¡Que Poca Madre!
Well here I am at my desk, having come from the gym not too long ago, now showered and sitting before the computer on one side of the desk and a plate with a torta de tamal on the other – de pollo verde al estilo oaxaqueño. Beside the plate is my Styrofoam cup with atole de arroz, steam rising up and away and filling the air around my desk with the sweet smell of cinnamon.
Two things are on my mind this morning. The first is something that happened to me yesterday as I was coming home from the archives. I usually take the metrobus down Insurgentes and get off at the Glorieta de Insurgentes. I then switch over to the metro which takes me directly to San Lazaro station (I have recently enjoyed a bit of private irony, noting that every day my destination is a place named after Lazarus, another man raised from the dead – some will get this, some won’t.) The archives is near there.
Yesterday, however, before getting on the metro, I walked around the Glorieta looking for a shop where I could buy batteries for my wireless mouse. After that acquisition I started for the metro. As I passed by the numerous boleros set up in the plaza at the centre of the Glorieta, I was seized by an intense urge to get a polish on my boots. How delicious and extravagant. At 15 varos (around $1.50) it won’t sound like much to you I am sure, but these days I am watching my pesos closely. But the shine these boleros put on your shoes, and the way that they do it, its too much too resist – several coats of polish, expertly applied and rhythmically brushed off, then the frenzied activity of the rag and its “squeak, squeak”, that brings forth the brilliant shine. The shine that makes you feel just like a new haircut. No wonder they call them boleros. It’s like a dance. It’s theatre. I decided to indulge.
I chatted away, happily, about nothing with the joven at work on my boots - about life back home, about how many jobs there were there, about how Mexicans were received there, visa requirements, etc.. Soon I was on my way to my date with Galeria 5 at the Archives. As I arrived there I realized I had left my umbrella back at the shoeshine chair. Never mind, I thought, I’ll fetch it on the way home. I don’t know why, but later that day, as I approached him, I expected a nod or a smile or some look of recognition. Instead his face was blank and drawn. “¿Que honda?” I asked, “what’s up?”
“They just killed a friend of mine,” he said, “less than an hour ago, just over there,” he pointed to a billboard up a slight hill, through a pedestrian tunnel underpass and about three hundred yards away. “What?!?” I asked incredulously. “¡No mames, cabrón!” “It’s true” he said, his sad face unchanged, “they just killed my friend.” “But who did it?” I asked, still in shock and disbelief, “How did it happen?” “They robbed him. They just walked up, put a bullet in his forehead, and took his money. He sold refrescos [sodas] just up there. He was just a nice simple guy. ¡Que poca madre! (what a motherfucker)” he said with anguish. I asked if it might have been some sort of vendetta, as if that would have made it more understandable. He said no, “it was probably just crakadictos.” I suddenly felt deep compassion for this pobrecito cuate. “I am so sorry,” I offered. “Gracias. Pero asi es México ¿verdad?” “¡Que pinche poca madre!” I said.
All the rest of the day, I thought about my bolero’s friend, that boy who sold refrescos just up from the Glorieta. I thought about him standing behind his puesto when the crakeros came up to him, when they raised the gun and shot him in the head. I thought about him laying there on the ground, in his own blood, a hole in his forehead. I thought about his mother. No doubt they would have the gruesome picture in the paper tomorrow. I thought about my own oldest boy. I had almost walked up through the tunnel to see him, to see this dead boy. I asked my bolero friend if they had taken away the body. “Todavía no.” he had said. I had almost walked up there to see him, and I wondered why. I have since been trying to get a grasp of why the whole incident is so thoroughly disturbing to me. It's not just the personal tragedy of it for my new bolero friend. It's not because I am scared or shocked that it happened so close to where I live, in a so-called "good neighborhood." I think, in part, it's the wholesale nature of the event that bothers me so. It seems like these intense, localized horrors are everywhere here now. As my friend said, "asi es México."
I’ll save the second thing I wanted to talk about for later when I get home. It’s getting late and I had better get to work. El Moe.
Two things are on my mind this morning. The first is something that happened to me yesterday as I was coming home from the archives. I usually take the metrobus down Insurgentes and get off at the Glorieta de Insurgentes. I then switch over to the metro which takes me directly to San Lazaro station (I have recently enjoyed a bit of private irony, noting that every day my destination is a place named after Lazarus, another man raised from the dead – some will get this, some won’t.) The archives is near there.
Yesterday, however, before getting on the metro, I walked around the Glorieta looking for a shop where I could buy batteries for my wireless mouse. After that acquisition I started for the metro. As I passed by the numerous boleros set up in the plaza at the centre of the Glorieta, I was seized by an intense urge to get a polish on my boots. How delicious and extravagant. At 15 varos (around $1.50) it won’t sound like much to you I am sure, but these days I am watching my pesos closely. But the shine these boleros put on your shoes, and the way that they do it, its too much too resist – several coats of polish, expertly applied and rhythmically brushed off, then the frenzied activity of the rag and its “squeak, squeak”, that brings forth the brilliant shine. The shine that makes you feel just like a new haircut. No wonder they call them boleros. It’s like a dance. It’s theatre. I decided to indulge.
I chatted away, happily, about nothing with the joven at work on my boots - about life back home, about how many jobs there were there, about how Mexicans were received there, visa requirements, etc.. Soon I was on my way to my date with Galeria 5 at the Archives. As I arrived there I realized I had left my umbrella back at the shoeshine chair. Never mind, I thought, I’ll fetch it on the way home. I don’t know why, but later that day, as I approached him, I expected a nod or a smile or some look of recognition. Instead his face was blank and drawn. “¿Que honda?” I asked, “what’s up?”
“They just killed a friend of mine,” he said, “less than an hour ago, just over there,” he pointed to a billboard up a slight hill, through a pedestrian tunnel underpass and about three hundred yards away. “What?!?” I asked incredulously. “¡No mames, cabrón!” “It’s true” he said, his sad face unchanged, “they just killed my friend.” “But who did it?” I asked, still in shock and disbelief, “How did it happen?” “They robbed him. They just walked up, put a bullet in his forehead, and took his money. He sold refrescos [sodas] just up there. He was just a nice simple guy. ¡Que poca madre! (what a motherfucker)” he said with anguish. I asked if it might have been some sort of vendetta, as if that would have made it more understandable. He said no, “it was probably just crakadictos.” I suddenly felt deep compassion for this pobrecito cuate. “I am so sorry,” I offered. “Gracias. Pero asi es México ¿verdad?” “¡Que pinche poca madre!” I said.
All the rest of the day, I thought about my bolero’s friend, that boy who sold refrescos just up from the Glorieta. I thought about him standing behind his puesto when the crakeros came up to him, when they raised the gun and shot him in the head. I thought about him laying there on the ground, in his own blood, a hole in his forehead. I thought about his mother. No doubt they would have the gruesome picture in the paper tomorrow. I thought about my own oldest boy. I had almost walked up through the tunnel to see him, to see this dead boy. I asked my bolero friend if they had taken away the body. “Todavía no.” he had said. I had almost walked up there to see him, and I wondered why. I have since been trying to get a grasp of why the whole incident is so thoroughly disturbing to me. It's not just the personal tragedy of it for my new bolero friend. It's not because I am scared or shocked that it happened so close to where I live, in a so-called "good neighborhood." I think, in part, it's the wholesale nature of the event that bothers me so. It seems like these intense, localized horrors are everywhere here now. As my friend said, "asi es México."
I’ll save the second thing I wanted to talk about for later when I get home. It’s getting late and I had better get to work. El Moe.
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