Mud Man
By José R. Rodríguez
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 José R. Rodríguez
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Mud Man
I turn my head in the direction of the shouting and I see Jimmy's tanned torso showing above the lmasonry wall. His skinny tattooed arms gesture over his head as raging insults stream out of his mouth.
"Mother fucker! You bastards got nothin' better to do than fuck with us! Cocksucker!"
His insults pop, bang-bang, one after the other like a grenade launcher, and the building inspector just gets in his truck and leaves, lips shut, never looking back, never stopping his hurried gait as if he were a deaf man walking on the tracks, unable to hear the approaching train behind him, but perceiving the danger closing in. The inspector has left a red tag pinned on the billboard that holds the building permits for the site.
"What's the matter with Jimmy?" I ask Martha who, ignoring the ruckus, washes her trowel and bevel in the water pouring out of the hose I'm holding for her.
"Building inspector just red tagged the job." She's done cleaning her tools and I close the bib. "The rebar was supposed to be in the lintel, but Jimmy wasn't done putting it there yet."
I've never seen Jimmy so pissed off. I didn't figure him to be so mean."
"He's on parole for beating some dude."
"No shit."
"Yeah," she laughs. "He's nuts. They won't even let him stay at a halfway house."
We start to take the scaffolding down on our side of the house. Jimmy argues with and threatens invisible building inspectors while cleaning up the excess mud from the section of wall he just finished.
The Florida sun turns into a giant orange ball as it drops behind tall sand pines. Mosquitoes come looking for blood but we're done loading the scaffolding onto Jake's truck. We hook the mixer to the truck and get the hell out of there, the three of us in the cab. I'm driving, Martha is on center field, and Jimmy is leaning against the passenger door, smoking and still bitching about the inspector.
"That cocksucker!" grumbles Jimmy. "Jake is gonna get mad as hell when he sees that red tag. Fucking inspector couldn't wait one more day until we put the rebar in. Asshole!"
We drop Jimmy at a relative of his, where he has a room in what used to be a one-car garage. There is garbage strewn all over the yard, and I spot a blue engine lying on its side. It looks like a Chevy straight six, a two fifty.
"Hey, Jimmy, is that a Chevy engine?" I ask him as he slams the truck door shut.
"I don't know what the hell it is, but if you want it, I can sell it to you, cheap."
"Is that engine yours?"
He smiles and his missing teeth show as dark gaps in his thin mouth. "It don't matter," he says on the sly.
Martha now sits with her elbow sticking out of the passenger window, just as I'm sticking mine out of the driver side as we drive down the two lane county road. The sun is done sinking behind the pines that line up the road for mile after mile. To my sides there is a blur of greenery capped by an orange sky loaded with storm clouds, their bottoms dark with that future rain that, after falling, will evaporate from the road's asphalt as humid eddies of blue gray steam and will rise to smudge one's skin with a sticky sheen. The smell of wet ground will be fresh on the evening air but my clothes will reek a wet dog stench as body vapors will seep from my pores and then through my already sweaty clothes. That's Florida for you.
Martha smokes in silence, and I try to catch, through skewed glances, her small breasts bouncing under her Daytona Bike Week T-shirt, those small breasts with big nipples, big ol' dark cookies bigger than the whole tit themselves. Is that possible? I wonder. Are they small tits? Or little tits? Or tiny tits? Or wee tits? They are suckable tits, I'm sure.
My brains are turning into mud. I make mud in the mixer. I dump it on the wheelbarrow. I shovel the mud on masons' trays so they can shut the fuck up and stop screaming "Muuuud! I need muuuud!" every time they start running low, and they run low not because they are laying block by the mile. No, they run low because they dump more mud on the ground than they use to build their damned walls with.
Jake is a union mason somewheres from upstate New York. He can lay block good, and after he's done with a whole wall, you can barely pick a shovelful of mud from the ground. But these Redneck, Florida crackers don't know shit about what it takes to be a good mason. When they're done there is more mud on the ground than on the wall, and the fucking wall is all crooked.
Martha is from Ohio. She ain't union, but she's pretty good, and she don't yell "muuuud!" at the top of her lungs. Just looking my way with her hand resting on one of her big, solid hips is enough for me to jump, shovel in hand, and run with mud for her. I love it when she stands high on the scaffolding and I can see from below those two big bulges between her legs screaming to break loose from her tight jeans, big, fat bulges that make me dizzy, just as if I had chain smoked a whole pack of cheap ass cigarettes.
I dropped Martha at her house where she lives with an aunt and an uncle, or some sort of relative; I'm not sure exactly what. Lucky people like Jimmy and Martha have relatives who they can bother. I got nobody, so I have to pay rent so I can bother strangers. Some of my neighbors are so wacky that I don't see how can I bother them, so probably I'm wasting my rent money. I watched Martha getting into the house, her big butt swinging from side to side, her hips bouncing against her tool bucket, kichin-kichin-kichin. If I could take a mouthful from one of them cheeks, I would be in hog heaven.
I parked Jake's truck in front of his house, by the shed with the steel door he built with pilfered blocks so people wouldn't steal his shit when he ain't home. As I'm fixin' to get out, Jake, the man himself, pulls into the driveway in his beat up van. He takes a last draw from his joint and throws the tiny bit out of the window and into the bushes. One of these days he's gonna burn the whole place down if he keeps doing that shit; but, who am I to tell him?
"How's going?" He says.
"Fine," I lie, thinking of the red tagged job. Jake opens the van's sliding door and there it is, that white canvas bag full of Craftsman tools, the trademark of a union mason. The Rednecks carry their tools in plastic buckets; some don't even have buckets, they just carry their shit on their hands, too damned lazy to find themselves an empty pig lard bucket. He grabs his bag, closes the door on the van and goes toward his truck.
"We're taking the truck tomorrow, to finish that job on Spanish Oaks," he says as he goes by.
"The inspector red tagged the job on Normandy. The rebar wasn't ready," I say.
He places his bag on the truck's floorboard and with his back to me says, "Fuck it. Let Johnny worry about it." Turning around I can see his red face and pale blue eyes. I'm never sure if his face is red from working in the sun or for the after work "relaxer" joint he always smoke on his way home.
"The little asshole is always scheduling inspectors too soon, so it's his problem," says Jake, like if it wasn't a big deal. Them joints must be pretty good relaxers.
From the porch on my old boarding house I see Jake's truck disappear behind the orange groves after dropping me in this house full of nuts. Cooking smells hit me on the face, greasy and tempting, like a naked fat broad, and my raw fingers grip the Burger King bag with avaricious delight. Gloves don't last but a day, and I can't afford to be buying them every day. I supposed I will have to get used to it, but for now them eight-inch blocks rub on my hands like coarse sand paper.
Sam comes into the porch, a squat man dumb as hell, his huge hands with fingers the size of summer sausages dangling from his side like if he were a monkey playing undercover in human clothes. I envy his big hands. I bet you I could carry two blocks on each hand with those things, plus the benefit of a big dick, you know, big hands and big dicks go together, or at least that's what people with big hands say all the time. I have no interest on confirming their claims. People with big feet say the same thing about feet and dicks.
"Hi Sam. What's up."
"Things lookin' good," he answers and leans against the veranda, trying to look cool and smart despite his high water jeans and Polyester shirt, Salvation Army Blue Light Special. Even his thin mustache is trying to be cool, but it succeeds at being only a sorry and fuzzy strike of lip hair. I don't say nothing, waiting for the wheels in his mind to churn. Kichin-kichin-kichin. Them wheels must be caught somewheres 'cause I'm still waiting.
"I'm getting married," he finally says.
My mind is now going kichin-kichin-kichin. Am I supposed to scream "Hallelujah"? Am I supposed to ask him if the Department of Human Services will let him reproduce? I have no finesse when it comes to these matters of social interaction, so I say, "That's cool."
"Brenda and me are getting married, in a week," he says, and smiles with pride, his big yellow teeth dim in the darkening porch.
"Good for you," I answer. "It's getting cold," I say while shaking the Burger King bag in front of his toad face. "I gotta go." Running upstairs I can hear his mind going kichin-kichin-kichin in slowmo. He's gonna marry a Nigger woman. I have seen that Brenda. She whores right on the line between Nigger town and Spick town, and I always thought that Sam was just relieving his frustrations on her, but now he's gonna marry the bitch. And I feel jealous, jealous of his big hands, of the pussy he can pounce at will while I have small, raw hands that have to do double duty. Fuck him. Nigger pussy ain't good anyway, I try to console myself. My hands get rawer while thinking of Martha, again, and again, and again. I don't need gloves nomore.
I get up before sunrise, bored with sleeping I suppose. I do my thing in the bathroom, put my work clothes which isn't hard to do 'cause all my stuff is work clothes, and my jungle boots, the canvas full of holes that let the sand get in so it feels like I'm walking on Daytona Beach. I sit outside waiting for Jake to show up. The sun is nowhere in sight yet. Thick dew covers my truck and the small light bulb dangling from the kitchen door illuminates the hole that the hood is supposed to cover, showing a dark emptiness where the engine is supposed to sit, greasy and rusted. But there is nothing. Just a damned hole with no engine, and that's why I have to wait for Jake. A few months back I demonstrated that you can't run an engine without oil. I'm so fucking smart it hurts.
I imagine my truck running. I can come and go as I please, anywhere. A man without a truck is shit, is lower than shit. People don't like stepping on shit, but they will walk all over you when you have to beg for rides. That engine that Jimmy has may be the ticket. Get that truck running, learn to lay brick and block, start with a plastic pig lard bucket and then move to a white canvas bag, and get some good ass from Martha, chubby and bouncy all over, them big cookies bouncing on your chest and the bed going kichin-kichin-kichin. Like the song on the radio says, "Mu future is so bright, I have to wear sunglasses," or something like that, but now I'm cold while I wait for Jake in the dark.
On the way to pick Martha we pass by his house, Jake's house. It's a single wide mobile home that sits back under the tall pine trees, on a three acre piece of land, with his shed, his van, his wife's car and his wife, a tall blonde who works for a day care center, and as pale as an old nun under her habits. She has a hairy pussy, and I know 'cause she once lifted her shirt up to her tits and I saw that hairy navel, like a pine tree with its roots down by her crotch. Hair pie for dessert every night, Jake has it all.
Martha is not fuzzy; she probably has a few short, dark hairs down there, looking like wire on top of those big bulges which part in the middle to show that pink mound, juicy and delicious, and them big lips, and something is growing between my legs. I got a woody by the time Martha gets in the truck, and I think she noticed 'cause she looked down and smiled when I got out to let her in. You don't need big hands for some things.
I place blocks in neat piles, making sure the right side is up. Doctors and lawyers don't know, but eight-inch block has a top and a bottom, the bottom being wider than the top, just like Martha. I stick my fingers in the block, but it ain't pink and soft. It's rough and weighs a ton. I get the mixer going. Cement dust doesn't taste too good for breakfast, and the mixer makes a racket, pop-pop-pop-pop. Here comes the sand, already filtered through the sieve, and here comes water by the bucket. The mixer shakes, and rumbles, and I work on my concoction like a madman, just the right amount of cement, sand and water, or the damned masons bitch about too lumpy or too soupy mud. Fuck them; if they don't like my mud, they can kiss my ugly ass. I'm not gonna put up with too much shit for six bucks an hour.
"I need more muuuud! Where is the muuuud?" They yell.
"Fuck you, pal!" I answer, and I push my wheelbarrow full of mud and shovel the stuff onto their plywood trays. Martha puts her hand on her hip, and I run with my mud for her, with my tongue hanging out like one of them little dogs that rich bitches carry around. Have my mud, Martha, and my children too, what the hell. White canvas bags, and a running truck, and Martha, but the only thing that looks bright -- that is bright -- is the merciless Florida sun hammering everything at the site.
We break for lunch and half the crew gets in their trucks and goes to the Minimart, seeking food and drink, air conditioning, and hoping to take a look at the blonde with the big tits that works behind the counter. Truckless lowlifes like myself stay behind holding up the new, still wet and cool masonry walls with our sweaty backs. We munch on stuff that comes out of beat up, dirty coolers and thermos bottles and cans. I sit on my cooler and Martha sits on hers by my side, and Jimmy is on my other side, sitting on a block. We eat in silence, too tired to talk and chew at the same time.
A shiny new truck pulls in front of the site; a plastic tag on the front bumper proclaims "Italian Stallion" in airbrushed letters. Johnny Comes out of the truck and stops short of coming onto the slab.
"Hey, Jimmy!" He yells. "The county building inspector's office complained about you." Jimmy keeps on chewing, looking at Johnny.
"They say if you badmouth another inspector, they're going to call the Sheriff." Jimmy keeps on chewing, and Johnny gets uncomfortable; he has been out of the air-conditioning too long and perspiration starts to shine on his forehead. "And if you do that shit again we're going to fire you. You got it?"
"O.K." replays Jimmy in a cold and flat tone, and he goes back to chewing, as expressionless as everybody else with their backs to the wall. Johnny looks around as if there was something to look for, and walks back to his new truck, gets in it, cranks it up, and disappears among the pines.
"Weasel," says Jimmy in a soft voice. That's it. After all the hell he rose with the inspector, I was expecting him to go chasing after Johnny with a shovel or something bigger, you know, screaming and cussing the Lord and the Holy Spirit. But the bastard just sits there, chewing like a cow, and looking as happy. Fucking nut.
My dessert stares me in the face, a delicious and nutritious Strawberry Cream Cheese Snack Stix Fruit Filled Puff Pastry, but I would rather have a hot sausage, made with healthy beef lips and tripe.
"Is not that life? You never get what you want," I mumble to myself.
"Maybe you want too much," replies Martha with a mouthful of tuna sandwich. Such fine hearing she has. What else she may have that's so sensitive? I sigh.
"I only want a few basic things," and my eyes roll all over her, and I wish I had a mouthful of That.
"Hum," she says, and that's the end of it, 'cause you see, I'm not a smooth talker. I can't talk to Martha, or any women. All I can do is droll and look like a hungry puppy. Sometimes I wish I could just unzip my pants, pull it out and rub it under her chin.
"Who are you gonna please with that?" She would ask.
"Myself, of course," I would say. But that is not how things work. I finish lunch and I get ready to prepare a new batch of mud. Mud is money, you know. Someday I'll be a mason, and some sucker will make mud for me, and I will stand on the scaffold like a god, and will yell "Muuuud! Where is the muuuud?" And some lowlife will come scudding with a shovelful of mud and dump it on my tray, and I'll say "It's too lumpy! What a shit-ass mud!" And my brother masons will join me in a choir of divine voices raising hell over the job site like a monk chant, "Mud is too lumpy!" Martha will be by my side and will be rubbing her big butt all over me up on that narrow scaffold, and I will make twelve bucks and hour with a woody stuck in my pants. We will go home in my own truck to three, hell, to four acres of land with a double-wide mobile home, and we'll screw like rabbits in heat until her bulges get so sore she has to beg for mercy. No shit.
It has rained since mid-morning so Jimmy and me decided to go home. You can't make mud when it's raining, and the block won't stick together. I dropped Jimmy at his place and took a look at the engine on his yard. It's a GM engine, just what I need. It ain't seized, has compression and mostly all parts are still attached. I'm pretty sure I can make a deal with Jimmy.
Pulling into Jake's driveway under a heavy rain, the windshield wipers going from side to side kichin-kichin-kichin, I see Jake's van. Jake and Martha were finishing the house on Normandy, putting the rebar and pouring the lintel, but they also decided to call it quits. No wonder with this weather. I park Jake's truck and run into the house, up the pressure treated wooden stairs; I open the door and stand, water dripping from my nose, and my mouth open like a Far Side cartoon, you know, like a big "O". There it is, Jake's white ass pounding Martha's like a jackhammer, doggy style. I can see flesh ripples moving across Martha's ass as Jake pounds away, both huffing and moaning and having a good time, right on top of the quilt Jake's wife stitched together with her long, slender, tender and white fingers.
They never saw me. I walked outside and stood under the pouring rain. My clothes came off and the rain cleansed my body. I played naked under the refreshing rain, running and sliding over wet grass, and jumping on puddles with dirt and water splashing all over my skinny body. Some people have it all; I just have mud.