A Wofflessgilipollas By Any Other Name… Is Still A Wofflessgilipollas

He wasn’t bad to look at if you oozed boredom like Mrs. J. Sanchez did most weekdays. As gardeners went, Joaquin’s rates were modest, $18.95/hr. He worked speedily, so his clientele throughout Altamonte Springs, Orlando flourished. Retirement villages mostly, but a few homeowners like Mrs. S with service needs, channeling their aburrimiento (boredom) into pristine gardens.

But dilemma slow-simmered in two parts:

1. Mrs. S couldn't afford to be picky since gardener availability remained scarce in her locale.

2. At 25 yrs., Joaquin was young, intransigent, and knew everything.

“Not too much water for the grass,” said Mrs S, remembering how her deceased husband used to fume about fines.

“Lo sé, Señora S,” said Joaquin.

Okay, maybe after two years he'd know that.

“Don’t bag the leaves. This morning, my neighbor asked for them to—.”

“—Sí, Señora S.”

“And the hibis—”

“—Lo sé, Señora!”

“And oh, watch out! There's hor—”

“—Lo sé, lo sé, lo sé!”

It infuriated her.

Silently of course. Beneath rabid glimpses of anatomy. Shirt off. Pruning ivy clinging outside her second-floor balcony wall. The rope access used made his biceps bulge, buttocks delineate, and held her 60-something gaze. Even as he inadvertently knocked a hornet’s nest and yelled army-grade curses, unable to move.

She stifled giggles muttering, “What a wofflessgilipollas,” knowing he couldn’t hear.