Oh Mexico...

To all my friends in Mexico,

Alberto and I are happy to say that his story is finally written, although we both know that it is not over. Rosalinda would like to thank Billie for her name.



Alberto

Alberto is on the street early, having escaped the hut by the railroad tracks where he lives with his mother and the rest. The hut has too many children and not enough food, and the neighbors call his mother bad names. He clutches part of a stale tortilla he found in a trashcan in his left fist, protecting it from the pack of street dogs that bump their noses at his scabby calves. They growl at him and he returns their insults with snarls and rocks.

There are no touristas yet, it is too early. But the dirt of the street is more home to him than the crowded hut. And more importantly, it is here that he makes his living. His mama has told him he is either five or six anos, depending on the amount of tequila she has had. He is small for his age and he uses this to his advantage.

His stock in trade is appearing pitiful and wretched and using the rich tourista’s guilt to solicit money from them. Skinned knees are good for business as are weepy eyes or a runny nose. The older touristas are the most lucrative. It is possible that he reminds them of long ago days with their children, or the grandchildren they do not see enough. He hears them talk about these things although they don’t know he understands. He hoards his knowledge of English, doling out only a few words here and there. They say, “Poor thing, pobrecito,” and tuck money into his dirty hands.

He mumbles “Gracias,” and turns away as though from shame, but he is really hiding the money. Last year he fashioned a pocket from debris he found on the beach and he keeps it tied around his body beneath his ragged shorts. His familia doesn’t know about this pocket and that is how he wants it to remain. Of course he gives his mama pesos every day, as any self-respecting Jeffe would do, but he retains the larger portion for his secret banco.

Alberto wanders the street, running his eyes over the shopkeeper’s wares, but he does not touch a thing. Sharp words and sometimes fists are all he gets from the owners; they have no pity for the thief and beggar they know him to be.

It’s a slow morning for business. The few cars that park on the mall disgorge young couples that hurry in and out of the shops and grimace at his outstretched hand. He sits for a while on the uneven concrete steps outside Mrs. Orteza’s shop, knowing that she will let him rest there for a reasonable length of time. She and his mother had been close friends as girls, and this memory enables Mrs. Orteza to feel pity instead of disgust at the present situation. It is also known that she cannot have children, and is so big hearted she even saves her table scrapes for the street dogs, which is a ridiculous thing to do, as everyone knows.

“Alberto,” she says quietly, jerking her chin up as a sign that it is time for him to leave. Normally he would wait until she had asked him twice, but since he has to pee, he leaves gracefully. He passes the costly banos that the touristas use, snorting in disgust. Only a fool would pay fifty American cents to empty their bladder, when there is a perfectly good dirt alley behind the stores. While he is urinating, the ancient Mr. Ruiz, who sells large battered seashells from the beach, joins him and they converse as men do.

“Como esta?” Mr. Ruiz inquires, and Alberto tells him that he is fine. Mr. Ruiz is also fine and having dealt with these courtesies, they go on to bemoan the day’s lack of business. “It is very slow this morning, but possibly things will pick up in the afternoon,” Mr. Ruiz says.

“Quien sabe?” Alberto tells him, after all anything is possible. “Buena suerte,” he concludes, zipping up. Good luck is what they will both need.

The hours pass slowly, the sun is strong, and Alberto squats in whatever shade he can find. Finally he sees a large white van, followed by a dented green jeep, enter the street and park almost across from him. This is very good indeed, as all the people who get out of these vehicles are at least as old as Mr. Ruiz. Alberto rubs a little sand into his eyes to make them red and slowly crosses the street, preparing his most pitiful face.

He slides into the doorway of an empty storefront to reconnoiter. He counts eight Americanos, four men and four women, probably couples, wrinkled by the severity of their age and the sun. They mill around the cars, absentmindedly eyeing the metal sculptures of the store beside them. Alberto concludes that this is not a serious shopping expedition, rather an excursion to pass the time, something the older gringos seem to have in excess. By the casualness of their dress and the absence of any significant jewelry he believes that they might be retired and living in one of the RV camps on the beach. It is a wise adaptation not to advertise your wealth by wearing jewelry that shouts out your availability for robbery, and Alberto is perversely proud of them.

They head west along the street towards his doorway and he waits until half the group has passed before insinuating himself into their midst. He pulls the tail of the old man’s t-shirt in front of him and bumps his shoulder into the ribs of the woman beside him to announce his presence. When the old woman asks his name, “Como se llama?” in Spanish, he knows he has hit pay dirt. Retired Americanos often adopt street children as their personal charities for as long as they are in Mexico and Alberto has long prayed for this to happen to him. As they usually stay for months at a time, it is a steady job.

He applies himself to being the most endearing street urchin in the world; waiting politely outside the shops they enter, barely touching the backs of their hands, smiling shyly up at their old faces so carefully he thinks his face might crack. When they cross the street, he follows and allows the women to smooth his hair and pinch his cheeks. They arrive at Mrs. Orteza’s uneven concrete steps and five of them settle their old buttocks down, sighing with relief. There is a small space between two of the old men, and Alberto seats himself there.

“Fred, you old fart, I think that boy likes you,” one of the women says to the man on Alberto’s left.

“What’s not to like, Annie?” says Fred. “Hell, I know he’s just after my money, same as you were fifty years ago. But he’s kinda cute anyway, don’t ya think? What’d he say his name was, hon?”

“Alberto,” Annie tells him.

“So, mi hijo, how are you this fine day?” Fred asks the boy. Alberto is slightly insulted by this familiarity, he considers this man much too old to be his father, but because it is good for business he allows it. He leans his left shoulder a little into the old man’s rib cage.

“Muy bien, senor, y tu?” Alberto answers, realizing too late what he has done.

“I bet this little booger understands more English than we think,” Fred laughs, “Don’t let any state secrets slip out!” Everyone laughs with him at this inside joke, since five of the eight were retired from the CIA. Any state secrets they may have known are antiques at this point, and living on the beach has loosened up more than their clothing.

Alberto has no idea what they are talking about and could care less. He is staring at the old man’s arm, where a tattoo of a black cat is staring back at him. The long black hairs surrounding the cat look so soft he cannot help but touch them. “Why Fred, I do believe that boy is petting you,” says his friend Denny. “Do’ya think he knows you’re just an old hound dog?” They all laugh again because Denny begins singing Fred’s favorite Elvis song, slightly off key.

“You never have got that right Denny,” says Fred, “it’s the other guy that’s the hound dog in the song, you dimwit.” But he’s smiling and laughing while he says this and Denny chuckles back. They all call Fred ‘Hound Dog’ because of his relentless obsession with Elvis; sometimes they just say ‘Dog’. The thing is, Tuff Dog was his nickname at work, and he still likes it, even without the Tuff.

Alberto hears none of this, he is feeling something strange in his belly and it’s not the rumblings of hunger. He closes his eyes and leans a little closer, the feeling of the hairs beneath his fingers make him want to weep.

“What do you think of this fancy watch, ‘Bertito?” Fred asks the boy. Alberto is remembering another old man’s arm and comforting chest, but he opens his eyes and tries to be interested in the cheap watch. A drop of water appears on the large glass of the watch, then another. Alberto wonders if it has begun to rain.

Fred gently disentangles himself from the boy’s petting and puts his arm around Alberto, hugging his little body close. He locks eyes with Annie before softly kissing the top of the dirty head. “’Bertito, ‘Bertito,” he whispers, “even machismo hombres get to cry once in a while.” Alberto has no strength to argue.

Much later, after lunch and more shopping, the old ones get into their cars and drive away. Alberto stands in the street and raises his hand in farewell. He knows they will return tomorrow or the next day and Fred may hug him again. He puts his arms around himself and feels his secret pocket filled with the pesos the old man had slipped into his hand all day. Maybe tonight he will give his mama a few more pesos than usual. Maybe he will buy a small present for his littlest sister, Rosalinda. Maybe it will stop her crying.

“Oh Dog, you’ve done it again," Annie tells her husband on the drive back to the RV camp.

“I know honey, I can’t help it, sometimes the little ones just get to me.”

Annie strokes the long black hairs on his arm and nods.