Go Over There and Hold The Football!

"...knuckle-head deli.."
"Cabeza de nacco!"
"That's right, Cervando, you're a cah-beh-sah de knuckle!"
Tom gripped the joysticks of the skid-steer, the New Holland track loader that could spin on a dime. He'd ended up in the Sun Valley area as a Brooklyn transplant ski bum, and brought  his east coast attitude and accent with him.

 Cervando wore the late 80's mullet latino lover boy hair and tight jeans. He lived with Cesar, Reyes, and Jose Luis in the trailer park south of Ketchum, Red Top Meadows. We all called it Red Top Ghettos. I'd been to a few parties there.

"Knuckle head deli- tried to gyp me on the price..so I knocked him on the turban with a bag of ice.." Tom finished the lyric from 'High Plains Drifter' and spun the machine around to grab another burlap balled pine tree.
"Pinche Tomás es un man-yac."
I'd been out of high school a few years and my Spanish was undergoing a renaissance, so I gathered Cervando referred to all hueros as "maniacs".
We were in a hurry to finish the landscaping to an addition to the new sewage treatment plant. The  effluent odor hung in the air, and it was slightly tolerable, like a cheerleader's fart.

Donnie was in between junior and senior year in high school. He was the construction manager's son from a previous marriage. He lived  in Boise during the school year, but we got stuck with him for the summer.
No favors were afforded him or any of us on the bottom rung. We were kind of close in age and paired together often. He had stories of trysts with older women no one believed. It may have been feasible, but only with the most dissolute of Mrs. Robinsons.

Kirby had his hands full with the backhoe. Kirby and I were tight. He was 28 and completely out of control life-wise, but he was my mentor and protector. I'd been on a few fun adventures with him outside of work, barely staying out of small town trouble. His marriage and interaction with the cops were a weekly drama, but he stood up for me, and I loved him.

Mike was my dad's age and my first supervisor at PF & Co. He was missing a few teeth and his frame went a little sideways. He drove his own truck, which is why he always smelled like fried chicken and Coors Light. I went by nothing other than "Nicky" to Mike. It spilled out of his toothless mouth like a snake at times.."Heyyy Nickkyy!" When I got some time off to go to the first Lollapalooza  he gave me a raft of shit for going all that way to see that  "Asshole-Surfers" band.

I could see Cervando, Reyes, and Mota (Cesar) down the path moving float rakes, and Tom was spinning around in the skid steer. Donnie looked lost and was heading my way. I looked up from checking a valve box and Mike and Kirby were smiling at me.
"Guess what Nicky? You got Donnie."
"What??"
"Yep, you get Donnie. Donnie needs something to do. You got Donnie."
"But I don't want Donnie."
Shit. Here come's Donnie. I have to task boy wonder.
 
 "Hey Don, why don't you go over there and help out Cervando and Reyes rake out that berm."
"Those guys are just a bunch of monkeys fucking a football!
 "Well, ..go over there and hold the football!"