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We Call Them Trabajos
| Article
# : |
19777 |
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Section : |
LIFE
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| Issue
Date : |
3 / 1991 |
2,574 Words |
| Author
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Steve Salerno
Steve Salerno's book on selling is called The Newest
Profession. He is contributing editor at California Business
magazine and has written for Harper's and the New Republic. A
movie based on his book Deadly Blessing was recently produced
for ABC by Warner Bros. |
We are almost finished with breakfast on a leisurely Wednesday, my wife's day off, when the doorbell rings. Kathy and I exchange puzzled looks. The kids are off at school, the mail never arrives before three, we have just moved to a new development and don't know anyone who'd be likely to come calling at this hour. Besides--as the real estate agent took pains to stress during our original survey of the house--it is not the kind of neighborhood where people drop in on one another unannounced. "You will have privacy here," the agent cooed airily.
But now, as the bell's second ring is followed by a light, tentative knock, the puzzlement fades from our brows.
"A trabajo," I say.
I stride down the long center hallway to the front set of double doors, where a glance through the peephole confirms my suspicions. I open the door on the right, and standing in front of me are two of the tiniest men--shortest, slightest--you could ever imagine. Both pairs of feet fit on the welcome mat centered with a surveyor's precision between the doors, yet their shoulder do not quite touch. You would think they were adolescents, really, save for the sobriety of their countenances and something in--or perhaps missing from--their enormous black eyes. It is the same doleful, doe-eyed look you see on the faces of the Guatemalan children who cluster about Sally Struthers during her televised crusades against world hunger. The look of innocence too soon lost.
The taller of the two (a ludicrous description, given that neither of them could be much beyond five feet) takes off his weathered San Diego Padres baseball cap, releasing an impossible mound of wavy, ebony hair. In a show of deference--respect for the Anglo, whether felt or feigned--he brings the cap to his side, against his filthy, ill-fitting pants.
"Trabajo?" he says.
I shake my head. "No. No trabajo today."
He digests this for a moment. Then: "Manana?"
I sigh, feeling vaguely guilty. "Gee, I don't think so. I doubt it." Nonetheless, the two of them continue to stand there, staring up at me with an expression that I take to be part lack of comprehension and part hope--as though my answer might change if they linger
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