro, sits in the trunk because there is no room for him in the back seat. They forget about the remainder of the week, the days that bring forth another clean red tee shirt, worn, tattered and soiled from lifting detergent. They forget the gangs in the break room: the cool kids who watch dirty movies; the old farts glued to Telemundo; the border freaks who speak neither Spanish nor English. They disregard the 15,000 square feet walk to stock a store for invisible guests. That’s how they fail to notice that the cleaning crew hates dish rags. That they hate to clean. Soup stains the tables. Crumbs of quesadilla and cheese mar the microwave. But if no one complains, the rags remain white, as they— the cleaning crew— turn the other cheek, accepting that two men will have to squeeze in the trunk if Nacho misses the bus.

Landzy Theodore is a writer who is fascinated by other human beings–she creates rich character studies with compassion and flair.