Killing a spider with bare hands
The contractor quit in a fit of rage, and I sat inside and snuggled Esme. The contractor is from Shijiazhuang, which always reminds me of that song by Omnipotent Youth Society, the way the singer sang thirty years of Heibei factory worker existentialist life straight into my heart.
Let's call him Xiao Wang. He was a bear-shaped man in his early forties who chainsmoked Chinese cigarettes with a dark blue flower patterned filter. Him and his wife were high school sweethearts and somehow go to the US together when they were twenty. He has two sons, one of which is already in college.
When he drops off his workers, he backs up his Ford Bronco right into our driveway full of white flowers, throwing down a palette of water each time. When he does work with his workers, he does it one handed, the other hand is for smoking.
Usually I would have sat down on the concrete steps and chatted with him, maybe even shared a cigarette. But ever since I've been pregnant I've felt subhuman, and more withdrawn into myself. This has been going on for almost two years now. I really relate to the little kids, who, when approached by adults, turn and snuggle their faces into their parents armpits.
Xiao Wang has never gotten angry, even though his crew has gotten into many numbers of scraps. One time, he even drove back to our house at 9pm because a mistake had cost him 1000 in flooring cost. He was always trying to cut corners, to get the job done fast, to lie through mistakes, but I get it. He wanted to make money. He didn't want to be doing this.
I'm glad he's gone though. I hope he makes enough money to send both his sons to college. And that when they return, they'll be nice to him. When that happens, Esme will only be five years old. Our parallel lives will never touch, except maybe with that song.
Let's call him Xiao Wang. He was a bear-shaped man in his early forties who chainsmoked Chinese cigarettes with a dark blue flower patterned filter. Him and his wife were high school sweethearts and somehow go to the US together when they were twenty. He has two sons, one of which is already in college.
When he drops off his workers, he backs up his Ford Bronco right into our driveway full of white flowers, throwing down a palette of water each time. When he does work with his workers, he does it one handed, the other hand is for smoking.
Usually I would have sat down on the concrete steps and chatted with him, maybe even shared a cigarette. But ever since I've been pregnant I've felt subhuman, and more withdrawn into myself. This has been going on for almost two years now. I really relate to the little kids, who, when approached by adults, turn and snuggle their faces into their parents armpits.
Xiao Wang has never gotten angry, even though his crew has gotten into many numbers of scraps. One time, he even drove back to our house at 9pm because a mistake had cost him 1000 in flooring cost. He was always trying to cut corners, to get the job done fast, to lie through mistakes, but I get it. He wanted to make money. He didn't want to be doing this.
I'm glad he's gone though. I hope he makes enough money to send both his sons to college. And that when they return, they'll be nice to him. When that happens, Esme will only be five years old. Our parallel lives will never touch, except maybe with that song.