Here's something you might be interested in.
David isn’t his name. I don’t know his name. I don’t think I ever knew it.
Somebody was knocking softly at my grandmother’s back door. I was in the kitchen and could see a silhouette through the holes of the security screen door. My gran wasn’t home; I went to the door. A man, small, dark, thin, had his hands over his eyes. I recognized him as someone my grandmother talked to; I thought he might be one of the workers from next door. I asked what he wanted: Digame. He asked politely if he could come in and rinse his eyes, they were hurting. I unlocked the door and let him in, then watched as he stumbled along, into the kitchen, feeling his way to the sink. That day he was wearing dirty jeans and a shirt and a jacket, as I recall. I think he was wearing a baseball cap, as well. His hands were dirty and cut, nails black.
He ran the water, splashing it on his face, then asked if by chance I had a washcloth he could borrow. I went over to the box where my grandmother kept her dishtowels and grabbed one, and brought it over to him. I asked him what was wrong. He said that he had burned his eyes doing work for "Campacho."
Campacho ran an illegal welding business in the yard behind my grandmother’s house; there was a storage shed at the end of the yard by the alley. The landlords rented the storage shed and the yard to him. Since there was no power in the shed to run his equipment, Campacho used my grandmother’s outside outlet. He had offered to pay my grandmother for the use of her outlet. He never did. More than once he had nearly set the whole place on fire. Campacho makes and installs wrought-iron fences, gates, doors. Everywhere you go in this community, you will see Campacho’s work.
This man, “David,” told me that the night before he had been doing a job for Campacho without a welding visor. I can’t recall the exact reason now, I do recall that he had begged for a visor, but Campacho had either left it at a site, or somewhere else, or the visor was broken, I just don’t recall that part of the story anymore. When David said that his eyes were getting burned, Campacho told him that he had to finish the work or he would turn him over to the Migra. He said that Campacho hadn’t paid him for weeks. He said that sometimes Campacho didn’t feed him for days. The whole time he was talking, he kept his eyes covered, making that sound men make when something hurts really bad, half-gasp, half groan.
Don’t ask me why, maybe because he wasn’t capering around the kitchen in pain, maybe because he asked me not to (something about this vaguely rings a bell), maybe because my brain doesn’t work clearly when I’m under stress, but I didn’t call an ambulance. I kept thinking I wished I had my car so I could take him to the clinic. I said he needed to be treated by a doctor. He asked if he could borrow the phone so he could call a friend to come pick him up. After some trying, the friend answered and they talked and David hung up and said his friend was coming for him.
We sat at the kitchen table and waited. I think I gave him food and coffee, I don’t remember now, but I have a memory of him eating or drinking something. David told me more details of his life working for Campacho. He said there was no bathroom in the shed. There was a dirty mattress to sleep on. Nowhere to cook. The few things he had Campacho had stolen. Campacho regularly threatened him; he may even have hit him, I think I recall him saying. David said that all of Campacho’s workers suffered the same fate. He said Campacho would find a guy to work for him, then bring him and put him in the shed and then make him work day and night without pay, without food. If they didn’t leave first, when he was done with a job, he would threaten them, tell them to get out, abandon them.
I kept looking out of the window for the friend. My grandmother came in, and I told her what happened. She said, that yes, David wasn’t the only worker Campacho treated badly, she had seen how he treated them. David’s friend finally had gotten there. The friend didn’t seem too interested in what had happened, or concerned about David’s injuries. Nevertheless, David went with him. He stumbled out, the friend not helping.
When David left my grandmother’s house, I went into the kitchen with my grandmother. She told me that David would come to her door, begging for a little food, and she would feed him and give him something to drink, coffee or soda or juice. She would make him an egg with chili, or a tortilla with beans, whatever she had. Sometimes she would give him her lunch that Meals on Wheels provided.
Shortly after this, I’d say within days, but it may have been longer, Campacho packed up his business and disappeared, leaving a mess behind. Someone told me later that he moved like that, from place to place, setting up for a time, then moving on. Some years later, I mentioned his name to my landlords, and they laughed. Yes, they knew of Campacho, he’d been around for years. When I’d seen him, he looked old; he was stout, with piggy eyes, his skin was red and pitted, his salt-and-pepper hair greasy and long. I hated when he would come on my grandmother’s porch with his plug in his hand, wanting to connect his machines. I couldn’t imagine anything so vile as that man touching me.
Something suddenly occurred to my grandmother as we sat there, after David left. She asked me what that towel was that was on David’s eyes when he left, where did he get it from. I said it was one of her old dishtowels. She said she had recognized it, and she wished I had given him another one since that was her favorite. I got up from the table and went to get my purse, brought it back to the table and opened it. “How much do you want for the towel?” She didn't mention it again.
(Next week: Esperanza)
David isn’t his name. I don’t know his name. I don’t think I ever knew it.
Somebody was knocking softly at my grandmother’s back door. I was in the kitchen and could see a silhouette through the holes of the security screen door. My gran wasn’t home; I went to the door. A man, small, dark, thin, had his hands over his eyes. I recognized him as someone my grandmother talked to; I thought he might be one of the workers from next door. I asked what he wanted: Digame. He asked politely if he could come in and rinse his eyes, they were hurting. I unlocked the door and let him in, then watched as he stumbled along, into the kitchen, feeling his way to the sink. That day he was wearing dirty jeans and a shirt and a jacket, as I recall. I think he was wearing a baseball cap, as well. His hands were dirty and cut, nails black.
He ran the water, splashing it on his face, then asked if by chance I had a washcloth he could borrow. I went over to the box where my grandmother kept her dishtowels and grabbed one, and brought it over to him. I asked him what was wrong. He said that he had burned his eyes doing work for "Campacho."
Campacho ran an illegal welding business in the yard behind my grandmother’s house; there was a storage shed at the end of the yard by the alley. The landlords rented the storage shed and the yard to him. Since there was no power in the shed to run his equipment, Campacho used my grandmother’s outside outlet. He had offered to pay my grandmother for the use of her outlet. He never did. More than once he had nearly set the whole place on fire. Campacho makes and installs wrought-iron fences, gates, doors. Everywhere you go in this community, you will see Campacho’s work.
This man, “David,” told me that the night before he had been doing a job for Campacho without a welding visor. I can’t recall the exact reason now, I do recall that he had begged for a visor, but Campacho had either left it at a site, or somewhere else, or the visor was broken, I just don’t recall that part of the story anymore. When David said that his eyes were getting burned, Campacho told him that he had to finish the work or he would turn him over to the Migra. He said that Campacho hadn’t paid him for weeks. He said that sometimes Campacho didn’t feed him for days. The whole time he was talking, he kept his eyes covered, making that sound men make when something hurts really bad, half-gasp, half groan.
Don’t ask me why, maybe because he wasn’t capering around the kitchen in pain, maybe because he asked me not to (something about this vaguely rings a bell), maybe because my brain doesn’t work clearly when I’m under stress, but I didn’t call an ambulance. I kept thinking I wished I had my car so I could take him to the clinic. I said he needed to be treated by a doctor. He asked if he could borrow the phone so he could call a friend to come pick him up. After some trying, the friend answered and they talked and David hung up and said his friend was coming for him.
We sat at the kitchen table and waited. I think I gave him food and coffee, I don’t remember now, but I have a memory of him eating or drinking something. David told me more details of his life working for Campacho. He said there was no bathroom in the shed. There was a dirty mattress to sleep on. Nowhere to cook. The few things he had Campacho had stolen. Campacho regularly threatened him; he may even have hit him, I think I recall him saying. David said that all of Campacho’s workers suffered the same fate. He said Campacho would find a guy to work for him, then bring him and put him in the shed and then make him work day and night without pay, without food. If they didn’t leave first, when he was done with a job, he would threaten them, tell them to get out, abandon them.
I kept looking out of the window for the friend. My grandmother came in, and I told her what happened. She said, that yes, David wasn’t the only worker Campacho treated badly, she had seen how he treated them. David’s friend finally had gotten there. The friend didn’t seem too interested in what had happened, or concerned about David’s injuries. Nevertheless, David went with him. He stumbled out, the friend not helping.
When David left my grandmother’s house, I went into the kitchen with my grandmother. She told me that David would come to her door, begging for a little food, and she would feed him and give him something to drink, coffee or soda or juice. She would make him an egg with chili, or a tortilla with beans, whatever she had. Sometimes she would give him her lunch that Meals on Wheels provided.
Shortly after this, I’d say within days, but it may have been longer, Campacho packed up his business and disappeared, leaving a mess behind. Someone told me later that he moved like that, from place to place, setting up for a time, then moving on. Some years later, I mentioned his name to my landlords, and they laughed. Yes, they knew of Campacho, he’d been around for years. When I’d seen him, he looked old; he was stout, with piggy eyes, his skin was red and pitted, his salt-and-pepper hair greasy and long. I hated when he would come on my grandmother’s porch with his plug in his hand, wanting to connect his machines. I couldn’t imagine anything so vile as that man touching me.
Something suddenly occurred to my grandmother as we sat there, after David left. She asked me what that towel was that was on David’s eyes when he left, where did he get it from. I said it was one of her old dishtowels. She said she had recognized it, and she wished I had given him another one since that was her favorite. I got up from the table and went to get my purse, brought it back to the table and opened it. “How much do you want for the towel?” She didn't mention it again.
(Next week: Esperanza)