Chachoo

 

Chachoo

Croaks like a crow,
scar on the throat like an implanted worm,
he’s looking for work, for strictly cash.
Up north the season is short, labor is precious.
Everybody has nicknames.
I say we’ll try you out, call you Chachoo for the voice.
Already got Petey with PTSD, Iggy the Inuit warrior.

First day Chachoo moves dirt, carries lumber.
Next day he’s walking the top plate
balanced like a bird setting trusses, no fear.
Short, squat, strong as two men in one body.

Every noon a skinny girl brings
a hot salmon sandwich
and they sit together, quiet.
In sunshine his body sweats
like a cold glass of Coca Cola.
Any man tries to talk to the girl, eye contact,
Chachoo jumps in his face like a grizzly.

Friday before Labor Day, job done.
A dark cloud, cold wind. Could be snow.
Chachoo is tossing scraps in the dumpster,
final cleanup when the deputy’s car pulls up front.
Warrant from Louisiana, name, photo.
Never heard of him, we say
because good work is good work.
A single leather glove, all they find.

A year later, in a warm city — hey!
Chachoo’s daughter near the bus station.
I give her cash, tell her it’s back pay which it is.
“I’ll see he gets it,” she says.
“Did he really kill a man?”
Her eyes, deep brown, so wet.
“He was protecting me.”
I tell her: “All they found was his glove.”
“He don’t need it.”
Then like Chachoo, she’s gone.

In the back of my truck, under a toolbox,
sits that glove. Fingertips frayed, palm solid.
He don’t need it. We all do.

……

First published in Anti-Heroin Chic
Photo by me. My glove.