Latin Music Day!
Four leads on housing before 9 am! I call Papi and let him know that I won't be in, having done the cost benefit analysis that a place to live is more important than 6 hours of work. I am ready, wearing clean things and having showered. Papi seems distracted, but I need a roof and walls.
One pock, two pac, three pock four. I'm pock none. Everyone retracts their kind invitations to take my money for a place to live. "Ummm....Papi, I'll be in as soon as I get there."
I arrive at the winery to what can only be called a cacophony. The little boom box is blasting Latino jams, the tiny speakers tinny, and the guys that everyone has to love, Manny and Pedro, hamming it up. I think Manny is about 17 years old, and Pedro, despite his ability to make me fall down laughing, is great with a forklift. I'm not sure about his fastball. With this whole "disidentify" thing that I am trying to do, I worry that the reader might think that I am stereotyping my two Mexican co-workers by naming them after Ramirez and Martinez. As a Red Sox fan who followed the antics of said heroes almost as much as I followed the box scores, so-named guys are the real deal. Their joy at fucking with one another is tough to match.
Today's goal is 10 barrels. I make it through 8 before I realize that the heat is going to be overwhelming outside and I need to pace myself. I'm almost done when Manny lifts a bag of something and unearths a large mouse. The game is on. I go and get a bucket, the mouse taking refuge somewhere close to Manny. I lift the last bag that could possibly be hiding the critter. It bolts. Manny and I run through the building trying to corner it. No dice. We both broke into "Ai Ai Ai! Yahhhh!" type herding techniques. Mouse safe and sound, we both laugh.
_____________________
I have wrangled all the barrels outside. I am assembling things and doing things. Pedro and Manny are crushing some horrible example of Dolcetto. The yellow jackets are in full force. Pedro is singing his lips off, the difference now is that there is no radio on. He's crooning. Now he's whistling. I hope he has a dog, as the dog will be the most responsive beast in the world. There are at least five loud machines between me and Pedro, yet his whistle hurts. I hope he has a dog.
There is a device that is used to clean barrels that is a two foot bar, bent towards the end, with a tip that spins around, shooting water like a lawn sprinkler. You put the bent part in the barrel, press play, and thanks to your efforts before and after this step, all your bacterial problems go away. I want to play with it.
Pedro's whistling is making me giddy, and the sun is making me livid. I I close the valve on the wand, letting the pressure build up in the line, waiting to make eye contact with Pedro. It's there, I turn the valve, and suddenly remember how much pressure would have been built up. The water jets about 20 feet in the air, my sunglasses are almost knocked off, and I am soaking wet with a sore nose and set of cheeks.
The fact that my feet are wet is no big surprise. I know how Jesus made wine out of water now.
One pock, two pac, three pock four. I'm pock none. Everyone retracts their kind invitations to take my money for a place to live. "Ummm....Papi, I'll be in as soon as I get there."
I arrive at the winery to what can only be called a cacophony. The little boom box is blasting Latino jams, the tiny speakers tinny, and the guys that everyone has to love, Manny and Pedro, hamming it up. I think Manny is about 17 years old, and Pedro, despite his ability to make me fall down laughing, is great with a forklift. I'm not sure about his fastball. With this whole "disidentify" thing that I am trying to do, I worry that the reader might think that I am stereotyping my two Mexican co-workers by naming them after Ramirez and Martinez. As a Red Sox fan who followed the antics of said heroes almost as much as I followed the box scores, so-named guys are the real deal. Their joy at fucking with one another is tough to match.
Today's goal is 10 barrels. I make it through 8 before I realize that the heat is going to be overwhelming outside and I need to pace myself. I'm almost done when Manny lifts a bag of something and unearths a large mouse. The game is on. I go and get a bucket, the mouse taking refuge somewhere close to Manny. I lift the last bag that could possibly be hiding the critter. It bolts. Manny and I run through the building trying to corner it. No dice. We both broke into "Ai Ai Ai! Yahhhh!" type herding techniques. Mouse safe and sound, we both laugh.
_____________________
I have wrangled all the barrels outside. I am assembling things and doing things. Pedro and Manny are crushing some horrible example of Dolcetto. The yellow jackets are in full force. Pedro is singing his lips off, the difference now is that there is no radio on. He's crooning. Now he's whistling. I hope he has a dog, as the dog will be the most responsive beast in the world. There are at least five loud machines between me and Pedro, yet his whistle hurts. I hope he has a dog.
There is a device that is used to clean barrels that is a two foot bar, bent towards the end, with a tip that spins around, shooting water like a lawn sprinkler. You put the bent part in the barrel, press play, and thanks to your efforts before and after this step, all your bacterial problems go away. I want to play with it.
Pedro's whistling is making me giddy, and the sun is making me livid. I I close the valve on the wand, letting the pressure build up in the line, waiting to make eye contact with Pedro. It's there, I turn the valve, and suddenly remember how much pressure would have been built up. The water jets about 20 feet in the air, my sunglasses are almost knocked off, and I am soaking wet with a sore nose and set of cheeks.
The fact that my feet are wet is no big surprise. I know how Jesus made wine out of water now.
posted by Jassmond at 10:00 PM
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