Diablo

DIABLO/Eríc Puchner OFELIO CAMPOS STOOD at the edge of the eleventh floor, dreaming of beds. He thought of showroom floors and king-sized mattresses . He thought of sultanish waterbeds spotted like leopards. He thought of piUows. He thought of freshly washed sheets, crisp from the dryer, of a comforter he once slept under in a Las Vegas motel, folding him in like the wings of a bird. Yawning, he looked through the empty window frame near his feet, peering down at the dump truck parked eleven floors below. The height made Ofelio's head swim. He held the piece of Sheetrock in his hand, nervously, trying to factor the persistent breeze into his throw. Every two weeks the construction crew finished a floor of the building and ascended to the next one, leaving a wake of rubble for him to remove. Ofelio pictured the crew like souls in purgatory, completing their penance so they could rise to the next level. At first, on the lower floors, he'd had to heave the rubble as hard as he could just to reach his target. Now, if Ofelio exerted any strength at all, whatever he was throwing flew too far and overshot its mark, exploding against the back waU of the dump traUer. It was impossible work, like trying to thread a needle in boxing gloves. The breeze made it especially difficult. Strips of drywall strayed from their target and broke over the side of the trailer into a miUion pieces. Ofelio's muscles ached, a dull pain radiating from his shoulders and throbbing downward through his limbs. He closed his eyes for a second and dreamed of leaping from the window, of drifting soundlessly through the air—a weightless slumber—before landing in the dump truck among the studs and debris. What did he care about meeting God? The cabrón had done him no favors. OfeUo would sleep there inhis bed of rubble, a lost soul, while the crew toUed upward. He hadn't had a good night's sleep for years. Five, six hours at the most. In letters, describing America to his family, he said: They have the most beautiful beds in the world, but they never use them. OfeUo gripped the large piece of Sheetrock and held it carefuUy over the edge. He aimed it at the truck bed, nudging gently to the left to compensate for the breeze. The Sheetrock fell through the air without spinning. For a moment, it seemed like a perfect shot. But then it drifted from its mark and landed with a loud smack on the top ofthe cab, breaking into smoky fragments and making a large crater in the roof. He The Missouri Review · 111 squeezed his eyes shut again, just for a second, but it didn't undo the damage. From where he stood, the white pieces remaining on the cab looked like an unfinished jigsaw puzzle. "Fuck!" yelled Mr. Kitchens, who'd joined Ofelio at the edge of the window frame. "Can't you aim worth shit?" "I aimed, but the wind steal it." "That's an International, Campos! Not a fucking Tonka toy!" "The truck is very smaU. Look. Maybe this is not the inteUigent way to remove trash." "Intelligent way. Let me ask you then, Stephen J. Hawking. Do you have any idea what that truck costs?" OfeUo shook his head. "You could work the rest of your Ufe for me," Mr. Kitchens said sternly, "and not earn enough for that truck." This sounded, to OfeUo, like a profound truth. Mr. Kitchens took off his hard hat and spat into the rubble at his feet. His face was perpetually sunburned, so that the blondness of his mustache seemed strange and out of place, like something blown onto his lip. "TU tell you something inteUigent, Campos. Watching you work is like watching a monkey fuck a footbaU." Ofelio followed Mr. Kitchens to the doorless freight elevator, supposing that he was meant to accompany him. He'd lived here three years already, but Mr. Kitchens's English still managed to surprise him. If his boss wasn't yelling at the crew, he was talking about Wife's...