I struck up coversation with the guy who washes the fancy cars for the execs in our parking garage. His thick spanish accent was an effortless counter to my prodding and snarky comments. I found it funny that the reggeton-mexican music, the kind that you find in between the good channels on the radio, the kind i hated to listen to, was blasting out of a porsche cayenne.

he dipped his oven-mitt like cleaning glove in a bucket of dirty soap water as i walked over...

"hows it going"
purtee good
"why do you do this?"
what you mean?
"what kind of satisfaction do you get from this job? why do you like it?"
i listen to da myuseek, i is easy.
"so you like the job because its easy... were you born here in the USA?"
yes, my life.
"lived here all your life... you get to wash beautiful cars... i guess you can't ask for much more, do you have kids, children, sons, daughters?"
yes, many...
"do you do this so you can feed them and send them to school so they won't be where you are at your age?"
what?
"nevermind, here's a few dollars, you've never washed my car, but thank you."

this conversation played only in my mind and when i looked up again, he was still waxing, and buffing...

i walked on without giving him any money, and i went to lunch.