Maybe it’s because I was trained as a musician. Or maybe it’s because I secretly love gossip.
Whatever the reason, I seem to have developed super hearing powers.
It’s more of a curse than a blessing, especially when I work from home. The announcements from the Lowes a few blocks away sound as if they’re directed at me. PICK UP IN HOME AND GARDENING. ASSISTANCE NEEDED IN AISLE 4. In most of my dreams, I’m wearing a red vest with blue lining.
Working at a café is no better. Even when I sit in the “quiet” section I find myself tuning into conversations from elsewhere, like the kitchen. Does this look burnt to you? Nah, just put more butter on it.
I learn a lot about people who know nothing about me. Sometimes, over dinner, I give my husband updates. The woman who looks like Chelsea Handler is going crazy because her mother’s staying with her for an extra week. She’s even considering staying in a motel!
I also hear all kinds of things I’d rather not. Like that time my Dad asked my Mom why I had so many books on strippers and burlesque dancers and wondered if maybe it was time to have a little talk. (They were for my honors thesis, I swear!) Or that time the guy with the Lakers shirt told his buddies that his “bitch” was “gonna get it” when he got home.
Some things can’t be un-heard.
And some things, I miss entirely.
*
Our backyard—a slab of concrete connected to a maze of spiky plants, weeds, and a smattering of cat feces—was getting out of hand, so we hired two landscapers to clean it up. One was tall and wore a back brace; the other had smooth skin and mirrored sunglasses. They worked from 8:00 to 4:00 everyday for three weeks.
Most of the time, they spoke to each other in Spanish—a language that I never learned, even though there are more Spanish speakers in Los Angeles than in any other city in the U.S. Even though I have lived here for nine years. Even though I am perfectly capable of learning a foreign language.
It was on their third day that I finally realized just how limited my super hearing powers were. Not just limited but selective. The language that one and half million Angelenos speak is a language I regularly ignore. If it hadn’t been for the singing, I might not have heard them at all.
“I hear you whining! Dining! Out of that do-or!”
I’m upstairs when the off-key notes punch my eardrums. The singing is followed by a high-pitched cackle.
“¡Idiota! What are you saying?”
“Es una canción, hombre. I hear it on the radio. ¿No la canoces?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard it, but that’s not how it goes.”
“¿Entoces, como?”
“It’s ‘I see you winding and grinding up on that pole.’”
“Pool? En la piscina?”
“No! The pole, man! Barra de stripper!”
“OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
“¡Por Dios, estás menso!”
*
I start giving them lemonade. They work during the hottest hours of the day during the hottest month of the year, breaking up the concrete with a sledgehammer. In the fridge, I find a jug of Trader Joe’s Green Tea Lemonade—the one with the dapper Englishman playing golf on the label. At 2:30, I set out two large cups.
They thank me so many times, it seems cruel not to repeat the gesture, especially since the following day is just as hot. I wait until the afternoon, just to keep things regular, then set out two more cups of the cold frothy liquid. Again, they thank me far more than is necessary. The one with the sunglasses asks me what kind it is. I tell him, too embarrassed to show him the label with the white man in tights wiping his brow after a strenuous day of golf.
At the end of the first week, the temperature rises ten degrees. The yard is about thirty percent done. When I go grocery shopping, I pick up another jug of green tea lemonade. Two days later, I have to go back for more. The yard is thirty-five percent done.
They probably think I’m a housewife, I realize. They probably think that all I do is clean the house and walk the dogs and make dinner and watch T.V. and at 2:00 or 2:30 or 2:45, I fill two cups with Trader Joe’s Green Tea Lemonade and set them out on the deck.
But we don’t even own a T.V.
One day I make cookies. I don’t normally make cookies because it’s a silly thing to do for a household of two. Who’s going to eat all of these? my husband would say. Are you trying to make me fat?
The cookies are a big hit. Later, I bring some to my neighbors, who I hear are having a tough time at work.
*
The one with sunglasses is Luis and the one with the back brace is Carlos. Carlos is originally from Puerto Rico. Luis moved to Los Angeles from Mexico when he was ten. I wish I knew these things because I asked them in Spanish and they told me in Spanish. I wish I could have proved that I’m not who they think I am.
What is English for them? In a city where they can buy groceries in Spanish, get a bus ticket in Spanish, or see a Spanish-speaking doctor, what does English become? Perhaps it’s the language of business, the language of orders and instructions and signs that tell them where they do and do not belong. Perhaps it’s a language they tune out unless the music is catchy. Perhaps it’s a language they hear selectively, only to get a job or a raise or a glass of Trader Joe’s Green Tea Lemonade.
Maybe they don’t need English to understand me. Maybe I am who they think I am—the lady who bakes cookies and walks her dogs and puts out cold drinks for them every afternoon.
*
One day, I find Carlos playing ball with my chihuahua. One day, I find Luis giving my puggle a massage. “She likes it, huh?” he says, grinning. “Can’t blame her.” When I hear my dogs barking, I know it’s because they are happy, because someone is finally paying attention to them instead of tapping away at her computer.
The yard is forty percent done, fifty percent done, seventy-five percent done. There are eight jugs of Trader Joe’s Green Tea Lemonade in the recycling bin. A new bin—a giant metal one—has appeared at the end of the driveway. Luis and Carlos haul giant chunks of concrete into it; the rest, they arrange in a neat path that runs from the backdoor to the persimmon tree.
When the yard is one hundred percent done, my dogs rush out to dig up the mulch and pee on the path and chase each other around the persimmon tree. Luis and Carlos laugh. We all laugh—in English, in Spanish, in dog.
“We’re done, ma’am,” Luis says, lingering by the gate. “Thank you for the lemonade.”
I want to say something more than thank you, but I’m not sure what. Maybe there’s a phrase in Spanish that would help me say what I mean. Thank you for keeping my dogs company, thank you for fixing the yard. Thank you for teaching me that my super hearing powers aren’t as powerful as I thought.
He closes the gate and locks it behind him.
Silently, my dogs watch him disappear through the bars.