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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN#/ ISBN# issue/book “Reptile Lust” cc&d, v304 (the December 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 2)

H. L. Dowless


    Pedro sighed. He did not say anything, but deep down he knew that they would never pursue the thugs. He really wished that they would do so, even if one of them was his brother.
    The old man struggled to make it back home. This was the second time in a week that that he had been attacked, but no time in the past was this violent. It seemed to him that the intensity of the attacks was increasing, just because they knew that they could do it, and neither he nor the authorities could or would do anything about it. Maybe his good friend Pedro was right. Maybe he should go to the god father of the local top gang and ask for vindication. It would be worth it if all that he had to do it was to transport a few small packages.
    With that thought ringing in his mind he trudged on toward the narrow footpath that led back to his home. His bones ached even more now than they did before the beating had taken place. He decided that the walking would be good for him in the end, since he could walk the soreness out if he just pressed onward. He sighed deeply, glancing up and seeing the footpath up ahead fifty meters or so.
    As he continued to walk the wind puffed in hard puffs that dried his skin even more as the beating sun seemed to brown it, causing the many creases in his forehead to stand out with much more definition. He struggled to make it back into his bamboo box of a house, pulling on the latch string and nudging the door open. Soon as he entered he came to rest on the hammock that was suspended diagonally from corner to corner. It was an ornate hand stitched hammock given to him by a wife of a dear friend. It sure felt good to just lay here, gently swinging, relaxing himself until his eyes closed all by themselves in what seemed no time at all.
    When his eyes opened it was when the light of dawn cracked just before the sun arose. Another day had rolled by, and the hallowed season of epiphany was now upon the land. He must make it back to the wood cutter’s shop in the next two days to pick up his annual order. Soon the season for the ano veijo would be at hand. That was a glorious time when great pinatas would stand in salutation on the edge of the city street, and all of the children and adults would write down all of their misfortunes from the previous year onto some small snippet of paper, each placing it inside of the giant pinatas. These pinatas would then be set afire, and as they burned so would the spirits of their misfortune. Doing this would assure good luck for the following year, if accompanied by a prayer of request to the virgin, mother of holy Christ.
    Santiago made his own prayer of request, to both Christ and his holy mother. On that spectacular night many from his neighborhood would gaze as they watched him write his words onto the sacred shred of paper, only to place it inside one of the great pinatas that stood tall by the street side. There would be cheers and salutations with both drink and fireworks on the occasion of that night. Everywhere great elation and euphoria would surly fill the air. People running to and fro. The fire works would burst into blossoms of multicolor, only to be obscured by the gray smoke left behind. Yes, he would surly celebrate while he thought of his duty to play a part unto the spirit of the event. People were counting on him, especially the children.
    He arose from the hammock, making his way to the soapstone stove, and casually pouring in the charcoal from the rectangle thin wooden box that sat beside it. He lit the charcoal, and when the fire was burning bright and strong he placed the grill on top of the soapstone, and the pot on top of that. He poured the water into the pot in a measured amount that he knew by heart without putting any though into it. He carefully poured in the corn meal to make a favorite from the home of his origin, only he could not afford the molasses or the nutmeg.
    He called it hasty pudding back home, and it felt warm going down and tasted very good to his mouth. He ate until he could not eat any longer, then washed the pot out at the water jug. He drank his morning cup of coffee, and out the door he went.
    He often thought of home as he walked along during this time of year. Home had been in a land far far away from where he was now. Jobs were non existent where he was from. A profession such as a teacher was out of the question, since computers had long since replaced the person as a teacher.
    As a matter of fact, computers or robots had just about replaced everybody who ever had a job or needed a job. The situation had became so terrible for the people in the developed lands to the north, that the unemployment figures had reached seventy percent. The government continued to lie about everything, even when people were losing their homes and living in tents on the dismal drug torn street corners. Then came the mass protests, and the burning and looting. Things became so bad that the government began sending foreign troops into the towns and the cities, rounding up the people and forcing them into buses and trains, even vans, and shipping them off to Lord only knows where. Some had said into the liquidation camps, because no one ever heard from any of them again. These words were never to be spoken aloud, however.
    He knew something bad was going to go down soon when the government outlawed private ownership of firearms, then all weapons from bows and arrows to swords. That was when he decided to hide his own and go on the run. He tried to convince his family and friends to come along, but none would listen to him. They all felt that the system would never deteriorate to that point, that it would right itself back up. That was the way of his country, he was told by them.
    So he purchased a plane ticket first to Columbia, where he forged his documentation. Then he purchased a ticket to Ecuador under his new false identity. This would surly throw them off his track, if they ever decided to follow. He was sure that they would, since he had cashed his retirement account in and then sold everything that he owned. He had a small fortune. He had opened up a Paypal account on his computer, dropped in all but nine thousand dollars, then he hopped the plane and was gone. When he arrived in Columbia, he opened a new bank account, plugged in the numbers to his new account, and simply transferred his money. He then opened up another account in Ecuador under his new name, transferred the money via Paypal again...., and boom, there he was with lots of cash to stash! It was really so simple to do that it was shocking to him that he had pulled it all off without a single hitch.
    Now he had this money, but what was he to do with it? Before too long he saw his personal calling, so he decided to answer unto this most unique beckoning, as only he knew how to do. He smiled to himself as he continued to trudge along, knowing that he had surly made the right choice. He had not stopped for over twenty years, and he was not about to look back now.
    Soon he rounded the corner and ran straight into the opened pull door of the wood carver’s shop.
    “Santiago, there you are. I was surly expecting you!” said the low gruff voice of the wood carver, El Greko. “Please come on inside! Welcome, welcome, please make yourself at home with us. My house is your house anytime!”
    “I see, I see, my friend. I now see the bag in the corner,” replied Santiago.
    “Why yes, and I have packed your things in it to order, just for you to go with. “
    Santiago handed him the cash in a tight bundle. El Greko quickly counted it out.
    “Make yourself at home here, with us, please,” he said pointing to a chair.
    The wife of El Greko quickly brought out the food, the wine, and following the meal, the tequila. Soon the friends from the surrounding stores came by to sit, drink, and socialize, just as they always did. Before he knew it, the sun was drawing down nearer to the tree lined horizon. He always felt sad when it came time to go, but he just knew that it was something that he had to do. They offered their place to him, so that he could stay for the night. He could not, so he soon stepped out the door and onto the sidewalk, and began that long arduous walk back toward his home, except this time he would be carrying a huge army green sack full of surprises.
    He struggled, soon gasping for breath even though he had not traveled but a few dozen meters. He would pause, resting the sack upon the pavement until his panting breath eased back into it’s normal rate. He would continue on in this manner until he finally reached the door of his home some time well after midnight. He was lucky that the thugs were not out. Maybe they were asleep this late at night, and they would have never suspected an old man being out so late and carrying such a heavy bag this early in the morning. Every pain always has its benefits, he was always told by the elders.
    When he finally trudged back into his home, he crashed into his hammock, swinging gently until he closed his eyes. When he opened them again a new day had arrived in all of it’s brilliant fullness. This was it, that day had finally arrived, the day before the night of the ano viejo.
    The old man awoke, yawning and stretching while standing in the door frame to a door that opened into the lush tropical landscape. Today was the big day just before the great celebration. Later on this evening everyone, both young and old, would be out in the streets, playing their part to a wonderful celebration. Even the thieves who reside in the calle de los ladrones, would cast aside their forlorn calling just for this wonderful majestic air of hallowed celebration. Many had great fear about walking down this certain street all throughout the year, and that fear still held true, even on this sacred evening.
    Already the streets were buzzing, the shops were opening to set up for the evening’s eventful celebration. As Santiago ambled about slowly, taking note of it all, he drew in a deep breath, savoring the wonderful aromatic scent of tropical spices and herbs that were being cooked along with the roasting meat that turned on a stainless rotisserie. He saw the drinks being poured and the happy smiling faces of gentle ladies dressed in long colorful traditional styled Spanish dresses as they placed the drinks on the bar before the many shops. Laughing, playing children raced about through it all, just like life was a happy eternal paradise.
    Santiago smiled broadly as he slowly passed, the sights were a wonderful sight that made his heart assume a warm comfortable glow deep on the inside. A feeling of happiness arose from the very pit of his breast that caused him to feel as if he could relate to the children and their eternal elated joy. He never wanted to leave, he only wanted to add unto their joy by doing his part in the name of the good Lord above, and the holy mother, Mary.
    From time to time, his mind did drift and he came to think on those thoughts of his family back home, but it had been way too many years into the future now, and their lack of contact had caused him to accept the obvious, and simply move on with his life. Those dear thoughts always entered into his mind at this time of the year, but he would shake them off by focusing his mind on the surroundings that lay before him at the moment, and he always just assumed that everyone had perished amid the persecutions that he was sure had overtaken them.
    “My dear Santiago, salutations mi amigo! Felici anos,” spoke a warm but hard voice from behind. He snapped around, there stood the weather beaten face of a gray headed man with long hair, named Gonzales, who always seemed to greet him every time that he passed him by. Every time that he passed, the old man would offer drinks and good blessings, and Santiago never refused.
    “Holo, mi amigo. Como Estas? Buanos dias!” replied Santiago.
    Santiago turned and wakked underneath the bamboo shelter where Gonzales sat at a bench on a picnic table. There he would sit with him, taking tequila shots even though it was early in the morning. This was out of character for him to do so, but he did it just the same, only because his old friend, Gonzales, wanted him to.
    Time seemed to zip along, and Santiago seemingly awoke from a pleasant dream, only to begin his walk once again. The crowds of people were already flocking into the streets, children running here and there, the air filled with cheer and kind pleasant words, and calls of “salutaions mi amigos and amigas! Felici anos!”
    Santiago walked along, pausing to speak, smiling and taking drinks as they were offered. The numbers of the people multiplied and the crowds swelled, signaling that the blessed hour was nearing. Somehow Santiago had managed to make it back into his house to retrieve the army green bag, he just could not remember when or how he did so. Though he struggled underneath the weight of the bag, the euphoria that he had discovered over the years in doing so blanketed the dull throbbing the pain that was now upon his frail body as the weight of the bag bore down mercilessly upon him.
    “Papa Noel,” cried the children as they pointed! “Aqui! Aqui!”
    Quickly he turned and rounded the same old corner that always seemed to throw them off of his trail for some mysterious reason. He did not know how it was that he had always managed to do so, only that he did. He continued to walk and struggle for some two kilometers, before he entered into the street of the thieves.
    As the mid night hour approached, all of the streets filled with the flaming paper maché effigies of innumerable figures, and massive throngs of cheering people yelling, “Hosanna on high! Happy new year and peace on earth!”
    Clouds of blazing fire works popped and zipped through the air by the multitudes. Soon the great cathedral bells rang throughout the entire city of Otovolo in what seemed to be the joyous unending simultaneous ringing of thousands upon thousands, to announce the arrival of that most sacred of hours. A flowing feeling of exhalation ran through the air that seemed to give Santiago a new found strength to continue on.
    So he ambled on, deep down into the residential district area. The houses were like chicken coops back home that were about to collapse. Many of the homes were simply hastily constructed cinder block boxes with tops on them, some gabled, some flat, some just slanted. In each doorway he paused momentarily and placed an elaborately carved teak wood toy car, or a carved handmade doll of some revered figure, or some other figure that he had heard children speak of in the distance during the course of the year; such as the saint of miracles, the good saint, Anthony, since many of the children had family who suffered terrible illnesses that no doctor anywhere could cure. Or he just might leave a magnificently hand carved mahogany figure of the santo de emplao, the good saint, Cajetan, since a parent may have been unemployed for months, or even many years.
    The people were all out in the streets celebrating and would never see him as he ambled along, pausing at the doorways, and leaving his gifts that he pulled with trembling hands from the army green bag. Even if they did see him, they could never recognize him dressed in his fake long beard, black high boots, and blood crimson shirt and long pants. Sometimes though, as before, some children would catch a glimpse of him as he walked along, but he always seemed to evade them, as if the unseen hands of spirits called up by the continuous ringing chime of the cathedral bells labored to conceal his presence from prying eyes.
    On each elaborately carved gift he would place a note of torn paper, carefully notating the name of each resident of the home, and telling them that this gift is for this person, or that gift was for that person, happy new year and salutations, from the spirit of good Saint Nicholas.
    The continual ring of the chimes numbed the pain of his struggle in the labor. He did not like to admit it, but the weight of the ages was now bearing down upon him. He gasped for breath, his arms ached, his eyes narrowed in their blurring vision. He forced himself to continue in his labor, now his breast hurt with a strange swelling pain that felt if some great pressure bore down upon him from above.
    He found the strength to continue on in the ringing of the bells, those sacred drumming chimes of the many cathedral bells. He could not explain it to anyone, but the ringing of the bells gave him a hope that continued on just as long as they continued to ring, and they would do so until o three hundred hours, according to the ancient tradition.
    So he ambled along, pausing at the doorways of each and every house. No matter if the kids or the adults were the most evil of people in the entire neighborhood. Not even if the kids were among those of whom attacked him, beating him up and making him weep. These he placed gifts to as well. Matter of fact, he placed the very best gifts in the entire bag that he carried upon his slumping shoulders upon the door steps of those whom had done him the most wrong. In this act, this most basic of simple actions, he found his eternal joy, his reason for being.
    Slowly he made his way back toward the foot path that led to his home; now on the occasion of his travel back, the army green bag was empty. Though his journey was easier to make, the pain that lay in his breast was still with him. He gasped for breath, pausing, then forcing himself to move on. As the chiming bells rang out their last chime he entered into the door way of his home, coming to rest once again in the swinging hand stitched hammock. He closed his eyes, dreaming of home in a far away place from long long ago. As his eyes came to a gradual close while he lay, he then came to see the outstretched hands of his dear mother, mi Mamia Glendora, beckoning him to come with her.
    “Please come to me, my dear Benny,” she would repeat to him over and over. “Come home with me now, it has been way too long for us to have been apart like this.”
    His eyes beheld a glowing radiant light surrounding her that burned with more intensity than even the sun itself. He arose from within himself to follow........to go on that most pleasant of celestial journeys..........
    Late the next morning a crowd of kids raced into his simple bamboo home with happy cheers, to tell him of their new morning discovery that the consecrated spirit of the good Saint, Nicholas, had left for them. At the rear of the crowd of elated kids spoke the ringing voices of both Pedro and his brother Ricardo, who now wished to beg of his unhesitating forgiveness:
    “Santiago! Santiago! Look what we have found this morning! He is real, as the elders say! The good Saint Nicholas is real! Look.... he lives!”
    The buzzing mob of kids rounded the corner of Santiago’s bamboo door jam holding their treasures high, finding him still laying in the perfectly stationary hammock, deep in the slumber of his hallowed rest, smiling a smile of perfect contentment that seemed to wish the entire world all the joy in eternal peace, and merciful good will unto all men. The old man was truly home now, for behold, now he was no longer old but as though very young once again.... and home was sure to be his amid the perfect pleasure of infinite surrounding cherished company, and the sanctified euphoria of elated radiant golden bliss.......for just as long as time moves forward and the waves of the clear blue sea continue to roll into shore.

 

See the 11/20 issue of cc&d for the 1st half of this story!

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