It’s a colder breeze than yesterday, but warmer than it’ll be tomorrow. Like so many of us living in the in-between, this bleak outlook has become a constant state. In the dark of this night, it would be hard to see me curled away in the shadow. My corner of sanctuary tucked into the crossing of the streets. My eyes feel sore and worn as I open them. It looks as it does every night when I arise; an empty intersection inhabited solely by the shadows avoiding the beams of the lamp posts. My journey often begins as such; a mouse drawn out from his hole in the search of food. And like the mouse, night is my cover. My protection.
Getting up in ragged clothing, I leave behind what little I call mine. Two cardboard boxes, a weathered sleeping bag, and an aged rug. It isn’t much, but it is precious to me. It is my living room, my reception, and my foyer. It is where I wake and where I sleep. It is my bed. It is my home. Or at least what I imagine a home to be like. Perhaps it is no house, but then again, I have no need for a house. What ever would I fill it with? In its enormous grandeur, however could I fill its vast emptiness? No, a house is not a fitting thing for someone like me. Someone like me carries all that he needs with him always. All of life’s necessities can easily fit in the pockets of my many layers. A hat. A spoon. A knife. A lighter. A scarf. What more could I ask for when I am already so well-endowed in wealth? Food perhaps. Since I have woken I have been quite hungry. And I can only think of one restaurant fitting for a man of my status.
And so, I leave my corner of the world with what little possessions I cannot carry with me. But, I have no fear that they will move on to a new owner. Ever since I found this place I have always felt free and safe from any intrusion. For the simple fact that no one comes here. Why should they? My alley is fit for me and me alone. I can think of no other who would be interested. Well, there are others. But I would never let them know of my secret. Why crowd the neighborhood when you can have it all to yourself?
But, that also isn’t all true. I do have a neighbor. He visits me sporadically. I can’t say that I enjoy his presence very much, but there seems to be nothing I can do to get rid of him. It is not that he’s a noisy neighbor or something like that. Quite the opposite. I almost never see him. And when I do, he is completely silent. But such a recluse tenant is hardly worth the thought.
I make my way out on the street corner and up many other winding alleys. The city is still chipper from the excitement of the nights prospect. You can her laughing and singing in the street. Dancing, and chattering from the windows. A tipsy illumination as the darkness falls in and around her. The home dwellers will be going out soon. To other homes, and other places. To see performers, and to see shows. And from them will come the heart beat that keeps this city awake. Bubbling with energy until she passes out from exhaustion. And much like them I too am on a journey. I too will see the city. Or perhaps better put, the city will see me. I will have to go into the heart of the chattering city on my way to dinner. But unlike them, I will be silent. For while they have everything in the world to talk about, I have next to nothing to say. What little I have to say I often just say to myself. Well, because I am the best of company if I might say so. No one quite matches my own conversation. And so, I head toward the Opera district where dinner usually awaits.
*****
Like some of the others, I have begun to forget bits of my past. Forgetting things I never had, and longing for them in a melancholy futility. We all forget things about the world as time passes. But, the more time passes, the more the world forgets about us. Walking to Opera no one looks at me. As though I was something not to be seen. Invisible. Forgotten. Do they ignore me or am I simply not even there? How can you forget that which was never remembered to start with? When the city thinks back onto it’s night, and the times they had, will I even be mentioned? I doubt any of them would even take notice of someone like me. A phantom in their memory. A shadow in the street. A brick the wall.
Arriving at Opera I saw the line. A caravan of my peers cued up for a warm supper. Granted, it may not be steak, but it is a far more splendid meal than its alternative. I too cued up with the others, waiting for a tin foil meal and a paper cup. I had seen many of these companions before. The men and women of the alleyways. The lurkers in the dark. We are not malicious people. We intend no harm. But we inflict no great good either. For the most part, we are neutral. Hiding away simply because that is where we feel belonging. We enjoy living in the places that have no memory. In the dark, neither we nor the world can see ourselves. And in that, we both dearly desire. For we are not the most beautiful of people. Not one of us in this line wore designer clothes. In fact, many didn’t have the same pair of shoes. Not because they lost one. No. Instead because they had found one. Like our shoes, our whole outfits are pieced together. Meshing together an array of fashion to create our own postmodern design.
Deep in observation I had not heard the groans of the men at the front of the line. Now they began to shout. Vulgar things at the innocent chefs. Apparently, all the seats had already been reserved, and the kitchen closed. There simply wasn’t enough food for all of us. In an annoyed dissatisfaction our line began to disperse. Each going their separate ways. Each knew that Opera no longer held their food stamp. They would have to move on to greener pastures. And so, would I. Plaza Mayor always held promise, and there I would surely find a table waiting for me with a suitable meal.
But before I left, I caught the glimpse of a man I knew. A Frenchman I called La Artista. He had gotten his sandwich in time and was now talking to some of the cooks. I call him the performer because that is how I see him. Of us, he is the most charismatic. His mouth flows with the sweet melody of a story needing to be heard. And his voice producing an ensemble that only the French can procure in voice alone. His act, whether true or not, is something I’ll never know. All I know is that I have never heard him tell the same story twice. And these philanthropists loved him for it. The conviction behind his performance displayed to them the genuine emotion of truth. It was in his eyes. Those gleaming sapphires. The pearly shine glistening against the lighting of the plaza. It was those trusting eyes that had drawn them in. And they loved him for it. He loved to talk to them about his past. About his mother. He always gave them want they wanted; what I wish I could give to them.
Oh my Mother? Why I haven’t seen her in a long time. How I wish I could her lovely face again. …
Who? My Mother? What makes you ask about that woman?
…
That woman! She never seemed to like me. And likewise. Why would I talk to you about a bitch like her? Every time a different story. And every time a beautiful tapestry. Oozing out the curious details that they craved. How could I compete? My clumsy, timid tongue could never command such affection and focus. No. My silence was my story. A story not often heard, and certainly never enjoyed. What stories could I tell them to draw them in? What could I possibly tell them about my mother? Mother. I remember her. Not her face. Not her look. Not her voice or her smell. But I remember her. A presence, distant and dim. But even the dimmest lights can break through the darkest night. She is like all my memory; fragmented but clear; distant but near; shaky but true. A truer history than I’ve ever known. More important than any story I’ve ever been told. But these true stories are not the ones they want to hear. No, they want to live it as vividly as I do. But how can they when I cannot describe it. What story can be told when the story is just a feeling? An indescribable feeling. No. My memory is not a performance for their amusement. An act of empathy to be inducted into their world. No. This is my world. This is my memory. Mine.
*****
Plaza Mayor. What a sight to see. Where two worlds collide with a corridor of pedestrians to divide them. In the center always huddled the lambent masses. Glowing and beaming at the lights, and the sounds; engrossed in their phones and in each other. Self-consumed and content. You can always hear them shouting, and laughing amongst themselves. Brimming with the optimistic venture for the night’s excitement. It was rather full and packed as I arrived. Soon they will all begin to flood out of the plaza. The eateries and cafes were already closing as the exhausted workers drudgingly picked up tables and chairs.
But this was the other world. The one detached from me. Instead, I shuffled over into the edges of the Plaza. Here is where I must live and lurk. Near, but not quite apart of the enthusiasm at the Plaza’s nucleus. Along the Plaza’s edges lined a row of cardboard structures. A tunnel of sorts, formed from the discarded packaging from the other world. The Cardboard Village. At least, that’s what I call it. It’s the closest I’ve found to a community in this city. Most of the materials it encompassed were old and tattered. Water worn boxes, yesterday’s newspaper, decade old blankets that doubled as the mattress and comforter. In harsh weather, this hardly protected any of them from the conditions. But, at least it was something. What else were they to do?
Shuffling alongside this makeshift suburbia, I saw many men and women I had seen in Opera. Some had found luck in finding some dinner. While others, like me, still were on the hunt. They too shuffled along carrying plastic bags dangling from their chaffing coats. They neither looked at me, nor at the other world. Just shuffling forward until they could find a nice spot in the Plaza with some peace. But those who lived here, the cardboard people, they looked at me. Up and down in hopes of some recognition.
“Hey! What’s up, dude? What brings you around here?”
Mi Vecino approached me. He was a short man. For as thin as he was, he still had a chubby face. He isn’t quite what I would call a friend. Rather more of an acquittance. I don’t know if anyone quite qualifies as a friend anymore. They’re all too preoccupied with their own self-interests.
“The Usual. The line in Opera ran out so now I’m here.”
It’s strange. I can’t remember how long I’ve known him. So many people come and go that I hardly can keep track. Some leave, and some get taken away. But nonetheless, someone new always comes to take their place the next day. It can be a crowded lifestyle out here on the street. If you don’t claim your stake, there may be no place for you to stay.
“Damn! They never have enough. I tell ya, these fuckers bring just enough to fuck with your head. Always have some for everyone else, but never enough for you. But we both know they have plenty. They just like playing games with ya, dude. They like to fuck with your head for fun.”
I never have enjoyed small talk. While benign, it always made me feel uncomfortable. Agitated by its awkwardness. I never have been one to say much though. So perhaps it me, not them, who makes it awkward. Regardless, it never suited me. But who else was I going to talk to?
“Hey man, did ya hear?”
“What?”
“Those Chirri came in here and took un tio de mi barrio. They fucking took my mate man! He wasn’t even doing nothing. Just asking for some money out by Sol. Next thing you know, a Guardia come by and tells him to ‘move it along.’ Move along to where? He ain’t moving. He’s sitting. Ain’t doing nothing. He tells the guy ‘hey, I’m just out here making a living just like you cerdo.’” He wasn’t the passionate type. His face, and body never expressed much when he spoke. Often just standing idly stagnant as he spoke.
“Next thing I heard the Poli picked him up and plops him on his feet. My man knew the drill. He was cool. He was gonna move on; just had to pick up his shit. Goes down to grab his earnings, and the Polica snags it first. Say it’s ‘income tax.’ ”
He didn’t need to convey much for me to imagine it. It was clear in my mind. Those muscular hands rough against this jerking man. Those mahogany eyes piercing down at him with such intimidation. I could imagine his helplessness, because I knew his helplessness.
“Well, I tell ya. My buddy lost his shit right there. Started grabbing at him. Yelling ‘gimme back my fucking money.’ Swinging fist first into a gun fight. Last thing I heard was they’d taken him away in one of their vans. Telling him assaulting an officer is against the law. Damn! They mock my mate in front of the whole plaza right before they go and shut him up. I guarantee we won’t hear from him for a while.” Even at this Mi Vecino didn’t exaggerate his point. Just dully said it. As though he’d been talking about the weather. Even his dirty saffron eyes seemed dull. Glossy and motionless. A sort of subverted gloom that would look beautiful if only they could shine a bit brighter.
“Shit’s sad. But what are we supposed to do about it? Protest? Show up at the belly of the beast and demand his release? Shit! They got us locked down tight. Pushing us down ‘til we can’t even complain. I loved that guy, and they fucking locked him up for nothing.”
Impeding the closure to his story, three universitarios interrupted us. They strolled over to us, fixating on delivering their generosity. In their hands was a buffet. A bag of bananas, some chocolate bars, and a large plastic bag filled to the brim with aluminum wrapped sandwiches. Even though I knew that they would eventually come here, I was still surprised. People rarely want to see me, and I rarely want to be seen. I mean why would I? Their disappointment. Their pity. Their demeaning demeanor. Why should I care for them when they care so little for me? But as much as I despised them, I sincerely needed these patrons.
“Y’all hungry? Quires un Bocadillo?”
These foreigners presented us with our gifts in out stretched hands. Funny isn’t it? That it is the foreigners who comes to greet us and not our fellow neighbors. I quickly grabbed my portion to ensure I got my fair share. Others, who I had not noticed gather nearby, scrambled in around; each jockeying for the next serving.
There were three of them. One with each kind of cuisine. Two boys flanking either side of the girl holding the bananas and chocolate. They all wore freshly washed clothes. Their hands smooth and soft with only the wear of a pencil mark against their fingers. The two boys looked out onto us in a sort of haze. Their grey eyes scanning the scene, and distributing their goods as quickly as possible. On the other hand, the girl in the center seemed sharp. Focused on not only providing, but engaging us. It was the girl who had handed me my sandwich and now waited patiently for me to speak. But, we both knew I would not speak first.
“How are you?”
Her Spanish came off quite good on second hearing. Almost as good as the native speaker. Her face portrayed the kind, friendliness that everyone craves. Emulating an energy that could melt down the walls that stood between us. Her milky eyes displaying a sense of comfort and understanding. Not overpowering, but not shy. She was focused. Focused on me. But why?
“Fine.”
Expect for how fucking miserable I am.
“Oh, that nice! Where are you from?
“Here.”
Who gives a shit? What difference does it make?
“Oh, how exciting! I just love this city. So full of life, especially at night.”
Yeah… maybe for you.
While polite, I began to feel uneasy around her. Retracting, I abruptly backed into the massing crowd. There were easily ten of us around them now. Slithering back behind the bodies I could still see her eyes following me. Intent on rekindling our brief conversation. But, as the pressures of demand gripped around her, her snowy eyes shifted onto the next probing hand.
I nudged my way over to a side of the wall with an opening. Pressing my back against the ridged stones, I squeezed myself in between two cardboard houses. Unwrapping the tin foil, I could smell the steam from the sandwich. The warmth creep up into my nose and through my lungs. Tortilla de Espana. Another microwaved dinner to satisfy my growing hunger.
Nibbling on my spread, I looked out on the plaza; people watching being my favorite show. The old men still courting their aging wives. Young girls giggling over young boys. A group of college student bubbling with an intoxicated glee. Some people sat, grouped in circles. Others stood, waiting on others to arrive or to return. Standing on the edge of the plaza stood a man waiting. His body almost entirely cloaked by the shade from one of the columns. He stood there smoking. Waiting. His face illuminating each time he drew a drag from his cigarette. Not looking around but staring. Or so I thought. His charcoaled face beamed from the fumes. All expect his eyes, which remained a mystery. Looking at him, I began to fixate on him. Perhaps I had seen him before. In this plaza once before. Then, as I narrowed my gaze, a woman crossed in front and shifted my attention. Lean, slim, yet firm. She seemed to me to be an ideal of beauty. Her fashionable dress clinging to her body as it draped around her. Strutting across the plaza, she moved with purpose and intent. Surely, she had a luxurious night ahead of her. Her fuchsia eyes gleamed; demanding to be acknowledged and adored. She stopped in the middle of the plaza where she joined some friends.
They too shared in her beauty. Beautiful people with beautiful clothes. Each with their own set of gorgeous eyes. Accompanying her dazzling fuchsia were a neon lavender and a sparkling jade. Each flamboyant and demanding devotion. Perhaps it was the churning of my stomach, but something began to ache inside. I desired them. More than that, I desired to be with them. To be in their world. To talk about what they talk about. Where not everything had to be so gravitas. Where the heaviness is substituted for a multitude of temporary frivolity. I stopped eating and began to stare. Like a child in a candy store, my eyes filled with awe and desire. At last, an opportunity presented itself. She glanced over in my direction and for a moment caught eyes with me. A chance to realize my fantasies. But just as quickly as it occurred, it also ended. Swiftly, she refocused her gaze upon her friends and proceeded to leave the plaza. I was not even acknowledged. Not even thought of for a brief second. Damn her. Damn them all. They weren’t beautiful. No, they were disgusting. Self-absorbed by their own prospects. Fantastically grotesque in their bliss. Surely, they were on a journey beyond any need of me. An odyssey across the city as they slowly bar hop their way home. To them, I am just as terrifying as the cyclops was to Odysseus. Not to be questioned. Not be understood. Simply to be avoided. To be averted. Damn them! Better they leave and never return. Leave me in peace in my own isolated little world.
When I looked back to see if the man in the shadows was still there, he had vanished. Gone into the night. Either he had found who he was waiting for, or simply had given up waiting. And so too had los chicos left. Finished with their delivery of altruism. Regardless, I was left alone to engage only but myself.
*****
There are many kinds of ways to love you know. I had heard about these many loves from some man I’d once known. He said the Greeks had discovered them all. I can’t remember them all, but I do remember some. There’s Eros, the passionate love. Philia, the love of friendship. Storge, which has something to do with your family. There’s Philautia, but to be honest I’ve forgotten what that ones all about. But the one that I think about all the time is Agape. The universal love. It’s the one that people like me think about all the time. That humanity that eludes me. How can I love the strangers around me, when it seems that none of them love me back? Sometimes I want to be loved. And other times I hate the idea entirely. Love seems so strange to me. Its something that I don’t believe I’ve ever really felt. But I wish I could feel it. Just once. Like so many have.
El Prisionero says he knows all about love. Sometimes I see him here in the Plaza. He loves to talk about love. He considers himself a kind of expert. He’ll always say something like, Love is just one of those things you just know by its touch. I can’t describe it to you, you gotta feel it for yourself.
He likes to speak with his hands. Moving them about as though he is demonstrating love to a lecture hall. His fingers always catch my eye. Big, but dilapidated. His nails are always overgrown. Usually chipped and uneven. Except for his pinkie nail. For some reason that nail was always long and smooth.
Perhaps he loved to use his hands because when they had taken his chains off he had always feared that they would put them back on him. So, I guess he tries to use them as much as he can before they’re restrained again. Tied down by the forces of this society. I’ve loved many times and been loved many times. Hell, I’ll probably love again. Its an addiction. Once you love someone you just can’t stop. But you better watch out. These women are always trying to play games with ya. Tyring to mess with your mind. That’s why you gotta remember to love yourself no matter what. It’s that kinda love what makes you a man. It makes you feel strong, and independent. Gives you the courage to love.
His scarlet eyes always came across so expressive to me. Perhaps that’s why I listened to him instead of ignoring him like I do with so many others. He has a scar across one eye that I assume must have come from some fight he had had in prison. But I had never asked. In fact, I never asked much about him. I always just listened to the strange things he would say; staring at his sanguine eyes. Darting around the place as though he couldn’t hold his focus for more than a moment.
But you can’t get yourself locked up like I did. There’s no love in that place. Instead of kisses you get beatings. Instead of hugs you get chains. There’s no warmth to give out in a cold place like that. I’m telling ya man, when you’re in there you’re livin; but you ain’t alive. How can you feel love when you aren’t even a man? Don’t be like me, man. You can’t be going to prison. Quite type like you won’t survive. And he was right. I probably wouldn’t. But in many ways, I already felt like I was there in that cold place. I am alive, but I’m certainly not living. He thought of the guards, and I thought of the passersby. Both in a solace for the soulless. Their ignorance being their bliss. I am no man to them. So why should they care? Hell, I don’t think anyone sees me as a man. So why should anyone love me?
Leaving Plaza Mayor, I headed towards Callo. The beauty of this time at night is that the city is finally tired. Some are fast asleep, while other are just preparing for slumber. The streets are empty. No diverted eyes passing by with unmatured judgement. No talk of a world to which I was never invited. Rather it is silent. Wonderfully quiet. Calm. Empty. The home dwellers might find it eerie, and vacant. But I find it soothing. Like a pond in the forest so still and calm that the entire world reflects upon its surface. Likewise, the empty streets reflect so much of the city. Its structure. Its attitude. Its people. It shows me all that they have, and all that they desire. But more than that, it is what they choose not to have. What they do not desire. All that remains in the streets after their nightly venture is the trash. The unwanted and discarded extras. And me.
Breaking my seclusion, the sound of the street sweepers breaks through my thoughts. Those massive monsters that gallivant afterwards through the streets. Sweeping away of all the garbage let behind. Neatly sweeping it all under the rug. While the city sleeps, these beasts discard of their mess for them. So that when they all awake in the morning it is as fresh and as new as they had found it the night before. They can continue their day without regarding the remanence of the night.
Sometimes, I like to imagine the sweeper sweeping me away. Running over me and taking me away. Like the trash on the ground never to be seen again. To rid this city of another leftover. I belong to be somewhere else. I deserve to be taken away to somewhere new like all the other garbage in this town. I don’t belong here. Not with these people. Not in this town. But instead of sacrificing myself, I turn away from the sweepers. And I begin to walk back into the shadows where I arose. Back to the shadows where I must descend. The city has a big day ahead of it. A day filled with activities and responsibilities. A day that involves so many things. All expect that non-of-them involve me.
*****
As I walk back to my abode, I often enjoy looking in the store fronts. The beautiful world I wish to be a part of. A farmacia with posters of beautiful women. A resturante with tables lain in preparation for tomorrows diners. Standing outside you can only imagine the atmosphere that it evokes when it is full. Looking inside I catch the glimpse of a man. A man standing in longing and hunger. Under the his ragged hair is a face. Shadowed dark from years of dust kicked across it, but weathered into unique styles. Like the cliffs against the shore beaten endlessly by the wave, this rigid face seems to curve and bend as time withers away at it.
In this face are two eyes. Eyes that peer back into me. Eyes that had been with me all my life, yet remain a mystery to me. What cruelty it is not be able to see one’s own eyes. To be unable to look at oneself. We become familiar to ourselves and yet from the outside our eyes are but another foreign thing. These eyes. These lonely eyes. Their shadowy brown an almost obsidian black. Eyes so large, and so commanding hidden behind the tattered locks of an ungroomed mane. These eyes do not speak back. No. These eyes did not speak; they listened. These eyes do not engage, they consume. Into their abyss whole worlds are consumed. Observing and watching the world as it passes in front them. Everything they see, and everything they have seen become lost in those eyes. No. These eyes are as foreign to me as they are to those who look upon them. Who could ever love such eyes? These are not my eyes.
I looked away from the store down toward the street which I call my own. Briskly I walked away and did not look back. I knew that the man in the mirror was following me, but I dared not look back. His hallow eyes intent on me as they stared from the shadow behind. I could feel the silhouette edging closer to me; preparing to grip me and force me to face him. And so, I ran. I ran to the end of the street and whipped the corner. Then down another and past the beams of the lamp posts. Seeing my abode, I scrambled into my cave.
Still. Motionless, I watched. I waited. The street was still, and silent. Not a rustle of sound. The city was silent. As I was silent. My breath hushed by the throbbing of my heart. I waited. I waited and stared at the edge of the corner where I knew he lurked. But still, he did not come. Those jet-black eyes hidden in the darkness between the light.
He must be coming for me. Why does he wait? Even though I could not see him I knew he was there. And then, a lamp post flicked and its torch dimmed for but a second. A breeze, brisk and strong, howled through my street… and he was gone. I don’t know where he had gone, but I knew I was safe. Safe in my corner of the world. As the breeze began to pick up, I took shelter in my sleeping bag. Further tucked away from the world, I felt safe in my cocoon. And as I laid there, the brisk chill of a breeze wrapped itself around my bed; drawing me to curl deeper into my hollow. The street dwindled to a silence. The only solitude to clear away my restless thoughts. I shut my aching eyes as the breeze blows swiftly again. It was a colder breeze than it was yesterday, but a warmer one than it’ll be tomorrow.