Amigoland (15 page)

Socorro glanced at her watch and it was only a couple of minutes past eleven.

“What else is there to do here?” Don Fidencio said. “It takes time to get all these old people into one room and ready to
eat.”

It seemed as though he wanted to say more but then was unsure what that might be. He gazed out at the archway where The Turtle
With The Fedora was being lowered from the special van used to transport the residents to their doctor’s appointments. The
lift had stalled and he was waiting to see if her wheelchair might roll forward.

The point was, he had talked to his brother and the girl enough already. He had to go eat his lunch now; this was where he
lived and slept and took his meals. His brother and the girl were nice to come visit him. It was nice of the girl to ask him
questions like she was interested in his life. Tomorrow it might be different. Tomorrow they might not be coming around. Taking
time out of their busy days to come visit an old man who couldn’t remember the half of what he knew. And really, he wondered
if he could blame them.

T
his was Saturday, according to the calendar hanging in the kitchen. Only the fourth day of the month, but by now Don Celestino
had marked several of the dates with appointments to see one doctor or another — for his annual exam with his cardiologist,
for a follow-up with the urologist, for his bimonthly visit to the podiatrist so one of the nurses could trim his toenails
(a precaution his regular doctor had urged him to take because of his diabetes). Other dates on the calendar reminded him
of when to change the oil in the car or when he was due for his next haircut, though he tended to go more by what he saw in
the mirror than by what was on the calendar. Socorro’s name took up the same square every week, not because he thought he
would forget but just to have something to make the week appear not as long. His scribbled notes spilled across other squares,
making it seem as if these days and weeks were actually one long day that wound down at the bottom of the page, only to begin
anew on the next calendar page. In fact, since practically every square noted some activity, today’s blank square looked that
much more blank. Compared to the surrounding dates, the square appeared pristine, absent of the usual mundane tasks that might
occupy his time or at least make it seem that he had more to do than he actually did. It was almost as if he had set aside
the day for some special event, only now he had no idea what it might be. He checked the other dates to see if there was something
planned for later in the month that he might be able to move up to today. It was only ten o’clock in the morning. He knew
from experience that a day like this could drag on and the only thing he would have to look forward to was for it to get dark
so he could go to sleep and wait for tomorrow to come around. The car looked fairly clean, and taking out the bucket and rags
to wash it seemed unnecessary. His shoes he had polished only two days ago, after having spent most of the morning shopping
for a new set of laces. The Wellness Center was closed on the weekends, and walking inside the mall had never interested him
— much less if he had to deal with the weekend crowds. When the King Mart was still open, he and Dora used to sometimes go
to the little café to drink coffee and read the paper. There was usually another married couple sitting there and they would
often strike up a conversation that took up most of the morning. Doing this alone wasn’t as easy, though, and now if he talked
to anyone it was usually to some other widower looking for a way to pass the time.

After flipping through the thirty or so channels and not finding anything that caught his attention, he walked out to the
driveway to get the newspaper. By now he knew to breathe with his mouth to avoid the bad smell drifting through the yard.
The smell occurred most mornings and disappeared by noontime, but by then the day was too hot to do much of anything outside.
Even the tap water had a lingering odor and taste to it, enough that he had taken to buying purified water. He figured the
smell had to be coming from either one of the drying resacas or the sewer plant a couple of miles away. Tamez worked as if
he were immune to it. He waved from across the street, where he was mowing a neighbor’s yard. Don Celestino did his part and
waved back before he started for the front door. Tamez probably thought they were on good terms, that Don Celestino had appreciated
his offer to take care of the yard for a reduced rate, as he did for several of his other elderly neighbors. “Not now,” Don
Celestino had answered, and left it at that. Though what he had really wanted to say was, “Not anytime soon, cabrón.” Or better:
“Not until after I die and they put me in a hole in the ground and the yard belongs to somebody else.” Did he see him walking
around with a cane or a walker? Did he have a handicapped tag hanging from his rearview mirror? Had they built a ramp for
him to roll his wheelchair up to the front door? If anything, he felt he had more energy than ever to dedicate to his responsibilities
around the house. Just a few days earlier, he had spent part of his late afternoon trimming the grass all along the sidewalk
leading from the front steps to the street, and he had done this with a fifteen-inch knife that cut an edge as straight as
he used to do when trimming one of his customers’ sideburns. After he finished with the sidewalk, he took the small piece
of carpet that he kneeled on and placed it along the curb so he could trim the grass near the street. Tamez did the same work
at the other houses, but always with one of those weed-trimming machines that Don Celestino had no idea about how to operate.
No one needed to ask who did a better job, he or Tamez, just as no one needed to ask if an electric shaver did as good a job
as a straight razor.

Back inside the house, he sat in his recliner to read the paper, scanning the first couple of pages for anything that he hadn’t
seen on the news at five that morning. He managed to get through only half of an article about the city commissioners’ meeting
before his eyes grew faint and he nodded off. Less than a minute later he woke up, upset with himself for not having stayed
more alert; it wasn’t noon and here he was dozing off. He tossed the paper aside and walked to the kitchen. He ran the water
until it was hot enough to rinse the one plate he’d used earlier. The orange grease of the chorizo streaked its way down to
the sink and into the drain. He squirted a generous amount of dishwashing liquid onto the sponge before wiping the plate clean
on both sides, then repeating the process. His coffee cup could get by with a simple rinse and wipe, but he preferred scrubbing
inside and out, around the handle, too, where some coffee might have dribbled down.

The clock on the stove read 10:56. It was still too early to eat his lunch or tune in again to the weather report on the television.
He opened the refrigerator so he could pour himself a glass of water. With the pitcher less than full, he walked back to the
counter for the jug of purified water. The old jugs used to be the five-gallon size, but one day he saw Socorro struggling
to lift the plastic container and he rushed over to help her, something an old man would’ve never been able to do. Then later
that afternoon, just to make it easier on her, he had gone ahead and replaced the five-gallon with the three-gallon size.
Now he kept two smaller jugs and made a trip to buy more water whenever he noticed one of them getting low.

The first water station he passed was spray-painted with
EL NOE Y LA ROSA
on its side and along the metal counter where people set their jugs to retrieve water. Farther down the same street, he passed
a station that charged a nickel less, but it meant driving across a parking lot riddled with potholes and broken glass. Some
of the grocery stores also sold water, only these outlets were located near the entrance of the building, and he would have
to find a parking spot, then walk over to buy the water, then use a shopping cart to bring the filled jugs to wherever he
left the car. Socorro had mentioned to him the filter systems she’d seen in some of the other houses she cleaned. He told
her he would think about it, but he had trouble believing these machines did as good a job as the water stations. Besides,
if he bought the filter, he wouldn’t need to go buy water a couple of times a week, and that would be one less thing to occupy
his time during the day.

He pulled the car into the small parking lot of the San Juan Water Station. The station had an outlet on either side, but
he preferred the left since it was on the driver’s side and shaded by a row of Sabal palms that stood at the far end of the
lot. A palm from one of the trees had fallen overnight and now lay withering across the dark asphalt. He placed the first
jug on the counter and lowered the retractable spigot so it rested less than an inch above the mouth of the jug. After he
fed the three quarters into the slot, he pressed the three-gallon button and waited as the water shot out with the force of
an open fire hydrant.

He was capping the jug and was about to place it in the backseat when he heard a car honking from the street. An elderly man
in a motorized wheelchair was driving halfway on the shoulder and halfway in the right lane, forcing traffic to either slow
down or go around him. Some drivers might have missed him were it not for the small U.S. flag fluttering on an antenna high
above the chair. He was dressed in a blue-striped Western shirt, khakis, short black boots, and a straw cowboy hat, all of
which appeared exceedingly large for him, as if he had shrunk since putting on his clothes that morning. On his lap he held
an empty three-gallon jug.

Don Celestino stepped around to the other side of the station to ask the old man if he needed help getting his water, but
the man only mumbled something to himself as if he hadn’t seen another person nearby. A strip of spittle had dried at the
corner of his mouth, caking itself onto his two-day-old stubble. He grabbed the wooden cane hooked on the back-rest of his
chair and positioned it between his legs as he stood up. Once he had set the jug on the counter, he pulled out a long black
billfold with a fighting cock embroidered on its side and then fumbled through a stash of lottery tickets until he finally
located his money.

“That machine can be difficult sometimes,” Don Celestino said when he noticed that George Washington’s face was as worn and
tattered as the old man’s.

“Eh?” He tried to remove his money from the tray but managed to snatch only a corner before it tore off in his hand. “Then
why the hell do they have it here, just to steal my money?”

He stared at the spigot, waiting for his water to come out. A few seconds passed before the tray expelled the torn bill and
the service panel began to flash:
PLEASE TAKE YOUR MONEY.
Then it darkened before it flashed again:
POR FAVOR RETIRE SU DINERO.

“The other side works better,” Don Celestino said.

“And why would I give them more of my money?” He grabbed the jug off the counter. “It would be better if I just drank the
dirty water I have at home.” He sat down in the wheelchair, muttering something else to himself, and finally whipped around
the station to the other counter. There he looked through his billfold again, but the only dollar he found was more wrinkled
than the first one.

“Here,” Don Celestino said, and from his own wallet handed him a crisp dollar bill.

The old man held the jug under the rushing water. Afterward he paid Don Celestino with one of his own wrinkled dollars. “I
appreciate the help,” he said, extending his hand. “Pano Garcia.”

“Celestino Rosales.”

The old man cocked back his hat. “The one who was a barber?”

Don Celestino nodded as he tried to recognize the other man’s face.

“I thought you had died.” He lowered himself back down into the chair.

“That must have been somebody else.”

“They said you had problems with your heart or something.”

“It must have been somebody else, maybe my older brother Fidencio.”

“No, I am almost sure it was Celestino Rosales that they told me had died. This was two or three years ago.”

“Maybe because of my diabetes.”

“No, not because of your diabetes.” He looked at the ground and spit, then wiped his mouth on his shoulder. “Why would somebody
waste their time telling me that you had diabetes? Tell me who doesn’t have that.”

“Two years ago was when I sold my business.”

“Maybe that was it. Not that you died, but just that you sold the barbershop. Maybe that was what they meant to say.”

“People like to talk,” Don Celestino said. “Even when they have no idea what they’re saying.”

“I can tell you don’t remember me.” The old man laughed to himself. “But how, after so many years? You used to cut hair in
a barbershop near Washington Park. I would cut my hair with the one named Lalo, who was my uncle.”

“That was back when I was starting out, before I opened my business.”

“See? I remember. At least the mind still works.” The old man tapped his finger to his temple.

“You look good still,” he said, though really he had no recollection of the man.

“I never took care of myself and now I have so many problems with my health. Twice a week they take me to clean my blood.”
He raised a shirtsleeve to show him his bandaged forearm. “This leg isn’t mine.” His left shin made a hollow sound when he
rapped on it with his cane. “I have some good days, but more than anything I spend the time waiting for God to take me.”

“At least you can still get around.” Don Celestino handed him the jug of water.

“Maybe you are one of those who likes to kneel down and be giving thanks, but not me. Most of it hasn’t been so good.” He
fiddled with the control stick and moved the wheelchair side to side. Then he cocked back his head and looked up as if he
had remembered something. “I can see you have been a lucky one to stay healthy, but just wait and see.”

“For what?”

“Just wait.” He held up his hand as if cautioning him from coming any closer to the edge of a cliff.