doing

"There's always two guys," my friend told me as we hoisted and hammered his new cabinets in place. I was helping him all day Saturday, eventhough I had a long list of my own housework to do. "One speaks English. He cuts the deal. The other, his buddy, doesn't speak English--he's always the better craftsman." He was talking about Mexican day laborers; the guys you can pick up on Burnside Avenue near the I-84 overpass. I pass them everyday on my way to work as they wait in a cluster on the sidewalk for trucks to pull up. A few have backpacks, but most have nothing but the logo-splashed t-shirts on their backs. They swarm the truck and the most tenacious pair get seats in the cab and head off to a day's work--ten dollars an hour. My friend got my help for cheap last Saturday; I worked for spicy chicken wings and two cans of Pabst.

I don't think they'd fit in my bug, but I would've loved to pick up a few day laborers this morning. Although I've been doing non-stop (okay, except for the Tuesday night drunkenness) nothing seems to be getting done. My brother arrives tomorrow morning, all my friends show up in the evening and my parents will be at my house by 9:30--TOMORROW! I'm throwing myself a party. My to-do list has three pitiful lines drawn through a long string of ambitious tasks that just won't get done in time. Okay, one of the tasks was "pedicure" but this week, even that feels like an effort. I need the silent craftsman. I wonder if he can do French tips...