Don Lopez

He sits at the intersection every afternoon, and does what old men worldwide do: He watches.


The kids, in particular, are interesting. They’re almost always carrying something. The girls usually have a young sibling tied tight to their backs in slings of bright, woven fabric. Sometimes they have a basket of food or laundry balanced on their heads. The boys bend low under bundles of firewood or burlap sacks filled with grain.

He sits on his rock every afternoon, near the little waterfall that spills into the gutter, and watches the parade of ant-children as they carry their loads. From his rock he can
feel the pulse of the community. The ebb and surge of traffic on these streets indicates the approach and passing of mealtimes, the beginning and end of the workday, and the arrival and departure of students at the language school.

He sits in silence in the warm sun on the rock by the gutter, looking uphill to where the street meets the highway. That’s where the women and children appear when they descend from the forests with their bundles of firewood, and where the trucks drop off anyone coming back from the market in the city.

When he sits on his rock, everything about him is steady accept his shuddering hand that is perched on the tip of his cane. It causes the cane to wobble like a metronome.

****

Around the bend appears a group of machete-toting teenage boys. They strut down the street toward Don Lopez, laughing and jostling one another. Don Lopez waits until they draw near, then rises. He shuffles toward them, smiling, leaning lightly on his cane. They stop shoving each other as he nears them.

They chat for a moment. Then he makes a joke, and smiles as they break into laughter. But the boys' laughter twists subtly as it leaves their mouths. It develops a fine, sharp edge of pity and ridicule.

If Don Lopez is bothered by the boys’ reaction, he doesn’t give it away. He smiles cheerfully as he wishes the boys a good evening. He is smiling still as he shuffles back to his rock, where he waits for more passersby.

The boys swagger down the hill towards town, still laughing, and looking back occasionally.

****

Like most of the other villagers, they boys have abandoned their traditional clothes in favor of cheap blue jeans and t-shirts made in sweat shops. Don Lopez has also given up on the traditional woven fabric, but not – it would seem – on the idea of dressing like a gentleman. He’s wearing dark green trousers, and a rich brown sweater over a white, collared shirt. His clothes accent his caramel skin, white goatee, and broken, hawkish nose.

Only two pieces of clothing interrupt his elegance: the green woolen hat that he has tied snugly with a shoelace, and his Sun Surfer sandals which reveal his weathered feet - the nails of which are blackened and fibrous, like banana peels left to rot in the sun.