So me and my boss, tired and tanned from a long day of swaying over roofs of galvanized steel in a massive, mechanical hand, a little hung over from a night of swinging bottles into and out of our menial mouths, decide to call work off early and get some dinner at this little Cuban place always occupied by dirty working men with stains covering their blue collars (and all you can see of them is their eyes because every other part of them is covered in soot, dust, oil, grease and other particles and chemicals construction workers bathe in daily at work sites) then order some pork sandwiches and some black beans and rice when this little, red-faced guy swaggers in, swaying like a jerky boom lift and looking drunk, even though its only 4 PM and he starts screaming that some fool motherfucker done swiped his gas generator that he says is in the back of some yellow pickup—he knows it’s his generator, he says, because he etched the date of his wedding in the paint of the portable power machine—and this big, strong, pile of dirt-covered muscle stands up with the height and girth of a grizzly bear and says, “that’s my truck and the numbers etched in the back of my generator is the date of my son’s birth,” and like, the whole restaurant collapses in the chaotic pool of coincidence and the radio stops playing and the rice tastes so good, I don’t put it aside to watch the two men go out front and fight until the big, burly bear-man comes in with a little blood (that most likely was not his) on his thin blue shirt and says, “screw that guy and screw that fucking generator” before adding, “somebody better call an ambulance,” and the whole place just explodes with laughter like the diner was powered by some new generator run on working men’s sweat, roll-up-your-sleeve fights and the enigmatic power of cuss words and I don’t mind saying that I felt damn happy because the big boy seemed like an angel, a David in a world of undersized Goliaths, a higher power of humor released on the stage of a closing August work day in Tampa—so hot you can’t even shower away the sweat.
So me and my boss, tired and tanned from a long day of swaying over roofs of galvanized steel in a massive, mechanical hand, a little hung over from a night of swinging bottles into and out of our menial mouths, decide to call work off early and get some dinner at this little Cuban place always occupied by dirty working men with stains covering their blue collars (and all you can see of them is their eyes because every other part of them is covered in soot, dust, oil, grease and other particles and chemicals construction workers bathe in daily at work sites) then order some pork sandwiches and some black beans and rice when this little, red-faced guy swaggers in, swaying like a jerky boom lift and looking drunk, even though its only 4 PM and he starts screaming that some fool motherfucker done swiped his gas generator that he says is in the back of some yellow pickup—he knows it’s his generator, he says, because he etched the date of his wedding in the paint of the portable power machine—and this big, strong, pile of dirt-covered muscle stands up with the height and girth of a grizzly bear and says, “that’s my truck and the numbers etched in the back of my generator is the date of my son’s birth,” and like, the whole restaurant collapses in the chaotic pool of coincidence and the radio stops playing and the rice tastes so good, I don’t put it aside to watch the two men go out front and fight until the big, burly bear-man comes in with a little blood (that most likely was not his) on his thin blue shirt and says, “screw that guy and screw that fucking generator” before adding, “somebody better call an ambulance,” and the whole place just explodes with laughter like the diner was powered by some new generator run on working men’s sweat, roll-up-your-sleeve fights and the enigmatic power of cuss words and I don’t mind saying that I felt damn happy because the big boy seemed like an angel, a David in a world of undersized Goliaths, a higher power of humor released on the stage of a closing August work day in Tampa—so hot you can’t even shower away the sweat.
Oh, and my game day prediction: Cardinals defeat the Astros, four to two.