bird-watering reflexes would be any faster than mine.
Dad had me operate the hose for Rubin, which was difficult for me. Left-handed, I wanted to turn the faucet in the wrong direction, so turning it off before overfilling a jug was never a given. I looked at the faucet when I turned it on, made a mental note that it went clockwise, and told myself: counter clockwise equals off. I repeated this as I filled the first jug and turned the water off only an inch from overrunning.
Rubin screwed the water jug together and carried it upside down until it was time to flip it over and set it down. That was a smart move, and one I had not made the first time I had helped Dad water. I flipped it over immediately and walked with it right-side up and Dad yelled at me: “Keep it upside down until you’re ready to set it down. God damn, boy.” Rubin received no such admonishment, but when he flipped the water jug over a small splash hit the sandy floor.
Black belt and all, he got his hand wet like a yellow belt.
After Dad refilled the four water jugs in the cages, he checked Rubin’s work.
“You like dirty water, Rubin?”
“Sir?”
“Do you like drinking dirty water?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, neither do my birds. Refill all those jugs you’ve filled and this time wipe the slime from the bottom.”
No quick “Yes, sir” like the times before, and I thought Rubin suspected that he was being used. He bit his lip and took a breath through his nose like Mr. Bollars had taught us, then wheeled around and picked up the first water jug, unscrewed it, and brought the jug back to me.
“Run some water on it, Wesley,” Dad said. “That’ll loosen the slime.”
I did as he said but the slime stayed put.
“But you still got to rub it with your hand,” Dad said, and grabbed Rubin’s hand.
Rubin made a face when his hand hit the slime, which felt like super-duty snot. I thought Rubin would take his hand from Dad, but he wiped the slime away. After the first jug, Dad believed Rubin had the hang of the job and went outside to feed the pigeons.
“Your old man’s crazy,” Rubin said.
“Unpredictable, too.”
“I didn’t come over here to be his slave.”
“Then why did you come?”
Rubin flicked his tongue out at me. “You know what I want, man. And you want it too.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why do you lie to yourself?”
“I’m not lying.”
“It was your idea to go back to the van,” Rubin said, no longer wiping the slime. “You wanted it to happen.”
“I didn’t know what would happen, but now that I do, I don’t want it to happen again.”
“You didn’t like it?”
“Hell no!”
Rubin leaned in, kissed me on the lips, and said, “I did.”
I ran water over my mouth and then turned the hose on him. He dropped the water jug and ran from me. Quail and pheasants flew up onto the beams while the chickens ran and
cackled.
“You, boys, quit horse-playing and fill them water jugs. That water cost money and I can’t afford to waste it on y’all and the ground.”
I couldn’t believe Rubin had kissed me with Dad only a few feet outside. But I couldn’t tell Dad that a boy kissed me; he might not understand that I didn’t want it.
Dad’s next chore for Rubin was cleaning under the cages, and this meant simply scooping up bird shit. For this job, Rubin used a square-nose shovel and an old plastic trash can. While he shoveled shit, I helped Dad catch the domestic chickens and vaccinate them because some of them were losing their tail-feathers due to mites, and stray feathers were all over the birdhouse.
Every time Rubin dumped a load in the trash can, dust from the sand and the dried shit exploded and gave him a nice dusting. When Dad or I did this job, we wore a surgical mask, but Dad didn’t offer Rubin one.
After Rubin cleaned under the cages and we vaccinated the domestic chickens, Dad asked Rubin to get the eggs from the Japanese hen. She nested in a wooden box in the back corner of
the birdhouse, as far away from the rest of the birds and activity as possible. Her rooster was protective; he’d spurred Dad and me on several occasions when we had tried to remove her eggs.
Dad took her eggs because he hatched them in an incubator he had out back, and believed he would make a killing selling Japanese chicks to the local rich folks’ kids.
Dad didn’t mention the rooster to Rubin and I didn’t see any reason why I should either, so he ventured to the corner unaware that a cocky rooster was waiting for him. Rubin had on
shorts with sneakers and no socks, and this left huge areas of exposed flesh for the rooster’s spurs. As he reached into the box, the rooster attacked, and Rubin kicked the rooster in to the air.
“Don’t hurt my rooster,” Dad said. “He’s worth more to me than you.”
“Get him away from me if you want him alive.”
“Run interference for him, Wesley,” Dad said.
I walked toward the rooster and distracted his attention from Rubin, all the while making sure to stay out of the rooster’s striking range. Rubin was frozen, either in concentration or fear. I hoped in fear.
“Go on, now,” Dad said. “Wesley’s got the rooster.”
Sweat ran down Rubin’s face, streaking the dust and grime that collected on his skin, and I saw genuine fear in his eyes.
“Hell, boy, that rooster didn’t hurt you that much,” Dad said. “Now go ahead and get the eggs so I can put them in the incubator. You’re wasting time. We could had been done by now if you’d go on and get those eggs. Hurry up now. Rapido, rapido .”
Rubin looked annoyed when he heard Dad’s poor Spanish. I didn’t know if Rubin was insulted or if he just felt sorry for Dad’s poor accent. Whichever it was, Rubin popped out of his trance and got the eggs while I clowned for the rooster.
Dad led us to the greenhouse, and on the walk Rubin said, “Hopefully nothing in here will attack me.”
“Don’t be surprised,” I said, and sped up to walk alongside Dad.
The greenhouse was damp and suffocating; above us hung fat ferns in wire baskets. Dad gave us hoses with extended nozzles full of tiny holes in the tips that made the water fall on the plants as man-made rain and told us to water all of the hanging ferns. There were over fifty of them swinging above our heads. This was going to take a while, and I was glad.
Rubin was not. He mouthed “Fuck!” behind Dad’s back. I considered telling on Rubin, but figured it’d be better to let him slip up in front of Dad or mouth off again like he had when
the rooster attacked and get himself in trouble.
“I’ll start watering down here,” I said, pointing to the north end of the greenhouse, “and you can start at the south end and we’ll meet in the middle.”
“No,” Rubin said.
“Why not?”
“It won’t be any fun. We’ll be too far apart.”
Rubin took the lead and had the first five ferns watered before I even turned on my nozzle.
“Hey there, Pancho,” Dad said. “Slow down. There ain’t a fire at the end of the line. I want you boys to count to ten out loud where I can hear you as you water each plant. Comprende?”
“Yes, sir, Dad,” I said, letting him know I was on his side. Dad smiled,winked at me, and headed to the other side of the greenhouse.