Helpless

This holiday season, most of our days are spent in ‘meetings’.  Long, boring meetings.  Meetings that numb your mind as well as your butt, and you walk out a brand new zombie; your day gone, nothing accomplished and better yet, have yet to have done your grocery shopping.  The prospect of returning home without an enticing dinner is less than appealing.

Today is no different.  Christmas is a few days away and there is plenty of food to buy, as well as a visit from my brother coming in for the holidays.  Yet, in spite of all we have on our ‘to do’ list, there is that obtrusive ‘meeting’ interrupting yet another beautiful day. 

We are on the street going opposite of the way we should be.  I see the guy we are meeting sitting out side of a coffee shop.  I slow down and yell to him, “Hey man.  Can we park there?”  He jumps up and sets his coffee down, and while nodding an affirmative, he flags us on over and moves a cement brick so we could have a place to fit in.  We do a u-turn and head back to where we just were…but on the opposite side of the median.  I have become easily classifiable as semi-pro with parallel parking.  I pull up past our spot, and start to work my charm.

As soon as I back in, I notice something splash outside the passenger side window.  I look, and I catch a glimpse of a guy falling.  He is almost in tact with the pavement.  His water bottle has flown ahead, and his bag is in mid air.  I yell to Tonya to look, “What is happening!”  I can’t hear what is happening, but I see it.  The guy falls on his side; his head slapping the concrete after his shoulders go down first.  His arm follows suit, slapping down over his head.  “Man, that guy just ate it…” I am uttering as I turn the car off.  I see his feet start moving.  The only thing I can think of is get this guy help.  I see what is happening now, he’s having a convulsion.  “Oh no!” Tonya says concerned, “he’s an epileptic” and she is already out of the car.  I get out quickly, taking note of the oncoming traffic so I don’t get hit in my haste to get to the guy.

As I round the front of the car, a small group has gathered.  The chef from the place I had been helping out is down beside the guy, trying to comfort him.  There is a small scene of chaos.  I go up to my friend and tell him to call an ambulance.  I hate seeing this.  I saw the guy hit the pavement hard.  He is sprawled out on the pavement, and he’s convulsing, with his head about to hit the wall.  His duffle bag is strewn beside him and a puddle of water growing from the water pouring out of his bottle.

The sight of this un-nerves me terribly.  I feel so helpless.  I have no idea of how to ask what is going on, or how to ask if help is on the way.  I pace back and forth with my eyes starting to water.  I feel really, really small and inept.  The others are talking to one another.  A girl working in the coffee shop runs and gets a few towels.  I ask my friend to call an ambulance again.  He is a bit skeptical, and says to wait a few minutes until all of this subsides.

I stand and watch the twitching body come to stillness.  He lays there motionless.  I look down and notice a plastic bag full of boxes of medicine.  He has a tag around his neck.  My friend says that it is like a medical alert tag.  It says he is an epileptic.  The chef is rubbing his arm, talking quietly to him.  His eyes twitch and he slowly tries to open them.  From my angle, I can see he is trying to pull his eyes forward, as they have been rolled deep back into his head.  He lies there, blinking, having no idea what is going on.

“He’s not going to be able to say much at first.  Seriously, please get help” I ask my friend.  He is a skeptic, and says he thinks it is all a scam. “I’ve seen it before, I think he’s bluffing”.  “No man, I don’t think so.  You don’t slam your head down that hard onto the concrete is you are pulling a stunt” I counter his remark.

The fallen guy starts talking.  The chef is speaking very calmly to him, rubbing his arm, and then places a hand under his head.  The guy blinks repeatedly, and then finally opens his eyes.  He is obviously trying to tune back in to reality.  He gives his name and asks for help.  The chef gives him a towel and helps to prop him up against the wall.  The guy moves his arm, as if he is trying to get some feeling back into it.  He looks around at the small group who has been witnessing the event.  He mutters a few more things, and starts rubbing his head.  He asks for help, and asks where he is.  He does so as he starts crying.  The chef bends over and reads his tag.  He’s lost and has no idea where he is.  The chef asks his name.  He looks at the chef with tears rolling down his face and tells him.  He is rubbing his head and then his cheek, on the side of his head that hit the concrete.  His repositions himself and pulls out a business card.  He asks for someone to call the number written on the back of the card, that this person will come and help him.

Tonya later informs me that part of what was happening, was the guy said he was doing construction work for the guy on the card.  He had a fit and nearly fell off a second story.  The foreman let him go, and said he should find other work or go home.  This is the man he is asking for us to call.

I am not easily fooled, and try to be constantly aware of scams and beggars.  However, I am very moved by what I just saw, and I do not think it was a scam.  I tell my friend, he took too hard a fall to be a set up.  He is visibly shaken and by the discoloring on the left side of his face, you can tell he truly hit with good force.  The chef stands up and comes over and asks for everyone to pitch in for bus fare, to get this guy on his way.  He verified that according to his tag, he is not from here.  The poor guy is confused when he finds out what neighborhood he is in, and starts to cry more. 

I am not from here.  I don’t understand what everyone is saying.  I just know that I am looking at a guy propped up against a wall.  His belongings strewn on the sidewalk, and a plastic bag full of medicine lying beside his duffle bag.  I watch the chef go to him and talk, and help him get comfortable and pull his belongings together.  I don’t fall for the poor dirty beggar with hands out stretched.  However, seeing this guy take a fall, his head hitting the concrete with full on dead weight, and seeing him salivate while convulsing and then coming to, looking with that glassy empty stare slowly coming back into consciousness…I cannot feel the same as my friend.  I am blinking to clear my eyes of the welling tears.  He’s taken the fall, yet I feel so helpless.  I felt so small and useless.  The sight of this really struck me, re-iterating the frailty of life.  In a brazen flash I was so very aware of the simple blessings that we take for granted, like being able to walk home without any problems.  I can not imagine going through what he just did, having your world turn upside down…the lights go off and you awake in a completely different world.  Your head throbbing and arms aching.  Everyone is a stranger.  Home seems like a very, very long way away. I am a stranger in a strange land, and I am also just one more stranger in the eyes of the dazed man. I was the helpless stranger.

Helping Around The House

The strangest things can happen while at home, especially if the home is a public place.  Recently, I have been helping a friend in need with his ‘home’, which doubles as a type of speakeasy/restaurant.  Though not too involved, the times I have been there it has been an experience.  Typical of the way things are here, there is an adventure or a story at almost every corner.

The house is a beautiful old mansion, in a hip part of town.  It has three stories plus a roof terrace.  You enter form the street up a huge marble stairway and into a somewhat shadow of the elegance that once was so vibrant here.  A mirrored wall and a glorious, elaborate winding stairway meet you as you enter the main room.  There is an intimate dining room to one side, and a lush living room on the other side.  Ornate molding lines the walls and adorns the ceilings.   Up the winding stairway, you reach three other quirky rooms and if you head to the back hallway, a tightly winding iron staircase going up and out onto the terrace.  It is like a giant playhouse, with endless possibilities and the constant allure of the unknown to those who visit.

Oh-the kitchen is accessed through a long hallway.  There has been an obvious decay of TLC for this section.  In the cold, dark hallway, a simple blue neon cross hangs high overhead on the smoke stained walls.  However, this is where one of the most charismatic characters resides.  The chef.  He’s an amicable guy, typical of what you may know of chefs or read about them.  He scuttles around in his Crocs and chef pants.  I suppose it is the typical life of chefs, which taint them all with a head of grey hair, his being close cropped and neatly kept.  He’s always got big glowing eyes and a smile.  Just being in his kitchen is such a nice feeling.  In the states, it would not be out of place to have a busload of Mexicans working.  Here, it is a bit different.  They have outsourced.  Yes, there are some Mexicans in the kitchen, but the one steering the ship is Venezuelan.  One of the first things he said to me when he told me he was from Caracas was joke about Hugo Chavez.  I do not know if it is part of the joke r not, but there are some clippings of photos hanging on the main counter, shots of Chavez shaking hands with Ahmedenijad.  I have no idea what they say, because they are in Spanish, but both the dictators seem quite happy shaking hands and hanging form the counter of the smiling Venezuelan.  When he turns his head, you can see the tattoo on his neck, as well as the ones on his arm.  I have yet to see it myself, but the others who work here say the chef downs a bottle of rum every night. I have, however, seen him steal beers out of the fridge and he often walks up behind me, taps me on the shoulder, and politely asks if I will tip some special liquids into his glass.  He smiles and then slinks away, back down the long hallway to the kitchen.

Every night when the staff arrives, he starts to prep the evening menu with the help of a short, chubby Mexican lady, who is also always smiling.  These two are aided by a single lady who washes everything.  She is extremely friendly and her warmth radiates through the whole kitchen.  As the prepping is underway for the night’s menu, the chef prepares a set of several dishes for the staff.  Usually there are a few giant skillets placed on the table, full of hearty food.  A series of plates are placed in a circle around the hot food, and we all sit down and dig in to whatever he’s made.  I must say, he made a marvelous and simple vegetable soup.  I loved it!  He also whipped up some local fare from his homeland, small potato cakes that you slice and fill with other yummy stuff.

It was on the very night when he made the lovely soup that I was amazed at just how much Mexicans share.  It is a nice thing to do, to sit all in a group and eat.  Everyone one chatting and laughing.  I had about three servings of the soup.  The girl I sat next to had a few servings herself.  For whatever reason though, I noticed that as she re-served herself, she would push the carrots to the side of her bowl.  She dipped her tortillas in and slurped her way through her bowls of soup, getting every last drop (yes, it was that good!)  I thought it fun to watch, but then she did something truly amazing.  As she cleaned her bowl of all the soup, she then took each carrot, which had been pushed aside, and carefully lifted them out of her bowl and put them all back into the giant pot, so that we all could re-savor them.  I am all for sharing the Mexican way, but I am not too crazy about this.  Thankfully, I had already had my three helpings and would leave those carrots to be planted in someone else’s’ dish.  Them, never being the wiser that they had previously been used.

I immediately took to the main waiter, a little man, typical of what you’d expect.  Tiny and dark, with close cropped, gelled back hair.  He looks quite sharp in his white shirt and bowtie and black apron.  He doesn’t really speak English, but he does enough to show me the ropes.  I am getting a crash course in learning Spanish now, especially in restaurant and bar terminology.  He explains all the terms for the drinks they have.  Of course, it is all too much at first, and no sooner has he told me that I have forgotten.  It is a lot to take in, sang names for all these drinks.  A few nights into the friendship, he stops me in the hallway and points to a bag in the refrigerator.  He opens the plastic bag and points to a six-pack of Leon beer.  He raises his hand up, with his thumb out, like he is drinking.  He offers me one.  I have seen this beer but never tried it.  I happily oblige.  This simple action has bonded us for good.  Now, he sees bringing in the Leon as a special treat for he and I.  For myself, I am happy to have struck up a new pal…even if he is only about 3 feet tall. He likes me and I like him.  Each time I go into the place I look forward to seeing him.  I think he was quite proud one night when we sat at the round table back in the kitchen.  I needed to prepare my cheat sheet for the drinks they ask for.  I asked in him very broken and mispronounced Spanish about each drink I needed help with.  I went over all the ingredients in Spanish and corrected me where needed.  After we finished, he stood up and patted me on the back and made a loud declaration in Spanish of how good I did (at least I think that is what he said), and it elicited smiles and cheers form all who were there.  Seeing him smile made me smile.  I started to feel like I was fitting in, I was becoming a Mexican.

Aside from gossip about staff, you get gossip about customers too.  One figure that struck me was the little scruffy guy who came in late one night, with the sole inserts form his shoes hanging out of his coat pocket.  It was as if he drifted in, floating on air, and his smile pushing his whiskers all up around his face and his fat nose poking through the middle.  He likes a drink, and he likes it late.  He sways from side to side and then makes himself at home with a group of 8 ladies.  Before you know it, he is dancing with a few, twirling them around the room, causing his shoe soles to fall out of his jacket onto the floor, making for some interesting sidesteps to avoid tripping over.  As odd as he is, I was curious about the one regular who pops in to have some booze and eats.  I was on the look out for the British composer, Michael Nyman.  Yes, he who became popular due to the soundtracks he did with the director Peter Greenaway.

So I finally met him, although I had no idea that I had.  We were slammed.  There was a big celebration going on and everyone was there.  The chef had prepared some lovely food and a giant table was laid with food for all the visitors to enjoy.  Everywhere else people were standing and chatting.  I was bombarded and doing my best to understand Spanish above the loud talking and music playing.  In a flurry of chaos, I see small bald man with fluffy white hair stuck to the side of his head like shredded cotton balls.  I had the feeling he had been overlooked, so I make a point to tend to him.   He is leaning against the pathetic excuse for a bar.  I lean towards him and he says “Agua con gaz”.  I pull back and think for a second. I am sure I heard what he said, but not sure it was what I think he is trying to say.  I lean back in to get his order again.  He clears his throat and starts again, a bit louder, “Agua con gaz” I pull back again.  He’s looking at me with a bit of frustration.  I have a feeling that my languages are getting crossed, so I try again.  I lean in and say, “I am sorry, but it is hard to hear you clearly above this noise.  What was it again?”

In frustration, he blurts out, “Mineral water.  A bubbly mineral water with ice, please!” Ahhh, ok. I immediately pour him his drink and hand it to him.  I lean to him again and say, “I am sorry.  I have never heard anyone ask for water with ‘gaz’ in Spanish.  ‘Avec gaz’ I would get, but not in Spanish.  I thought that is what you said, but I was not sure”

He looks at me though the bold round rims of his big glasses. “Really?  You have never heard anyone ask for ‘gaz’ in Spanish?”  I shake my head and give him a simple reply, “No”

“I would not have guessed to say it in French here.  But if you know it in French, why not in Spanish.  French….Spanish, they are the same anyway.  Right?”  He smiles and says thank you, and turns to disappear into the crowd.  A few moments later the owner walks by.  “Do you know who that old man was you were talking to?”  Of course I have no idea.  He just seemed like some old guy with big glasses who likes a party, and gets his languages mixed up. “That was Nyman,” he says; as he walks on to do his business.

That was it.  I had served up Michael Nyman mineral water and didn’t even know it.  I had no idea what I expected Michael Nyman to look like, but I do know what he sounds like.  Perhaps…I was expecting something a bit more grand, but still an older guy.  The glasses made perfect sense, as does the baldhead and fluffy white hair.  He returns a few more times, but things are so busy that my little Mexican friend is covering that side of our ‘podium’.

Later on, amidst all the chaos I find myself sitting down in the middle of the room with the owners.  It turns out, Nyman is pals with them. “He comes here often.  He has a home around the corner,” he says. “We mostly talk about our hearts, and not so much about music.  I had a heart attack 10 years ago, and he had one a few years ago.  So, we talk about our health and hearts” he says shrugging his shoulders.  In a few moments, Michael comes and sits in the chair next to me.  He is talking to big, burly Mexican guy, who has a deep gravelly voice.  “Whose that?” I ask my pal.  “Oh, that is a famous Mexican Violinist.  His father was a famous composer and quite well known in the States,” he says.  The two are going at it, with the violinist doing most of the talking.  Michael is sitting, somewhat swaying from side to side.  He has a drink in each hand.  I notice that there is a girl standing behind the violinist.  I look up and she smiles at me, the glances down and the two in conversation.  At some point Michael realizes that he’s holding the two drinks, and looks up over his glasses to the younger girl.  He smiles and hands her a drink.  He says a few words, and she walks away to start chatting with another girl.

I keep wondering if it is just the lighting, or why do Michael’s ears look so dark.  I can’t decide if they are truly that hairy, or if it is a deep black shadow cast from his ear canal.  I wonder if that is a common trait among composers, to have hairy ear holes.  It goes with the fuzzy white hair do though.  He sits and chats with the gruff voiced violin player, and I sip my tequila and watch them.  He is wearing slip on ankle boots, Like Beatle boots with striped socks.  Nice socks, at least form my angle.  As he leans in to talk closer with his buddy, I notice his blazer.  It is worn thin, and the elbows are ripped.  I see the lining in several spots of the elbows.  I feel odd noticing the poor choice of clothing he is wearing.  Maybe it is comfy, or his favorite jacket.  Then I think, that maybe this is just part of his wardrobe he keeps here in Mexico.  I think of the music he composes and come to terms that the music does not suit worn elbows in jackets though.

We decide it is time to go.  At the same time, Michael and his buddy decide enough is enough.  As I get my stuff, I see him saying goodbye to my friend.  He wobbles through the crowd and exchanges a few more farewells to other partygoers.  As we walk outside, I am told that he likes to come and mingle with younger people.  It is pointed out that he is not some lecherous old feller staring and young girls, he simply comes to drink and talk.  He likes to see what is happening with ‘the kids’.  By being aware of what is happening in other aspects of music, he is more in tune with his own compositions.  This all makes perfect sense.  We start to pull away from the curb, and as we are driving off, I see something white and fluffy floating across and intersection.  It is him.  The question is asked if we should give him a lift. “No, when he is here he likes to walk.  It is a nice 10 minute walk to his place” So, as we drive by, I see Nyman starting his way home into the night.  That is him, the guy who makes that great music.  I hope he doesn’t get mugged.

A few blocks away, as Michael disappears, I see a group of policemen standing on the corner.  There must be at least eight of them.  There is a food cart with a light clamped to it.  As we draw even with them, I see this is what Mexican cops do.  They gather at taco carts late at night.  I suppose it is better than eating loads of donuts.

Something Smells

A few years ago while in Chicago, we were walking through a very Mexican neighborhood in Chicago.  Tonya made a comment about how strange it was that this particular neighborhood smelled like Mexico.  To me, it smelled like an old rotting grease trap and trash, and maybe a whiff of some sort of fried food wafting through the air.

Fast forward to the here and now.  While sitting at a traffic light my eye caught a family waiting to cross the street.  There was the mom and dad, a small child and two young kids.   We were sitting still, but they had the light to go ahead and walk.  I noticed the mom right away.  She was a bit pudgy, and started off across the street with a bit of a waddle.  She was wearing an ill fitting yellow t-shirt; this is what really caught my eye.  As she was even with me, she turned slightly to hurry up the two young children.  Stretched across the dirty yellow t-shirt was a slogan.  A slogan which any woman in her right mind should not be wearing.  It big black letters, the letters warped and twisted across her belly: SOMETHING SMELLS.  I laughed out loud and immediately went to slap Tonya on the arm to see what I have just seen.  We both laughed as the woman sped her waddle up and made it to the other side safely.  This is significant for a few reasons; one is, you can always be guaranteed a laugh when people wear shirts that they have no idea what they actually say, and secondly; because the shirt tells a tale.  The woman may smell, but more importantly, this city does!

It is not impossible to recall the smelly neighborhood in Chicago.  It did smell like Mexico City. Stinky.  I had heard fables of these ‘brown clouds’ of pollution which helped stink up the place, but I had no idea just how smelly it is.

This whole thing baffles me.  As a rule, Mexicans are clean people.  They are always cleaning; their cars, their sidewalks, their homes. Laundry is seen hung everywhere.  One would think with all these people cleaning and keeping things clean, that this place would smell nice and fresh. No.  In actuality, you just get the sickening smell of Fabuloso trying to drown out the smell of …Mexico City. 

Everywhere you go, you will get pummeled with an overwhelming stench.  At times, especially downtown, this stench will almost literally slap you in the face.  I am not exaggerating when I say that sometimes these unexpected nose fulls of stench literally have taken my breath away.  Yes, I am one of those nerds who will actually hold his breath while traversing through parts of the city.

Don’t get me wrong!  Walking down any street in any neighborhood, you are sure to catch a whiff of some lovely and enticing food being cooked up on the street or right next to it.  This is always a pleasant welcome, and often times, gets the saliva going.  It is hard resisting the temptation to scarf up so much of this stuff.  You may be lucky, and stroll past a flower market.  This can provide a brief respite of some natural freshness.

However, I am going on record to say that the smell of Mexico City can be divided and distinguished into almost three perfect parts; exhaust, garbage and Fabuloso.  Interestingly enough, I have not really noticed the ‘black booger’ syndrome one easily gets while riding subways…perhaps because my travel underground is limited.  Sitting in traffic one day inhaling exhaust and feeling our brain cells rot away, Tonya and I discussed how living here breathing in this endless supply of filth, will surely land one with any number of respiratory problems.  It is inevitable.  Funny to note, that supposedly Mexico City’s pollution has gotten better.  It is now Monterrey who has picked up the baton as leader in suffocating pollution.

It never really works when one smell battles another to become victor.  It is always a bit nauseating to get a nose full of filth and immediately then get an overdose of overly sweet chemicals, supposedly meant to cleanse and freshen the air.  This just adds to the putrid mélange of smells which can make your head spin…of find you heaving and gasping for fresh air.

Tonya grew up here, for her this is home.  Granted, she has spent more time in the States than here, but she has spent enough time here to know the smell of home.  Heck, she even recognized it when in Chicago!  It never fails to make me laugh and at the same time shake my head with disbelief when randomly, while in the city, Tonya will smell something quite stinky and strong and pose the question, “Did you just fart?”

My replies are always the same. “No” then I cannot help but add some smart-alec remark like “That is the lovely smell of home honey” or “Nope, that is Mexico baby!”  I know it is simple thing, but I am amazed at how one can be raised in this stench and still get a nose full of Lord knows what and ask if I farted.  How can you distinguish the two?  How can a smoker even think they can tell the difference between the fine scent of a rotting grease trap topped with decay and the smell of a ‘bottom burp’?  Surely you can tell the difference between my butt and the smell of home-or, maybe not.

Like the fat lady’s shirt said, ‘SOMETHING SMELLS’, it’s not just her, it is this city.