Gratitude.

Its like a chapter from a Steinbeck book. The men are making fun of each others’ mustaches. There’s one guy who keeps whistling as he washes the dishes in the tiny bathroom. The men keep buying Cokes for 5 pesos each and bringing them in and sharing them with everybody. And when they run out, they go back for more. A pleasant hum of conversation fills the Migrant Resource Center. High pitched laughs occasionally pierce the pleasant drone of mantalk. Soon, the men start to leave. The Whistler says, ¡Oye! ¿No me van a ayudar?
Hey! Yall aren’t gonna help me?
Shortly thereafter the men are arguing about who will mop. The Whistler gives up his post as Chief Mopper and delegates to another man.
The phone rings.
¿Puedo comunicarme con José Luis?
Sí, I say. ¡José Luis!
The name echoes as the rest of the men shout it out in unison.
The man in question rounds the corner with eyes wide and mouths the phrase, Gracias, eh?
¿Bueno? He said to his wife.

Echale pino porque huele bonito, says the assistant to the Whistler.
Through some Pine Sol in there, its smells pretty.
The Whistler sits down. A deep satisfied sigh escapes. He looks at his assistant.
¡Eso es chaparro, estas contratado!
Yeah boy, you are hired!
José Luis hangs up the phone with a look of sad happiness. He says: las mujeres son las cosas más hermosas del mundo.
Tienes razon, amigo, I say.
¡Pues sí! Mi mujer me enseñó usar esta pinche trapiador, says the Whistler with his broad mustachioed smile.
Well yeah, my wife taught me how to use this damn mop!
After a while the Whistler leaves the bathroom. He looks at me, the Migrant Resource Center far cleaner than normal. With palms facing the floor he wipes an imaginary surface.
Ya es todo, he says.
Ustedes saben que no tienen que hacer eso. Pero muchas gracias.
No, gracias a usted.

The Whistler saunters outsider, his form silhouetted by the late morning sun, to rejoin the conversation.
No va a cambiar la pinche situación.
This fucking situation isn’t gonna change.
The dull roar of conjecture and conversation continues. The friendships of men forged in desert heat, thirst, and sadness continue to be soldered through commiserating, talk of women and Mexican cities and hope.
The Whistler’s assistant carefully waddles across the newly mopped floor. This is the world of men. Proud men. Migrants.
Its not always like this.
There is a calmness.