Service Entrance
Depending on the day and the amount of time that I had before my job's 8 a.m. start time, I followed either of two routines to get myself and my surfboard into the office building.
When time permitted, I preferred to pull my truck up to the rear of the building, where there was a service entrance and a short corridor leading to a service elevator. I could unload my surfboard from my truck and take it up the service elevator without attracting any attention to myself. The service elevator also had the advantage of being conveniently located near a back door into my employer's office, which, in turn was conveniently near the storage closet where I kept the unsightly watercraft during work hours.
In the mornings before working hours, the small parking lot by the service entrance is empty. If anyone is there, it is the groundskeeper.
The groundskeeper for our office park, like most in the area, is Hispanic. Commercial real estate owners and operators seek the most cost efficient means of landscaping upkeep. Owners farm the work to labor contractors who hire Mexican workers (with minimal regard to their immigration status) at the low wages they can.
The head groundskeeper speaks very little English. He is a very handsome man, tall and thin, with a round, bright face and smooth features. When he saw me with my surfboard, he would wave and smiled and asked me about " las buenas olas" (the good waves). He was cheerful and projected the aura of genuine hospitality. Our conversations took place in a mixed bag of language. I spoke some Spanish, and he spoke some English.
One Thursday morning, I pulled my truck into one of the service parking spots and found the groundskeeper sitting in his parked electric golf cart. His face was turned to the ground. His features were dour. His mood was melancholy. When he saw me he smiled a weak smile. As I unloaded my surfboard, he lazily dismounted his perch and walked around to the service door, where he opened the door for me.
"Que bonitas las mananas en la playa, eh?" The groundskeeper said. His face had morphed, as if his features were confused between showing a sad look or the deeply intellectual distant consideration of things forgotten.
"Si." I told him, uncertain, but smiling slightly. In my mind, my Spanish translation mechanisms was struggling to catch up to what he said as I walked to the elevator.
By the time the elevator reached my floor, I had translated the sentence. "Que bonitas las mananas en la playa, eh?" - "How pretty the mornings at the beach, eh?"
I smiled to myself, laughing through my nostrils as the elevator door opened. I doubted that I would ever know what had set the tone of his morning, but I felt certain that he understood mine.
He understood completely.
copyright 2004 Travis R. English
When time permitted, I preferred to pull my truck up to the rear of the building, where there was a service entrance and a short corridor leading to a service elevator. I could unload my surfboard from my truck and take it up the service elevator without attracting any attention to myself. The service elevator also had the advantage of being conveniently located near a back door into my employer's office, which, in turn was conveniently near the storage closet where I kept the unsightly watercraft during work hours.
In the mornings before working hours, the small parking lot by the service entrance is empty. If anyone is there, it is the groundskeeper.
The groundskeeper for our office park, like most in the area, is Hispanic. Commercial real estate owners and operators seek the most cost efficient means of landscaping upkeep. Owners farm the work to labor contractors who hire Mexican workers (with minimal regard to their immigration status) at the low wages they can.
The head groundskeeper speaks very little English. He is a very handsome man, tall and thin, with a round, bright face and smooth features. When he saw me with my surfboard, he would wave and smiled and asked me about " las buenas olas" (the good waves). He was cheerful and projected the aura of genuine hospitality. Our conversations took place in a mixed bag of language. I spoke some Spanish, and he spoke some English.
One Thursday morning, I pulled my truck into one of the service parking spots and found the groundskeeper sitting in his parked electric golf cart. His face was turned to the ground. His features were dour. His mood was melancholy. When he saw me he smiled a weak smile. As I unloaded my surfboard, he lazily dismounted his perch and walked around to the service door, where he opened the door for me.
"Que bonitas las mananas en la playa, eh?" The groundskeeper said. His face had morphed, as if his features were confused between showing a sad look or the deeply intellectual distant consideration of things forgotten.
"Si." I told him, uncertain, but smiling slightly. In my mind, my Spanish translation mechanisms was struggling to catch up to what he said as I walked to the elevator.
By the time the elevator reached my floor, I had translated the sentence. "Que bonitas las mananas en la playa, eh?" - "How pretty the mornings at the beach, eh?"
I smiled to myself, laughing through my nostrils as the elevator door opened. I doubted that I would ever know what had set the tone of his morning, but I felt certain that he understood mine.
He understood completely.
copyright 2004 Travis R. English
posted by travinator @ 1:47 PM
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