Spitting out the dirt

Spitting out the dirt, he kept the pebbles along the inside of his mouth like a chaw of tobacco. Might come in handy if his fists gave out. Meanwhile, his opponent was still pummeling away at his back. In the distance, he could hear, “Angel, get up, hit him man!”

Finally, tired of waiting, Angel lifted himself on his elbows and turned over, pushing the now-heaving Puente off his chest. Drawing back, he planted a firm fist on Puente’s scratchy, puffy cheek. With one swoop and a shocked expression, his boss fell back and passed out neatly in the middle of the arroyo.

A year ago, Angel might have run from a confrontation. Any fights were excuses for being fired. With this new boss, he couldn’t take any more aggravation. His annoyance had turned to anger when Puente had started shoving him.

A few minutes later, inside the bar, the crew from the New Mexico Department of Transportation, District 5, including Angel and Puente were tossing back a few Coors, a cool respite from the searing Clines Corners heat that didn’t quit, even after 5pm when their shift ended. Elysa walked up to the table with a second round of drinks, courtesy of Angel’s cousin, David. “Hey bro, finally you acted like a man instead of a mouse.” Snickers and snorts accompanied his cousin’s toast.