of course.
yeah. can i help you?
thanks. what are you looking for?
--i don't have any work right now. sorry.
have you checked the classifieds?
yeah, but, sorry, i still don't have a job for you.
i don't really sell raw materials.
somebody paying you for the table?
how old are you?
who taught you to make tables?
is that where you're from?
i grew up in santiago. what are you doing in new york?
the whole world plays baseball. my son's sixteen. won't touch a piece of wood that's not a bat. i never cared for the game, myself. too slow.
your mom still in san pedro?
so, you're telling me that you want to make a table for your mom, then mail it back to her in the dominican?
what's your name?
osvaldo.
it's okay. sometimes during the playoffs i'll watch a game or two.
i don't know enough to have a favorite.
fine. jose canseco.
okay, what about you?
never heard of him.
what's so special about clemente?
get out of here.
are you fucking with me? cause you know i can google this fool right now.
the internet. don't worry, i'll teach you someday.
when did you get released?
you left? when was this?
holy shit. where are you staying?
why'd you leave?
do you have any family here?
hey, miguel.
i did some research and i got a new favorite player now.
vic power. you know him?
you ought to. greatest puerto rican first baseman ever. but that's not why he's my favorite player.  back when he first arrived, 1951, 52, he was playing in the minors. little rock, arkansas. so the story goes, one day before a game, vic stops into this diner for lunch. hadn't been here long, so he knew very little english. didn't even notice the "whites only" sign hanging in the window. and vic was black. i looked him up on google. i mean black like you. so he sits down at the counter and the little waitress comes up to big vic and says, "i'm sorry, we don't serve colored people."
so he leans close to the waitress, tells her in his best english, "that's okay, i don't eat colored people."