On the Calzada Independencia
Harold sat on the concrete bench at the bus stop on the Calzada Independencia, eyeing the passing crowd, carefully scanning new arrivals as each bus pulled up, disgorged passengers and then departed with a screeching of brakes and a belch of noxious, black, diesel exhaust.
The hard bench was uncomfortably dirty and cold, and the flexible but thick nylon comb in the back pocket of his jeans only added to his achiness and discomfort – but he did not remove it. Tomorrow he would probably have a purple spot on his butt from sitting on it for so long.
Still, he lingered, intertwining his arms in front of his chest and assuming what he, accurately, thought would be a forbidding pose,
He felt queasy – his head was throbbing, he was dizzy from lack of sleep, and his brain occupied itself not only with the eye-straining observation of the stream of passers-by which, by now, was thinning out, but also with continuing mental reviews of the scene from which he had just fled yesterday.
He had arrived in Guadalajara tired, disheveled, hungry and confused after eighteen miserable hours on a second-class Oriente bus out of Matamoros.
Since eight in the morning, he had been wandering around, drinking coffee, eating a couple of tacos of carne desebrada in a cheap restaurant, and doing exactly what he was doing now: trying not to think.
He had no place to stay, yet, and it was already approaching eleven p.m.
In the pit of his stomach and up his spine he felt little flashes of fear which he tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress.
The person who had ordered his immediate appearance in Guadalajara had not shown up and now he was virtually stranded -- on the lookout, constantly, for the Federales who were probably already preparing to swoop down upon him at any moment.
If he was lucky, and if he made it through the night, he would leave immediately in the morning for Melaque, on the coast, a secondary meeting spot.
The Cine Avenida, across the sidewalk from his inward-facing bus stop bench, now closing for the night, let out a steady trickle of theatre-goers who emerged from two sets of green metal doors onto the sidewalk. They quickly dispersed. Only a couple of them joined the few who waited behind Harold’s bench for one of the last buses of the night.
The lights at the exits from the Cine Avenida went out, making it a bit darker in the vicinity of Harold's bench which, in mid-block, faced away from the street.
A teenager detached himself from the group waiting for buses behind Harold's bench.
The boy, about fourteen or fifteen, was well-dressed. A circular bandage covered most of a shaved area on the crown of his head, more or less the size of a peso coin. He walked over to the darkest area of the sidewalk, stood next to and then leaned against the wall of the theatre, unzipped and began urinating,apparently unphased by the continuing, though sparser, flow of passersby. When he finished, there was a large wet spot on the wall of the theatre and a thin stream of urine crossed the sidewalk and went over the curb onto the street.
The kid came over to Harold, whose gold-colored Timex was plainly visible on the wrist of his crossed left arm and said:
“Que hora es?”
Harold uncrossed his arms, looked at the watch, and replied:
“Son las once menos diez.”
The boy said “Gracias”, and rejoined the group still waiting for buses behind the bench.
The intersections at the ends of the block were well-lit. To Harold’s left, just at the beginning of a shadowy strip of midblock sidewalk, was a newsstand. The operator was trying, even at this hour, to sell a few more of his remaining stack of now-stale El Jalisciense, the local daily. The headlines, “Unidos Para Resistir Presiones del Exterior” Harold had been able to translate, even with his deficient Spanish. He had concluded that it must have been a slow news day.
In the morning, he had bought the paper and, also, a copy of Peligro! -- a thin, sleazy tabloid specializing in detailed, photo-illustrated treatments of fatal automobile accidents, rapes, grisly murders, child-molestations, and exposures of “antros de vicio” and “la moderna Sodoma y Gomorra.”
Over the course of the day, he had “read” the magazine cover to cover, wondering whether it contained any stories or reports on anyone he might have known or been associated with.
Now, it lay, along with the virtually unread El Jaliciense, on the bench. He intended, eventually, to walk away and leave both items for somebofy else to enjoy.
At the other end of the block, to Harold’s right, was the entrance to the Hotel Nueva York, flanked by a couple of retail establishments, including a jewelry store which, surprisingly, was still open, still brightly lit.
Harold had discovered the Hotel Nueva York while walking down the Calzada and had gone in to price a room.
The place looked just seedy enough to fit his needs and he had almost decided, after having been shown three rooms, to rent one of them for the night. But he had changed his mind when the clerk had answered “Cien pesos” – around $5.00 U.S. currency – to his question, “Cuanto cuesta?”
Now, Harold was getting cold, his knees and his feet and his rear end hurt, and he regretted his hasty refusal. But, perhaps there would still be a vacancy and he would be able to get at least some sleep.
Reluctantly, furtively, Harold pulled his wad of small-denominated paper pesos out of his front left pants pocket and rifled through them to reassure himself that, at least, he still had the price of a room.
He put the money back.
A fat, youngish man Harold had noticed earlier raised himself from sitting in one of the theatre’s recessed doorway exits and, while yawning, stretched and shook himself like a cat. He had a folded-open novella in his left, raised hand. He had been seated reading the novella before the theatre lights went out but had finally given up when the lights were turned off.
Harold ignored the man.
The fat man walked over to Harold’s bench and sat down.
Harold turned his head to stare down the street in the direction opposite the man.
Almost immediately, Harold heard, as he expected, the familiar line:
“Que horas son?”
Harold turned his head to face the man.
He looked at his watch and replied, “Son las once.”
The fat man smiled.
He said, “Thank you Mr. Gringo!”
The familiar tingly flash of fear surged.
Harold turned away from the man and stared fixedly down the sidewalk.
A few moments later, Harold felt a sharp jab in his side – he slid over to the very end of the bench, then turned to face his attacker.
It was a small toddler -- wielding the stick from his nearly completely melted “paleta”.
Immediately, the small boy’s mother called out “Juanito! Ven aqui! Ahorita!”
Harold got up from the bench, stretched, and walked purposefully toward the lights and the relative safety of the Hotel Nueva York.
The end
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