Bulmaro arrives and takes the rug

As I was drinking my coffee this morning and using the binoculars to scan the Bay of Banderas for whales, there was a knock on my door. This is quite rare. No one ever visits me before noon. It was Bulmaro, Ramon’s handyman. I like Bulmaro very much. He is young and enthusiastic and always anxious to try out his English on me.

“Hola , Señor David,” he said when I waved him in. “Your good year night  fine?”

Yes, I told him, I’d had a fine New Year’s Eve.”

Bulmaro was here to fix a number of things. There were the broken blinds in the guest room and the bathroom water faucet that would not work and a leak I was having under the kitchen sink (all things Ramon should have had fixed before I arrived but didn’t because he didn’t want to upset me). But before he started on all that, I asked him to help me roll up the large sisal rug in the living room which was fatally covered with black mold and get rid of it.

“For you this is not so good?” he asked looking at the rug which looked like the hairy back of a very large man.

“No bueno.”

Could he have it? he asked.

I was hesitant to give it to him. It wasn’t just that the rug was damaged; it was a health hazard. The only reason I hadn’t rolled it up and removed it myself yesterday was because I was afraid of unleashing a million lung-destroying spores into the air. I’d gotten a big piece of plastic from my bodega and put that on top of the moldy rug and figured if Bulmaro and I rolled it up very, very carefully over the plastic we might both avoid getting some nasty lung disease. Now here was Bulmaro wanting to take it home where, no doubt, his two kids could play on it. I tried to explain to Bulmaro that I really thought the carpet was beyond redemption but he was not to be deterred. Besides, I knew that even if I insisted on it being thrown out, he would only throw it in the back of his green pickup and take it home anyway. So, god forgive me, I gave Bulmaro my moldy rug.

Anyway, while Bulmaro was repurposing some kite string to repair my blinds, there was another knock on the door. It was Carlos, the plumber from Sayulita, along with his little brother, Manuel who is learning the fine art of hot water heater repair. Before I could even show Carlos and Manuel where the tank was, there was another knock on the door. It was Cecilia, the maid, here to oil the outdoor teak furniture that had been ruined from the monsoons. Suddenly, my small condo was buzzing with activity. Bulmaro was yelling at Carlos from the guest room, trying to borrow some tool, and Carlos was flirting with Cecilia as she bent over my chaise lounge, oiled rag in hand, and Cecilia was cursing at Carlos, telling him in Spanish that she had a son almost as old as Manuel (which I find hard to believe) and, anyway, her husband takes care of her just fine.

With all the commotion going on, I realized I wasn’t going to get any writing done, so I grabbed my swimsuit and a towel and headed for the beach after telling Bulmaro where I was going and asking him to lock up behind him.

“The very bad rug I thank you for and my esposa thank you please,” he said, shaking my hand.

I doubt very much that Bulmaro’s wife will thank me for the moldy rug. In fact, I’m rather anxious to hear what sort of reception Bulmaro got when he brought the filthy thing home. I’ll have to ask him. I just hope his wife doesn’t blame me.