A cinnamon-complected old woman as short as a carrot enters La Bodega.
Grinning, she hoists her woven carry-all onto the check-out counter.
86 years of missed haircuts is pulled sharply from her face and the remaining grey cascades into a waist-length braid.
The abuela (grandmother) is dressed in a sort of Goodwill combo of a 50‘s McCall’s pattern layered with a faded floral apron.
Grandma’s booty is an empty bottle of Corona beer. She produces it for the few peso refund and then totters to the bodega frig for a refill.
I’m as startled as the old woman is at the thunder. We both look to the open doorway. The torrent of rain looks like a flash flood.
“Abuela, where do you live”, I ask.
“Not far, near the pizza place”, she responds in spanish. True it’s near for someone younger -- only four blocks.
Outside the pea-sized bodega the sky is at war.
We settle in, hoping the storm will subside.
Then out of the dark appears a lanky teen wearing a soaked navy sweater and grey slacks. Folded under his left arm is wad of dark, green plastic. When he shakes it out, I see a makeshift hood and an large tent-like skirt. Wordlessly, he places it over the old woman’s head and wraps up her body.
Now waterproof, the boy leads her away. The shop owner, who I know slightly, asks in spanish, “Where is your family? Why do you not have a grandson to take care of you?” His question sounds more like an accusation.
I throw my sweater over my head and go out into the street. I ignore his personal questions. He’s asked many before.
I try not to slip on the wet, bumpy cobblestones wishing that I did have a grandson. And then I see him.
It is the old man of my Callejon (alley). I think he’s dead. And then, I realize, he’s managed -- although he is as crippled as any human being I’ve ever seen -- managed to lay down under the front bumper of a SUV to shield himself from the storm.
No more thoughts of missing family -- just thoughts of what can I do to help our old man who is mentally ill, and walks with a pick ax. An old man who is always alone and smells.
I’ve never dared speak to him before because people say he can be dangerous. But now I ask, “Sir, are you all right?”
He replies without the usual profanities that punctuate his walks through the neighborhood, “There is too much water, too much water.”
I worry the car’s driver will return -- not see him -- and crush him.
But I don’t call for help, because in my world here there is no one to call.
I don’t reach down to pull my neighbor out, because there he is dry.
I stop trying to fix Mexico and I go home.
The next day is hot and bright. The old man inches, once again, down the callejon using his pick ax as a cane.
