On Tuesdays, all day, intermittently,
the landscape company employees
crank up their gas-powered blowers
and blow the bejesus out of the ass-

ociation complex. Same thing on Fri-
day but only for half a day. The em-
ployees are all young Latinos and
don’t wear masks. They laugh and on

occasion to break the monotony of the
work they point the blowers at each
other like rifles, only instead of
bullets that could kill in a moment,

shrubbery debris and carbon monoxide
collide with the workers’ lungs —
the start of what would become a long,
slow, debilitating journey ending in

breath-gasping death. They laugh and
laugh. To protect his lungs, he wears
a surgical mask when leaving and enter-
ing the complex on those days. While

debris flies, people look at him like
he must be sick and they turn away not
wanting to be exposed to what they
assume could be that dread disease

caused by mosquito bites working its
way up from Uruguay or some such
place. The owner of the company, a
middle-age, white guy, smiles amiably

as he walks the complex inspecting
the work after the blowing is done.
The man, smiling amiably behind the
mask, envisions the owner standing

in a Haboob without a mask.