Filled with hate

It does not pain me in the least to admit that I currently hate Christiano Mexicano. I do, an awful lot.

First off you have to understand that Mexicano is a genius with his hands and he has a face that only Picasso could have imagined, but he gives me this look of such contempt that I can do nothing but respond with pure and complete hatred.

I hired Mexicano to do some labor for me this past summer. I wanted to expand my tiny backyard garden and I was suffering the effects of a pulled lower back muscle. Mexicano answered an online advertisement, showed up the next day in old dirty jeans and a sweat stained white t-shirt and since that time he has pretty much been here every day, sometimes working, sometimes drinking beer on the front porch and leering at the pretty girls who sometimes walk by.

Mexicano is an illiterate idiot, but a genius with his hands. I did not know that when I hired him to hand till the back yard. He did that in a weeks time, for 20 dollars. Did I mention he is not good with money? Either not good, or just a moron, I am not sure, and to be honest, I don't care. Here is a recent example. He completely rebuilt my kitchen. He hand built all new cabinets, added a beautiful hand built island, new plumbing, a Mexican tile back splash that surrounds the entire cabinet area and the island shares the same tile design, except he put the sink in the island along with a new dishwasher. All of this was done for 300 dollars. I had to buy the wood.

Mexicano is a genius with his hands. That much is true. I paid him in small bills, as he requested, but when I would pay him, he would leer at me with disdain and ask if I had any more beer. The utter contempt he had for me seemed to drain out of his every pore. He must sense my deep hatred for him. His jagged cheek bones almost seemed weaponized when he would look at me, asking if I was paying him completely. "Completely?"

"Yes, completely."

"You mean, is it all there?"

"Yes, completely."

"Well, if you remember, I paid you 100 dollars when you started. Then I paid you 50 dollars a couple of weeks ago. So, I only owe you 150. That is what I am paying you."

"Right."

When he said right, I think he spit a little, in my general direction.

I turned and started to walk out of my new and incredibly beautiful kitchen, I turned a little and over my shoulder, I said, "the kitchen looks great by the way."

"Right." He spit out, managing to fill that single word with disgust.

I hate Christiano Mexicano.

It was always going to be that way. Mexicano talked me into growing watermelon plants this summer. I had never thought to grow watermelon before and probably for good reason. The plants spread like wildfire, devouring all the other plant growing area, drinking in all the water and soon enough, the watermelons were the only plants in our entire, expanded garden. Just last week I paid Mexicano 25 cents to harvest all the watermelon. We had over 50 watermelons. He carried a bushel into the new kitchen and set it onto the beautiful new island. "You must love the watermelon, yes?"

"Actually, Mexicano, I hate watermelon, that is true, I hate it."

"Why did you grow the watermelon then?"

"I did not," I said to him, with the sort of disgust I would only reserve for a corrupt gay republican who on one hand would fight against equal rights and marriage equality for homosexuals during the day and then at night go dancing with his Latin lover and end up getting arrested having some sort of illicit gay sexual encounter in a park somewhere in a boring suburb in Maryland.

Recently my dog committed suicide. I called Mexicano and asked if he could come over and dig her a grave and help clean up. He was soon at the front door, with a shovel in one hand and a bag of some sort of beans and ointment in the other. I led him to the dogs office, where she lay on the floor, he picked her lifeless body up, slung her over his shoulder and carried her outside. I went up to my bedroom, closed the door, ran a hot bath and quietly began to mourn the loss.

About an hour later I was dressed and in my beautiful new kitchen, when Mexicano was standing at the island, washing some dishes. "Did you take care of the burial?"

"I did yes, I did."

"Out in the back?"

"Yes, of course."

"Well, thank you for that."

"Yes, of course."

"I wanted to put a little something on the grave, where did you bury her?"

"Bury her?"

"Yes, you buried her in the back yard?"

He stopped washing the teflon frying pan and looked down at his hands as he scrubbed the last of the barbecue sauce from the charred bottom of the pan. He looked up at me, a small dollop of barbecue sauce was visible in the corner of his mouth. His wild, Picasso cheek bones seemed to point to the ceiling, an expression of utter disdain crept across his face.

I so hate Christiano Mexicano.