“You really hit it hard this morning, Teacher.”
We’re sipping beers under the moon, in reclining lawn chairs, poolside at an apartment down the road from ours, alone except for a fat guy doing laps with barely a splash.
Lorenzo means my head. I keep forgetting to duck it as I climb into the back of the canopied truck that takes us out to the fields. Not to make excuses, but it’s dark at five in the morning and I’m still half-asleep. Anyway, about every other morning I smack my skull on an overhead beam. The other workers—all Mexicans—call me Bobo. Lorenzo says it means Idiot.
This morning they called me lots of other things too.
“What was everyone yelling at me for?”
“They were pissed off, man. Some of them.”
“All I did was hit my head.”
“That’s right.”
“I do it every morning.”
“Not every morning,” he corrects.
“Every other morning.”
“So?”
“So today was Monday, so it was hard to tell if you would or not. But now you did, so tomorrow you probably won’t. Except, tomorrow you will. Tomorrow you’re gonna hit your head. So remember.”
“It’s ducking my head I’m trying to remember.”
“Just do it, man.”
“Hit my head.”
“Right.”
“Wanna tell me why?”
“You have to know every fucking thing, man?”
We’re quiet. I’m thinking.
“Lorenzo?”
“What.”
“Are people laying bets on whether or not I hit my head?”
He takes a drink from his beer.
“Christ,” I mutter. “How long’s this been going on?”
“Since this morning. Couple guys lost their whole day’s pay, thanks to you.”
“My fault?”
“Well, what the hell, you can’t remember to duck your head?”
“You bet your whole day’s pay?”
“It was stupid, man. I shoulda waited.”
“So we could set something up, you mean?”
“That’s right. So hit it good, you know? Like this morning. Don’t fake it.”
“Forget it, Lorenzo. You tell them I know what’s going on. Tell them from now on I will always duck my head.”
“After tomorrow.”
“Starting tomorrow.”
He sits up. “Teacher, listen to me. I’m the only one who says you’re gonna hit your head tomorrow. Everyone else— ten guys, man—they’re all betting the other way. I can win a hundred dollars. And here’s the best part: you get twenty-five of it. A whole day’s pay for bumping your head. That’s not so bad, you know?”
“Sorry.”
“All right, thirty-five, but that’s it, man.”
“I’m not doing it.”
He studies me. “Why are you being such a bobo?”
I give a large sigh. “Lorenzo, I don’t know if you can understand this, but I happen to have something called scruples. It comes from having something called a conscience.”
“I have something called an ass and you can kiss it, man. You think you’re better than me? A better person, man? Fuck you, Teacher.”
“I didn’t say I was necessarily—”
“Fuck you, Bobo.”
We’re quiet.
The fat guy is doing the backstroke now, his big wet belly shining in the moonlight.
“Anyway, don’t they know you know me? Won’t they suspect something?”
“They don’t know shit, man. Do I ever walk to the truck with you? Eat lunch with you? Speak to you?”
“No. You don’t.”
“Know why?”
“Let me guess. Because I’m a bobo.”
“That’s right, man. And don’t ever forget it.”
We’re quiet again.
I stare at the moon, feeling sorry for myself, out there all day yanking away at some rubbery goddam tangled-up vine, bush after bush, row after row, no one to talk to but myself, known only as Bobo, as Idiot …
I ask Lorenzo what other names the men were calling me this morning.
“In English?”
“Please.”
“Let’s see … they said you were an asshole … a fornicator of goats … the son of a whore … the daughter of a whore … an eater of donkey shit … a stuck-up gringo bigot …”
“Bigot?”
“That’s right.”
I sit up. “Based on what?”
“Your attitude, man. With your scruples. Too good to talk to a buncha wetbacks.”
“I don’t speak Spanish, Lorenzo—remember?”
“That’s very convenient, man.”
“Jesus.” I lie back and drink.
“There’s that attitude. There it is, right there.”
“Excuse me.” It’s the fat guy, standing near us in the shallow end, hands at his hips like a hardass. “Do you fellows live here?”
“What’s it to you, man?”
I wave him away: “Do some more laps.”
“Because if you don’t live here—”
“Look at how fat you are,” Lorenzo says. “You’re like a fucking whale, you know that?”
The guy stands there a moment, slowly nodding his head, like he knows what to do about us, then gets out and grabs his towel and marches off.
Lorenzo yells insulting things about the size of his butt.
“He’s gonna call security,” I point out.
“Let’s go.”
I start putting the empties in the carton.
“Leave that shit for him.”
I leave it.
“Take the box, man. There’s some beers left.”
“Right.” I take the carton.
He stands there shaking his head at me.
“Don’t,” I tell him.
“Don’t what, man.”
“Call me a bobo.”
He laughs.
“I mean it, Lorenzo. I don’t like it. I’m not an idiot. I have a goddam Masters degree, you know?”
“So what should I call you? Master?”
“I’m serious.”
“I know, man. That’s your whole problem.”
We head down the moonlit gravel road, palm trees on either side.
“Give me one of those,” he says.
I hand him a beer from the carton. He pops it open and takes a long drink, belches and sighs. “You know what I should really call you, man?”
“No more names. Please.”
“You’ll like this one.” He puts his arm around my shoulder. “ Amigo. That’s what I should call you. You know what that word means, don’t you?”
“Friend.”
“That’s right, man. And don’t ever forget it.”
It’s a little embarrassing with his arm around my shoulder like that, but I feel glad we’re amigos—happy, in fact. “Guess we told that fatass, didn’t we?”
“Hey, I bet that guy can really stink up a bathroom, man. You know?”
We laugh like amigos.
Then he gets serious. “Hey, listen. About tomorrow. Don’t forget. Okay?”
“What.”
“You forgot already. Bump your head, man.”
I slip out from under his arm.
“What’s the matter?” he says.
I don’t answer.
“Listen, man, don’t let me down. It’s not just the money, you know? It would hurt my feelings. I would feel like … what’s the word?”
“I would feel like betrayed. You know what I mean by betrayed?”
“I just gave you the word.”
“I know. My English, it is not so good,” he says, his accent suddenly thicker. “Maybe if I had more school. But it was not to be.”
“Don’t start that.”
He goes on, “You know, amigo, that day when you told me I could no longer be in your class anymore, it was like you were telling me I could no longer be in your world anymore, that I must always remain a poor ignorant Chicano.”
“My attendance policy was very clear.”
He sighs. “So now I must work in the fields, where I belong.”
“Hey, Ym in the fields and I was the teacher”
“Yeah, but you’re a fucking bobo, man.”
“Right. I keep forgetting.”
We walk on.
“Listen, I didn’t mean that, man. Still amigos, right? Okay?”
When I duck my head the next morning, there are sounds all around of satisfaction and gratitude. And as I sit on the bench an old man to my right says quietly, “Buenos días, Señor Bobo.”
“Buenos días,” I say to him, a little lump in my throat.
Lorenzo lets go a yell, steps up and grabs me by the front of my T-shirt, pulls me to my feet, swings me around and throws me out the back.
The truck is going slow along a sandy road, so all I do is skin my elbows and drive a lot of grit up under my fingernails. I get to my feet and stand there in the dark watching the tail lights growing smaller.
Maybe he meant that stuff about being amigos. This seems pretty extreme just for money.
I begin walking after the truck.