Woody, Lera, thanks for the interest. Here’s the next chapter. A challenge for me – had to reach into the future to set the value for the peso and yen
in 2026.
2026
The Money Bag
After less than twenty minutes into this visit, Juan Diego began to wish he had camped on the beach. His brother Miro had been living with Yadira
and her twelve year old son Arnolfo for almost three years now and was as settled in as you can get. Only two days before, there had been a new
arrival at Yadira's small house in the outskirts of La Paz -- it was sure to change some lives. Yadira had been made shift supervisor at a small
tortillaría, a tortilla bakery. To celebrate, they went out to dinner, talked it over and decided to get the new satellite TV. system from SKY II.
Arnolfo held the TV. remote control device in both hands with a grip that was designed to let the world know that he would never relinquish dominion
over the device, the TV. set, the viewers options, as long as he had a discernible pulse. Miro and Yadira seemed to be relaxed and happy, at least
for now, with the 24 hour exercise called "let's see just how many silly things, on how many dozens of channels we can find at this particular
programming hour."
Juan was also thinking this purchase did not bode well for his intended trip north. He was going to ask Miro for some money for their father and the
more Miro could give, the less Juan would have to cough up. Miro was sure to say he just spent his last dime on this very expensive entertainment
system, he did it for Yadira and especially for Arnolfo, whom he loved as though he was his own son, yada yada yada.
A prophet, a damned prophet. He was only able to wheedle $60 dollars from his brother. He would have left with nothing had he known he would have
to endure the sound of music, news, novelas, soap operas, soccer games, game shows, talk shows vibrating through the walls of the small living room,
filling the house with ever-changing bass and treble well into the early hours of the wet and windy morning. He would sleep in his truck on the beach
tonight at Santa Rosalia with only the sound of the soothing surf - the truck would be parked at a distance where the sound would be a soft, hypnotic
background for his dreams.
He took plenty of warm clothes and blankets. It had been cold and windy in Los Barriles for the whole month of April -- just a few non-fishing
clients at the hotel so this was a good time to go see the old man. A fisherman had left a very warm jacket on his boat; since Juan had two or three
nice warm ones he would give this high-tech thing to his dad. He had not seen the old man in over a year. It was about ten months ago that Miro got
the job for Edelmiro up north, with the Japanese, near Punta Bufeo.
Mexican Highway 5 North was torn up. Juan Diego was refreshed and focused on his mission but his jeans were wet and cold. He did not care. The
cold bottle of Corona beer clutched between his legs had spilled all over his lap when he hit a double pothole he could not avoid. He was actually
laughing at this mishap and almost missed the place. He had to pull over to the narrow shoulder of the road and back up to read the sign. This must
be it, a big sign in Japanese, English and finally in Spanish said some words he recognized: Aquaculture, Experimental, Private Property. There was
no gate, just five kilometers of well-traveled dirt road leading east to the facility and the sea.
There was a big gate at the perimeter wire fence at the fish farm; it was open. Juan pulled into an area obviously set aside for vehicles; there
were two cars and seven trucks of various sizes parked just outside the main office/processing building. As he pulled in to park, three or four
Japanese men came to the office door and two more appeared at the big bay door at the middle of the huge metal structure. When they saw it was a
Mexican, they all retired into the building; as expected, the jefe, head man, the one who could speak a little English and some very broken Spanish
walked out to find out the reason for this sudden intrusion.
After some short, stiff, unsteady communication, the jefe walked back into the metal building and returned in mere seconds almost dragging Edelmiro
by the coat. For just a heartbeat or two, Juan's father did not recognize his son or understand why he was being ushered out the door. When his
tired old eyes softened in recognition he shuffled out to greet his son -- they embraced, smiled, both talking at once. The jefe went back inside.
This time the prophet's nose told him he must soon be on his way. The air was thick with the smell of fish; fish blood, dead, rotting fish, fish
skins, guts, gills, bones, bile and gore. Oil, steam, burning rubber and metal smells could be detected; almost an aftertaste in between delayed,
shallow breaths. There was a cold wind from the northwest but the smell did not come and go with the chill gusts. The smell had permeated the dirt
surrounding and beneath the big metal building, the smaller, squat barracks, the power station, storage and service shacks. Juan Diego's stomach was
beginning to get queasy as he wondered if the old man could be happy here, here with this awful smell, now finding its way into Juan's clothing, his
hair, the truck...already he had stayed too long.
Edelmiro asked about his family while they walked. The smell only parted like a mist as they walked to a small metal building nearer the beach and
north of the processing plant. The old man had built a lean-to on the south end of the small metal building. When they entered the gloomy confines
of the metal building it became clear that the old man had two places to sleep; on a mattress in a cleared area of this small building used for the
storage of flammables and lubricating liquids, a hammock in the lean-to on the downwind side of the shack. It was a shack for all seasons. Juan
wondered if the old man had chosen to live out here, away from the barracks, if the Japanese workmen had insisted he live here or was it a mutual
decision. He could not see into the barracks building; the smell would be the same.
Well, the old man seemed to be carrying a little more meat on his skinny frame than Juan had remembered. He was dirty but looked to be in good
health. At 144 pounds, the old man was in pretty good shape. His 70 years were scribbled in his skin, on his face, feet, the backs of his hands;
earlobes like great raisins framed his long face. He still had twelve teeth. Even though Miro had forced the Japanese to hire the old man, they
must not be too resentful, they must not be mistreating him. They may be kindly people, they may be afraid or a little of both.
Juan's little lie that he could not stay long, that he had a meeting, the next morning in Loreto that might lead to a better job, rolled easily off
his tongue. He gave his father the warm jacket, pesos equaling $150 U.S. dollars, a case of beer, two cases of cokes and some tortillas. He did not
tell Edelmiro part of the money was from Miro. His father asked him to stay longer, tell him more about his brother, what is happening in La Paz, how
is Olivia, how is his own brother,Eduardo, Gilberto, his nephew in El Sargento, more, more. Juan brought two more cold beers from the truck, gave one
to his father and gave him all the news he could think of. Edelmiro said the Japanese were strange little people, he did not understand them, the
work was not hard labor, he liked the new food, especially the sticky rice and the hot whiskey, he had the occasional use of a wonderful boat. While
the smell seeped into Juan's pores, the only sounds he heard were some sloshing and clanking coming from inside the big building, the laughing gulls,
a big pump humming loudly somewhere. The only activity he saw was one man who walked quickly from the big building to the barracks, entered the
barracks and returned less than a minute later.
It was time to leave. He gave the old man a hug, his "take cares", they walked together to the truck. Promises. Promises. Then he was alone again
in the truck; he left the windows down, full of hope that each cubic meter of fresh desert wind whistling through the window as he traveled south to
Loreto took a little bit of the awful fish smell with it, a chill but blessed wind, cleaning him and the truck as he put more miles between the truck
and the dead fish place.
The old man shuffled back to his shack. He felt as if he could pee. It bothered him that it took him all day to urinate. He could remember when
his bladder would empty in just minutes and he would not repeat the process for several hours. He took the pesos, added them to the money in the bag
beneath his mattress. In the bag were his old leather wallet, a watch Olivia had given him (he never used it, did not know if the hands moved), two
photos of his family in front of the old house in El Dorado. Olivia was absent in one, Miro was not in the other.
Edelmiro was proud of his two sons. He loved Olivia but when he lived with her family on the ranch, her husband, Gregorio, watched him eat. He was
treated like a garrone, a sponge. He could not stay at the ranch as long as that man was there.
He could sometimes feel the bulk of the bag beneath the mattress; a reassuring lump it would have been to some. He would have to find another place.
Edelmiro did not know how much was in the bag. He could count the pesos if he wished, un dia, one day he would do that. The other money he could not
count. He gave the men a handful of the colorful bills sometimes when they went north, they would bring back beer, cigarettes and pesos in change. He
would have been pleased and proud to know that the yen he got each month in a small envelope, less a little he had exchanged for smokes and beers, now
added up to 273,000. If he exchanged that today, at the border, adding the 3500 in pesos, he would call himself a rich man; a man with $2294 U.S.
dollars.woody with a view - 11-28-2009 at 05:30 PM
Quote:
It was time to leave. He gave the old man a hug, his "take cares", they walked together to the truck. Promises. Promises. Then he was alone again in
the truck;
i hate when this happens in my world...... we all gotta tell our people how much we love 'em more often!
next!bajalera - 11-29-2009 at 04:59 PM
Some nice touches ("70 years were scribbled on his skin," for one).Osprey - 11-29-2009 at 05:38 PM
Thanks Lera, send me a U2U and I'll Email you the rest of the next chapters like I just did for Woody. Not sure how many others are interested in
these long posts.
