October 2005 / Volume Six / Issue Five | |||||||||||
Abbie Logan | |||||||||||
on the painter, sort of this middle-aged Mexican man plods around the complex day after day with his five-gallon bucket and his brush painting doors and the letters on doors of four hundred-plus units last week he painted my F I carefully inspected the workmanship but then remembered where I'm living still, I guess we're all looking to attract a few new tenants he is always sweaty wears the same clothes each day and has a tired, sad look on his face I often want to say hello but he doesn't speak English and he doesn't smile back after you throw him one he is working at 7 when I nearly run him over in my attempt to get to class on time he is working at 6 when I am walking my dog after dinner sitting on my front porch steps smoking a cigarette I talk to my self-decided-just-ex-boyfriend who calls me up to say he's fed up with my depression that I'm fucked-up for saying I still love him that we should probably start seeing other people maybe it's the Wellbutrin but all I can say is "uh huh" or maybe it's the Mexican trudging by pulling a generator using what seems like every ounce of his not-so-impressive strength to move it up the incline of the pavement the voice in the phone is heartwrenching he reminds me of the ways I have hurt him how he needs more and wants more and deserves more "not to kick you when you're already down," he says "uh huh" it is 6:30 pm and despite anguishfest in my ear all I can think about is whether or not the Mexican got to take a lunch break wondering how much he's getting paid if he's illegal and as vulnerable as he looks when's the last time he's been with a woman or at least whacked off to a decent mag or is his life just what I am seeing right in front of my eyes heh I am thinking that -for some reason- after I go back inside tonight just might be okay |
|||||||||||
RETURN TO OCTOBER 2005 |