Newly appointed border czar Tom Hogan has strongly advised undocumented immigrants living in the United States to “start packing.” And even though my papers are in order, I’m also packing. Why? Because without immigrant workers, the cushy lifestyle I currently enjoy will no longer be possible. Food prices will skyrocket, restaurants and fast foot outlets will close, ski resorts and casinos will be shuttered, construction projects will grind to a halt, roofs will leak, trash will pile up and yards will become fallow.
Also, soggy cigarette butts will no longer be retrieved from urinals. I know this because once upon a time that was my job, back when I worked as a janitor at a summer resort. Try finding a native-born American lad to do that nowadays. First, you’re gonna have to pry his delicate white fingers from his cellphone.
I had other distasteful jobs when I was growing up, and was happy to land them. Once, I remember my friends and I were standing on the sidewalk when a pickup truck stopped.
“Hey, you boys wanna make some money?” the driver asked.
“Absolutely!” We responded in unison. Next thing we knew, we were busily sanding sheet rock joints at a house under construction. My compensation for a full afternoon spent ingesting gypsum dust? One shiny half dollar.
Idle American teenagers can no longer be recruited for dirty work. Nowadays, contractors can tap into a willing and eager labor pool assembled on the fringes of any Home Depot. Here’s a picture I took of the fellow who finished the drywall when we were remodeling our kitchen. Beneath all that chalky dust, I believe his skin is brownish.
Same deal when we repainted the house and reshingled the roof. Instead of grumbling and cursing, we heard upbeat mariachi music, and the rhythmic hammering of nail guns. Before I knew it, the job was finished and I could get back to sipping Chardonnay and watching Masterpiece Theater.
In other words, I have it good, and what makes it even better is thinking back to when I was tasked with extracting those soggy cigarette butts. Or the summer I toiled at Stan Johnson’s tire recapping shop, up to my knees in used tires and surrounded by hazardous industrial machinery. Honestly, it’s a wonder I still have a full set of fingers with which to tap out this blog post.
