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…!