A Quiet, felt Moment (In English and Spanish)

A Quiet, felt Moment




“It is late,” said the old man’s wife.
“Every night is late, at 11:00 p.m., midnight, 3:00 a.m., and 4:30 a.m.,” said the old man.
In the nights now, the street outside his window was noisy, and so he’d read until he got tired, waited for it to become quiet, and when he felt that moment, he’d lay down in bed, he felt the difference, falling to sleep. The neighbours, new neighbours, the store owner selling beer—unlicensed to do so—strangers, all sitting at the little corner store, outside on chairs by tables, leaning against cars, drinking beer, singing songs, making noise, to all hours of the night. But he would be woken up, always woken up, by the drunks, the car horns, and the loud music from the car radios. He would be woken up numerous times throughout the night, besides having to relieve himself; and then there was the little fat lady with five dogs next door, she had to take them out three times a night and they’d run in the park across the street, into his garden.
“Last week the old man tried to commit suicide,” said one of the two drunks sitting on the edge of the curve across the street from the old man’s house.
“Why?” asked his companion.
“He couldn’t sleep.”
“Why not?”
“No reason.”
“How do you know there wasn’t a reason? How do you know he even tried?”
The two drunks sat on the edge of the sidewalk, on the curve drinking two quart bottles of beer, looking at the old man’s house across the street, at the second story window, where he slept. There were two other drunks sleeping it off under a tree in the park, near the corner, by the bicycle shop, the lady next to the old man’s house, brought her five dogs out of her apartment to do their duty, to relieve themselves. And they went right for the old man’s garden, where the dim arc light lit them up.
“His wife takes care of him,” said one of the drunks.
“What does it matter, if he complains about all the noise on this block, he can go back to America,” said the second drunk.
“We better move before he looks out his window, thinking we are robbers and shoots us with his revolver.”
The old man now is looking through a hole he made in his curtains.
“What is it dear?” asked his wife.
“These drunks again, from the store.”
“You’ll be tired in the morning if you stay up all night.”
“I never get to sleep anyhow until you get up it seems nowadays.”
The old man motioned with his fingers in the shape of a pistol, at the drunks, they didn’t see him, “a little more and I’ll get back into bed,” he told his wife.
“Now what are you doing?” asked his wife.
“More drunks and the lady, the crazy one next door, she’s allowing her dogs to use our garden as a toilet again.”
“Come to bed please.”
“They think I wanted to kill myself, Angel, the day security guard told me so, how foolish, can you believe that, I wanted to kill them, not me!”
“How would they know?”
“The lady with the dogs, she gossips, makes things up, to get attention I suppose.”
“Oh…ool,” said his wife, in a fading voice.
“No fear for their soul, no respect, no blood in their face.”
“I’m tired dear, come to bed, you get all worked up over nothing.”
“They say I got plenty of money, and they wish I’d go back to America, and they think I stay up all night for no reason.”
“I suppose so, but they don’t have wives, you have.”
“A wife would be no good for drunks.”
“You can’t tell them that.”
“I know. I’m happy to be old. An old man is a scarce thing.”
“Not always, he can be a nasty thing also.”
“I wish it was quiet again.”
The old man looked at the park and the church across the street from his window, had pulled back the curtains, then he looked left, down towards the store, where there was four drunks, all drinking beers, leaning against the cars.
“When they going to finish?” remarked the old man, waiting for his wife to say something, to answer him, and he looked at the bed, she had fallen back to sleep. He then looked at the clock it was 3:00 a.m. He would lie in bed in another hour, and it would be quiet for a moment, and he’d be exhausted and fall to sleep, he knew this, “I suppose,” he said in a whisper, as if he was talking to his second self, “It’s all about getting old.”

4-17-2009 /dedicated to my neighbours in San Juan Miraflores, Lima Peru




Spanish Version


Sentir un Momento Tranquilo


“Es tarde,” dijo la esposa del anciano.
“Cada noche es tarde, a las 11:00 de la noche, en la medianoche, a las 3:00 de la madrugada y a las 4:30 de la mañana” dijo el anciano.
Afuera de su ventana, ahora en las noches, la calle estaba ruidosa y por eso él leería hasta cansarse, esperando que ésta se volviera tranquila y cuando él sentía ese momento, él se tiraría en la cama; él sentía la diferencia y entonces se quedaba dormido. Los vecinos, los nuevos vecinos, el dueño de la tienda vendiendo cerveza—sin licencia—a extraños, todos sentados afuera en sillas por las mesas en la pequeña esquina de la tienda, recostados en los carros, bebiendo cerveza, cantando canciones, haciendo bulla, todas las horas de la noche. Por ello él se despertaría, siempre se despertaría, debido a los borrachos, a las bocinas de los carros y a la música alta de las radios de los carros. Él se despertaría muchas veces durante las noches, por estos motivos, aparte de tener que ir al baño; y luego había una pequeña señora gorda de la casa del costado con cinco perros, ella tendría que sacarlos afuera de su casa tres veces en las noches y ellos correrían a su jardín, que estaba por el parque cruzando la calle.
“La semana pasada el anciano trató de suicidarse”, dijo uno de los dos borrachos sentados al filo del sardinel que estaba cruzando la calle al frente de la casa del anciano.
“¿Por qué?” preguntó su compañero.
“Él no podía dormir”
“¿Por qué no?”
“No hay ninguna razón”
“¿Cómo es que sabes que no hay ninguna razón?” “¿Cómo es que sabes que él siquiera lo intentó?”
Los dos borrachos sentados al filo de la acera, encima del sardinel bebían dos botellas de cerveza, mirando a la casa del anciano al frente de la calle, mirando a la ventana del segundo piso, donde él dormía. Habían otros dos borrachos durmiendo bajo un árbol en el parque, cerca de la esquina, por la tienda de bicicletas; la señora de la casa contigua a la del anciano sacó a sus cinco perros para que hicieran sus necesidades, y ellos fueron directamente al jardín del anciano, donde las luces del arco estaban prendidas.
“Su esposa lo cuida”, dijo uno de los borrachos.
“Qué importa que él se queje de toda esa bulla en su cuadra, él puede volver a Norteamérica” dijo el otro borracho.
“Mejor nos vamos antes que él mire por su ventana, y nos dispare con su revolver pensando que somos rateros”.
El anciano ahora estaba mirando a través del hueco que hizo en sus cortinas.
“¿Qué es esto querido?” preguntó su esposa.
“Estos borrachos de nuevo, los de la tienda”.
“Estarás cansado mañana si te quedas despierto toda la noche”.
“Nunca llego a dormir de todas formas hasta que tú te levantas, eso parece en estos días”.
El anciano hizo señas con sus dedos en forma de pistola a los borrachos, ellos no lo vieron, “un poco más y volveré a la cama” él le dijo a su esposa.
“¿Qué estás haciendo ahora?” preguntó su esposa.
“Más borrachos y la señora, esa loca de la casa del costado, está dejando que sus perros usen nuestro jardín como si fuera su baño de nuevo”.
“Ven a la cama, por favor”.
“Ellos piensan que quise suicidarme, Ángel, el vigilante del día me lo dijo, qué tontos, ¿puedes creerlo? ¡Quiero matarlo a ellos, no a mi!”
“¿Cómo lo sabrían ellos?”
“La señora de los perros, ella chismosea, inventa cosas, para llamar la atención me imagino”.
“Ah…ah…” dijo su esposa con una voz apagada.
“No tienen miedo por sus almas, no respeto, no tienen sangre en sus caras”.
“Estoy cansada querido, ven a la cama, tú te preocupas mucho por nada”.
“Ellos dicen que tengo un montón de dinero y desean que vuelva a Norteamérica, y piensan que estoy despierto toda la noche sin ninguna razón”.
“Me imagino que si, pero ellos no tienen esposas, tú si tienes”.
“Una esposa no sería bueno para un borracho”.
“No puedes decirlo eso a ellos”
“Lo sé. Estoy feliz de ser un viejo. Un anciano es una cosa rara”.
“No siempre, puede ser una cosa fea también”.
“Desearía que fuera tranquilo de nuevo”.
El anciano miró desde su ventana al parque y a la iglesia al frente de su casa, había corrido las cortinas, luego miró a la izquierda, abajo hacia la tienda donde estaban los cuatro borrachos, todos tomando cerveza, recostados en los carros.
“¿Cuándo van a terminar?” recalcó el anciano, esperando que su esposa dijera algo, le respondiera a él y luego miró hacia la cama, ella se había quedado dormida. Él entonces miró al reloj, eran las 3:00 de la mañana. Él se recostaría en la cama en una hora, afuera estaría tranquilo por un momento y él estaría tan exhausto que se quedaría dormido, él lo sabía esto, “Me imagino…” él dijo en un susurro, como si estuviera hablándose a sí mismo, “…que es todo sobre envejecer”.


17-Abril-2009 /dedicado a mis vecinos en San Juan Miraflores, Lima Perú

The Frozen Tongue ((A Very Short Story)(in English and Spanish))

The Frozen Tongue
((A Chick Evens, Episode, 1958, St. Paul, Minnesota)(a very short Story))



The sidewalk around the garage was scattered with broken, long and heavy ice icicles, once frozen onto the rim of the garage roof. I was but eleven-years old back then, back in the winter of 1958, and I had heard how cold metal or iron, would freeze a person’s tongue onto its surface, as quick as the clap of an eye. I was born with a curious nature indeed, and this was quite fascinating, yet to me unproven. So of all things, I put my tongue onto the door knob of the garage door, it must had been five below zero out. And it froze onto it, quicker than I could spit.
I started to pull, or try to pull away, but my tongue would not release from the metal knob, and so there I stood, like The Hunchback of Notre Dame, crouched down nearly on bended knees, praying my brother Mike, that he would come along soon and save the day (I needed no more proof, it worked).
As I remained in this position for eons it seemed, this raised the question, that surely my brother Mike would ask, “Why… would someone do something as silly as this?”
I mean it was harsh weather, a Minnesota winter is nothing to laugh about, for it is an enduring experience, each and every year.
I hadn’t the answer other than, ‘To see if it worked.’
When my brother did show up, he said, “Don’t you have better things to do,” a rhetorical question of course.
And I just prayed he’d hurry up, and go fetch some warm water, which he did, and pour it over my tongue, which he did, but instead of just my tongue, it went all over my face and mouth and then onto the knob, “Oh!” I cried “it’s free!” and that was that, and it was worth the additional wetness I had to bear—it just got a little messy that’s all.
My brother, Mike, who is two year older than I, looked at me with his intense eyes, carefully, “How long you been like that?” he questioned.
¨There came a mysterious pause from me, then a succession of “I don’t know (s).”
We both exchanged a humorous look, I think my face apologized mutely for taking up his time, and as he walked up those stone stairs, his back to me, on the path to our house, he laughed shaking his head, right to left (and in a like manner, I shook my shoulders up and down).


Written on the terrace roof, Lima, Peru 1-19-2009, Dedicated to Mike E. Siluk. •••


Spanish Version


La Lengua Congelada
((Un episodio de Chick Evens, 1958, San Pablo, Minnesota)(un cuento muy corto))



La acera alrededor del garaje estaba esparcida con carámbanos rotos, largos y pesados, de hielo una vez congelados al filo del techo del garaje. Yo tenía sólo once años de edad en ese entonces, allá en el invierno de 1958 y había oído cómo el metal o hierro frío congelaría la lengua de una persona en su superficie tan rápido como el parpadeo de un ojo y esto era bastante fascinante, pero todavía no probado por mi. Yo había nacido con una naturaleza curiosa de verdad. Por eso, puse mi lengua sobre la perilla de la puerta del garaje, afuera debió haber estado en quince grados centígrados bajo cero, y ésta se congeló sobre la perilla más rápido de que pudiera escupir.
Empecé a jalar, o traté de jalarla fuera, pero mi lengua no se soltaría de la perilla de metal, y por eso allí estuve, como el jorobado de Nuestra Señora, doblado hacia abajo con mis rodillas dobladas, rezando para que mi hermano Mike viniera pronto y me salvara el día (no necesitaba más pruebas, esto funcionaba).
Mientras permanecía en esta posición, que parecía una eternidad, una pregunta surgió, que seguramente mi hermano Mike preguntaría: “¿Por qué...alguien haría algo así de tonto?”
Quiero decir que era un clima duro, un invierno de Minnesota no es nada como para reírse, porque es una experiencia dura, todos los años.
No tenía otra respuesta que: “para ver si funcionaba”.
Cuando mi hermano Mike apareció, él dijo: “¿No tienes mejores cosas que hacer?” una pregunta retórica por supuesto.
Y yo sólo rezaba para que él se apurara, y echara agua tibia sobre mi lengua, lo que él lo hizo, y me echó agua sobre mi lengua, y no sólo en mi lengua sino en toda mi cara y boca y luego en la perilla, “Ah” grité “está libre” y esto fue todo; valió la pena la mojada adicional que tuve que soportar—solamente estuvo un poco desordenado, eso es todo.
Mi hermano Mike, quien es dos años mayor que yo, me miró con sus intensos ojos, cuidadosamente, “¿Cuánto tiempo has estado así?” él preguntó.
Allí vino una pausa misteriosa por mi, luego una sucesión de “no lo se…”
Ambos intercambiamos una mirada graciosa, creo que mi cara se disculpaba silenciosamente por ocupar su tiempo, y mientras él subía esas gradas de piedra de espaldas hacia mi, en el camino a nuestra casa, él se rió moviendo su cabeza a la derecha e izquierda (de la misma forma, yo moví mis hombros arriba y abajo)

Escrito en la azotea de mi casa en Lima, Perú 19 de Enero del 2009, Dedicado a Mike E. Siluk.

The Little Russian Twins (in English and Spanish9

The Little Russian Twins


(Yulie and Anatolee)
Poetic Prose Narration



No children ever looked so scornful, so undignified than Yulie and Anatolee, the little Russian twins, gossiped the neighbors as they passed through Prince Lane, a rich neighborhood, on their way to Pleasant Elementary school each morning. But no matter who peered from their windows, porches or lawns—they would have to admit, Yulie and Anatolee walked splendidly together: chatting along the way, and showing very much interest in what one another had to say, not noticing the onlookers.
Yulie, the youngest of the twins by nine minutes, wore oversized shirts, short pants and a jacket—with three shades of colorful dirt: sandals that were made to fit his little feet by squeezing them in.
Anatolee, the elder, wore basically the same except for a hat which he found some months past and never seemed to take off. Both wore the same cloths—it seemed--: winter, spring, summer and fall, except for trading with one another every so often. And for lack of a comb—their hair seemed always to be messy.
At school, the well-to-do children often ridiculed and teased Yulie and Anatolee for their broken speech, dirty cloths, and messy hair. But the twins never laughed back, got angry, or gave it much notice.
One day during class, Mrs. Rightbird, Yulie and Anatolee's teacher, asked Yulie, “Can’t you and your brother afford a simple comb to groom your hair with before coming to class?”
“We have very little money,” replied Yulie, “and what we do have must be used for food, paper and pencils so we can eat and learn; because of this, we feel a comb is less important, and use our fingers, which cost nothing.”
This angered Mrs. Rightbird to the point of stomping her feet and yelling: “How disrespectful you are! I will surely have to talk with your parents about this.”
Anatolee exclaimed, “My brother simply answered your question. I’m sure he is not trying to be—as you say—disrespectful!”
Angered again, Mrs. Rightbird yelled, “You both are disrespectful and out of place! Have you no manners at all? I would never let my children dress or be seen the way you two are!”
After school that day, Mrs. Rightbird went to the main office to check Yulie and Anatolee’s records, hoping to get their address and telephone number. But to her surprise she found the records contained only their first names, grades and the date they were admitted into school. How mysterious she thought, for the twins had been at Pleasant Elementary going on two years.
As the children arrived back at school the next day, Mrs. Rightbird pulled Yulie and Anatolee aside and questioned them about the odd files she had found, demanding she be given an explanation promptly. Yulie quickly explained that at the time of admittance into school they had no residence and was in search of one—but, that they had one now. She then demanded it be given to her.
“One Riverside Lane,” replied Anatolee.
“Is this an apartment?” questioned Mrs. Rightbird.
“No,” said Yulie, “it’s kind of an old castle.”
Having heard this, Mrs. Rightbird left Yulie and Anatolee to their studies.
That day after school-uncertain the twins had given her the proper address. Mrs. Rightbird followed them on their journey home. They walked through the rich neighborhoods, the inner-city, down to the riverbank, and then alongside the Mississippi River, and its neighboring ancient tall cliff walls, which gave light to many caves.
After walking a short distance further, Yulie and Anatolee entered a small inlet that led into a vast inner cave. Mrs. Rightbird followed close behind.
Inside the cave, Mrs. Rightbird hid behind a huge rock that looked like an ancient pillar, while observing the twins. Yulie went quickly to the center of the cave where a fire was barely burning. He picked up a few pieces of driftwood-gathered the day before—and set them in the center of the fire to feed it. Anatolee joined his brother. Both of them, then sat down harmoniously on separate wooden fruit crates—resting from the long walk and absorbing the fire's warmth from the brisk fall air.
They gave thanks to God for the day, the food they were about to eat, the chance to learn, for His presence and love. After a moment of silence, they gave thanks for their loving and caring parents who had brought them to America for freedom-although deceased now.
Mrs. Rightbird leaned tiredly against the wall of the cave. She thought of the humiliation, shame, and disrespect she and others had tried to inflict upon these two young immigrants. Then with a tear gazing at the twins, she thought how fulfilled they appeared to be, how simply pleased, how noble.


Notes on the story: “The Little Russian Twins (Yulie and Anatolee)” Originally published in the book “Reading for Little People”; 1983 © Dennis L. Siluk; written in 1982, and published in a chapbook form of 100-copies, in 1984 (the first short story of the author’s and published with his second story “Uni’s Street Corner” under the title “Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant Live”) © under, Dennis L. Siluk, printed by Four Winds Press (Edited y Donna Reading) Out of print for 25-years (reedited and translated into Spanish, 12-2008)



Spanish Version


Los Pequeños Mellizos Rusos


(Yulie y Anatolee)
Relato en Prosa Poética



Ningún niño alguna vez lució más desdeñoso, más indecoroso que Yulie y Anatolee, los pequeños mellizos rusos, chismoseaban los vecinos mientras ellos caminaban a través de la Calle Príncipe, un vecindario rico, en su camino a la “Escuela Primaria Agradable” cada mañana. Pero no importa quién miraba detenidamente desde sus ventanas, puertas o céspedes—ellos tendrían que admitir, que Yulie y Anatolee caminaban espléndidamente juntos, conversando a lo largo del camino y mostrando bastante interés en lo que el otro tenía que decir, no dándose cuenta de los espectadores.
Yulie, el menor de los mellizos por nueve minutos, vestía camisas muy grandes, pantalones cortos y una chaqueta—con tres tonos de color sucio, sandalias que fueron hechas para encajar a sus pequeños pies metiéndolos con dificultad.
Anatolee, el mayor, vestía básicamente lo mismo excepto por un sombrero que él se encontró algunos meses atrás y que parecía nunca quitárselo. Ambos vestían las mismas ropas—eso parecía—en invierno, primavera, verano y otoño, excepto por intercambiarlos uno con el otro cada cierto tiempo. Y por la falta de un peine—sus cabellos parecían siempre desordenados.
En la escuela, los niños acomodados frecuentemente ridiculizaban y tomaban el pelo a Yulie y Anatolee por su forma de hablar, su ropa sucia y sus cabellos despeinados. Pero los mellizos nunca se molestaban o le daban mucha importancia.
Un día durante las clases, la señora Rightbird, la profesora de Yulie y Anatolee, le preguntó a Yulie, “¿Pueden tú y tu hermano comprar un simple peine para peinarse sus cabellos antes de venir a la escuela?”.
“Nosotros tenemos poco dinero” respondió Yulie, “y lo que tenemos lo gastamos en comida, papel y lápices para poder comer y aprender; debido a esto, sentimos que peinarse es menos importante y usamos nuestros dedos, que no cuesta nada”.
Esto enfadó a la señora Rightbird al punto de zapatear gritando: “¡Qué irrespetuoso eres! De seguro tendré que hablar con tus padres sobre esto”
Anatolee exclamó, “mi hermano simplemente contestó a su pregunta. Yo estoy seguro que él no está tratando de ser—como usted lo dijo— ¡irrespetuoso!”
Enfadada de nuevo, la señora Rightbird gritó: “¡Ambos de ustedes son irrespetuosos y fuera de lugar! ¿No tienen ustedes algunos modales en absoluto? Yo no le dejaría a mis hijos vestir o lucir de la forma de ustedes dos”.
Ese día después de terminar las clases, la señora Rightbird fue directamente a la Dirección de la escuela para revisar los registros de Yulie y Anatolee, esperando obtener su dirección y número telefónico. Pero para su sorpresa encontró que los registros sólo contenían sus nombres de pila, sus grados y la fecha en que fueron admitidos en la escuela. “¡Qué misterioso!” Ella pensó, ya que los mellizos habían estado yendo a la “Escuela Primaria Agradable” por dos años.
Mientras los niños regresaban de vuelta a la escuela al siguiente día, la señora Rightbird jaló a Yulie y Anatolee a un costado y les preguntó sobre los archivos raros que ella había encontrado, exigiendo le dieran una explicación puntual. Yulie rápidamente explicó que en el tiempo de su admisión en la escuela ellos no tenían una residencia y que estaban en la búsqueda de una—pero, ahora ellos tenían una. Entonces ella exigió que le dieran la dirección.
“En la Calle Ribera” respondió Anatolee.
“¿Es esto un departamento?” preguntó la señora Rightbird.
“No”, dijo Yulie, “es una clase de castillo viejo”.
Habiendo escuchado esto la señora Rightbird dejó que Yulie y Anatolee fueran a sus clases.
Ese día, después de las clases, dudando que ellos le hubieran dado la dirección apropiada, la señora Rightbird siguió a los mellizos en su camino de regreso a casa. Ellos pasaron por los barrios ricos, también por barrios pobres, bajaron hacia la orilla del río y luego caminaron a lo largo del Río Mississippi y sus vecinas paredes altas de los acantilados antiguos, que daban luz a muchas cuevas.
Después de caminar una distancia corta más, Yulie y Anatolee entraron a una pequeña ensenada que conducía al interior de una amplia cueva, la señora Rightbird los seguía detrás, muy de cerca.
Dentro de la cueva, la señora Rightbird se ocultó detrás de una roca enorme que parecía como un pilar antiguo, mientras observaba a los mellizos. Yulie fue rápidamente al centro de la cueva donde un fuego apenas ardía. Él cogió unas cuantas piezas de madera que habían recogido del mar el día anterior—y los colocó en el centro del fuego para alimentarlo. Anatolee se unió a su hermano. Ambos de ellos, después se sentaron armoniosamente separados en cajones vacíos de frutas—descansando de la larga caminata y absorbiendo el calor del fuego del enérgico aire de otoño.
Ellos dieron gracias a Dios por el día, por la comida que estaban a punto de comer, por la oportunidad de aprender, por Su Presencia y Su Amor. Después de un momento de silencio, ellos dieron gracias a Dios por sus bondadosos y cariñosos padres quienes los habían traído a Norteamérica por libertad—a pesar de que estaban muertos ahora.
La señora Rightbird se recostó cansadamente contra la pared de la cueva. Ella pensó en la humillación, vergüenza, y falta de respeto que ella y otros habían tratado de infligir sobre estos dos jóvenes inmigrantes. Luego con una lágrima, mirando larga y fijamente a los mellizos, ella pensó en qué realizados ellos aparecían ser, qué satisfechos, simplemente, qué nobles.

Amaze ((Gay and Angry)(a short story))

She troubled me.

She troubled me, and my wife, and from what I remember her of her foster parents she troubled them, but most people seemed to like her, especially those who went on that school trip I once took with her to South Dakota, to: the Bad Lands, and Black Hills and Mount Rushmore. Her foster mother and father presided over some of the children on that trip of this Minnesota rural district, where my granddaughter, Maria-Lee lived (I had remarried, and so Maria was no relation to my new wife).
She treated her foster parents like servants of some old southern town, before the advent of the Civil War, in the 1860s. I didn’t take a liking to that and confronted her with the issue, but she didn’t feel certain guilt whatsoever over that confrontation: “Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t like the way I acted before?” Was all she could say.
I was one of those grandparents, living quite a ways from her, in the City of St. Paul. However, as it happened, I did not stick around to be told off by a thirteen year old kid, and I told her so, “If you can’t respect your foster parents, and you look like you want to confront me negatively about this, how then do you expect this to turn out between us?” I added to that, in so many words: I’m not the kind of person that will take all your crap. And to be frank, I think she was very happy I did not get involved with her controlling issue of her foster parents.
She really did not have anything more to say on the matter, but she had a secret, something that was bothering her, and perhaps to a light extent, me. Something that was really worrying her very much, something she was afraid to tell anybody, even me—I couldn’t imagine what it was, and she couldn’t imagine what my reaction would be, it was such an odd thing that she had no one to tell her not to worry. Had she asked me, that is what I would have said?
I had never really heard of anyone having such a problem like the one that was troubling Maria at her age. On the one hand it appeared maybe silly, when I found out: on the other hand…
I wanted to tell her, that her secret was nothing to get angry at me over, or about. Because I had no magical powers to make her different than what she chose to be, or how she chose to live, not after she was an adult anyway. I might have been to her, a serious minded adult, one that could force a proposal from her, and make her restore lost femininity if indeed I wanted to, but I wouldn’t and couldn’t. In short, she was angry from the age I met her, at thirteen years old, and when she called me, when she was sixteen years old she was still angry, and when she phoned my wife at a full adult’s age, and said, what her secret was, she was still angry. Maybe she had a wish, I had a wish, and who could make wishes come true? Would I accept her as she was? She was too angry to deal with.
Not even card tricks could make her less angry, and again there was no magic I knew other than, time to allow this anger to sink into some deep sinkhole and die, but it was hard to tell when it would, and if it would.

Now, about this wish and secret…

of hers, which I’m sure the worry was with her from morning to night: it wasn’t anything she could straighten out and ask me—evidently, but she did tell my wife when she phoned her. It required the right time, and a careful prepared moment. She seldom called me and I didn’t want anymore disrespect. But when she did, I listen to my wife, what she had to say about what Maria had to say, and how she had said what she said. And it was not a delicate moment; again her thick ugly anger came out, attempting to catch my ear.
We never talked after that last conversation when she was sixteen years old, not verbally at least. She was too stupid, and I was too nervous. Yes, nervous. It was just something I sensed in me, powerful, as was the stupidly she carried about concerning this issue.
She saw something though in me, a desire. And so she tried to get ahold of me in South America, and turned her anger down and rolled her sleeves up, eyes and heart elsewhere though, and said “I want to start a new relationship with you (inferring she was sorry, and that should mend all hurts and injuries and so for and on).” She didn’t call me grandfather, rather by my first name, which was the first disrespectful thing I noticed. I was to her, what I always was to her, a brief visit, curiosity, home blood substance.
When I think of her, the humid winds of the old Mississippi River drift deep and seep deep into my bone, they no longer are for an innocent girl.
I love her, and she wanted to love me, but she loved beyond me, and so I kept my distance, as she behaved indifferently. She felt it, but she never reasoned what caused my coldness; it wasn’t as she thought, and I told her so, the last time we talked on the computer: I never cared one way or the other if she were gay, I did care if you were angry and disrespectful, she wanted respect, she just couldn’t give it, I didn’t care to walk on eggshells with anybody, her included, life is too short for that. Why be around people that make you unhappy. No sense in it, they use you, drain you then walk away proud as a bear who just sucked up all the honey in the beehive.
‘Really,’ she thought. Perhaps thinking, this is all a little humorous. It struck me as a very dry subject—her lesbianism.
I said, “If you are happy where you are in life (knowing it must had been difficult for her) I can’t help in that area, I don’t know how, the only thing I would be able to do is accept. I’m fine, and I’m fine with you. Everything’s hunky-dory.” But of course I would not have cared for her to bring her lover around, that perhaps might have been another issue, but one that could have been solved later on.
I said, “I’m sorry things did not work out better for us, but why do you want to have a relationship with an old man now?” She really didn’t have an answer.
What was there to say? How could I explain that all through the years I waited for her to accept me for me, I had already accepted her—and her secret, the one she never told me until she was of age, other than disrespect for me and her foster parents. And so we remained silent, and perhaps that is the best, no one gets hurt that way, especially if it is a one-way street.

Dedicated to Maria… (Granddaughter) 5-22-2009

Unseen (Death at Ten, a short story)

He shall not forget the moment he walked though those metal doors, it was his own first sight of death, there was a cold chilly silence in the room, he stood about while Mrs. La Rose saw, and claimed the dead body to be her husband’s—discolored and bloated; he was ten-years old, she was his babysitter. The man was just lying there; it was to him, new and terrifying. He wanted to run away, out of the city morgue. His mind came dashing back though; he leaned against a pole; the warm day and hot car Mr. La Rose was found in, found dead in (heart attack) made his body decay quicker than normal, someone said, it smelled like dead rotting something. After a few more minutes, he was actually comfortable. That’s what it was like for him that day, death previously, unseen, had lost its mystic.
As for the body—well, Mr. La Rose was a medium size man, and there had been booze on his breath—and reeking from his body, out of his pores he had sweated booze, fifty-one years old, separated from his wife for years, Margaret.

∙

It stayed in my mind all these years, that even though Mr. La Rose, was a womanizer, a drunk and non-supporter of his two boys, the same ages as me and my brother. She could not hold back her tears, although there were at the moment only a few drops from each eye; so determinedly when death came, and as it lied in front of her, she shivered with pain, I can see it again, as so often I had seen it back then, her love for a man, perched on top of a hill top, once bold.
And then as I stood there shivering in that cold room, with my boyish interest in death, a curiosity, and nervous dread, I thought: here was a man who really was not through with his life…had he been old, in his late 60s or 70s or even 80s, death might have become a comforting theme—something of that sort; at any rate, he wasn’t. But he quieted me lying there perhaps put a fear and chill in me as well.
I knew him slightly—I cannot now remember, every time I saw him, it was although only a few times, I do remember with patches of inky darkness, shadows of those days.

He was as one who goes though a wide tall building, newly constructed by the hand of death, the elevator man, as he stops from floor to floor he jumps out and tries to fling all of life he can into his already over flooded, over intoxicated system, in a matter of minutes, he never makes it to the top floor, awakening in the land called “The Dead!” thinking it’s all part of his imagination.

∙

Broken Silence

(Uncomfortable silence ensued and in the end it was broken by the voice of the morgue staff.)

Staff: There’s no one here except your husband, Mrs. If you’d like some time alone, I can watch the two boys, in the hallway. I might as well make myself useful!

Mrs. La Rose: (taking off her shawl, a dray woman—she nodded her head ‘yes’ waited for everyone to leave, she also turned to look over her shoulder to see if we all did leave, and we did.)


Note: written: 5-16-2009 (No. 400/SA 5DS)

"The Rose Room" (short story about the stockyards in Minnesota)

The Rose Room
((The Stockyards of South St. Paul, Minnesota, 1966) (a Chick Evens Story))



Chick Evens went to work for the stockyards one summer in 1966, near the town-let of South Saint Paul, the summer was extremely hot, and you could bake an egg on the sidewalks.
His mother worked at Swift’s Meats (in the meatpacking department), the company which he now came to be employed at, made a deep impression on Chick’s mind and he never forgot the thoughts and experiences that came to him during those last months of that summer working at the stockyards inside a packing house (cutting up carcasses of hogs), and especially delivering animal waste to the Rose Room!

The traditional puffing forth smoke, which attracted attention to its tall chimneys as they rumbled along and burnt up the remains of pigs and cows, and sheep, and goats, slowly over miles of bones and animal waste, circulated the air, and drifted throughout the huge stockyards, second in the nation, only to Chicago’s.
One could see and smell at any section, division or corner of the town-let this putrid smoke, from the stockyards, all the way down to the Mississippi River, some five-miles away, and even across the Robert Street Bridge, to the other side of the river, where resided St. Paul, proper, the inner city, the downtown area; that dark to light gray smoke, rising into the clear morning sky.
Where some of this smoke came from was a dim lit, small room through which an employee brought in stacks of animal throw away, desecrated meats, from throughout the stockyards. From these stacks could be seen glowing and pale pus from hams, torn hides, discolored skin and unusable bones and infected guts, and so forth, nothing to please an appetite.
There was no wind, or windows in this room—this room they called ‘The Rose Room’, just an iron round plate on the floor, heavy as a Cadillac car, it was opened by pressing a yellow button, and machinery lifted this tonnage door about three feet up…then it stopped as if a person might fall or jump into this inferno pit, and there was hell’s fire. You could hear the crackling of the fire, feel the heat penetrating your pours, and smell the punishingly putrid stink therewithal, and near suffocating in the process: it all was close to gagging the lungs, to a point of collapsing.
The fire was equal to any spot in a blazing forest fire, it grew along the sides of the pit when the iron door was opened, like snakes running up its sides to escape.

∙

In the afternoons I went to what they called the Rose Room, opened up the door to the house of flames, it crackled and snapped under my feet, even the soul of my shoes got hot through the thick stone floor, the smell of this room was putrid, foul, sizzling. It made a man think about going back to school, it did me anyway, learn a real trade—it was a room I swear rented out by the devil or perhaps God Himself, to express where souls go to decay—the repentance abyss.
My mind captured such an image even before I set foot out of this room, the first time I brought in a wheelbarrow of animal waste—I remember I had little to say, looking into that abyss of flames, pouring my wheelbarrow of rotten animal carcasses, soft tissue, over the edge of the iron rounded door, watching the massive fire consume it even before it hit the bottom of the pot, boldly and freely.

∙

The fatty tissue, he poured down, into the pit, became inflamed almost instantly. This was a house with only one window—the fire window. When he had poured the waste over the edge of the opening, the fire leaped back up at him, swept over the rim of the frame that held the iron door in place, it swept all the way to his feet, he jumped back, stood against the wall looking into the hungered fire, as if it was a living beast trying to harm him, and a voice said something, a voice to the side of him, by the door that was usually shut to the room, except if someone else was waiting to commence in the same traditional work he had just finished…

∙

The Employee


Employee: Come on, come on! Let’s get going here sunny, I don’t have all day—give the rose a kiss and get the hell out of there so I can drop my load! (A laugh)

Chick Evens: It almost got me!

Employee: It’s a suicide escape! ((he declared shrewdly) (he comes to stand beside Evens)) It creeps in when you’re half sleeping, or daydreaming on the job, stay alert in this room kid—now move on out of here, go around my backside, give me some room to maneuver my wheelbarrow.


Note: the stockyards in South St. Paul, created and built the city of South Saint Paul, establishing it’s self in between, 1885-1887, and built by Gustavus Franklin Swift Jr., and prior to him, his father. Prior to Swift’s And Company, there was no city south of St. Paul, Minnesota. It was one of the largest stockyards in the world, and second only to Chicago in the United States. This story is dedicated to the Swift Family, who in their way contributed to the employment of so many people in some many areas of the United States, and especially, South Saint Paul, Minnesota.

Written 5-16-2009 ((No: 398) (SA/5ds))

A Hamlet in Minnesota (Gray Cloud Isalnd, 1962, a Chick Evens Story)

A Hamlet in Minnesota
((Gray Cloud Island) (1962, a Chick Evens Story))

They drove out of the city limits (of ST. Paul) all four teenagers, drinking in the car; they seemed to have driven out of nothing into nowhere. And all of a sudden there was a crash, and Chick Evens standing looking down at the car, his car, a 1952, Desoto, and three bodies in the car, the car smashed to smithereens, totaled (he was in stone black stillness, as if high up in a tree, looking down), everything unmoving, his brain was numb, curious.
Then he appeared in real time, his brain now tired, and angry. He was a fellow who loses his temper. Sometimes smashing things; in this case, he kicked the car and kicked it hard, smashing the front headlight out with his kick, mad as the devil.
He tapped Ralph Eldridge on the shoulder, he was still alive, and then he pulled him out of the front seat of the Desoto, the two girls in the backseat, knocked out cold.

This was his the first time in his life he had come so close to dying (fifteen years old, drunk, and no license). He had three friends’ lives in his hands. He had only to walk way, don’t look back and they would have been dead.

∙

How vividly I remember this night when I turned that corner in Gray Cloud Island and I slammed on the brakes and the car ended up on the icy Mississippi River.
It was a freezing cold night in December. In Minnesota, December, January and February are usually the most enduring months. Everyone who lives in Minnesota all they do is sneeze and cough, and their chest and nasal passages are congested, until summer—sneezing all day long, coughing all night long.

I always used strong beer—even at age fifteen—to drive the chill out of my body, after and before eating; as I had done this night. But there was a snag.

∙

He had pulled Ralph out of the car, “What happened?” he asked, and started laughing.
“What’s so funny” remarked Evens—the car demolished.
“You only got one shoe on, and no sock on your right foot.”
That was odd, wasn’t it he thought…

∙

When I looked about—an empty wine bottle lay by the front tire of the car, empty beer bottles half under the seats, the car on solid ice, and leaning forward I made one of my odd but truthful observations—that seemed to have dawned on me unexpectedly, “I want you to notice something Ralph?” I said.
“What?” he asked. I began, “The two girls haven’t woke up yet, I can hear them breathing, so they’re fine, maybe I ought to get the hell out of here before the cops come?”
“That doesn’t sound completely right?” Ralph told me.
“Well, put it this way,” I said, “it’s a favor to the township of this little hamlet, I’m sure if they have to spend their time handling weary dissatisfied folk—on my account, it will only add to their dull lives’ tension. It all cost tax money too, to put us in jail, and feed us you know.”
Ralph smiled at me, “That’s put real sympathetically!” He commented.
“Ralph, you are unspeakably dull, and this is not dull business: better for us both that we become sober and out of here quick.”
We then woke the two girls up, and helped them out of the back seat of the car, stabilized them somewhat, and they flagged down a car, as the ice cracked on the river, and the car started sinking, and we, Ralph and I, hiked over to his sisters house.

Here we were in an automobile with two flashy, to be honest, more plain than flashy, young girls, and had taken them out for a ride, now we left them as they caught a ride back to town (I took the license plates off the car), and we quickly made up some cock and bull stories in case the police investigated the accident. But I read nothing about it in the newspapers the following week, and that lead me to live, a grey and somewhat cheerless life waiting for something that wasn’t going to happen. As a result, I made my mind up to go to the police and let them know it was me who had had that ugly accident where everyone was okay; I had no intentions bringing anyone else’s name up, or into the story. And when I did go to the St. Paul Police Station, and start to explain my story, the police officer said, “What are you talking about?” (As he checked out his records for an accident report.)


Police Station
(St. Paul, Minnesota)


Police Officer: I don’t know what you are talking about Mr. Chick Evens, there is no such matter that has been reported, or brought to our attention (a look of dreary and meaninglessness on his face).

Chick Evens: (Thinking: if I stay and try to convince him of my fault, he would just talk thus, as I have just described aimlessly, throughout this quarter hour, and then we would have parted the afternoon anyway, the same way.) Thank you officer, have a good day. (Thinking: I do not feel I am a silly ass about this, just a tired one.)

5-14-2009 (SA)

The Old Couple in Athens ((1995)(a short story))

The Old Couple in Athens

An old man and his wife with raggedy old cloths on, and the man, with an warn smidgen hat, both droopy eyed, walked slowly down a hill, alongside of a road in Athens, Greece, in the fall of 1995, and with very dusty and patched cloths. They both stopped when they saw me. There was a small bridge that crossed over a canal, up ahead of them; I had been going the opposite way, and just crossed over it. A few cars and trucks drove by. They were peasants that had seemed to have trudged in an unimpressed manner, a long ways, for a lengthy while in high ankle wool socks.
They both stood there looking at me without moving. They were too tired to have a long conversation, and perhaps go much farther.
I was on my way back to my hotel, after being in the old part of the city, shopping, looking at sites, and having a nice late afternoon meal, in an outside café, admiring the acropolis.
“Where do you come from?” asked the old man.
“From Minnesota, the United States of America,” I said and smiled.
“And you?” I asked.
“Istanbul, Turkey—, old Constan!” he said with a smile and half grin. His wife seemly happy he had mentioned their native city and appeared pleased he had done so while smiling at her with pride.
“I was a merchant, I sold things,” he explained.
“Oh,” I said, not quite understanding.
“Oh yes,” he said “we stayed as long as we could taking care of our shop in the Gran Bazaar. I was the last one to leave Istanbul in the family; my brother was a pork butcher, but seldom do people want pork nowadays, and only the Christians usually, a few Muslims, and Jews, but it’s a bad business if you live in that city.”

He didn’t look like a merchant. Or that he might have a butcher for a brother. I examined his dark dusty cloths, his wool scarf, his old warn and wrinkly face, his wife’s steel rimmed teeth, and said, “What merchandise did you sell?”
“Various kinds,” he said, and shook his head and shoulders. “I had to leave much of it behind.”
He had beside him, a big canvas like sack, he had carried it over his shoulder as the bums do in the old movies I used to watch, but this one was larger, perhaps his wife could have fit in it.
“What merchandise did you bring with you?” I asked.
“I have some bronze items, and some marble evil-eyes,” he remarked.
“And you had to leave most of your merchandise?”
“Yes, because I couldn’t pay the rent. The owner of the shop told me to go before he got hold of the police, and they’d force me to go.”
“And do you have family here in Athens?” I mentioned, looking at the bridge ahead and the old city below and the acropolis on the hill. I sensed he was in no hurry to continue down the incline into the city proper.
“No,” he said, “just me and my wife and this bag of merchandise.”
Cats and birds seem to be able to look out for themselves, but I couldn’t imagine how this old man and his wife could make it.
“I am with out political views,” said the old man. Then hesitated, “I’m seventy-two years old, my wife is sixty-seven years old, we are tired, let’s sit here,” and they squatted right then and there.
“This is a bad spot to stop and rest for too long,” I said, “it’s getting pretty dark, quickly. If you can make it down to the old city, there are still lights on.”
“We’ll rest here a while,” he said, “and then we’ll go where all the cars go!”
“Towards the city,” I told him.
“I don’t’ know, we don’t know anyone in the old city, but thank you for your concern!”
He looked at me very blankly, tiredly, and then said, “We’ll be all right.”
And I gave him three-dollars. And as I continued my walk up the hill to my hotel looking back a few times over my shoulders the old man and his wife were next to the bridge on their way towards the old city.

“Why they’ll most likely be fine,” I murmured aloud.
“You think so?” questioned my mind.
“Why not,” I answered, clearly, watching for my hotel, then added to my monologue, “but what will they do?” I muttered noisily.
“Doesn’t the Lord take care of man better than his own sparrows?” my mind questioned me.
And I answered “Yes,” and I figured that was all the luck he really needed, or ever would need.


5-9-2009∙