Mexico: The Old Woman, Old Man and Me

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.