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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN#/ ISBN# issue/book “What He’s Trying to Paint” cc&d, v303 (the November 2020 issue) Order the 6"x9" paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Roll the Bones the cc&d Sep.-Dec. 2020 magazine issues collection book		get the 424 page Sep.Dec. 2020 cc&d magazine 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

The Tale of Gringo El Loco: A Christmas Feature (part 1)

H. L. Dowless

    Though his body felt young on the inside, his mind knew deep in the inner most depths of its midst that he was growing older. On the outside his arms grew tired and his feet ached to the point that he felt that he could not complete his journey forward, even though it was a journey that he had traveled continuously for well over twenty years now. The pits in the shattered sidewalks seemed to grab up at him now, even though he managed to step broadly over them, just as he always had. A sight caught his eye on the left side, he tuned to glance, his eyes beholding a snarling angry face.
    “Stay out of my way, old man! What’s de matter wid ya? You forgot where ya going?” spouted an angry figure that shook his fist as he spoke so loud.
    It seemed like today was the first time that he had ever received words like that from anyone, and it was the third time today that he had endured those types of profane greetings.
    “Yea, ya punk kid there! Nothin’ is wrong with me! You had just better watch where ya going,” he shouted back through tightly clenched teeth.
    As he strained ahead, his eyes felt as though they were slightly more clouded today than ever at any other time that he could recall. He continued forward just as he had done for so many thankless years now. What else could he do, but continue forward? Up ahead for what appeared to be kilometers, he saw his destination; Senior Greko Barbarossa’s wood carving shop.
    The stress of the walk seemed to bear even more heavily upon him now than it had even in the past few minutes, and his feet hurt deep inside the center of their soles with ever more growing intensity, so it seemed to him. In his mind he never once doubted himself, he was determined to make that round no matter what fate had in store for his body or soul. Way too many people were depending on him to complete the sacred journey.
    Soon as he strained to take his next step, he saw the sign of the wood carver’s shop sitting just outside the opened door along with several of his wares that were on display. An old man struggled to walk toward him, a man even much more older than himself.
    “Santiago, my dear precious friend, mucho gusto mi Amigo! I am so glad that you are here. I know that this is the season for orders, so I shall assume that is what you came for? You know that you are always welcome here. You are family.”
    El Greco hugged the man, clapping him solidly upon his shoulders as he did so, and lovingly kissing his right cheek.
    “It’s so good to see you again. I heard that you had been very sick, sir.”
    Santiago smiled a warm smile, his sun hardened face suddenly shattering as he did so.
    “And surly it is so good to be here. Yes, I had been somewhat sick, but I am here now....and stronger than ever, I shall say!”
    “Bravo! Bravo! That is so good to hear! I hope that I never hear that you are sick again, and again, welcome back! I can never say that enough. You just do not know how much I mean those words, my friend!”
    The shop wasn’t much to behold. Basically it was just a concrete hole among many others on this narrow street of unpainted asphalt and more concrete that rose and fell up and down the hills. Beside him sat the pinata shop, before him was the shoe smith, all of these businesses owned by the same people whom he felt as if were his family. In fact, they were the only family that he had remaining in the entire world. Once they were gone, there would be no more, or so it felt to him at the present time. Across the road from him was the helado shop, and the licoria shop was just after that. All of the people walked forward to hug him and wish him well and said welcome back.
    “Oh Santiago, we are sure glad to see you back again,” they greeted him with smiles as they spoke the words.
    “Well it’s that time of year again, I guess,” asked Senior Greko.
    “Indeed it is, my dear friend,” replied Santiago. “Make it the same as the year before, please Senior.”
    “That I shall do, good Sir.”
    “Just add ten more of each to the portion, please,”smiled the relaxed Santiago.
    “Oh Santiago, dear Santiago....how do you do it? Certainly the dear children shall adore you for it. This is so much trouble....I know it is! Let me offer you a cheerful discount...please do.”
    “No, no, no, “ warmly smiled Santiago. “You must make a living. I cannot take advantage of your generosity like that. We have been good friends for way too long, Sir Greko. I do what I do and live where I live, just so I can make these rounds every year. I love it and would not have it any other way. This is the real me, and this is what I live for ever since I arrived here in Otavolo, now over twenty years ago.”
    El Greko smiled warmly again toward Santiago, shaking his head from side to side, then embraced him once more, as did all of the others standing in the concrete room.
    “Oh dear Santiago, may God in heaven truly bless you for what you are doing.”
    As they all took turns embracing him, tears formed in their eyes. The ladies began to even weep, hugging him as though they never wanted to let go. The lady who owned the helado shop then smiled warmly at him.
    “Dear Santiago, then please allow me to get you a mango shake and a plate of Seiko-de-chewa. I promise it will not take long, nor will it be much trouble to me.”
    Santiago then pointed his index finger toward the sky above, shaking it to give emphasis to his words about to be spoken.
    “Now that, ladies and gentleman, is an offer that no real man could ever refuse!”
    Everyone burst out in laughs and cheers, clapping as if to celebrate the fact that Santiago had accepted the offer. After thirty minutes or so, amid many smiles, laughs, and lots of warm conversation, the lady finally returned. Her and her teenaged daughter carrying the plate, the shake, and a large bottle of Pilsener Beer, carefully placing it before Santiago as he cheered with the others.
    As the time passed and the hours waned, soon the ladies disappeared, and appeared later on with more beer and mixed rum drinks called agua de loco. The hours passed with more singing and more celebrating, and the celebrations were for the coming of the Epiphany season, but also for the goodness in fellowship and just being healthy and alive.
    “We live!” they all shouted. “Salutations,” as they placed their glasses together both while standing up and sitting at the tables.
    Soon the hours waned and Santiago knew that he must begin his long walk back from the wood shop and into the dwelling in which he now lived. He did not want to go back. He would have loved to just sit and stay with all of his family right here among them, and they would have gladly received him, but he knew that he must go because he had a cherished undertaking to engage very soon. So with the sun now drawing down toward the tree lined horizon, he said his goodbyes, and then began his journey back toward his home place.
    He felt fine in a clear headed sort of way as he casually ambled down the sidewalk passed the concrete shops and the overloaded tiendas. Many of these small shops had pulled their steel doors down or pulled their heavy wooden doors shut, and across their front the once opened welcoming entrance ways were now replaced with heavy iron cages all painted black. Instead of happy people sitting out front with greeting smiles, most were sitting comfortably behind those caged doors, laughing and talking with their next of kin. It seemed that all of them were now closing just as he was walking passed, one right after another. The warm smiles of the owners now being replaced by frightful snarling frowns and glares.
    “What do ya want, old man,” they snarled as he paused momentarily to gaze into their loaded store fronts. “We are closing up now, so just keep on walking. We will open tomorrow around nine hundred hours, or so.”
    So he kept on walking, only continuing to pause just here and there just to peek. He was not old. He could walk this long walk, and not half of them of whom were only half his age could do that. Why, they were all so lazy and indifferent, most would not work just because they felt they were way to good to do the types of work that were most available; and this even though they wore rags and appeared to have been without a bath or food for three days. Just look at these poor wretches, he thought as he walked past. These people appeared to live in houses, or chicken coops as he called them, each one appearing as if it might just collapse at any moment....and just think, these people feel that they are way to good to carry vegetables or luggage for some one in need? He just shook his head as he continued to walk past, not knowing exactly what to make of it as he watched them all sitting around with wide staring eyes at the close of an entire day, wallowing in wasteful idleness.
    He continued to walk and think to himself. He was extremely healthy most of the time. While it was true that he had been sick some time back, it was the first time in many many years. It had been some three years since he had even had the sniffles. I will bet these young people cannot beat that figure, he thought as he reflected on the frequency of their sickness as he observed. He was not old. Being old meant bent over and using a cane to get around. Why, here he was still standing and walking with swinging arms!
    He rounded a corner that had a tienda tucked away in such a manner that it appeared one could just jump once and be right there inside the wide opened store. The owner and his family were all outside loading rice bags, and vegetables, and yellow plastic cartons filled with half liter bottles of Pilsener Beer inside the store. As he walked past, the owner and his son pulled the slide door down and began picking up the paper and trash that was scattered all about.
    Up ahead in the distance he saw the narrow dirt walkway that led into the area in which he lived. The footpath may lie some three or four hundred meters in front of him.
    “Hola amigos, ven aquie!” he heard a young male voice scream from behind. He snapped around and his eyes fell upon a thin, but toned young boy about thirteen or so. Soon up ran five or six more.
    “Esta Gringo El loco! Sal de aqui loco! No nos gusta tu aqui!” they screamed as they threw mud and small stones upon him. He raised his right arm to shield his eyes as he continued to walk along. Many among them spit, skillfully attempting to aim at his face, but became angry when they could only hit the forearm that so artfully shielded him from their abuse. He attempted to run through them because there was no other choice.
    This was a daily routine that he was forced to experience. He was not angry, but only deeply saddened by their ignorance and the fact that he knew that their future would only hold a continual perpetual poverty for them, and their children as well.
    They followed with their cat calls and jeers. Soon they grew weary of their harassment and scattered out, each seemingly racing down a different alley, like they thought that he just might take the time to pursue them. The harassment that he endured had it’s benefits, it seemed to him; before he knew it he found himself walking through the bamboo gate that closed off the narrow foot path leading to his home down in the tropical wood. That threat sure caused his pace to quicken!
    “Santiago! Santiago! I can see that they have been at it again,” screamed a young voice behind him. Santiago turned and saw his one and only friend, ten year old Pedro who stood by pleading with him.
    “I will fix all of them for this evil. I know the lord of the M79th Amigos, and all that I will have to do is agree to carry some tiny boxes for him, and he will take care of this matter for us!”
    “No, mi ninos, porfavor, no! We must learn to forgive and endure. Time will change them, if it is not way too late for them to see by then. But maybe they can know enough to tell their children by our example, and then their children will know enough to be better people. It is us who should always strive to do our part to make the world a better place. I am so sorry, my dear Pedro, but this means us forgiving all of those who should do us harm,” said Santiago with a warm understanding smile.
    Pedro hung his head, not knowing exactly how to reply.
    “Cheer up, my young friend, tomorrow will be another day. Hasta luago mi amigo. In the manana!”
    “In the manana,” sighed Pedro as he slowly turned and headed back down the side walk from where Santiago had just walked.
    Santiago then turned and walked down the narrow foot path. The path rounded several sharp turns and then finally ended at a small box made of split bamboo with a gable top on it. This was the place that he had called home now for some twenty years or more . It was not much, by his standards back home, but it was home never the less.
    Carefully he tugged the latch string and gently swung the wired bamboo door open, exposing an interior that consisted of a hammock strung from diagonal corner to corner. In the corner to his right was a one foot square of soap stone sitting proudly upon a hand woven split bamboo table that had it’s center carved out so that it formed a hole. This was his stove. He made use of the stove simply by pouring homemade charcoal into the hole, lighting it, then placing a grill over the opening and allowing it to rest upon the thick edges. On this grill top he could bake, boil, and fry. It was much easier and efficient to boil, so this was how he cooked a majority of the time.
    Few people ever came to visit, other than Pedro, so he did not have to worry much about how he appeared to others, except when he went into town to work. For this reason he kept a well cleaned and pressed double breasted suit. He also had five dress pants and five very professional dress shirts that he kept for use at work. Most of the time he just wore old worn out rags, since he would be working in the garden or walking in the woods checking his traps.
    Back onto the busy side walk where the dirt foot path began, for a kilometer and a half in the opposite direction, was an English academy called Espirito Santos. On the outside the academy building appeared very small and insignificant, but on the inside this school was indeed a huge campus structure containing a grammar school, high school, and the university, one for males and the other for females. This was where he worked as an English instructor, sometimes just for a short stint, other times for a long contract.
    As far as he knew, no one ever knew anything about him working there. He tried to keep this fact a carefully hidden secret. He maintained his secret by catching a taxi cab before daylight in the morning, and riding out to the school yard where he simply hung out until the doors opened at o eight hundred hours. At work he was a very well cleaned and professional appearing person, so no one ever knew the truth about him, either at home or at work. No one important ever questioned him concerning the place or area where he lived. The students would question him from time to time, but he could always lie his way out of it by telling them that he stayed with friends and never in the same place. Or tell them that he stayed in Sanborodon, which was one of the most wealthy residential districts in all of Otovolo. The ruse always worked better when he simply carried on with his lesson as quickly as possible, just as though they had never even bothered to ask in the first place.
    On the weekends and evenings he made his way out into the center of town where he lived out his passion, his dream concerning his preordained purpose in life. Six bamboo poles he pushed into the earth, spacing them some twelve feet apart. The two center poles were some four feet taller than the other two. Across these two was tightly tied a green parachute chord. Across this cord was pulled an olive green tarp of the type used by the military, that was tied down on the opposite two poles which spanned on either side. This made a very nice shady shelter that was really comfortable to sit underneath.
    In the center of this shelter stood a very large three feet diameter black spider legged boiling pot, that sit atop a fire which he constantly kept feeding with dried bamboo at the base. Into that pot he poured the finest that all of his meager wages could buy, for his happiness was not determined by what he accumulated, but by the once sad, but now happy faces of the children who lined up in long rows just to savor his next serving. Many times adults arrived to take an easy inexpensive meal, but he did not have a problem with that. Seeing all of them happy made him happy, and that was all that mattered to him most of all. As they arrived inside the tent, he would stand and address them with opened arms:
    “Come my weak, destitute starving ones, for your salvation surly is now at hand. In the name of holy Christ, the son of Mary, the virgin, I commend you to come forward and receive the sacred blessing. For behold, it was the Lord himself who said: suffer the little ones in my name, and they shall be given nurture. Feed the hungry in my holy name, and they shall be given bread. Now hear this, what so ever ye shall do in my name, so shall it be done.”
    He would fill this pot many times each afternoon and day with the very best of meats and vegetables that his meager wages could buy, but only when the very last one had taken his fill, would he then reach down inside with the large stainless ladle, and retrieve his own for the day. To the right corner of the shelter sat a large plastic water keg with a pouring spout near the bottom. This he kept filled with the very best tamarindo juice, or guavanana juice, that his money could buy. He walked over to draw his portion for drink. Sometimes it would be there, but most times it would not be, even when he tilted the keg.
    When the day had ended he would pull up the bamboo poles and roll up the canvas, carefully hiding it in the edge of the palm forest as he made his way back toward the narrow foot path that led to his home in the distance. The pot was simply left standing where it now sat. Somehow it was always there on the next day that he returned to fill it. As he made his way home he heard the young harsh voices again.
    “Come here, my amigos. What have we here? Oh...if it’s not the crazy old gringo from somewhere way up in Seratogo, or is it Chicago? Is that where it is, old man?”
    Santiago simply just kept walking on, pretending to ignore them, but quickening his step at the same time.
    “What? You mean that you are just going to walk on when I am talking to you, old man? You see, my name is Ricardo El Malo, I am the leader of the C73rd street gang. I don’t like you ignoring me and my gang like that. See? We demand that you give us respect! Or else this will happen, except that it will be much worse next time!”
    Ricardo then raced up behind the old man, tossing a old bed sheet over his head. All of them laughed and jumped on him, beating him until he collapsed upon the street.
    “Oh,” he cried. “What did I do? Help! You cannot do this to me!”
    “Ricardo!” screamed a shrill voice that the old man recognized as his friend Pedro. “Stop that, right now! He has not done anything to any of you!”
    “And tell us, please, who is he to you? Your dear friend?” snapped Ricardo.
    They continued to beat him as they jeered.
    “As your brother I demand that you stop it, right now!” screamed Pedro. “He just might be my friend!”
    Pedro rushed up and seized his brother, Ricardo, by his right arm.
    “Stop it, now!”
    “Hey, you kids leave that man alone there,” yelled a harsh low voice. The kids looked up and saw four policemen running toward them.
    “Look out mi muchachos, here come the policia,” yelled a shrill voice. All of the boys scattered and ran. The police paused to help the old man back onto his feet. He slowly pulled the sheet from over his head, gasping for breath.
    “My dear Senior, are you alright?” the officers warmly asked.
    “Sure, I might be old but I am very tough,” replied Santiago as he struggled for breath.
    “We sure hope so. We could not help but come to your aide.”
    “I know one of them,” said Pedro with a smile. “He is my brother, but he is never at home.”
    “Yea, well we’ll be there. We have been after them for awhile anyway,” replied the police.

 

See the 12/20 issue of cc&d for the 2nd half of this story!

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