Dos Viejitos

I happened upon two viejitos today.  A former gangster in knee length “Dickies,” also wearing his telltale sweat-rimmed straw hat.  A rock pipe was recently put away and the cigarette in his nervous hand twisted and rolled with a life not its own.  Surging varicosed veins edged nearer the outside of his moreno skin.  “Ay, bueno Senor.  Estoy buscando a un hombre que se llama ‘Jessie.”  Una persona me dice que El vive aqui.  Conoce el Senor Jesse?  Es Usted, no?”  My source had been right as rain, jellied as jam.  And correct.  Then came his friend, Victoria, la otra querida de la pacienta original.  She shares needles and sex with the original patient, Sylvia.  The two, lovers and needle partners times seven years, also take their wares into town to sell on the street.  Anything to get that extra bit of rock or heroin.  Anything.  Stifle life and ruin hope.  Cease the smile.  Encourage no light thought.  It is gone.  Recapture love and affection.  Effect.  Affect.  El otro Viejo fue en un otro lugar, hablando con una Negrita, si, una prostituta, con quien el tuvo sexo anoche.  This man was much darker-skinned than the other and wore the style of clothes often seen on an older Mexican man living in this country – dark tan work-pants and a shirt of matching color.  Bare-footed, he followed me into the yard where we could talk out of ear-shot of the young, black woman sitting on the couch in his “living-room.”  Proudly displaying the lengthwise scar in the center of his chest and the other scar that divided his right calf, the old man denied suffering from any malady other than the ones which had delivered his proud scars.  He, too, lived exactly where Sylvia had told me that he could be found.  In the projects behind the Edgewater Apartments, “It’s right there off the road, number twenty, and it has a black screen door covering the regular one.  You can’t miss it.”  And, so, I didn’t.  I found his hovel, his nest, which smelled like unwashed hair and cigarettes.  I found his home.  Home.  Where the heart is.  Sweet home.  The place like no other, adorned in reflection of the lives therein, or gone.

 

 

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6 responses

  1. JoshMan

    Talk about being on here at the right time; saw this one get posted at 6:36 🙂 couldn’t follow the Spanish, but got the gist of it. Always fascinating to know what goes on in that creative mind of yours!

    February 17, 2010 at 6:55 am

    • seekraz

      I’m glad you liked it, Josh…and nice to see you here. Thank you. 🙂

      February 17, 2010 at 7:05 am

  2. Not sure about the Spanish, but a good write. You are in the “Clinic” days mood, aren’t you? 🙂

    February 18, 2010 at 8:55 am

    • seekraz

      Kinda, sorta, on the Clinic mood; didn’t have anything fresh, so I dug into the treasure box to bring out an old memory. Thank you, Jason.

      February 18, 2010 at 9:03 am

  3. Spanish is my first language and I can say your Spanish is right on. Thanks for visiting my blog, I enjoy yours as well.
    Ed

    February 27, 2010 at 2:51 pm

    • You are most welcome for visiting your blog…your photos of Alaska are simply breath-taking. Thank you for your comment on my Spanish…I’m glad it was where it needed to be. And thank you for visiting my blog – I’m glad you enjoyed it. 🙂

      February 27, 2010 at 3:05 pm

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