Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Mexican Workers

Every time I’ve driven by the Home Depot near my house I’ve seen a group of Mexicans hanging out in the parking lot and across the street, but I never put together why they were there. I assumed what I assume whenever I see a group of people hanging out in a parking lot; that they’re selling drugs.

Recently, though, I went to Home Depot to buy something and as I passed them they waved and one guy did the you-me you-me sort of thing, like when you’re driving past a group of prostitutes and you accidentally make eye contact with one and she’s like, you want me, right? and starts coming toward you, and you realized that you’ve accidentally just solicited a hooker, not that that’s ever happened to me.

This time it hit me, and I flashed back to the otherwise very forgettable and unfunny Jim Carrey movie “Fun With Dick and Jane” where he loses everything and has to hang out with a group of Mexican illegals trying to get jobs. It’s this one:

And after all, what better way to get manual labor jobs that lazy Americans don’t want to do than hang out in the parking lot of a Home Depot?

Then it hit me again: I could do this. I could hire a couple Mexicans and make them do all the heavy lifting for me, figuratively and literally speaking. I immediately posted on Facebook to get feedback from my friends. Turns out a few of them were experienced at paying illegal immigrants cash under the table for menial labor positions.

I quickly laid plans. I solicited the help of my cousin, “TheCousin”, mostly because he lives near me and is also the second most dangerous person I know. TheCousin is an ex-Marine and has spent years travelling the globe killing terrorists and rescuing hostages Jack Bauer-style. At least, that is my best guess; I have not actually asked him about his military career. I have a deep paranoia of strangers in general, mostly due to my extremely vivid imagination, and I could easily imagine a scenario where this ends with a story on CNN and white police tents surrounding both of my apartments.

TheCousin drives me to the U-Haul place where I rent a moving truck and take off for Home Depot, mentally thanking my lucky stars that I learned to drive in an enormous 13-passenger van. Before we leave, I attempt to reason with TheCousin. There is only one extra seat in the front, so one Mexican can ride with me and I’ll have the other one ride with TheCousin. He disagrees with my logic. “You can fit an entire family in here!” I attempt to explain that I’m already hiring illegals, I’d prefer not to continue to violate the law by having people without seatbelts. He is unmoved: “Just have them ride in the back.”

I arrive at the Home Depot and cruise toward the group of Mexicans. Before I even start slowing down, their faces light up like shining a black light on a Japanese porn star. One of them sprints towards me, followed quickly by two more. I suddenly wonder how I am going to communicate with them. What if they don’t speak English? My Spanish is limited to “¿Donde esta el queso de mi padre?” which is of limited use during negotiations.

They open the passenger side door. “How many?”

“Two.”

They signal 2 to the rest of the group. The third Mexican stops, crestfallen. He makes puppy dog eyes to me. I am moved, but not enough to hire him as well. The first two Mexicans climb inside. One of them has his face entirely covered by a ski mask, which he does not remove for the entire time he is working. I suspect this is because he has warrants out for his arrest. I decide to call him “Bane”. I then realize this isn’t diverse enough, so I compromise: “Antonio Bane-deras.” This makes me feel mildly guilty. I decide to name the other one after my favorite character from the popular TV show “The League”, who, coincidentally, is named “Taco”.

Negotiation time. “I’m moving,” I explain, “need some people to move the heavy furniture and unload at my new place. Shouldn’t take more than 1-2 hours. How much?”

“It depends, man,” Bane says. “Sometimes 15-20.”

That seems reasonable. “I’ll pay you $20 an hour.”

“Well, man, if we’re only getting a couple hours, let’s make a deal.” His eyes are intimidating. All I can see are his eyes. “If we finish in two hours, you pay $50 each?”

I am terrible at negotiation. “Sounds good.” I start driving. Bane squats in the section between the two seats.

Back at my apartment, I point out what needs to be moved and they quickly and efficiently get to work. I open the fridge for a beer and realize, to my dismay, that I am out of beer. It’s just as well, because my deep sense of white guilt will not allow me to simply kick back and watch. Fortunately, there are plenty of small things that needed to be done, so I busied myself with them until they were done and then mostly hung around doing things like shuffling papers whenever the Mexicans came into view.

TheCousin wanted to help so I asked him to load my extensive arsenal into his car, which he did. Shortly afterward I receive a text that he had to leave to pick up his girlfriend. Well that’s just fucking great. Not only did security ditch me but he also took all of my guns. I’m going to wake up in a bathtub of ice in Burien with a note that says “Llegar a un maldito médico, nosotros robamos sus riñones.”

They finish packing the truck and we take off down the road to my new place. We make small talk. My white guilt is overpowering my sense of caution. I explain: “I broke my back a few years ago, now I can’t do heavy lifting.” Great, now they know I’m a fucking cripple. What next, I’m going to give them my bottle of chloroform and some rope?

We arrive at the new place and they unload everything and my couch is too big to fit through the stairs, despite their best efforts, and we momentarily consider lifting the couch onto the roof of the moving truck and then taking the sliding glass balcony door off and lifting it through the balcony on the second floor but it turns out the balcony door won’t come apart. I snap a picture.

Inside an hour and a half, everything is finished. I am so impressed that I pay them $60 each and drive them back to Home Depot.

But I think I learned something that day. I learned that you can’t judge people because they hang out in a Home Depot parking lot and never remove their ski mask. That despite our language and socioeconomic differences, we are all human inside. Although our time together was limited, I felt that there was a connection and that we both left a positive impact on each other’s lives. For me, my world had irrevocably changed. I am never going to move without Mexicans again. It’s fucking awesome.

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