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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “the Bridge” Down in the Dirt (v140) (the November/December 2016 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Edible Red the Down in the Dirt July-Dec. 2016 collection book		get the 318 page July-Dec. 2016 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Trabajo de Amor

Leia Johnson

    Justicio Morales was glad it was time for a lunch break.
    He carefully propped his mop in the bucket and wiped sweat from his brow. It was beyond him, why they kept the office building at a stifling 79 degrees. Something about productivity, he had overheard.
    But at last he could go outside, where the breeze was cool, and eat the lunch his wife had packed. Three enchiladas de pollo lay nestled between a bottle of horchata and some homemade salsa.
    He slipped his janitor’s uniform off and put on a light jacket instead; the TV in the break room had said that it was 50 degrees outside, and Justicio didn’t want to be too cold for an hour.
    He was to meet two of his friends at the park down the street for lunch. All three of them worked in buildings similar to his, and met almost every day to eat lunch together and discuss their wives, kids, and the weird stuff that the gueros did in the offices.
    Justicio was careful not to brush against anyone as he walked down the street, keeping his eyes averted.
    “Hey,” someone called from behind him. “Hey, wetback.”
    Justicio couldn’t believe his ears. Surely they weren’t talking to him.
    “You.” A hand grabbed his shoulder, nails digging into the skin even through Justicio’s jacket and T-shirt. “What are you doing here? You don’t belong on this office block. Shouldn’t you be doing someone’s yard work?”
    It was a group of young, well-groomed, suited-up professionals who were indeed addressing Justicio.
    “Or cleaning someone’s pool? Like mine?” another sneered.
    “Hey, isn’t your wife the cleaning lady for my old man’s house?” the tallest one taunted.
    Justicio winced. His wife did actually work as a maid for a respected cleaning company.
    “I bet she can clean out the old corners that haven’t been touched in a while, if you know what I mean,” the tall one continued.
    Justicio clenched his fists, anger growing stale as soon as it flamed. There was nothing he could do if he wanted to keep his job. Everyone talked here.
    “Why don’t you go back to where you came from? Do you even speak English? Hablo ingles?” another asked, raising an eyebrow, certain of his excellent Spanish. “You’re probably not even legal. Do you have your green card?”
    “Why do you do this?” he asked quietly, tears starting in his eyes.
    “He does speak English,” commented the one who had just spoken, the surprise in his voice mitigated by condescension.
    “You’re stealing our jobs,” one spat, and then actually worked up a glob of spit in his throat and launched it at Justicio’s feet. “Go back to Mexico, spic.”
    The ridiculousness of that statement left Justicio speechless. Here was this group of promising and wealthy young men, complaining about him doing a job they wouldn’t touch.
    “But why me?” he asked, tears streaming down his face.
    “Look, the wetback now has a wet face,” the first speaker said. The rest of the group laughed, turned on their expensive Italian leather heels, and walked off.
    Justicio sat down on a nearby bench and wiped his face on his jacket sleeve. Disgusted by the snot and tear tracks on it, he unzipped it and shucked it off.
    Underneath, he was wearing a red-and-blue T-shirt that said, “I love the USA!”

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