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Mit a bang
Mit a boom
Mit a bing-bang bing-bang boom
**Haben sie gehort das deustche band* *The Producers**
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When Martin woke up with a slightly sored spot on his back, he heard his father's voice as he crossed the livingroom. "Morning."
"Hmm?" He rubbed his eyes as he rolled on his back to see Victor smiling ("You're still not a morning person.") and getting in the kitchen.
"Right." He yawned, still a bit lost. "Morning."
"You want Rosita to make you coffee?" his father yelled from the kitchen.
"Who?" Martin asked back, a rusty voice and still rubbing his eyes roughly, almost like a child would.
But then a large, hyspanic woman came out of the kitchen and started picking up the clothes he had thrown over a chair the night before and his eyes popped open - wide open -, watching the woman walk away with his clothes, heading to the bedroom. Martin sat up and blinked, thinking if that was some sort of dream. Then he observed her making her way back to the kitchen and tried to fit her inside his head in a way that made sense. But she simply didn't, so he got up.
The scene he could see from the door would only need a loving wife and a couple of sweet kids to fit the perfect commercial for American Life: dad was sitting by the table, reading his paper, as usual, orange juice and coffee sat by his plate and the smell of bacon and eggs came from the stove, the hyspanic maid standing by with light eyes and a smile on her face as she poked around the colesterol and fat on the frying-pan.
Martin turned to his father, still confused, and Victor Fitzgerald lifted his eyes slightly. "What? The doctor said I could, once a week. I just gotta watch out for the rest of the day..."
"That's not... I..." he blinked, trying to find words. "Dad?"
"Yes, son?"
"Why is there a... Rosita in my kitchen?"
At the mention of her name, Rosita turned and smiled, sweet. Martin found the strenght to smile back as if everything was natural.
"She's my maid. Well, my NY maid." Victor replied, matter-of-factly, before turning back to the paper.
Martin nodded to Rosita and pushed his smile a bit longer, letting her know everything was fine. "Why?" He asked between shinny, smiling teeth. But Rosita turned back to the eggs and bacon and Martin could stretch his jaw.
His father said: "I don't like hotel staff, you never know where they came from. Call me crazy, but I like to keep the good, trusty people close."
"You're crazy." The newspaper was lowered and Martin rushed to add. "I mean, why is she here, in my appartment?"
Victor looked up and said: "She does things the way I like!" not only as if it was obvious, but letting Martin know he was tired of getting distracted from his reading. Still, the paper was casted aside when Rosita came to bring his breakfast. "Oh, my eggs." he smiled. "Muchas gracias, Rosita."
"Ah, muy bien, señor Fitzgerald!" the large woman laughed.
"Besides" he proceeded ", I don't wanna get in your way."
Martin blinked and walked to the table. "Yeah, she's great, but, uhn, dad, I already have a maid, Tina, and she does things just the way I like..."
"I know, she got here early, but I sent her back. No need to keep them both. She'll be back next week, Rosita will be here just as long as I am."
Martin blinked and swallowed a "you did what, you control freak?!" and tried to be polite. "Still, I'd feel better we didn't have another woman... re-doing things...." your way, he did not add. "So, uhn..." he turned to the maid, trying to remember anything Danny ever taught him in spanish. "So, Rosita... muchas gracias, pero... no... needed, no quiero... Rosita." The woman stared back raising her eyebrows and Victor stared, slowing his chews a bit. "Compreende? Tengo una... Rosita, una... Yo tengo mi... Rosita, mi own... maid- dad, would you help me?"
"What on Earth are you trying to tell her?"
"That I already have a maid and you'll call her when you're back in town, but for now I'd feel better if I could just keep one maid, because she knows me better. You're here just for the week, I already called Tina to come every morning to help you with anything you need. Can you tell her that?"
"Sure. Rosita!" The hyspanic woman turned to her boss. "Martin would feel better if you left while we're in his house, he is quite picky about his maids, just like his mother, but I'll call you the next time I'm in town, and of course I'll pay you for your services."
"Would you like me to finish your breakfast, sir?"
"Yes, please. And unmake the couch for Martin."
Rosita turned to leave and flashed one more pleasent smile to Martin (no hurt feelings) and Martin felt his face burn. "She speaks english."
"Yes."
He joined him at the table. "Cared to tell me that before?"
"Didn't I pay you spanish classes when you were... thirteen?" Victor calculated.
"It was money put to waist."
"Clearly. How about french?"
"Uhn, waist."
"Italian?"
"Waist."
"German?"
"Major waist."
"Latin?"
"Dad, lemme short this conversation: nine lenguages, you're lucky I know how to order burritos." Victor shook his head and turned to his paper again.
After a moment: "Was any of the money I invested on your education good for something?"
"Swimming classes payed off."
Victor made a skeptical sound with the back of his throat. "Yes, it will be useful if you ever have to talk to a fish."
Martin bit his lips. One week. Maybe he should let Rosita stay and move himself to a hotel?