El Gringoqueño

Laura and I woke up early, 0530, to get to the polling place and begin what was to become a very long day. We had volunteered to be observers for our particular candidate, Carlos Pesquera, in the gubernatorial primary for Puerto Rico. It is customary to have observers from your campaign to "assure" the election officials do their jobs and don’t try to pull any funny business.

The funny business began right away for us. Agustín, our polling place "head dog," tried to put us to work right away counting and initialling ballots. I refused. "Hey we’re not election officials," I said. "Our campaign bosses were very clear we were not to be doing your jobs."

It turned out that they had not done, nor planned to do their jobs, and since our candidate stood to be hurt more, we acquiesced and did what we needed to do to have the polling place open on time at 0800.

Things continued to bump along herky jerky. Agustín flashed his rural rotten toothed smile at me. "See that wasn’t so bad."

They hadn’t enough secret booths for people to vote in private, so hoards started taking seats in the 2nd grade classroom to fill out their ballots, twenty at a time, huddled close together. I was already shaking my head. This was out of control. It was obvious Agustín was this little barrio’s don. I caught him "suggesting" candidates for the little old ladies that trusted his judgement. "Agustín, you can’t do that. That’s fraud, you know. Do it again and I will file an infraction."

"You know, you’re not so innocent yourself. By helping people put their ballots in the boxes you are violating the rules as well."

This is a well worn and tired tactic in Puerto Rico. So lawless and disorderly is the conduct, so liberal are the gentry with rules and regulations, that there is more than sufficient culpability to go around. No one ever enforces these laws, for fear of themselves being caught in something. Everybody is dirty here. Everybody’s got something in their closet. So accustomed are the people to playing ball, negotiating everything, they are beholden to no ideals, only necessities in the constant flux of the moment. Do what you have to do to get by. And a common game they play is whenever accused of wrongdoing, quick turn it around on someone else or your attacker, no matter how small. Put them on the immediate defensive.

So, Agustín’s admonishment to me for helping these same old ladies get their ballots in the rickety cardboard slots was my "infraction." Agustín had met his match. I don’t know why people here are flummoxed by this sophmoric redirect, but they are.

I’m not.

"Okay, I won’t touch the ballots. You tell another person how to vote, and I will report you."

Then he went into the guilty conscience blither blather, where he wouldn’t shut up trying to justify himself. The process is damaged, he’d say, he’s just helping. Why should a "wrong" candidate get elected just because he’s better looking. If people don’t take the time to study the candidates, then the wrong person get’s elected by accident. "I’m just helping to avoid an accident." And he would go on and on, flapping his deformed, cavity ridden mouth at high velocity. I told him if the people didn’t know the candidates, they shouldn’t vote for them. Leave that box blank. He kept on, trying his best to persuade me, his guilty conscience and pride going on and on. All the while giving me more and more dirt on himself. I just listened, carefully crafting the hammer that I would bring down upon him soon enough.

I soon caught him again with a little group of people around him. He had been pretending to count blank ballots (we were running out), seated in the little desk of the second grade classroom. All were huddled around him, hunched. I stood at the front of the room, in front of the blackboard giving directions and noting irregularities. Children!! I almost said.

"Agustín," I said, "You can’t do that. I see you." And in a more formal spanish that sounds like a fine afternoon spent at a nobleman’s estate, "The gentleman shall refrain from offering advice on selecting candidates. You, sir, are damaging the electoral process."

He stopped immediately. I flagged down Laura and told her the story. Then I reported it to the electoral unit head. He was shaken and surprised, but as Agustín is clearly the "go-to-guy" at this polling place, I have my doubts about how this will be resolved. It’s kind of like when a hotel says to you, "Yes sir, we’re really sorry about that, you can be assured that he will fired immediately."

I figured I didn’t have much pull and myself being a newcomer, it would have been an uphill battle. All I had at that point were threats and pieces of paper. I started to hatch a plan.

Earlier, the director of the polling place had expressed interest in Laura and myself to help with the general elections next November. We are young and involved, contrary to the older folks that always seem to run these things. I had been cagey, expressing reservation. I didn’t want to get chummy with these people. They were after all, enemies for the day.

How do I remove Agustín from his position as chief purveyer of fraud in Barrio Tortugo? How do I get rid of this little latin dictator wannabe?

It would have to wait, as the day was only half over and there were ballots to be cast. Mostly the people coming through were extremely uneducated, lazy, borderline shouldn’t-be-allowed-to-vote. It was a pretty depressing affair. These are the people who are deciding the future representation of Puerto Rico. These same people who are complicit in fraud, who haven’t taken the time to read up on the candidates, and resort to trying to get away with cheating. Good thing the teacher was there. It was shameful. I should have punished them to write a thousand times on the chalkboard, "I will not cheat the electoral process. I do not wish to live in Haiti."

After all was said and done and all the ballots were cast, it fell upon Laura and myself to observe the counting. It is still a hand counting system here in Puerto Rico. It works pretty well. The polling places are divided up sufficiently that the results come in for over 1.5 million votes cast in just a few hours.

Agustín was getting no end of pleasure handing us stacks of ballots to count and sort. He was like a grand arch-duke waving about his servants while he dealt with important matters, such as the bloom on his roses. Laura and I didn’t protest the counting of the ballots for our gubernatorial candidate. We had a vested interest.

It soon became apparent that our candidate was losing by a landslide. 3-1. My heart sank. After so much effort, so much toil, is this how it is to end? Napoleon has returned from St. Helena… even after so much ruin, he is still a strong-man. So it is in Puerto Rico, Rosselló, like Napoleon, conquered much in his early years only to meet his Waterloo and seek the refuge of exile. Our Napoleon, however, has seen fit to come back from his exile and save us. And our candidate? Carlos Pesquera was like the honest reformer trying to put back together the country Napoleon had destroyed. All the people can remember is the glory of the past. The poor want heros, glory, not reform.

After "helping" Agustín count most of the rest of the election results too, I became increasingly frustrated by his lack of graciousness, laziness, and assumption at our servile role. I told Laura, I’d had it. We’re out of here. Look at these people. We’re just observers and we’re doing all the work. They’re just sitting there watching us like slavers. They can stay up to 3am for all I care. We’re out of here.

On the way out, I told the director of the polling station, "Here’s the deal, Marcos. You get rid of Agustín, you get both Laura and myself. That’s the deal. Two for one."

He jotted down our number and we were on our way.

You are the heart. I am the body. Without me, there is no action, no
animation, no progress. Without you I cannot live. I cannot respire.

When I was tired, and I closed my eyes, lay in the ditch and waited for
the end, you kept beating, beating, beating, for you knew not what else
to do.

I want to write about an interesting revelation I had about a friend of mine from the Army. I thought about writing a little character sketch from a first person point of view, as if I was him. I tossed that idea, because this interesting revelation I had could NEVER be one that you make about yourself. Hmmm, maybe I could do it third person. I wrote out a couple of sentences from a third person perspective and it didn’t sound right either. From the third person it sounded too cold, calculating, and smug. This revelation I had was warmer more personal. Even though I realized that I had stumbled upon one of the BIG ONES, a flaw so deeply embedded in our psyche that it escapes us and our viewpoints, wherever they may exist, I could not find a way to write it. I looked for a perspective, but none could be found. I wanted so bad to SHOW this flaw, expose it by proxy, let the feeling of the thing be known, not told. But I couldn’t find the words. I suspect it must be told.

He works so hard to keep things from seeping in, he forgets from time to time, things seep out.

Something about his behavior always rubbed me the wrong way. I noticed that this person, a ridged believer in temperance and piety, would make comments, inappropriate for one who holds the Truth. Sometimes they were bigoted or sexist. The key though was that he didn’t see them, didn’t recognize them as enemies. His enemy was alcohol, tobacco, or dance. Keep those marauders at bay and his homestead would be safe. Meanwhile there is this leak that oozes out leaving a stench to which, I imagine, he has become accustomed.

I note sometimes how he looks down his nose at me. The last time it was for drinking and smoking a cigar (tobacco is a big no-no). He likes me, but I sense the distain from time to time, the superiority that comes from a hurler of stones rather than a builder of homes. A hurler of stones marches out with his "creed for life" in the guise of conversion, but really ends up being a quest for validation. My way is the right way… isn’t it? And some fear seeps out, little bits of that nasty bile, choking him, sending him into convulsions.  In his writhing, he casts you out.  Get thee from my home cursed Satan! 

A builder of homes, though, invites you in to sit a spell. Come as you are he says, and doesn’t mind that you throw your feet up on his coffee table. Afterall he built it to stand the test of time, and he’s not worried. He built it once, he could build it again.

It’s an ugly sight, let me tell you. I’m just glad that I don’t have any of that shit leaking out of me. You’d let me know wouldn’t you?

Thanks.

A young pupil in a quandary for direction, asked his teacher how he may judge the battles upon which to draw his sword. "How, sensei, should I pick my battles so that I may be victorious?"

The teacher paused, and with a firm wisdom, replied. "Young student, this is not an easy question to answer, but I will give you the best advice I can give you." He lowered his voice to a whisper.

"Beware the great beast, for he may slay you with a single swipe of his claws or with but a blast of his fiery breath. Step lightly and do not choose this battle with a thought of impunity."

The master lifted his eyes and raised his voice emphatically.

"Be mindful always of the rats that scurry about the beast’s legs, for they will surely devour you in time. Step boldly, and always take this battle wherever it can be found."

If you can do these things, you will be victorious and a champion in your own right.

Billy Buckthorn was thrown violently down, straining as he fell to retrieve pieces of himself fluttering to the ground in the low gravity atmosphere. These were the things that kept him from becoming detached. From what he couldn’t say. But he had been losing himself out here for a while now. He stared at a photo of early Elvis that lay scattered amongst his things. There it was, the coolest man who ever lived. Life was getting hot, really hot, and he could have used some of that coolness now.

How do you judge the value of a salmon steak. Take the person who buys it. Without the money for having bought that salmon steak it wouldn’t be a reality. It would never arrive to the hands of the seasoner. Sprinkle lemon, a little cilantro. Sprinkle precious drops of olive oil. Rub it into the pink meat. Let it set. So without those who would season the meat, there would be no great salmon steak. You have to give those seasoners credit. Let’s pass that filet to the grill. Without the griller, the right temperature, a few smoldering briquettes for smoky flavor. Watch that meat, it only takes five minutes to cook a piece of fish to perfection. Too hot, it’s blackened… too cool and you risk it falling apart. Pass that fish to the serving plate. They eat it, exclaiming, "Wow, that was the most wonderful salmon I’ve ever eaten. My hat is off to you chef."

"Ah, but," he replies, "I couldn’t have done it without the seasoner. That salmon was only as good as the seasoner. Seasoner, my hat is off to you."

She smiles politely, "Very well, but without the buyer, I wouldn’t have had anything. Without that great delicacy to start with, I wouldn’t have anything to season."

"Thank you, but my part is a small one." says the buyer.

It was a fine salmon and all are in accord. They had made a fine meal and it was a team effort.

And then my mind drifts off to the salmon waters of the North Pacific. I see a great strength darting through the cold ocean waters. Is this greatness a gift of the buyers, seasoners, and grillers? I think this as I imagine its life, and I see that the grand beast was magnificent.

It had been many years and they had stopped passing the threshold. Their faces, long and weary from the fight had stayed away for too long from their family. She sighed. She understood, but it did not ease the pain. They fought and struggled in a confusing time, a time where men were as fearless as wolves and as certain as children stripped away from their mother’s breasts.

Her’s had been taken too, and she had watched them go, helpless to hold them to her, and they with their looks of hurt and abandonment could only leave and struggle.

What was there of her family now except the table cloth, the family cloth, perhaps the fabric of the family. She unfolded it and billowed it up and up, and it came to rest over the back of a wooden chair. She pulled it to her chin and began to fold its tightly woven linen. It was rough against her skin and smelled faintly of bacalao despite the washing. She smiled, pressing it closer to her chest and making a fold along one of the creases. The rivers of red and green flowed to the floor twisting, turning, tumbling over each other in their intricately embroidered simplicity. Giving it a snap, she straightened the fabric and grabbed a corner, one of her corners. Her daughter had wanted to sew them but there were still things that a mother needed to do. Besides, everyone had always remarked that her corners were straighter and stronger than anyone else’s. They used to come to her and ask her to do the corners.

And here, she pulled her corners on top of each other and pressed them together within the folds.

"Ay, ama," Iker yelped, "I’ve spilled mosto on the table cloth."

"Why don’t you be more careful!" She chased him with her hand raised and he ducked out of the way and through the door.

"Oh, what am I going to do?" There were so many stains on the cloth now after the past ten years. There was blood from the rare cooked chuleta, mosto more than once, dirt, grease, wine, and grimy fingers covered with God knows what. Gone was the brilliant luster of the day she and her mother had sat down and sewn the seams. It was so white then. The red and green had shown so remarkably.

Her fingers grasped the table cloth again feeling the creases time worn with washings and pressings. The lines were almost permanent and her fingers felt the texture.

She unfurled it once again over the chair and onto the table.

The intertwining red and green embroidery that had stood out so perfectly against the white linen was a bit more dark, and the colors a bit more white. There was the spot where Iker had spilled grape juice. And here was the place where Asier had always wiped his hands under the table. There in the middle were the remnants of each of their slaughtered veal cows. Some were better than others, but the stains of blood had all blended together in time.

These were her photographs, her memories that it had all been real at one time. It was real wasn’t it?

"Ama, what can we do? They bombed Gernika? They said it was the Navarines, but how could they bomb their own people. We have to go, there is nothing else to do. We have to go to fight."

She understood then why they had to leave even though the fight was hopeless. They had enjoyed many years of innocence in their house with the cloth, but they were such babies… and even now.

With a tug she pulled the mantela from the chair and laid it across the table. They would need six plates, she thought. Then she would have to open fresh bottles of cider and set their places.

They had returned one month in a cold December when the fighting had stopped for the holidays. The Germans worked on holidays, but they did not have to worry about the Spanish.

I was riding up E 14th St in Oakland, when a Susuki Samurai or some such vehicle came up along side me and proceeded to make a right turn.

"Hey!" I yelled swerving off onto the other street.

Oblivious to my scream, the two girls replied, "Heeeeeey-ee," a nondescript reply as if awakened from a slumber. I yelled for them to watch where they were going and continued on my way.

"And they want equal rights, " came the words of a grizzled beared man in a blue pickup. On the back it had a confederate flag bumper sticker, the words Old Fart on another, and a VA sticker in the rear window of the camper shell. A yellow, mut leaned its head out the window, tongue wagging in the wind.

I said nothing to the man. I accepted his words as a statement of solidarity. He had seen what had happened, the lack of remorse by the two women, and was reaching out to a brother. ‘Hey man, I’m there for you."

I still shook my head, though. It could have just as easily been a couple of whites that might have cut me off. In fact, it’s happened more often than I want to remember. In fact, once it was a cop. Cut me off in an intersection. I yelled, "Hey!" which always seems to work. It’s not as offensive as "Hey, fuck you!" but still pucent enough to drive home the point. Would that it were a horn. They’re so inoffensive, insomuch as people don’t take them as personal insults of their family or some such thing. They don’t feel obliged to get out of their car and chase after you with a tire iron (chapter 7).

The cop guns the engine of his Crown Victoria cruiser and very firmly and clearly yells, "Hey, fuck you!"

I remember the blue Ford pickup man’s soft words as well meaning but ignorant. I shook my head and pedaled on.

ZZZZhuuuuummmmm, came the tires, "EEEeeeeeeee. Heeeeeeeyy-eee, we’re sorry" Vrrrroooomm. There was the Suzuki, dodging and skipping catching up to me. An attractive buxum black woman leaned out the window. "Heeeeeyyy-eee, we’re sorry. We didn’t mean to cut you off."

"That’s all right, " I yelled back in disbelief.

They skidded off, and stopped at a red light next to the blue Ford. I pulled up and leaned on the door frame. "That’s the first time anyone’s every apologized to me for cutting me off. Thanks, " I said smiling.

"We’re sorry. We didn’t mean it." She giggled and smiled.

And there was the man in the Blue Ford pickup. He had his dog, and his bumper stickers, and his beard. I wish I could have said something to make him feel more like a brother.

Specialist Canon gave the clutch a push and rolled the 5 ton over a dusty road. It was 0700 and already hot as hell. SPC Canon had his BDU jacket off and stuffed behind the seat. He was wearing an issue brown tee shirt, his BDU pants, and construction hard hat.

"Sir, it’s just around the corner. We’ll drop the stuff and come back around 0900 after formation."

"Fine, that’s good." I looked at the small houses as we rumbled past. To call them houses was generous, though. They we little more than pieces of driftwood banded together into makeshift platforms under tin roofs. Their long legs looked like crooked old men, windows little more than gap tooth grins.

I glanced at the two soldiers in the back sucking in the heat, stoic enough though, basking in the dust cloud that settled over them as the truck came to stops. They were perched atop piles of lumber, plywood, tools, and a box of nails.

"You know it’s my ass, if anybody catches us, " I turned and leaned my arm out the side of the truck.

"Pffphht, sir, you know everybody always blames the SPC. Yer ass… my ass!"

I laughed, "Well, that’s because the specialist knows everything. How do you expect a Lieutenient to have organized all this by himself."

"That’s what I’m saying, nobody would believe it… an then it’s PFC Canon. Shit, then I got to go get new rank sewed on, that’s a shitload of money for 16 uniforms."

He was grinning now, and I winked back at him. I would be the fall guy for sure, an officer with a bunch of lower enlisteds, stealing project supplies and running off to God knows where. I understood him though. I got yer back, sir. We’ll all play dumb, just relax, an’ we’ll get you through this.

I think he understood me too. You guys were just following orders. You were with an officer, so you were just doing what he told you to. Nobody got killed, or hurt, so after a reprimand…

My career would be over, though. Beats having to sew new rank on 16 uniforms. I laughed to myself. Funny how people communicate in the Army. Last night, while in the showers, I listened to a couple of enlisteds talk shit to each other, a past time that military men seem to have mastered.

"How much you pay for your apartment?"

"Shit, I pay $700."

"Fuck, that’s nothing, I pay $800."

"Yeah, well with utilities and condo fees, mine actually works out to $900."

"Shit, man, what’s your old lady do?"

"Spends my money."

Snicker. "Man, how much does she spend a week?"

"Fuck, all I get is a six pack, and a TV guide…"

"Sucks to be you."

It’s kind of nice taking a shower, not to wear rank. People don’t act as themselves when you’ve got officer’s rank on. If they don’t know you, they look figety, uncomfortable. It made me uneasy watching them sometimes. And then there were the older guys, Master Sergeants and First Sergeants (1SG). They don’t fear, which is good, but then they feel the need to bluster. "Damn kid, ain’t been around for but a couple of years. Put that damn rank on him. He’s my kid’s age, for God’s sake."

Either way, they act differently when you are in uniform. It’s nice to take a shower. You wash off more than just the dirt and sweat.

I smiled, "Sucks to be you."

"Yeah, shit." He went back to washing his face.

I lifted the brim of my cap and mopped the sweat from my brow. The jungle was starting to steam now as mists lifted from the valleys and crags. They looked like full bowls of cream, or maybe big steaming mugs of coffee, with the rich savory aroma of wet, oxygen laden air. I started to feel sweat soak into my back where it was pressed against the canvas seat cover.

This part of Panama was rugged and breathtaking. Craggy, and mountainous, it didn’t look like I had always pictured jungles. The peaks were like shards of bright green glass pushed up from the earth. Looked so sharp, you might get cut.

We were climbing now, up and out of the valley of coffee cups. The mist lay shimmering behind us as we trudged along. I could see the whole coast now, as irregular as the rest of the landscape. There were a million little inlets and harbors each with a mad bull kicking to get at the rolling undulating ocean, straining at the gates, like with one little kick, and they would come charging out of their pens.

"Sir, we gonna kick yer ass in cards tonight?" SPC Canon taunted.

"Quit talkin’ yer smack, Canon. We’ve already kicked yer ass 3 times."

"Outa how many, sir? Ten maybe? And fer the last three I didn’t have my partner. Tonight, it’s gonna be different." He mimicked throwing down a card, "Smack. Take that."

I shook my head. "Canon, Canon, Canon… when you gonna learn. All right, we’re gonna see." He was better at Hearts than me, we had been playing all week. Some would call it fraternizing. While the other officers were off in their own little stress world, I was hanging out with my troops. I figured it was a good way to keep an eye on them. Yeah, familiarity was maybe a little too easy for them now, but I have their respect.

"Uh, oh." SPC Canon said. "Sir we’re busted."

I looked ahead. There was a check point. It’s Sunday, and our day off. Why were they having a check point? "Relax, I’ll take this one." I jumped down from the truck and trotted over to the MP, a burly Specialist, with a chip on his shoulder. It goes with the territory of MP’s. Most of them are bored to tears, so a little action really gets them going.

"Sir, where are you headed with those soldiers?"

"We’re taking wood to the abuttment work site in Adelante. It’s our day off, " I volunteered, "but we’ve got a lot of work to do Monday, so we wanted to get a head start."

"Okay, that’s fine, sir. But you can’t go this way. They’re setting up to repave over here. Tell your work crew to reroute around Adelante for tomorrow."

"Thank you, Specialist, I’ll pass it along to my commander." I trotted back to the 5 ton, and pulled myself up into the cab.

"Way to go, sir." SPC Canon grinned.

"See, this bar comes in handy once in a while. Any other requests?"

He smiled a crooked smile, "You can get yer ass whooped tonight in Hearts."

We drove on.

"There it is, sir." Canon said pointed to a brightly colored stick shack. Looks like some the boards had come from an old bilboard,

I wondered who told them they were poor.

Cut from the land in their irregular shapes too, were the small houses of the Panamanians with brown-faced children standing on front porches shouting and waving. I waved back.