Someone called me Lou Dobbs the other day, which I thought unfair. Now, I’m no expert on Lou Dobbs. I’ve never actually sat down to spend time with the man. When his show is on, we mute the volume. But the closed captioning is on cause our televisions are broken so the closed captioning is always on, no matter the program, and since I read what he’s saying, I can hazard an educated guess: Lou Dobbs wants to rid this country of as many Mexicans as he can. Again, just an educated guess. I’m no expert.

Another thing I’m not is Lou Dobbs. Far from it. I love Mexicans. Love ‘em to bits. They make life more interesting. Without Mexicans, my day to day isn’t anywhere near as colorful. I’d like to read Lou Dobbs saying that one night on our closed captioning.

Nah, he’d never say that. He doesn’t understand the finer points of Mexicans. Not like I do. I know the finer points. I’m well-versed. At least as they pertain to life round here.

I know, for example, that the only cooks who ever questioned the wisdom of what we put on our menu were white guys. (Dave, Greg, Jeff, Brendan and this moron Tim.) Mexicans don’t question. If you put something on the menu that seems to violate at least one natural law (say, Jimmy’s shrimp and pasta abomination), they’ll simply shrug their shoulders and combine the ingredients that should never be combined. Under any circumstances. But Jimmy insists they be combined. And more than a few customers order the abomination. Cause their taste buds are dead. They gotta be. Otherwise they’d know better. (Anyway, so now we only put Mexicans in the kitchen. We don’t like getting second-guessed by idiots who went to school.)

I bet Lou doesn’t know that if you ever wanna gamble on something stupid and pointless, just put your money where your mouth is with a Mexican. I’m not talking bout sports. I’m talking bout bets on stupid things for shits and giggles. Things like which gender shall be the next customer to wander through our door. (Jason acts like he’s willing to bet, but soon as I slap five bucks on the bar saying the next gender will be female, he high-tails it to the other side of the bar, so fast I wonder why he can’t move that fast when there’s drinks to be made. Steve’s broke so he’s no fun. Alan’s so stupid, it’d be taking candy from a moron. The Mexicans? They’ll gamble on anything. Anything. They’re great to have around when I’m whiling away the hours on a slow afternoon or evening.) Lou should bear that in mind next time he rails against Mexicans.

On the downside, if you lose, a Mexican will collect his money. He’s not like a white guy who’ll just say ‘Don’t worry bout it.’ So … keep that in mind, Lou, if you’re ever wagering with a Mexican.

A Mexican only needs to be told once. As long as what you’re telling him is where the beer is. (Ah, see, that’s a cheap shot, an easy shot. I mustn’t resort to cheap, easy shots. Lou won’t be swayed by cheap, easy shots. Or who knows. Maybe he will. I’ll leave it in.)

Let’s try a shot slightly less cheap and easy. You only hafta tell a Mexican to do something once. He may not do it. He may swear at you and tell you it’s not his fucking job, so find someone else, but at least he’ll admit you told him. He won’t deny being told. Unlike Steve, who’ll swear up and down to any and all who’ll listen that no one told him it was his responsibility to take the coffee urns downstairs, even though at least two people did. Me and Jimmy.

Here’s a corollary for Lou: If you ever need something done on the side, pay a Mexican to do it. Americans suddenly get too good for menial labor, even though waiting tables is pretty fucking menial. Mexicans are always willing to chip in, long as they’re on the clock. Hand a Mexican a bucket of paint and a brush, tell him to paint that wall, a couple hours later, that wall will be painted. Painted good. You just gotta look the other way on the fact that it was only a one-hour job, max, cause it wasn’t a big wall, it was a small wall.

If the last four years have taught me anything (I doubt they have), it’s that you just never know what a Mexican is gonna say next. Mainly because you just never know what they’re saying now.

Also, it’s easy to cheer up a Mexican. The Americans here, they can be difficult to cheer up, when they realize their future prospects might not be what anyone’d call ‘rosy.’ But cheering up a Mexican? First of all, they’re rarely down or blue. The sun always shines on a Mexican. But when they are down or blue, lifting their spirits takes no effort at all. I can make Rudy laugh by simply farting with my mouth or armpit. Or I just let him crush my hand with his grip. If those fail, I just put a beer in his hand.

You want to have Mexicans on your side if you’re about to get your ass beat. Lou should have a long hard think about that. I’m an unfortunate combination of wuss, weakling, bleeder, crybaby and someone who antagonizes through food, service and value. Hence, my ass gets close to being beat on a regular basis. If I didn’t have Mexicans in the kitchen always ready to back me up, who knows how many times I’d wind up picking my teeth up off the floor. Or wiping my own blood off the wall. Or shoving a tuning fork up my nose to straighten it out. Cause the Americans here? They’re no help. They don’t wanna risk their teeth, blood and noses, whereas our Mexicans could care less bout their teeth, blood and noses, apparently.

Which brings me to this. I dare say Lou hasn’t considered this, though I’m not sure how this benefits the country as a whole: Mexicans don’t mind death. They’re not as spooked by it. When my dad died, the first person to pay his respects was Jim. (He knew my dad; they went ‘way back.’) The second, third, fourth, fifth, and I believe sixth were Mexicans. Rudy, Oscar, Nando, Ricky and George. (Ricky doesn’t work with us anymore.) They stood in line outside the office, waiting.

It was touching, in its way, since I barely knew them and even then, as it was happening, and I was oblivious to so much of what was happening around me, I was struck by how sincere and open they were, while upstairs, the white people could barely look me in the eye or offer much more than an awkward clap on the shoulder and a ‘Sorry bout your dad.’ I was grateful to those Mexicans, and I am to this day. Nando and Ricky went as far as to ask about him, what he was like. None of the whites did anything close to that. (I don’t begrudge them that. I too am weird bout death and don’t much like acknowledging it.) As soon as I had my wits about me, I wrote all the Mexicans thank you notes. (Which Oscar then had to translate for them. ‘Gracias.’)