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(conclusion)
As the day moves on and the sun rises higher in the sky, the temperature escalates, the wind disappears, and the shade shrinks to where only the ants crawling alongside the house are shaded. By noon, the skin on the back of my neck is as red as well…as red as the skin of a stupid white boy who thinks he doesn’t need any protection from working for three hours in the sun. Caesar, on the other hand, came prepared with a full brimmed flannel hat. Luckily the lady is nice enough to bring us big glasses of ice water while we work so we are able to combat the heat. Also after three hours, other than acquiring a horrible sunburn, I settle into a groove. Thanks to Caesar’s technique I turn pro at removing the reeds, and I also plant some rosemary and mint in an herb garden along with edging the lawn.
The yard is finally starting to come along. José mows the lawn and picks most of the weeds and Mario trims all the bushes. These accomplishments, however, do not stack up to the work of Caesar. Caesar spends two hours working the back of the yard where a group of bushes with skateboard-sized leaves covers an area 3 yards deep and 20 yards wide. He moves like a cartoon character removing and throwing groups of dead leaves so quickly that by the time the leaves hit the concrete another group is already in the air. When Caesar finishes there is a wall of leaves 2 feet high and 10 yards long.
Caesar and I converge after our tasks and we look over at José and Mario who are in the front yard, lounging under a tree. A part of me wants to go tell them to get up and get back to work, but Caesar beats me to the punch. “Hey those guys no good, don’t pick those guys for next time.” There will always be workers who are lazy and look to take advantage of situations, but Caesar is not one of them. In fact, he doesn’t even like José and Mario because he knows that they can jeopardize his reputation and performance at a job. The lady said that if we did a good job we would get a tip, and Caesar apparently wants that tip.
Caesar’s words inspire me to work harder. I ask the lady what else we can do and she tells me a list of things, some of which are ridiculous: plant groundcover seeds all over the planter boxes, rearrange an ivy plant so it “fans” over the fence (ridiculous), remove all the remaining dead shrubbery, power wash the perfectly clean driveway (ridiculous), remove some more reeds from one area, and clean her grill on the barbecue (ridiculous). Jose also thinks all these tasks are ridiculous and says under his breath “Ay puta, no podemos hacer todo (Hey bitch, we can’t do all that).” I, like Caesar want a good tip, and tell José to calm down. José responds with “Ok man, you are the boss.”
Twenty-one years old, no labor experience, muscles aching from bending over all day, and I have become the foreman. “I am not the boss, José,” I say and then look around to Mario and Caesar, “No estoy jefe, no estoy jefe.” In reality, however, I am the boss. The lady comes to me to tell me the task and I tell José, Mario, and Caesar what to do. I drove them here in my car and I will end up handling the money situation. The lady thinks I am the most capable and responsible because of my race and therefore, non-purposefully, puts me in charge.
We accomplished the normal and ridiculous tasks in two hours with ease, with the exception of me cutting my hand on the power washer and the men all laughing at me. “Pinche idiota (fucking idiot),” José says as we walk to the back to collect our payment. The lady hands me $280, 5 hours work at $10 per hour and a twenty tip. On top of that the lady fed us pizza for lunch. All of us were content with the payment and the car ride back to Donut World was one full of jokes and stories. José asked me where I lived, if I went to school, and if I went to church. José’s constant chatter was not surprising, but even Mario and Caesar, who were both quiet most of the day, conversed in the back seat. “Now the real work begins,” José says and all I can muster is a confused face, “Cerveza!” he exclaims.
“Yes, yes of course. Borracho” (get drunk), I say as all of us laugh.
And I think after waiting two hours in the cold foggy morning, working five hours in the dry Southern Californian sun, cutting my hand with a high-powered water gun, all while trying to not look like an idiot, I could really go for a nice, cold beer. 
Sources
• Liebow, Elliot. Tally’s Corner: A study of Negro Streetcorner Men. Roman and Littlefield. (2003)
• Ehrenreich, Barbara. Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America. Macmillan. (2001)
• Fowler, Edward. A Man with No Talents. Cornell University Press. (2005)
• Ehrenreich, Barbara. “Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America.” Harper’s Magazine. January (1999): 37-52
• Fausset, Richard. “Southern accent on day labor; Stereotypes, language skills and lowest price come into play as black Americans and Latino immigrants compete on an Atlanta street.” Los Angeles Times. (Dec 28, 2007): pg. A.1
• Gorman, Anna. “Day labor sites at issue in immigration bill; L.A. officials fight an amendment that would ban localities from requiring home improvement stores to create hiring halls.” Los Angeles Times. (Jun 23, 2007): pg. B.3
• Delson, Jennifer. “Laguna's Day Labor Site Saved; Targeted by foes of illegal immigration as well as the state in a land ownership snafu, the hiring operation will continue in a lease deal.” Los Angeles Times: Orange County Edition. (Jul 13, 2006): pg. B.3
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