El Gringoqueño

I know it’s a TV, but what a TV it was. That TV was over 15 years old. I bought it my sophomore year of college and proceeded to haul it with me literally all over the world for the next fifteen years. That JVC television went through a lot, but alas, all of this earth ­is mortal and it was handed off to the city disposal last week. It actually hurts a little bit. I’m a dork, I know, but bear with me as I recount our tale of adventure and perseverance.­

The TV started its life off in St. Louis Missouri, at Washington University where it endured three years in a Fraternity house, beer, room fire, smoke, and things unmentionable. It hung in there because it was young and full of life.

After college it traveled cross country in a U-haul to Boston, Massachusetts. It hung out with me for six months while I worked at a new job. We were single and loving it. I was then transferred to San Francisco in December of 1993 and my faithful TV tagged along as it was lofted up to the dizzying heights of Noe Valley, even putting up with my crazy rollerblade antics around town. We were still young and stupid, but we had fun.

Then Laura and I got married and moved to Oakland. She didn’t just get a husband, she got a TV, and what a TV it was. As she will tell you, she has some kind of jinxing field that follows her wherever she goes. Any home electronics equipment found within ten feet of her sphere of influence has a drastically shortened lifespan. I don’t know how, but the TV seemed to take to her, and like her tough husband, seemed none the worse for wear. Experience had made us tough, and we lapped it up.

After a few years, the time to move had come again. This time, we were to head to the Basque country of Spain to complete Laura’s doctoral research in Anthropology. Our NTSC buddy tagged along, never mind he did not speak PAL. It’s all PAL to me, he said, besides they don’t even have my kind of 110/120 V 60 Hz food. But like a trooper, with a weird pinched screen, strained to play VHS tapes of shows sent to us from various family members. Like seasoned competitors we pushed through and survived.

So after a couple of years, we moved to Puerto Rico to start a new life. Laura was pregnant with Olaia, and we moved into a little seaside apartment in the Condado. Our trusty TV was there with us, happy to be back on native soil, but cursing the sea air.

We were comfortable and safe, until that fall when Georges decided to pay a visit, a category 3-4 hurricane that knocked out electricity, water, cable for the better part of three weeks. Mr. TV was wobbly, but like us, pulled through, and we began to think we would live forever. You hit us with everything, and I’m still here.

Fast forward to our new house in 1999, and on into 2000. Olaia, ever our little helper, decided to dump Windex onto the screen of Mr. TV and with her trusty paper towel "clean" it. Mr. TV had had enough, and it was the first time we had indications he might leave us.

Two days, of patient waiting, hair dryer blowing, and sighing (or cursing), and Mr. TV came reluctantly back to life. Why do you molest an old man, he asked. Let me die in peace.

Sometime between 2000 and 2004, after staggering on creaking joints, he stopped responding to our calls for entertainment from time to time. Crotchety he had become, a withered old man who didn’t give a damn anymore. Make me care, he said to us. I could still smile and admire his spirit, but it was getting more annoying by the month. Make me miss one single Buffy episode and I will heave you into the trash.

Next came the trial by fire. Desperate to light a barbecue and without lighter fluid, I pulled out the only flammable liquid I could on short notice, 180 proof rum. Hmmm, rum flavored charcoal for barbecuing steak. In a Tim Allen moment while dumping alcohol onto the open fire, flames entered the neck of the bottle, ignited the vapor and shot fireballs across the patio, through the open door up the side of the TV, and up the side of the house. Airplane pilots mistook it for an SOS call. I quickly smothered what I could but let the rest burn itself out. "Guess what I just did?" I said to Laura laughing nervously. You married folks know the sigh, right?

So fire, flood - we just need plague and pestilence and this would be a complete Biblical tale.

Tropical Storm Jean paid a visit in late 2004, and Mr. TV finally gave up the ghost. I’m done, I’ve had a full life, let one who is young and strong and brave take on this family now. I have given you all my best, and he ceased to function for ever more.

There he lay in state for several months as I contemplated a fitting end. Should he be dumped into a landfill or be properly recycled with his heavy metals? Does Puerto Rico care that TV’s are being dumped into landfills? Well, I’ll keep you around for a little while longer until I figure out how to dispose of you.

And the day finally came. Friday, April 1^st 2005, you finally made your way to your final resting place. I know not where, only the City of San Juan knows for sure, but good-bye faithful servant. They don’t make ‘em like you anymore.

The security guard stepped out of the bakery, his wrinkled navy blue uniform baggy around his tightly cinched belt. He wore comfortable shoes with thick white socks. He walks a lot during the day, so comfort remains high on his priorities. He had gone into the bakery to get a cafecito, a small coffee in a tiny white styrofoam cup. Soon he would return to patrolling the tiny strip mall.

On his way through the swinging glass door, he jostled the full little cup and spilled hot coffee on his fingers. Our man held on though, held on for dear life. I could see the pain in his face, but he wasn’t going to give up that coffee.

Damn - now he had hot sticky coffee all over his hand. No napkin - he checked his pants - clean. He sighed mild relief, the uniform would go for one more day without washing.  He exchanged the cup to his left hand and shook off the drops, and turned looking for something upon which to wipe his little fingers. He reached out to a bright yellow metal pole, a parking barrier, its top peeling paint and, after a quick glace around to see if anyone was looking, wiped his hand upon its top, down the side, and gave it a slap.

He brought the cup to his lips and gingerly took a sip.

There it was. He had rousted the great beast, disturbed its slumber. He wasn’t sure if he had meant to or not. Foolish pride? It glared at him with its steaming fiery eyes, sizing him up. Its tail twitched in the dim light. He stood frozen for what seemed an hour, wondering if this would be the end, if his luck had finally run out. Would this creature devour him here.

The beast snorted.

That was all.

He had elicited a snort.

He exhaled, relieved but a bit taken aback, dare he say disappointed; disappointed not to be dead? He stood for a moment shaking from the adrenaline and tension. "Beast, I will make a meal for you yet, " he muttered as he stomped off.

"What was that? D’you say something?"

Billy, glanced back at the news editor, "Hrmph… nothing."

He knew the story wasn’t worth two bits, small time political scandal, one where the poor slob bureaucrat got a luxury car, a few bucks or other such nonsense. Small time stuff. Everybody was scraping by. It’s just one tiny little stupid little story awash in a sea of similar tiring uninteresting shit. He was boring himself thinking about it. Why the hell had he written the piece in the first place? He fancied himself an investigative journalist. Journalist, now there’s a funny word, conjures up a mythical mission to expose the underbelly of the beast, be the final check and balance to any system of government. Billy smiled. He felt better again. Gotta pump myself up, he thought, as he left the office.

"In a slump, Billy?" a woman asked.

"Yeah… no. Well sorta. Too many stinking rats around this place. Nobody cares about the damn things. Oh sure they complain about them, but who’s gonna go clean ‘em out?"

"You lost me." She pushed her glasses against her brow, "Are you trying to get the city exterminators on your bad side now?"

"Ho ho, you’re a damn fine comedienne now aren’t you," he chuckled. "No, it’s just that if I could take all the rats and cram ‘em together into one big unholy monster, I might have a story, that’s all."

I dismounted my bike, grabbed a couple of dollars from my bike bag, and started into the bakery. Coming up the sidewalk were four young attractive women. A man walking into the bakery ahead of me, stopped short, arching his back and his head at an awkward angle as he gawked. I almost walked into him. I cleared my throat, "Ahem, con permiso." I shook my head, wasn’t that the damnedest thing. He should’ve taken a picture. It would have lasted longer.

I made my way to the line in the panadería. It was just after eight o’clock in the morning, the busiest time. The line was long, the bakery crowded. I tried to get there earlier, but sometimes, you just can’t get out the door.

The young women, stepped into the bakery, chatting loudly, giggling, carrying on. They were noticeable because they were all dressed in filmy, revealing, noodle strap dresses, high heels, and an unusual amount of makeup for so early in the morning. There were indeed hot, and they were about to unleash their wiles on a bakery full of old weak men. Poor devils.

The bakery came to a complete stand-still. It was like a television freeze frame, ala TJ Hooker. A fifty-ish short balding man walking toward where I stood, muttered to his friend, "… e gusta el lechón con gandules." I didn’t hear the first part… Me, te (you), if it was a question or what… but the point was clear. "Pork and pigeon peas" go well together in a sexual way. The innuendo was unmistakable, and I tried to contain a smirk. Only a Puerto Rican can say he likes pork meat and pigeon peas in a way that connotes sex. I mused on comical variations, taking liberty, but couldn’t push it to hyperbole in Spanish. I like marshmellows in my coffee. I like ketchup on my burger. I like little toys with my happy meal. And slowly, with feeling… I like salty… deep fried… artery clogging, pork rinds mashed into gigantic mounds of green bananas. Nope, just cannot push it far enough. Everything sounded sexual in Spanish.

I shook my head to myself, and watched the funny time warp within the bakery. The women were standing directly behind me in line, carrying on, obviously excited by the eyes burrowing holes in their flimsy clothing. I had a good vantage point to observe the leering, as I was directly in its line of site, and despite being clad in a bright red spandex skin suit, bike helmet, and sunglasses, was completely invisible. I was a camouflaged nature photographer, dressed in bright orange, invisible to the color-blind wild beasts. It was absurd. It was hilarious. I continued to watch the reactions from behind my bright blue lenses, the population of older men visually undressing the women with their unabashed desires and their longing gazes. These people have not even the tiniest slice of shame, their decorum thinly dressed in colorful food metaphors.

I asked Esteban for a dozen eggs. "Esteban, I don’t have an egg carton today, do you think you could rig me something up?"

"Sure," he said as he proceeded to put the eggs in a paper bag.

"Um, do you think you could put them in a cardboard container? I’m on my bicycle. They’ll surely break in a paper bag."

"Oh, sorry, he proceeded to break down one of the cardboard trays used to deliver the eggs, and put it inside a plastic bag."

"Um, do you think you could put some plastic wrap around it. They’ll surely fall out. Sorry for the bother. Next time I’ll be sure to bring my receptacle."

"No bother, really. Service is why we are here." And he handed me five eggs crudely wrapped in plastic.

"Esteban, I wanted - Um, nevermind, good day." I wasn’t going to get my twelve eggs today. The sirens had conspired with the gods to keep me from my goal.

Jaimito, leaned his elbow on the window of his truck. It was going to be a long day. He was glad he’d gotten up at the crack of dawn, gathered up his crew and shoved off in the twinkle of new light. He’d roared out over the road in his shiny yellow dump truck, loaded with blocks. He had more blocks than he could haul in one vehicle, so he loaded the excess in a smallish VW beetle, cramming them in through the windows and hatch until there was room for only the driver. He had to get the materials to the project site, and Jaimito was a resourceful fellow. “Can’t be done” was a phrase not in his vocabulary.

The road in the early morning was twisted and bumpy. He down-shifted and roared over a rump shaped mound. He smiled and let out a yip. The morning did that to you, filled you up with so much optimism that even small victories were cause for celebration. The way was filled with craggy opportunities for victory, and Jaimito passed the time pretending that each bump was a great and wondrous obstacle, fitted especially for him to conquer.

Upon arrival at the work site, Jaimito and his crew set about unloading the blocks, and staging them strategically. It became apparent immediately that there was a problem with the grading. There was a large bump where the plans required a level surface. This was not going to do.

“We’re going to need to move this earth!” Jaimito exclaimed. “Let’s get these things out of here.” Large pillow like rocks were quickly dispatched to lower ground. “Hmm, we still have a problem with this giant vein of protruding bedrock here,” he said aloud. Time to get the rock pulverizers.

This was fun work. Crushing rock had to be the best job on the planet. He imagined he was a large ancient elemental force and with a whoop and a holler, the rock crumbled before his hydraulics and explosives. Where others saw obstacles, Jaimito saw opportunities, and where there was drudgery, Jaimito made fun. Perhaps it was no coincidence that his crew was the most productive, the most motivated.

“Okay, men,” he exclaimed. “We’re all through, go ahead and leave the vehicles and material where they are. We’ll get an early start tomorrow.” And with that they headed home leaving the shiny yellow dump truck, and the yellow VW Beetle and the blocks behind in the cleared area where he had dispatched the giant rock.