Sons with no Mothers (a short story on greed)
Sons with no Mothers
(July of 2007, to December)
Every time I meet Adelmo and Jaime (these two sons without mothers) they greet me, walking with or without friends, down the streets or in the plaza of Huancayo, Peru, they put their hands out to me.
“Hello Lee, old friend,” they say to me. I tell them, “You have no blood in your face.” It is bad and a cold insult to a Peruvian. But true in their cases, and they know it. And it doesn’t faze them.
And they tell me some sad story of how little they have. They make it very sad, they even believe what they’re telling me, believe in their own lies.
These are sons without a mother for you. They spend another person’s money and say they are broke only to ask for more money to borrow at a later date. Try to get a cent, or a sole from them— god-forbid a dollar, out of them. It’s in possible.
Every time I see them, in front of other friends, I wonder how they are swindling them, thinking of cheating them: what kind of blood is in their veins? I ask myself.
At one time Adelmo received $1500-dollars from me to do something for me, something he never did, never intended to do. And it did not have any effect on him knowing he had to pay me back, but couldn’t because he spent the money, so he said. He owed me $1000-dollars, he wouldn’t pay me (he did although get together $500-in five months, and begged I give him time for the rest).
“You can trust me for it,” he’d say, “aren’t we friends?”
“It’s not a matter of trust,” I said, “it’s a matter of money you took by deception—by not fulfilling your part of the deal, and never having any intentions to do so.”
“I haven’t got it,” he’d say.
“You have it,” I said, “it’s just you have other plans for it.”
“You don’t understand,” he’d comment, adding “don’t worry about it, I’ll pay you soon.”
“When?” my wife would ask.
“Soon!” he’d say.
“Pay me some now!” She told him (this rhetoric went on for six months. And my wife was getting a sharp sound in her ears, as if over stressed. I told her to back off leave it alone. But she continued a while longer.)
“I can’t,” he’d say to her time and again (then he did pay that five-hundred, but that was two months before we left Huancayo, for Lima.)
“My god,” I told him to his face, “you’re ahead of the journalist school and you can’t pay $1000-dollars and you got a daughter in college, and you spent my money and then you talk to me like nothing happened, as if you and I are best friends, what kind of a man are you?”
At that time he was going to all kinds of engagements and charging people for this and that, and I suppose that is how he got the five-hundred dollars together, but that was all he’d give. I told him a few times, “You have no blood in your face,” and he’d stare at me with his innocent droopy dog like eyes. Look at me as if I was tarring his heart out of his chest. Nothing, exactly nothing bothered him, cold as a fish on ice. They spend another person’s money on themselves or for vanity’s sake, and they never, ever pay. Just try to get a cent, and god forbid, a dollar from them.
Jaime was a young friend who worked for a newspaper in Huancayo. We, he and a girlfriend, a married woman—he took a liking for, my wife and I, went to Villa Rica together for a poetry reading. When it came time to pay the driver, each owing him 55 soles (about $20.00 dollars), he looked at me, dumbfounded, said, “I only took with me fourteen soles, I expected you to pay for the transportation.” And he expected me to pay for his girlfriend’s transportation. I felt sorry for the guy so I gave him 100 soles, so he could help his woman friend also with the fare. But once he got the money, he told her to pay her own way. Then after that he wanted advice from me as his psychologist, free.
Often during these months, he’d show up at my apartment, and I’d ask, “For what are you here for?”
“For my own business, thought I’d stop on by…” then he’d wait around until lunch time, when we had to go, and tag along for a free lunch at a café; and even ask after I’d pay for the lunch, for a desert. He had written two small articles on two of my books, and somehow, figured I owed him life and limb.
As I have said before, here are two souls without mothers, and no blood in their faces.
No: 421 (6-22-2009).
(July of 2007, to December)
Every time I meet Adelmo and Jaime (these two sons without mothers) they greet me, walking with or without friends, down the streets or in the plaza of Huancayo, Peru, they put their hands out to me.
“Hello Lee, old friend,” they say to me. I tell them, “You have no blood in your face.” It is bad and a cold insult to a Peruvian. But true in their cases, and they know it. And it doesn’t faze them.
And they tell me some sad story of how little they have. They make it very sad, they even believe what they’re telling me, believe in their own lies.
These are sons without a mother for you. They spend another person’s money and say they are broke only to ask for more money to borrow at a later date. Try to get a cent, or a sole from them— god-forbid a dollar, out of them. It’s in possible.
Every time I see them, in front of other friends, I wonder how they are swindling them, thinking of cheating them: what kind of blood is in their veins? I ask myself.
At one time Adelmo received $1500-dollars from me to do something for me, something he never did, never intended to do. And it did not have any effect on him knowing he had to pay me back, but couldn’t because he spent the money, so he said. He owed me $1000-dollars, he wouldn’t pay me (he did although get together $500-in five months, and begged I give him time for the rest).
“You can trust me for it,” he’d say, “aren’t we friends?”
“It’s not a matter of trust,” I said, “it’s a matter of money you took by deception—by not fulfilling your part of the deal, and never having any intentions to do so.”
“I haven’t got it,” he’d say.
“You have it,” I said, “it’s just you have other plans for it.”
“You don’t understand,” he’d comment, adding “don’t worry about it, I’ll pay you soon.”
“When?” my wife would ask.
“Soon!” he’d say.
“Pay me some now!” She told him (this rhetoric went on for six months. And my wife was getting a sharp sound in her ears, as if over stressed. I told her to back off leave it alone. But she continued a while longer.)
“I can’t,” he’d say to her time and again (then he did pay that five-hundred, but that was two months before we left Huancayo, for Lima.)
“My god,” I told him to his face, “you’re ahead of the journalist school and you can’t pay $1000-dollars and you got a daughter in college, and you spent my money and then you talk to me like nothing happened, as if you and I are best friends, what kind of a man are you?”
At that time he was going to all kinds of engagements and charging people for this and that, and I suppose that is how he got the five-hundred dollars together, but that was all he’d give. I told him a few times, “You have no blood in your face,” and he’d stare at me with his innocent droopy dog like eyes. Look at me as if I was tarring his heart out of his chest. Nothing, exactly nothing bothered him, cold as a fish on ice. They spend another person’s money on themselves or for vanity’s sake, and they never, ever pay. Just try to get a cent, and god forbid, a dollar from them.
Jaime was a young friend who worked for a newspaper in Huancayo. We, he and a girlfriend, a married woman—he took a liking for, my wife and I, went to Villa Rica together for a poetry reading. When it came time to pay the driver, each owing him 55 soles (about $20.00 dollars), he looked at me, dumbfounded, said, “I only took with me fourteen soles, I expected you to pay for the transportation.” And he expected me to pay for his girlfriend’s transportation. I felt sorry for the guy so I gave him 100 soles, so he could help his woman friend also with the fare. But once he got the money, he told her to pay her own way. Then after that he wanted advice from me as his psychologist, free.
Often during these months, he’d show up at my apartment, and I’d ask, “For what are you here for?”
“For my own business, thought I’d stop on by…” then he’d wait around until lunch time, when we had to go, and tag along for a free lunch at a café; and even ask after I’d pay for the lunch, for a desert. He had written two small articles on two of my books, and somehow, figured I owed him life and limb.
As I have said before, here are two souls without mothers, and no blood in their faces.
No: 421 (6-22-2009).
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk @ 4:23 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home