The Drywall Guys
We walked to the grocery store this day, a Monday. April 1st. Fool’s day I guess but for us, just another Monday and another day with no groceries. We’ll get a walk in and grocery shop and so with our backpacks harnessed, we walked to the little shopping center about 2 miles up hill, west, towards the foothills. Oh, we hadn’t eaten and the little Mexican cafe is right there, a sunny corner little cafe with hand painted chairs and Mexican women making tortillas and horchata and tamales. A real clean place with peacock feathers in the bathroom. We were the only ones not speaking Spanish and it felt good, like being in a big city, where all the languages mixed together like a hearty oxtail soup. The two guys sitting by the window were waiting for Gorditas, drinking orange soda which Mexican restaurants always seem to have in the coolers. The women in the back kitchen were yelling things back and forth as they pat pat patted the masa into tortillas. Ice, for the horchata, brought in by a small woman that looked like she was a teenager. A hard life. It shown in her worn face. A glance and there I saw it, face plopped in hand. I wondered why he suddenly fell despondent. Was it the thought of spending endless hours of hard labor in the home of the Boulder uber wealthy…those chilly environments where artificial has taken on a new meaning and breaths are taken in short gulps? He perked up once the gordita was served.