The Man of the House
When he left to the U.S.,
he said nothing to me
about eating or reading,
just said to be el hombre
de la casa. Me. The man
of the house.
He was thin with thinning
hair. I was still learning
to multiply my nines.
At church the next day
the priest read from Luke,
Bienaventurados los que ahora tenéis hambre, blessed are those who hunger, he said, as he raised his arms toward the sky.
Even then, I knew to doubt the pages.
Reading a Manual
Her Mystic Hotel employee manual, thicker
than the mop handle she uses to clean hotel
rooms, makes it clear how her hours
are counted and not counted, how she
has to punch in and punch out, even
when she takes a break, even when she
is working during that break, and it
adds that she needs to greet hotel guests
with courtesy and respect. Although it
doesn’t say the customer is always right,
when I translate for her, she is right, it
means that she would get fired if she tells
them vaya al carajo, and the manual also
says that she is to wear her name tag all
the time (pero nadie usa mi nombre)
and that her uniform is to be ironed
and clean at all times (¿pero que creen, que
soy sucia?) and that she has to speak
English at work (¿pero si me pongo a cantar
Vicente Fernandez cuando limpio el toilet,
y que?) and that she is to eat away from
guests in the employee lunch room,
(mejor, así no me tocan mis frijoles), and
that smoking is limited to an area
in the back of the hotel (¿ayi, donde siempre
andan esas susias?) and that she should park
her car away from the main lot (mejor,
porque no puedo parquear ese oldsmobile
alli), and that if it snows, the hotel will
remain open and she should still report to
work (¿y quien va a pagar mi inchuran?)
and that should she have any questions
about her tax forms and benefits, she should
contact the director of personnel (¿la vieja
que siempre esta fumando?) and to be sure
to sign all the paperwork in the packet. Months
later, the two of us reread the manual and find
nothing about what to do when her own
supervisor, the one who speaks only English
doesn’t smoke, and smiles at everyone, goes
into hotel rooms right after guests leave
and takes all the tips intended for the
maid. Mi mama.
José B. González is the author of Toys Made of Rock and When Love Was Reels. The Editor of Latino Stories, he has been anthologized in The Norton Introduction to Literature and has been published in The Boston Review, Callaloo, Calabash, Palabra, and other journals.