The Old Huancayo Theater

The old Huancayo theater house, where the dance (Marinera) was to be held was, in Ximena H’s day, and surely is now, a dreary enough place. Perhaps the most unsightly building on that long narrow stretch of road between the Plaza de Arms in downtown Huancayo, and all the way to the old theater house itself. It often appeared to me when I rode by it—those several years—it was always uninhabited and it stared back at me with its curtain-less windows—that looked like pale to dead, dried up eyes.
The building had been purchased by a private university in the city. The second floor, and only floor, of my recollection that the building had, reached out to its stairway, no outside balconies about; it served as an entry way to look down upon the theater—it was a bulky built looking building, larger looking outside than it was actually inside.
Outside, a place of small to large business: a car dealer up the block, some shops painted others unpainted, and a mass of chicken cafés along the roadside, a fruit juice store, framed houses, shops, inhabited by men and women, long serving the community—all open to the fall rain storms.
All summer long it seemed to me, it remained a quiet sleepy place, perchance because it is a distance away from the inner core of the city, some ten-block away from the Shulcas River, although within the city limits.
On special days (and occasions) however, the doors are ready to be opened, and such parties come waiting, and standing in long lines alongside the roadside all the way down to those chicken cafes, all the way up to the door’s entrance, waiting for the guard to open those long closed doors. And there is the screaming of the city’s children, the laughter of parents, and the old rustic, hoarse voices of the elder and grandparents, chewing the fat, chitchatting the evening away with old friends, waiting for the evening events to start. And then afterwards, after the events are over, the once empty and clean floors, reside with the many empty cans and candy wrappers, and bits and pieces of paper left on the floor, that if not cleaned up would remain rotting at the base of the building.
Those events bring life to the building, a little life to the community.
The night Ximena H. danced the Marinera, an adventurous girl of fourteen-years old, daughter to a restaurant owner, I went to walk down those lively isles, it seemed quite clean, it all had a mellow warmth to the many voices crisscrossing the theater, and the dancers touched the audience with their delightful colors and movements—like the wind at twilight. The eyes of the audience moved back and forth as the dancers danced, it all sent a thrill to the audience.

No: 453; 8-21-2009 (SA); Dedicated to Ximena H.

Note to the reader: To those who have spent time at this theater, may not agree with my picture in writing of it, but it is how I see it, and we all have our own versions on how we see and depict things, even the gospels, in the New Testament can verify this. Thus, take no offence, none t was meant.

The Stranger’s Story

(A Huancayo Chicken Franchise)

Part One
The Stranger


Federico Cristobal Palacios, he looked persistently interested in something, exactly what he didn’t say, and no one exactly asked him what he was doing there, having nothing to do with the charge of the large chicken franchise. He sat down by the time card, near the office, in the back of the largest chicken café in Huancayo, Peru. The weather outside was damp, it had been raining, the October rains had started, and had you asked him, by the look on his face, it didn’t seem to interest him anymore than the women bringing up chicken to the a certain other woman who was doing the checking of the chickens, the woman had a cigarette in her mouth. “I think,” she said to the young lady with a rotting and green looking chicken, “we’ll use this one for chicken soup, chop it up,” she demanded.
The law was something—so it appeared—outside of her mind, not fearful of it one iota, and the look on her face told Federico, had an inspector asked her who allowed this chicken to be put into soup for public consumption, she’d decline to have anything to do with the order. She kept that cigarette in her mouth without smoking it all during Federico’s deliberation of this, or perhaps it was more like contemplation.
This is the sort of thing I mean he was seeing—one person after the other came to this section, some eating chicken, then having it inspected, then putting it into the soup, or re-cooked, or used for other plates to be served to the public.
In a way it wasn’t all that puzzling to him, just pay the judge or the inspector or the police officer a small sum of money, and they’d look the other way, such things happened in Huancayo everyday on a regular bases, the bribing was cheaper than fixing the problem, and heck, no one went to jail. And if anyone died because of the rotting and rat bitten meat, no one talked about it, and if they did it was forgotten the next day.
Anyhow, the man’s name was Freddy Sali, and he had come near the stranger, he might once have been a sheep herder or something of the sort in the near by Los Andes, in the Mantaro Valley, there was a peculiar abstract air about him. About himself and his past, he wore a dark suite, and a pin to that, a golden pin, and a nice tie, short trimmed hair, perchance, in his late forties.
“If you sit over there, by those other fellows you’ll have a better chance in getting a job,” Freddy told the stranger, in a hurry. What was not known was he had not come there for a job. As to his story, Freddy didn’t ask, and the stranger didn’t say. He knew anyhow, the stranger that is, knew, the devil was there—it doesn’t matter then—men can’t tell the truth in that direction, so let it go.
To be a little more indefinite about this stranger, he got up and walked over to that place Freddy pointed to, and a dozen men were sitting at, waiting. Freddy was there with a few other fellows, handing out cards, brown thin cards, cards like perhaps a traveling agent might give. Freddy had been some sort of a small official, he had given one man two cards, then took one back, gave it to Federico. Then walked away, next, the man who Freddy had give the two cards to, and had taken one back leaned over the shoulder of Federico and his chair, and grabbed it from Federico, said, “It belongs to my friend,” which it would have seemed, his friend had disappeared, if indeed there was such a friend, perhaps he wanted to sell it. It was in his blood, Federico knew, and then the stranger in front of him asked, “You got a license to drive a truck?”
“Yes,” said Federico, looked at this frugal man and after a short time said, “I wonder if that robber, who took the card from my hand ever pays taxes?”
It was just an off the wall statement, nothing more –the man was strong and well-built, but now grew thin and nervous. Yet he carried himself well with a sort of dark air surrounding him. He had something that appealed strongly to men, a roughness, a seedy kind of roughness, trying to get, or have it creep out of Federico, who he was, and what was he doing there. You know how such things are done. You say such and such, and expect the other person to tell you what you want to know, if indeed you are willing to talk things over with a stranger, but Federico wasn’t willing, and this annoyed the other man. And he grew angry and tramped off to the bathroom hoping Federico would disappear before he got back.
The other men talked and talked after that, and life in the chicken hiring area of the franchise, had been jaded somewhat, and grew habitually more silent, and when Federico was silent, the other men become evermore silent. Prior to this, they had all talked for two hours and then someone waved from an open door, only Federico noticed it, he picked up his few belongings, his hat, and newspaper and walked to the opened door.


Part Two
The Stranger’s Story


He had come in from out of the October rains. You see at first everyone who saw him thought he had something to do with something at the Chicken Franchise. Some were even convinced he was, more than what he was, perhaps the tax man, or law, or a judge—whose to say, just because he sat there silent most of the morning, breathing in that chicken air of indifference, everyone began wanting to do something for him, or find out something about him. Word of mouth among the folks there, which came in confusion, also came in whispers and murmurs, likened on a crazy little stage, no one broke out into cheers, but most wanted to make sure he was not the law, for one reason or the other, to stay clear of the law.
To him, to Federico Cristobal Palacios, the door was open to the side of the chicken franchise, and thus, this was simply a location among many he saw, one might go to avoid the rain, as he had done. For him, there was nothing important in life to talk over with strangers, he was sixty-one years old, looked perhaps like fifty, looking for work, and while he sat there he saw a good deal of how people in the city –some with glasses others without glasses turned a cheek, when it came to their needs and wants, perhaps when they got home they complained to their wives of the dirty, rotting chickens they were serving: had they got the job, surely they said nothing, or if something, perhaps on the order of something more casual, less brutal for the company.

As Federico, arrived at the door, he hugged his wife, happily, she had been looking for him, “I have dear a very small amount of money on me left (she had done some shopping), barely enough to buy a meal for me, I feel miserable poor,” she said, adding, “I’m hungry, why not eat some chicken at this franchise?”
“No…no, never—we can’t eat here!” he said. She looked at him surprised, knowing she’d be unable to break his resistance.
“I had stopped to simply get out of the rain, and oh well, it’s a long story, and unbelievable, let’s go to the Mia Mamma, they have some great choices, like the Denver Sandwich, or Irish Soup, and you can be sure nothing looks or tastes, or is, like dirty lace curtains.
And so they stood there for a moment, near this peculiar grey greasy chicken building waiting for the taxi, cold and cheerless.



No: 454 /8-24-2009 (from a dream) Note: I love the city of Huancayo, Peru, and its people, but there are a few problems here, and why avid them, and this story that came out of a dream, kind of spells out some of it, like it or not, and I’m sure a few folks will not like it… corruption in this city starts from the top, and goes to the very bottom, and that goes for El Tambo as well…!

To Have; --and Never Have Had (a dramatic-romance, short story)

To Have; --and Never Have Had

Part I


((A dramatic- romance) (a story that transcends all generations, which all generations can identify with))



“You have to ask yourself this question, some time in your life,” she told her husband in a letter, in rhyme: “For one crowded season of madness in one wonderful life—is it worth growing old without your loving wife?”’

Georgette Wes




Part One, Chapter One
The Apartment


“Fine,” Gordon Wes said to his wife, Georgette.
“I hear you have been seeing a few women at the American Hotel, NCO Club again,” she said. “And don’t deny it, more than one person told me they saw you with your hands around a young military nurse.”
“So what about it?” he asked.
“What about it, what you think, I should think about it?” she answered.
“And I heard you’ve been seeing that Command Sergeant Major, that fat, ugly drunken slob.”
“You didn’t see it, nobody saw us that you know of.”
“Where have you been, at the club again?”
“Yes,” he said. “So you guessed right, so you know.”
“Stay away from me you reek of booze,” she remarked. “And yes, I was sitting and talking to a friend.”
“Did you kiss him?” he asked.
“No.”
“Did he kiss you?” he asked.
“No, he was that young corporal, Chick Evens, the one I told you about, that I met two months ago at the military commissary and he borrowed me his ration card, and I bought you some booze and cigarettes with it, and some other food items.”
“You bitch!” he called her.
“No need to call me names.” She commented.
“Bitch, bitch…you’re a super bitch!”
“Okay,” she remarked. “Let’s just call it quits, I mean really quits, it’s over between us. I’ve been a good and faithful wife, always taking care of you, but somehow since you’ve come to Germany, left our home and friends in Columbus, Ohio, you’ve become a real jerk; if men have menopause, I think you’re into it.”
“No,” he said, “I’m jut tired to be a husband, you’re selfish and conceited and always complaining. Evidently I made you happy up to now.”
“Well, that may have been true, but you no longer make me happy, and it’s been getting worse these last two months.”
“Whose fault is that, your seeing that CSM, and Corporal.”
“Didn’t I ask you for more of your time, but you just don’t give it to me. You can afford to give it to everybody else, the college classes you teach, the nurses you meet and drink with, and the sergeants at the NCO club.”
“To be honest, I’m sick of you, I’m even to the point, and I dislike you.”
“Oh leave that young corporal out of it. You coming home smelling of perfume and having lipstick stains on your ear and neck is too much.”
“I know you’ve kissed that drunken slop of a—whatever kind of sergeant he is.”
“No, I have not, not yet, but had I known what I know now, I might have. All I do at night is waiting, and wait and wait for you. As you drink and visit your bar friends for hours, and stay for hours, tonight Corporal Evens brought me home from the commissary, to insure I did not get hurt.”
“Oh, Evens, is it?”
“Yes and no, it is Evens who is my friend, and Command Sergeant Major, Mulligan whom I’m attracted to.”
“And what’s his first name?”
“Alfonzo.”
“Spell it?”
“Not sure if I can,” she said, and laughed.
“All right,” he commented.
“All right nothing,” she said, adding, “You don’t understand, it is all over as of tonight—period!”
“So be it!”
“You bet it is!”
“Don’t be so theatrical, dear!”
“No, I am not over-the-top, as you fellows say, I am to the point. And I’m not saying it again.”
“So what’s next, what are you going to do?”
“That’s a good question, I’m not sure yet, it’s all happening so suddenly I suppose, perhaps if Alfonzo asks me to marry him, I will.”
“I doubt that!” said Gordon heatedly.
“That’ll be up to me, not you.” She stated, firmly.
“Marry you, I doubt he’d even come close to asking, he just wants to take you to bed, throw you in the sack and then move on.”
“How wrong you are, he’s already asked me!”
“You women have things all set up, long before you break the news.”
Gordon Wes, had run empty, he didn’t have another word to say, actually somewhat lost for words, it was all too much for him to digest—everything he heard, she said, overheated him, his voice now coming from some empty abyss deep down, “To mar-ry hi…m, haw ww!”
“Why not?” She responded, “He loves me, wants to spend time with me, he makes enough money to support me also.”
“Well, for now you’re married to me!”
“You call this a marriage? The love you offer is the greatest sin and burden a man can place upon a wife. The love you have given me recently is a quick explosion into wonderland—a place you have never taken me, nor could and a humorous smile as you walk away conceited with thinking you did a charitable thing.” Then she thought about what she said, Gordon silent, “I shouldn’t have said that, I guess I really do not know what is and is not good love making, you could be great for all I know, I’m just angry, and mad because you call Alfonzo a zero, a drunk and he maybe all those things, but he is loving and kind, something you are not. You should teach ethics, it would do you better.”
“No.” that was all he could say.
“Go be with all your women, I don’t care anymore. Let them think you are wonderful.”
They both looked sad, angry faces, her pretty still, and him, handsome still, both swollen flesh.
“I can see you don’t love me anymore,” commented Georgette.
“It’s over used word for too many things, too many emotions, pretenses, I’m starting to hate, to love.”
“Hell with it,” he said, then punched her in the ribs, and she fell to the floor, she was crying, not out of anger, but pain, real pain, her face, facedown on the floor.
“By god, why did you think you had to do that?”
“It’s been settling deep inside me for a long time, I just had to, needed to you might say.”

Gordon’s wife, Georgette, now, sat silent at the kitchen table, her hands hanging down along her sides; she had been drained, weakened to the point of exhaustion, Gordon Wes, looked at the clock, felt his heart, both ticking away, everything was too quiet, his wife just staring at the wall, not looking at him, or talking to him, then after a long while, her husband said without looking at her, pacing in circles in the living room, “I’m sorry it happened. But perhaps you’re right, it’s really over.”
“It hasn’t always been like this, but for some odd reason, it has ever since we came to Augsburg, Germany; ever since you started teaching these three locations and you and I being separated as often as we have been.”
“Yes, I suppose it has been like that.” Gordon concurred. “I’m really sorry I hit you!”
“Oh, that’s no big thing,” Georgette replied in a very tired and worn-out voice, adding, “I just want to leave as soon as I can, and I’ll need the two big suitcases if you don’t mind, and half of what is in the bank?”
“Listen, stay the night, leave tomorrow sometime.”
“No, I got to do it now, right now, I have a place to go, don’t worry about me, you never do anyhow, anymore!”
“Hell with it, do whatever you want!”
“Gosh Almighty, I wish it had never come to this, I wish you had never hit me, but you did. It’s all unfixable now. And I wish I hadn’t said all I said, but I did, and that also is unfixable.”
“No, nothing is over like that, it started long ago, we are just now reaping the effects.”
“Oh hell with it all, and the hell with you,” said Gordon vehemently. And his wife started to cry.
“Well, let’s just say our goodbyes, no sense in being sour about it all, oh, I know you don’t want it to be over, and I don’t want it to be over, but it is over, no matter what we want or say, it is over, you have your rummy girlfriends, and I have my rummy Command Sergeant Major. Tomorrow, or next week or in a year we’ll say to ourselves: I don’t remember what the reasons were for our separated, but we’ll both know we hurt each other beyond repair. You do understand that don’t you?” She said all that with a tearful voice.
“Yes I suppose I do underhand…and now what?”
“Someday you really will understand.”
“I suppose, now what?”
“I can sleep on the couch tonight,” she said.
“No need to you can have the bed.”
“No, I don’t want the bed, it’s yours!”
“I need to go out and have a drink, I’ll be back in a little while,” he said. And he started to leave.
“Goodbye,” she said in a soft tearful voice…he stopped, heard it, never turned about, and then walked out the door to go to the car, and onto the bar. And he thought about her figure and her face as he walked down to his car, and he thought about her dark eyes and her long black hair and how her breasts were so firm and round for her age, and how he liked making love to her, but perhaps she didn’t enjoy it as much as him, so it would seem after this evening. And as he opened the car door, she was looking out the apartment window at him from the third floor, and her elbows were on the window sill, her chin in her hand, and he pulled out of his parking space, and she started crying again.


Part Two, Chapter Two
The American Hotel


He took his car and drove down the street. It was twilight, and the moon was out, and the buildings were dark against it, he looked out his window at the German made, cobblestone, narrow streets, and lights coming from the buildings, apartments, and the military base nearby, and down a few unpaved alleys, with old brick houses, on each side of the street, an old lady sweeping the dirt away from her doorway, a stone church, and a building with a tower steeple, a sharp cross on the top of it, it was all let up all the roofs and their shadows against the moon’s light. Even a pizzeria (or parlor), one that served beer and pizzas, that was also open he noticed, he had met Chris Steward in there the manager, a twenty-four year old German Jew, he had an eye for her. The main highway between the apartment building the one he lived in and the American Hotel across was busy, he waited at the stop sign, between here and there, the crossed the highway, there were several guesthouses, and one other good restaurant he ate at and drank (one of which also made pizzas) nearby. As he drove down the street, on one side of the street was the Military Base—Reese, it was an old World War Two base for artillery and many buildings to the compound; on the other side of the street were old buildings, dark brick, that had several offices in, one that sold cloths, and had a doctor and dentist in them, on the second level—the second floor, was the medical area. Behind that was the American Hotel, on the corner, behind the hotel the street lead into a more residential area, both small and large framed houses, cozy like, in-between more guesthouses and smaller buildings. There was a German whitewashed jail building you could see it by the reflection of the moonlight, Gordon often drove by it, could barley see the top of the three story building now.
Augsburg was a quaint, medium size city—in 1969, charming with lightly bright smiling and festive people. At the American Hotel they even had a gambling room, always crowed with GI’s playing the slots. Those handles clicking brittle against the metal partitions set inside the tomb like boxes, with all those silver looking coins, jumping and falling until they settled, with all the wheels abruptly stopping the inside rotating wheels.
Tonight was the night to get drunk, and play those one arm bandits he thought, get your mind separated from reality.
“What youall goin’ to have?” said the southern bartender, Sergeant Manes, from Ozark, Alabama.
“I don’t know,” said Gordon Wes, deliberating. “Something strong thought.”
“Youall dont look very well this evenin’ Professor Wes, whatsa matter with youall? if-en you dont mind me askin’?”
“No, I dont mind.” Said the professor.
“Eyes goin’ to fix youall up with somthin’ fine,” said the big burley black bartender, with his rustic hoarse voice. “You ever try southern moonshine, sir?”
“Go ahead; I know you got some, your own private stock I hear.” And the sergeant laughs, “You bet your life I do!” he comments.
“You drink this Professor and you are goin’ to feel good all over. Matter-of-fact, youall’s goin’ to want to fight everyone in the damn hotel here,” said Sergeant Manes. And he started to pour Professor Gordon Wes, his special moonshine, from a bottle hidden under the counter.

Sitting on a stood at the bar, Gordon Wes drank down four shots of that so called white lightening, or moonshine, it didn’t seem to affect him much, he didn’t feel any better or worse for that matter, and the big burley bartender looked surprised at the professor waiting for it to hit him.
“Mamma Mia,” Sergeant Manes said as if in surprise he didn’t fall off the stool—to Wes, “You have one iron stomach, if-en I ever did see one!”
“Give me something else, something that just don’t burn all the way from your lips to your feet, and don’t do a single thing to boot!”
“Youall gots to be careful, cuz once that moonshine hits home, you is a goner,” said the bartender.
“Just give me a beer with a shot of whiskey on the side.”
He drank the whiskey down, and the beer as a chaser, and it warmed his insides up, and thought: Georgette was right; he was no more than a well off bum, drunk. It didn’t do all that much for him. Drinking was not the overall cure, it only pushed aside issues, troubles, problems, and he knew tonight if he kept drinking he’d drink himself unconscious, and wake up, and Georgette would be gone, but he continued to drink nonetheless.
“Oh yes,” he murmured at the bar. “I’m Professor Gordon Wes, and I teach psychology here in Augsburg, and Munich, along with Darmstadt and Frankfurt, for the ‘University of Maryland, Extension Program, courses for the Military…!” then he noticed Manes was looking at him strange, and then he figure it out, he was acting strange, his head was getting dizzy and his eyelids wanted to go to sleep, and he nearly had to pull them up with his fingers, and Manes noticed this. But he was a good paying customer and they like him at the American Hotel Bar, and so Manes smiled, as if he knew the moonshine was starting to take effect, and said not a word.

A shorter man than he, built well, with red hair came in with two other soldiers. He sat down at the bar, on a barstool, with both his friends, as if waiting and looking for an empty table to sit at. The red headed soldier’s friend were called Bruce, he was taller than all three, the other one was called Sergeant, and he was the shorter one, more silent, both of them from the south, the red head from the Midwest.
“I’m Professor Wes. Have we ever met before, perhaps in Jackson, New York, or Manhattan?” he said to the red head.
“I’m just a soldier sir,” said the red head, “a corporal in the Army, stationed over there at Reese Compound. I doubt we ever met, I’ve mean I’ve been in New Jersey, but not in New York.”
“I’m glad,” said the professor. “Do you want some moonshine? I’ll buy you one!”
“No, I’m a beer drinker,” said the corporal. “You look kind of near to the ground tonight professor, if you know what I mean, what’s the matter?”
“I’m really happy to meet you,” said the professor, “needed someone to talk to, some wife problems but I’ll get over it.”
“I guess so,” said the corporal. “Meet my friends, Bruce and Sergeant…” and the sergeant said quickly, “No first or last names please—not here anyway…” and thus, the corporal smiled and simple repeated himself, “and here is Sergeant, sergeant,” with a chuckle.
“Yes, I understand” said the professor, “lot’s of commies around here I hear.”
“Yes,” said the corporal, “the communists have infiltrated the hotel here, and so has the media. Everyone trying to get all the worthless information they can out of us GI’s.”
“Yes,” said the professor, contentedly. “That is were we are at. This is the most penetrated bar and hotel in this part of West Germany, with the most communists and media seeking hounds I’ve ever been around.” Then the professor asked “What you boys going to do now?”
“Not much, just drink, maybe gamble a little, and get a table to sit at, and drink some more, why?”
“Well, I’m about half crocked now; let me buy you boys a drink.” And he did, he ordered three beers for the three soldiers.
“That’s grand,” said Bruce, thanking him, the corporal shaking his hand, for a thank you.
“That’s splendid,” said the Sergeant thanking him also. And they all hit each other’s glasses as in a toast, “To better days, and long life,” said the professor.




To Have; --and Never Have Had

Part II



Part Two: Chapter Three
Pie-eyed at the Hotel


“I loved her,” said Professor Wes, “more than anything else, above anything else. She is by far the best of the lot of women I’ve met, I’ve married I mean, she’s just recently an agitator in all I do.”
“Why?” asked Corporal Evens.
“It’s part of being her, Georgette, that’s her name. Do you want to see her picture?” he said now pie-eyed, the drinks had hit him.
Corporal Evens was somewhat stunned, but did not let on he knew his wife, not yet.
“It’s crazy,” he said aloud, and Bruce and the Sergeant looked at him and so did the professor.
“Gee,” Evens said with a smile, “I know your wife.”
Professor Wes edged away with his stood a little. Then he saw Alfonso Mulligan sitting at a table with three friends, way in the back of the bar.
“You must be that Corporal she’s talking about then?” said the professor.
“I’m happy I met you sir.” Said Evens near tongue-tied, but loosed up by the alcohol, adding, “Yes I am he.”
“Well, at least you’re not sleeping with her like that Command Sergeant Major over there is,” and he pointed towards him with his finger.
Evens seemed hesitate to say a word, but wanted to stick up for Georgette, but felt it was not to take sides, not in a bar half drunk anyhow, he’d look the worse for it, so he simple hurried onto taking a drink with his friends.
The Professor fixed a glaring stare at the CSM, detached himself room the group for the moment, “You okay?” asked Evens to the professor.
His lips were trembling, and his head was circling, in an ongoing motion, as if he was dizzy, and going to fall off the stool.
“Come on sir,” said the bartender, “its best youall catch a cab back home before the little wife hangs you out to dry.” And he and the Evens group laughed. “No offence,” added Sergeant Manes.
With the large arm of Manes over the shoulder of the Professor’s he walked him out of the bar, and hotel, and to a taxi, “You’re a nice fella,” said the professor, slurring his words, separating the syllables unintentionally, “but I don’t wa nt a ta xi, I can wa lk ho me by myself, it’s on ly four or five blocks a way.”

Back at the hotel, Corporal evens asks Sergeant Manes, “Does he come in her much?”
“He started to a few months ago, why you asking? I really should say a word to you guys, it’s his businesses.”
“I know his wife, that’s way,” said Evens.
“Nice fella all right, he keeps to himself, plenty of money. But he gets stone drunk, and seems a bit strange, fools around with the gals somewhat, but I never seen him kiss them or hug them, or pat them on the ass, he likes whiskey, lots of whiskey I think he likes to drink more than womanize, that’s his lover, but he likes female attention…” said the barkeep.
“My god, what a drunk,” said Evens.
“You don’t know who is and who isn’t until they come here, and as far as I can see Corporal, you’ll be like him if you don’t slow down on your drinking!”
“Perhaps, but I don’t have the money he got,” and he laughed.
“Say,” said Evens to his friends, “we’re not doing anything but drinking come on let’s see where the old professor is, maybe we can walk him across the highway to his apartment, he’s going to get killed out there.”
“By gosh,” said the barkeep, “I didn’t think of that.”
“We’ll go out and look,” said Evens to Manes, “we’ll keep him out of harms way, if we can find him.”
“Thanks guys,” said the Sergeant.
Then the three went out of the hotel, all three of them and as they got to the highway, Bruce said in an agonizing voice, his ulcers were acting up, “What do you think happened to the professor?” he asked, he was nowhere to be seen.
They had been on the edge of the highway looking across it, down it, on both sides—right and left, and into the bushes along side the road leading to the highway, everything dimly lit up, cars hurtling by. Then abruptly, Bruce fell to the ground, curled up like an embryo, his ulcers were torturing him. Sweat trickling down off his forehead. His breathing oozing out slowly, as the other two simple stood by him to insure no one interfered as Bruce usually instructed them to do, if indeed an episode such as this one occurred.
After Bruce recovered from the ulcer event, they edged back toward the hotel and to the bar area.



Part Three, Chapter Four
The Highway and the Bushes


He was a needy person to say the least, but with passion, fated to need, to find something, anything to caress, something strong enough –that is, stronger than him! Something deeper than flesh and bone, deeper than love, because this wasn’t durable enough for him: what he had to give, was willing to give, was heart and soul, it had nothing to do with her in particular—she didn’t fail him, he was already doomed, had he found someone to read his palms, or perhaps his horoscope. She had already proved she was a mere mortal, perchance he was looking for something immortal—whose to say, but there he was, standing in the middle—between two highways, on grass, an isle (land mass), he even saw with a glimpse, a shadow in the window of his apartment, it was a silhouette of his wife.
He knew if he’d not stop his drinking, his immortal lover, his devotee who understood his needs more than anyone on earth, who could creep deep down into his soul, he knew if he did not give her up, his attitude would worsen toward humanity, his wife, he’d be a Frankenstein, a Stalin, something of that sort. But there was nothing better—than alcohol.
At one time he was a quite and neat, positive and charming man, matter-of-fact, he still had some of that recipe, and he accepted responsibility with rights, now it was to the contrary, no responsibility, but he wanted his rights—nonetheless.

And now, now the lights to her apartment went off. And he found himself lying in some bushes by the cement stairway that lead to the front door of the apartment building.
Oh yes, this was doubtless the last straw. A most important message he was giving to Georgette—perhaps without his even knowing. All he had done tried to do—everything was in the open—per near. He was not hiding a thing, anything, not one iota. He wanted it all public, or didn’t care if it was. And there he was and there you are ((I can tell you in confidence, he loved her, but naturally he loved something else more—the drink) (no computation or imputation of course)).
And then he saw the lights go off in their apartment.
“Yes,” she said, out loud as if speaking to the walls. “What does he want?” For that matter, she even asked, “What does God assume I can or should do?” And she went onto say, “You do understand Lord, I have informed him and you and I tried in earnest to persuade him to walk a different path in life,” so she said in dismay. And there she sat in darkness as if waiting for His answer, if indeed it was a question, more than a statement. And there she sat, waiting, watching the blinking lights reflect in the window, through the window into the wall mirror from the cars on the highway.



Part Three, End Chapter Five
Waiting for the Taxi


Gordon’s wife—restless and sleepless, had kept looking out the window hoping he would come home, perhaps try to put it back together, but he past-out in the grass, hidden in the bushes by his apartment…in the morning she took her last look before she walked out of the apartment, out of the building with her two suitcases, now waiting outside on the sidewalk, near the bushes, the bushes being in back of her, her facing the street, she never noticed it was him in the bushes, his leg showing, and to onlookers, he was just a bum, a drunk bum in the bushes passed out.
There she stood with her suitcases by her sides waiting for the taxi, who couldn’t hear his moaning, and snoring and coughing behind those bushes, her mind was not thinking—or detecting, so all she could do was watch—look at faces, expressions and gestures of the pedestrians walking by, in the cars, buses. And when she thought she saw his face, in one of those cars, or pedestrians, or buses, she got spooked, perhaps distressed, anyway, troubled and almost wanting to cover her face, to be unnoticed.
Misplaced. Gordon had told her he didn’t want to be her husband and she told him the same, and now shortly after they had told each other this, it all was happening. He was absent, not just absent today, or yesterday, but for two months absent, and today of all days, he was absent, and she felt not there
Misplaced. Lost on a sidewalk waiting for a taxi to take her to someplace, maybe a hotel, maybe to see the man that told her he wanted to marry her, maybe to the Frankfurt airport.
His passions, Gordon’s passions, and wants and lack of unawareness and fear of perhaps growing old, of missing out of something, somewhere, somehow, as if all of humanity must stop for a moment and let him catch up—simple as it is, or was—as that is, gentle and tender as God allows age to creep up on a person, to allow him to grow older and wiser in his decision making, and dealings with people, in this case, with his wife per se, it just all wasn’t so simple for him, nor was it working out.
Misplaced. Yes, she felt omitted, and she felt she had to survive him, she hoped he understood, and she knew she could not contradict him without a battle, and she felt she had already been through the war. His bullheadedness was destroying her, and she was crying to maintain her identity, her own identity, not his, and she had no more perseverance. So finally looking at that window, and out that window, all night long, for her husband, for the last time, the expected happened, anticipated by both of them, perhaps only realized by her at the moment. Because of his sudden deafness to her pleas, the isolation, solitude, it was all battles in a war, a war she had already been through, and she felt she survived and stood gunfire, but how fortunate can one person be? So yes, she pushed right ahead with her plan which was to established a new life. Evidently he didn’t hear the over-and under-tones, the alarm, desperation of her. This intellectual man created a tragic face on her. On one hand, what she needed she couldn’t get, and she needed to make her husband need her first, or second, but she wasn’t even third. Thus, it couldn’t last, and as she stood on the corner feeling misplaced, displaced, and discouraged, she knew there was no place for her in his life, her marriage and her life, with him. He had put her on the installment plan, like a car, payment and then repayment, a new episode, a new chapter.
So she had to go make a plan of her own…not him to make one for her, which would be under his heel—she had learned in life one thing, if anything, self-interest is stronger than the whims of the devil himself.

But what would wipe out that hurt and emptiness, she was feeling, if indeed there was something that could? What could he do to remedy all this, to bring it back to normal? He could not just say ‘Sorry!’ and return. Oh no, that would not do. He would need to say sorry to her, and want to say sorry to her. Would he tell her that? Would he leave his lover, the bottle? And all those other women, he was thinking about? Whatever, and who’s to say, under the bushes he laid, stone drunk. And what would she say to his sorry? ‘Keep your sorry, your investment is gone.’ Or ‘Keep your sorry, until I ask for it.’ But she wasn’t doing any asking, she was simply waiting for the taxi. If anything, she was only sorry that she was ashamed that she looked out that window all night for him.
So, she got into the taxi and said in a whisper looking back, out of the back window, seeing a foot, only a foot of a bum in the bushes, looked with a squint of her eyes, as if the shoe might be familiar —said in a whisper, “Good day to it all,” and was gone.
So if he had intentions to say ‘Sorry!’ He’d have to have someone else tell her, she wouldn’t any longer listen—no more un-unified solitary for her. Thereafter, she never breathed his name again, not even in thinking, never looked back a second time—it was Sodom and Gomorra back there, and she was out of it. She was no longer his snap-on bow tie.

When it was all over, that is, when the grieving process passed—and grieving does pass with time, the lose and the hurt mended to where it only left a scare, which took somewhere around fifteen-months, it was like a blurred dream to her, all fifteen-years of her marriage, and she was heard to have said, “It was all like to have, and never have had —and then it was gone.”

“You have to ask yourself this question, some time in your life,” she told her husband in a letter, in rhyme: “For one crowded season of madness in one wonderful life—is it worth growing old without your loving wife?” Georgette Wes


End to the Story


(Notes: Incidentally, for those curious minded folks out there, Georgette, is a real person, although her name has been changed, and this story is based somewhat on actual events, I say somewhat, also somewhat on conjecture, meaning, I tried to fill in the gaps when I didn’t have fact. I did meet Georgette (and our friendship did last somewhere around a little over two-months) —, and her intentions—and this is all I can tell you—were to go back to America, and my guess is, she took that taxi she waited so long for, to the airport, although she might not have, but I never saw her after these events around Augsburg, and so that is my best guess. And for clarity sake, I was Chick Evens in this story, and at the time I told her (while living in Augsburg Germany for ten-months, in 1970—yes I changed the date by a year too), I didn’t want to be part of a divorce—or feel in part, I was part of a divorce, and she understood, although I think I hurt her, because I ended up being—really being, her unqualified listener, unbiased friend (or perhaps biased, against him for her), and not a critic in any way of her, she already had one, her husband no need to overdue it I felt at the time: but to be frank, I never knew what to say anyhow, but she was one sport, and fine woman, and I mean that with all due respect. There are two sides to ever story though, and you mostly get hers in this short story you’ve just read, not his, although you got all I know of him, and perhaps a little more that I didn’t know and on her behalf slated this story to make it come out as I feel it should, or under such circumstances would—Ill never really know, but I do hope they ended up back together sometime in this brief life we all have, but my mind tells me, most probably not. Drinking is most deficiently the devils closest companion. By and large, for my money, and for this story, she never did go back to him, nor did he ask to come back, they both found a new life, he with the bottle in West Germany, and she in America, with a sober and down to earth fella, and she lived happily ever after, for him, whose to say—perhaps he waited for this magical moment to drink his life away in oblivion, they often do.)


Notes on the writing of “To Have; --and Never Have Had”: 8-16-2009; Part two 8-17-2009 ((No: 453) (the original name “The Yellow Rat” changed 8-17-2009)) 1378-1966-3372 Part Three (The Taxi), written at the café, Mia Mamma, 8-18-2009, during lunch. On 8-19-2009, the author wrote out the notes to the short story in the morning at his Huancayo, apartment… (Pie-eyed written 8-19-2009; The Highway and Bushes, written out on napkin, 8-19, and reedited and written into the story 8-20-2009 (a five day project) 5942

As a Sleeping Man Kills a Fly (a story about a season of death)

When I die, I do hope it is not as quick as a sleeping man swats kills a fly. That is how my aunt Rose died, and my cousin, Larry died, and how my uncle Chris died in the hospital, unattended, all alone in the dark; it all happened suddenly and abrupt, without warning—to all mentioned, all in the matter of a few years, on nice seasonal days. There she was my Auntie Rose, walking in the living room of her granddaughter’s apartment where she lived, and choked to death, no one hearing her, almost sleepwalking, and she died, just like that, and that was all that was left of her, one short, and everlasting day. Then she turned cold in death, and pale and stiff, as we all do. We had vaguely spoken to one another after my mother died, three years prior. And like my grandfather, twenty-years before, she laid on the floor, her blue veins protruding. There she was like that—just like that.
After that, after my mother’s death, winters and summers came and left seemingly unnoticed for me, perhaps because I was trying hard to adjust to my new conditions. Then came another death, up to this writing, to this very moment, there has been several deaths in the family, one after the other, so compactly side by side, one might think this was a most prosperous season for our family to die in, the last being Ann my aunt and godmother. She was the last to lend a quick alert to our family tree, and add another soul into the once half empty canister.
My brother Mike notifies me almost every time such an event, a death, and its undertaking takes place, within the family, and among our old, and near childhood, neighborhood friends. He and I of course, are still hanging in there. Yet it makes me wonder, and conceivably him some, who will be the fellow to notify me of the next death, if indeed he isn’t around to do it, if indeed I go first—and he’s not around to do it thereafter—well, you see what I mean.
The feeling of having the other person at hand of something or for something, of managing such affairs—and someone to tell them to, is comfortable, and nice, especially on a cold and rainy outside (night or day, any season will do). Both he and I, feel this, it makes us warm and cozy. I don't know, but most likely, the death of so, so many draws us closer. Both he and I have felt this, possibly Mike more consciously than I because he is the one doing the calling, and telling, going to the wakes, and funerals, receiving the death phone calls from the beloved and grieving—I’m six-thousand miles away (thank goodness).

Oh-key, go ahead, say what you want, what you will, I don’t like funerals—period. They are to me like spots of dried paste. And spots of blistering paint, one inside the old house, the other on the exterior; death and funerals are like old worn-out overcoats, never again to see the light of day. The bodies are taut and hard, ugly and dreadful, pale and in areas soft, and no light in their eyes.
Well, to the devil with it all, I’m sure there will be a new disaster to the family sooner than later, ahead, and the prospects are good it could be me! When I die, I do hope though, like my mother, I have time to say goodbye, if not, let me say it now: Goodbye!


8-15-2009/Written at the Mia Mamma Café, Huancayo, Peru, No: 452

Old Man Bernabe ((Based in Fact (In English and Spanish))

English Version

Old Man Bernabe
(Based on actual Events)


He came into the bedroom of his wooden shack in the small city of Satipo, in the Central Jungle of Peru, and opened up the window while the old man, Bernabe was still sleeping in the early part of the morning. The old man was trembling somewhat, his bronze face, had turned white, and he looked ill. And as he moved about in bed, it seemed to his lawyer and constant companion of sorts—his aging body was more than aching, it was being drained of its life’s resources.
“What’s the matter, Bernabe?” he said in a low voice.
The old man was only sixty-seven years old, looked near ninety, said after opening his eyes, his eyelids trying to close as he opened them, his will trying to keep them open, “I’ve got a pain in my head,” he commented.
“You better go back to sleep then,” said his pal and lawyer.
“No. I’ll be all right.” And he tried to sit up in bed, and did so half- hazard. “Wait out in the kitchen; I’ll see you when I’m dressed,” he told his lawyer, in a murmur.
When the old man appeared in the kitchen, fully dressed, he sat on a chair by the wooden stove, his grandson, fifteen-years old had set the fire for him, the soup was hot and the boy was outside feeding the two dogs, chickens, guinea pigs.
The lawyer, stood looking at the old man, he looked very sick and despondent. He put his hand on his forehead, and he could tell he had a fever.
“You should go back to bed,” said the lawyer, “you’re really ill.”
“What is it?” asked Bernabe.
“I can’t tell what your temperature is, but you should see a doctor!”
On the kitchen table, there were some pills; his grandson had left them out for him to take, and instructions for taking them. One was for the fever (a form of influenza, a deadly form, germs of influenza was prevalent, a light epidemic in Peru during these days, and in the city of Satipo); the other pill was for stress (he had been trying for a number of months to get ownership of three lots of land that connected onto his, he was trying to invade the somewhat deserted property, by cutting down trees and building an outhouse, while the owners were far-off in Huancayo—a seven hour drive by bus, and the lawyer was his accomplice); the third pill was to avoid pneumonia. He took all the pills with one gulp of water, then went to his sink, put a washrag under the spout cold water filled the rag, and then he wiped his forehead, it cooled it down, and took away his headache, and now he could think straight.
“Do you want me to read the newspaper to you?” asked the lawyer.
“All right. If you want to,” said the old man. His face pale, once dark brown, deep rooted wrinkles and his hair on two sides stood up as if he had horns. He sat still in the chair and seemed very detached from what was being read, his eyes small, like black dots with yellowish-white-fog surrounding them.
The lawyer read aloud from the morning newspaper, the grandson had bought and brought, and placed on the kitchen table, and was going to read to him after he fed the animals.
The boy came inside the shanty, “How do you feel, grandpa?” He asked him.
“Just the same as before, so far anyhow,” he remarked.
The boy sat a foot away from the old man, on a lower wooden stool; saw that his grandfather had taken the pills. It would have been natural for him to go back to sleep, on this hot summer’s day, but he appeared restless, and not hungry, he never touched the soup—the boy noticed, the old man just looked about very strangely.
“Why not go to bed grandpa? I’ll wake you up later,” said the boy.
“I’d prefer to stay awake. I think someone wants to kill me over my land.”
After a while he said to the boy and lawyer, “You don’t need to stick around here with me, I’m sure you got other things to do.”
“It doesn’t bother us,” said the lawyer, speaking for the boy also.
“Well,” said the old man, “I think it would bother me, so it should bother you.”
The lawyer looked at him; thought perhaps the old man was a little woozy from the heat of the day, the pills, and the fever and the issues surrounding the three lots of land. And so the lawyer left the hut for a while.

It was a bright, hot day, the ground covered with a light wetness from a rain shower the day before. He looked about the three lots; he had cut down all the trees on two lots, the two he and the lawyer were trying to swindle the rightful owners out of. The party that owned the land had cut the bushes, and grass, and the bare ground had been cleaned of debris, a wooden fence was put up, and several times the old man had started to tare it back down, only for the young owner to confront the old man, and say in so many words: leave well enough alone, the property is not yours.
He didn’t take to the young man, and would scream as if he was being beat by him, when he’d show up to check out his family’s property, and upon seeing the young man, the old man, got red eyed with anger.
“He’s going to kill me,” the old man yelped to the police and inside the courthouse, trying to set up the young man so he and the lawyer could steal his property legal like.
At the house, the old man refused to talk to anyone but his lawyer, or his grandson.
“You can’t come in,” he’d tell the young man who wanted to settle the issue, and anybody else who wished to debate the issue out, contrary to his benefit, he’d not let in likewise; and so the issue that never was an issue until the old man decided one day with his lawyer pal to somehow make it an issue, positioned himself in grabbing the land from under them. And now he was white-faced, his cheeks flushed by stress and fever, and mentally drained from staring and thinking and worrying, and wondering what was next to come—the unknown.
“What is it?” asked the grandson.
“Who said there’s something wrong?” remarked the old man to his grandson. Then stared at the boy, “I don’t worry, so you don’t need to, I just wish I could keep from thinking, and find some rest.”
“Don’t think grandpa,” the boy told him. “Just take it easy.”
“I’m taking it easy,” and stared from out of the kitchen window. It was obvious he was holding something in, his body was tight, rigid and he trembled.
“Take this wet rag, grandpa, wipe your forehead, it helps you to think straight.”
“Do you really think it will do any good?”
“It always does,” said the boy.
He sat back down at the table, and had some cold soup.
“What time do you think I’ll die?” he asked the boy.
“What?”
“How much longer do I have to live?”
“You’re not going to die. That’s silly, why talk like that?”
“Oh, yes, I am. I can feel it in my head, my heart, my lungs, everything, I can feel it everywhere. I can’t live forever.”
It would have seemed—and did seem to the boy at this juncture, the old man was waiting to die, perhaps waiting all day long, ever since he rolled out of bed.
“Oh,” the boy said, not knowing what else to say.
The old man had papers in his hand, signed papers the lawyer had given him to use to fight in court with, signed receipts that just appeared out of nowhere one day and became official the next day, and the old man looked at them, gazed at them, a foot in front of his face. He dropped the papers on the table, and slowly made it to his bed, where he laid back and relaxed. His whole body relaxed, and the next day, when the lawyer came over, he noticed the slack in the body as it laid on the bed, and the boy in the corner, he was crying, and the lawyer thought: boy he cries very easily at such things—and he asked the boy for the papers, which to the boy were of no importance, his grandfather had passed on.

No: 451 (8-14-2009)

Spanish Version

El Anciano Bernabé
(Basado en acontecimientos reales)


Él entró en el dormitorio de su cabaña de madera en la pequeña ciudad de Satipo, en la Selva Central de Perú, y abrió la ventana mientras el anciano Bernabé estaba todavía durmiendo en las tempranas horas de la mañana. El anciano estaba un tanto temblando, su cara bronceada se había vuelto pálida y parecía enfermo. Mientras se movía en la cama, le parecía a su abogado y constante compañero—que su envejecido cuerpo más que adolorido estaba siendo drenado de los recursos de su vida.
“¿Cuál es el problema Bernabé?”, él dijo con una voz baja.
El anciano que sólo tenía sesenta y siete años, pero parecía cerca de noventa, dijo después de abrir sus ojos, sus párpados tratando de cerrarse mientras él los abría, su voluntad trataba de mantenerlos abiertos, “tengo un dolor en mi cabeza”, él comentó.
“Entonces es mejor que vuelvas a la cama”, dijo su amigo y abogado.
“No, estaré bien”, y él trató de sentarse en la cama, y lo hizo con tanta dificultad. “Espérame en la cocina, te veré allí cuando esté vestido”, le dijo a su abogado en un murmullo.
Cuando el anciano se apareció en la cocina, totalmente vestido, se sentó en una silla por el fogón, su nieto, de quince años de edad, había prendido el fuego por él, la sopa estaba caliente y el chico estaba afuera alimentando a sus dos perros, gallinas y cuyes.
El abogado se paró mirando al anciano, él lucía muy enfermo y abatido; él puso sus manos en la frente del anciano y podía decir que tenía fiebre.
“Deberías de volver a la cama”, dijo el abogado, “tú estás realmente enfermo”.
“¿Qué es esto?”, preguntó Bernabé.
“No puedo decirte cuánto es tu temperatura, pero, ¡deberías ver a un doctor!”
“En la mesa de la cocina, habían algunas pastillas; su nieto las había dejado allí para que él las tomara, y las instrucciones de cómo tomarlas. Una era para la fiebre (una clase de influenza, una forma mortal, gérmenes de la influenza estaban establecidas, había una epidemia ligera en Perú y en la ciudad de Satipo durante esos días); la otra pastilla era para el estrés (él había estado tratando por varios meses de adueñarse de los tres lotes de terreno colindantes con el suyo, él estaba tratando de invadir la propiedad un tanto abandonada, cortando los árboles y construyendo una cabaña, mientras los propietarios estaban lejos en Huancayo—a siete horas de viaje en autobús, y el abogado era su cómplice); la tercera pastilla era para prevenir la neumonía. Él tomó todas las pastillas con un sorbo de agua, luego fue a su caño, puso un estropajo debajo del chorro de agua y luego se lo puso en la frente, esto lo refrescaba y calmaba el dolor de cabeza, y ahora podía pensar con claridad.
“¿Quieres que te lea el periódico?”, preguntó su abogado.
“Muy bien, si quieres”, dijo el anciano. Su cara estaba pálida, la que una vez había sido bronceada, sus arrugas muy profundas y su cabello formaba a sus costados como dos cuernos. Él estaba sentado inmóvil en su silla, y parecía distanciado de lo que se estaba leyendo, sus ojos eran pequeños, como dos puntos negros, el blanco era amarillento rodeado de niebla.
El abogado leyó en voz alta el periódico que su nieto lo había comprado y traído esta mañana y lo había puesto en la mesa de la cocina, para luego leérselo al anciano después de alimentar a los animales.
El chico entró a la cabaña, “¿cómo te sientes abuelito?” él le preguntó.
“Lo mismo que antes, por ahora de todas formas”, él comentó.
El chico se sentó a treinta centímetros del anciano, en una pequeña banca de madera; vio que su abuelo había tomado las pastillas. Hubiera parecido normal que él volviera a dormir, en este día caluroso de verano, pero él parecía inquieto y sin hambre, él ni tocó la sopa—él chico lo había notado, y el anciano sólo miraba muy extrañamente alrededor.
“¿Por qué no vuelves a la cama abuelito? Te despertaré más tarde”, dijo el chico.
“Prefiero estar despierto. Creo que alguien trata de matarme por mi terreno”.
Luego de un rato él le dijo al chico y al abogado, “ustedes no necesitan permanecer alrededor mío, estoy seguro que ustedes tienen otras cosas que hacer”.
“No nos molesta”, dijo el abogado, hablando por el chico también.
“Bien”, dijo el anciano, “creo que a mi me molestaría, por eso esto debería molestarte”.
El abogado lo miró; pensó que talvez el anciano estaba un poco fastidiado por el calor del día, las pastillas, la fiebre y los problemas que lo rodeaban por los tres lotes de terreno. Y por eso el abogado dejó la cabaña por un rato.
Era un día brillante, caluroso, la tierra estaba ligeramente húmeda por la lluvia de la noche anterior. Él miró a los tres lotes de terreno; él había cortado los árboles de dos de ellos, los dos que él y el abogado estaban tratando de estafar a los verdaderos dueños. El grupo que poseía el terreno había cortado los arbustos y el gras, habían limpiado de escombros del suelo y habían puesto un cerco de madera; y muchas veces el anciano lo había derribado, sólo para que el joven propietario lo confrontara y dijera en pocas palabras: deja en paz, esta propiedad no es tuya.
Él no le hizo caso al joven, y cuando el joven propietario se aparecería para chequear la propiedad de su familia, el anciano gritaría como si estuviera siendo golpeado por él y luego de ver al joven, él tendría ojos rojos con cólera.
“Él va a matarme”, el anciano gritó a la policía y lo repitió dentro del juzgado, tratando de tenderle una trampa al joven para que de esta manera, él y su abogado, pudieran robarse su propiedad como si fuera legalmente.
En su casa el anciano se rehusaba a hablar con nadie, sólo con su abogado y su nieto.
“Tú no puedes venir”, él le diría al joven propietario, quien trataba de solucionar el problema, y a alguien más que deseara debatir el problema, contrario a su beneficio, de la misma forma no los dejaría; y ahora era un problema el que nunca antes había sido un problema hasta que el anciano decidió un día, con su amigo abogado, agarrarse el terreno. Y ahora él estaba con la cara blanca, sus mejillas ruborizadas por el estrés y la fiebre, y mentalmente agotado de tanto ver, pensar y preocuparse, y preguntarse qué era lo siguiente por venir—lo desconocido.
“¿Qué es esto?”, preguntó el nieto.
“¿Quién dijo que hay algo mal?”, comentó el anciano a su nieto. Luego miró fijamente al chico, “yo no me preocupo, por eso tú no necesitas preocuparte, sólo desearía dejar de pensar y descansar algo”.
“No pienses abuelito”, el chico le dijo, “tómalo con calma”.
“Lo estoy tomando con tranquilidad”, y miró fijamente por la ventana de la cocina. Era obvio que él estaba sosteniendo algo, su cuerpo estaba rígido, rígido y tembloroso.
“Toma este estropajo mojado abuelito, y límpiate la frente, esto te ayuda a pensar bien”.
“¿Realmente piensas que esto ayudará?”
“Siempre lo hace”, dijo el chico.
Él se sentó de vuelta en la mesa, y tomó un poco de sopa fría.
“¿A qué hora piensas que moriré?”, le preguntó al chico.
“¿Qué?”
“¿Cuánto más tengo que vivir?”
“No vas a morir. Esto es ridículo, ¿porqué hablas de esa forma?”
“Oh sí, lo haré. Lo puedo sentir en mi cabeza, mi corazón, mis pulmones, todo, lo puedo sentir por todos sitios. No puedo vivir para siempre”.
Parecería—y esto le pareció al chico a este punto, que el anciano estaba esperando morir, talvez esperando el día largo, desde que se levantó de la cama.
“Oh”, dijo el chico, no sabiendo qué más decir.
El anciano tenía documentos en sus manos, documentos firmados que el abogado le había dado para que peleara en la corte, recibos firmados que justo habían aparecido un día de la nada y al día siguiente se habían convertido oficiales, y el anciano miraba fijamente a éstos, a treinta centímetros de su cara. Él dejó caer los documentos en la mesa, y lentamente llegó a su cama, donde se tiró de espaldas y se relajó. Su cuerpo entero estaba relajado, y al día siguiente, cuando el abogado llegó, él notó la relajación en su cuerpo tirado en la cama, y al chico en la esquina, él estaba llorando, y el abogado pensó: ¡Cielos! él llora tan fácilmente por tales cosas—y le pidió al chico los documentos, que para el chico eran sin importancia, su abuelo se había muerto.

# 451 (14-Agosto-2009)

The Bullfight (Issues around the: La Corrida de Toros)

English Version

Issues around the:
Corrida de Toros

By Dennis L. Siluk Ed.D.


Part One: The Bullfighter


The bullfight it is a tragedy, and not a sport, nor a contest between the bull and matador—for the most part. It is, as I said, a tragedy, insofar as, the death of the bull. Yes, there is a dangerous link involving the bullfighter against the bull, but inevitable death for the bull.
The matador, or bullfighter, can measure his own danger by increasing or decreasing his distance and/or his stance towards the bull, that is to say, he can at will fall back from those horns of the bull; he is by and large, in control, not the bull. Of course the bullfighter must be aware of his abilities; such as: reflexes, judgments and so forth; to include, goring or being thrown about like hay by a bull which is most often due to the ignorance (if not by youth and inexperience) then by the lack of agility or quickness on behalf of the matador.
The bulls are not as stupid as many may think; for when you do not study the bull, and the rules of distraction, change and the character of the beast, gaining knowledge of the traits of the bull, learning the techniques of those before you, the bull actually doesn’t look so stupid anymore, it is usually the bullfighter that does (and the unaware observing participant in the Plaza de Toros, or gallery). My last bullfight, the young matador was just that, unaware of the techniques, and not quick enough, and in consequence, got a horn in the arm pit, in Mexico City.


Part Two: The Moral Issue

There are of course moral issues on bullfighting, and killing of the bull. Consequently, this issue is more or less resolved in how you see the bullfight, and by whose values and standards you prefer to go or live by. I do not, or prefer not to, defend the bull or bullfighter, or morality in general—I can sleep very well after a bullfight, I only feel horror when I see what man is capable of doing to man, in war, or in some dark alley, or in the open, or in the way the justice system when it is carried out unjustly, and when a judge looks the other way because of gain or profit, because the judicial system is corrupt, unreasonable, and unpredictable.
People seem to be more affected by the bullfight nowadays and unaffected by the abuse of the criminal system they live under—oh yes, publicly they disapprove of it, but secretly they expect corruption at some point in time to assist them somehow. Thus, the very thing that should horrify and disgust them, they overlook and yell at the blood the bull sheds in the bullring.


Part Three: The Tragedy and Ritual

I have already proclaimed, there is a tragedy in the bullfight, but there also resides a ritual in the bullfight (which I will go around, rather than explain because I want to look at the art and culture aspect of it).
Either you can see and feel this or you cannot. You might say a man of culture is more aware of this, than a person to the contrary. The man of culture may see the art in the bullfight, the person not of culture, if open-minded, may also see this, but most often doesn’t.
When you think of men killing men in war or for pleasure, or vengeance, the bullfight becomes much more civilized. On another note, man has become so proficient in warfare, much more than in bullfighting, which in comparison, is simply a stomp on the big toe. Yet, we justify the war, and criminalize the bullfight. I think somewhere along the line, we got our wires crossed.


Written: 8-4-2009 (Article on Bullfighting)

Versión en Español


Temas acerca de:
La Corrida de Toros

Por El Dr. Dennis L. Siluk


Parte Uno: El Torero


La Corrida de Toros—por la mayor parte—es una tragedia y no un deporte, ni una competencia entre el toro y el torero. Es, como lo dije, una tragedia en la medida en que el toro muere. Sí, hay una conexión peligrosa involucrando al torero en contra del toro, pero una muerte inevitable para el toro.
El torero, o matador, puede medir su propio peligro, incrementando o disminuyendo su postura y/o distancia hacia el toro, es decir, él puede por su voluntad recurrir a esos cuernos del toro; él está, en general, en control, no el toro. Por supuesto que el torero debe de estar consciente de sus habilidades: como reflejo, juicio, etc. incluyendo, el ser corneado o ser tirado alrededor como un paquete de heno por el toro, lo que a menudo ocurre debido a la ignorancia (o a la juventud o inexperiencia) o por falta de agilidad o rapidez del torero.
Los toros no son tan estúpidos como muchos pueden pensar; porque cuando no estudias al toro y las reglas de distracción, el cambio y el carácter de la bestia, o no adquieres conocimiento de los rasgos del toro, o no aprendes las técnica de aquellos antes que tú, el toro realmente no parece tan estúpido nunca más, es generalmente el torero quien lo parece (y los ingenuos participantes observando en la Plaza de Toros, o arena). En mi última corrida de toros, el joven torero era justo eso, inexperto de las técnicas y no suficientemente rápido; en consecuencia, fue corneado en el brazo; esto pasó en la Ciudad de México.


Parte Dos: El Tema Moral

Hay por supuesto temas morales en la corrida de toros, y en la matanza del toro. Consecuentemente, el tema es más o menos resuelto en cómo ves tú la corrida de toros, y por qué valores y estándares tú prefieres ir o vivir. Yo prefiero no defender al toro o al torero, o la moralidad en general—puedo dormir muy bien luego de ver una corrida de toros—sólo siento horror cuando veo a un hombre ser capaz de hacerle daño a otro hombre, en la guerra, o en algún callejón oscuro, o en las áreas abiertas, o cuando el sistema de justicia es llevado a cabo injustamente y cuando un juez se hace al disimulado debido a ganancia o beneficio, debido a que el sistema judicial es corrupto, poco razonable e impredecible.
La gente parece estar más conmovida por la corrida de toros hoy en día y despreocupada por el abuso del sistema criminal bajo el que viven—oh sí, públicamente ellos lo desaprueban, pero secretamente ellos esperan corrupción hasta cierto punto para que los asistan, de alguna forma, en algún momento. Así, precisamente la cosa que debería horrorizarlos y disgustarlos, ellos lo ignoran y en cambio gritan por la sangre que el toro derrama en la arena.


Parte Tres: La Tragedia y Ritual

Ya he proclamado que hay una tragedia en la corrida de toros, pero también reside un ritual en ésta (el que lo repetiré, en vez de explicar porque quiero ver el arte y aspecto cultural en esto).
Tú puedes ver y sentir esto, o no lo puedes. Tú talvez digas que un hombre de cultura es más consciente de esto que un hombre que no lo es. El hombre de cultura talvez vea el arte en la corrida de toros, la persona no de cultura, si tiene una mentalidad abierta, también puede ver esto, aunque frecuentemente no.
Cuando pienses en los hombres matando a otros hombres en la guerra, o por placer, o por venganza, la corrida de toros se vuelve más civilizada. En otra nota, el hombre se ha vuelto tan competente en la guerra, mucho más que en la corrida de toros, que en comparación, es simplemente una patada en el dedo gordo del pie. Aún, justificamos la guerra, y criminalizamos la corrida de toros. Creo que en alguna parte a lo largo del camino, se nos cruzaron los chicotes.

Escrito: 4-Agosto-2009 (Articulo en La Corrida de Toros)