A Chronicle of "Barnia"

Mr. Maldonado


It seems like a crossroads of existence and for a small town it might as well be.

You know, for a place like Kingsville, ripe with paradox (a curse-of-a-small-town nestled within the largest ranch in the world), their lives seem so mundane; if by mundane one means broken and perplexed, triumphant and forward looking, overworked and under paid, like the rest of the world but in the microcosm that is small town living. Taking what this life gives and making anything out of it, whether the best or the acceptable, I have the lot of seeing them everyday in this endeavor. It’s my job.

The frantic mother, always late, hurrying to buy breakfast for her kids before school; the still sleepy student who, in frustration, informs me he still can’t remember Avogadro’s number for his Chem. quiz in 30 minutes--Red Bull, please! And Ana: sweet, precious, efficacious Ana, every time I see her I can’t help but hum the chorus to Rod Stewart’s Some Guys Have All the Luck which tugs my heart into a platonic oblivion.

And then there’s Mr. Maldonado.

I have often sat in judgment of his drinking habits, which start bright and early as the dew. He drives into the Party Barn with his fingers raised in a “V” which is the sign letting me know he wants two Bud Light scuds.

Dame dos, he says, making sure I’ve gotten his order right.

Sometimes he springs for Camel Filters, always in the soft pack. He’s always joking. Most times, shit he says is not at all funny but I’d like to think he jokes anyway just to have a reason to let out his raucously big laugh; a laugh fraught with all the character that years of cold beers and cigarette smoke have given him. A laugh as deep and varied as the insistent wrinkles on his face. My judgments often take the form of snide remarks held within myself. Thoughts like, ‘ah, yes, the breakfast of champions’ or ‘are you on a liquid diet or what?’ and I indulge in little victories. I’ll never forget the time my judgment came to a stark halt when, as usual, he drove in; his grey Toyota Camry sporting a new spare tire. The lack of “the signal” became obvious only later.

Como estas, sir? Dos? I asked.

Si dame los dos.

As I plunged my hands into the icy water which held the beer, he solemnly informed me: Se me murio mi vieja a noche, his voice cracking along the fault lines of his sentence structure. It took a few milliseconds for me to register: No pendejo-this was no joke. And his words brushed cold upon me like the water that surrounded my hand.

Apenas vengo del hospital, he tells me.

I look at him wondering if I should say anything at all or whether to let my silence speak for me and just listen. And really, what could I say that has any semblance of meaning. All I can think to say is what I’ve heard my mom and countless elder relatives say at news like this: pero como? It turns out diabetes had struck its interminable changes upon yet another soul.

No se que hacer ya; voy a tomar hasta que muero yo tambien.

He followed this foresight with a rather shallow laugh, like he was half joking. But the tears in his eyes told a different story. Commerce is cruel in times like this, you know. With such emotion hanging in the air refusing to be denied or supplanted or overlooked, the price of his purchase lingered like the proverbial white elephant in the room, oh-so-ready to burst the bubble of poignancy he had created: $4.52, sir…

Ten, aqui tengo unas pesetitas.

He continued, pos, que le hacemos? Alla vamos todos, he bleakly surmised.

That’s true, I offered. I’m sorry to hear about your wife Mr. Maldonado. Que descanse en paz, eh.

Ojalah que pueda, era bien repelona mi vieja.

And there it was, like a gritty refugee breaking through the tyranny of grief; his laugh. His BIG raucous laugh. His grand laugh; His I-miss-her-so-much-I-just-wanna-fuckin-die laugh. It was morning, about 8:30 am, and the cars where stacking up behind him. The morning rush had overtaken 'the Barn' and not even the death of the cherished one could stop that. And so with polite acceptance he bid farewell and drove away.

It seems like a crossroads of existence and for a small town it might as well be.

Etudes In Longing

I
Fathers and mothers, brave sons and dear daughters turn ear my way. I carry with me the mist of her heirlooms: so fragile, tender and sweet. I cannot see them, I feel them. Nor can I touch them, for I have become them. I cannot display them, I live them out in the Visigoth of life. I guard in my being the memories of her past that I could rescue, rescue from the ever gathering dark.


~~

II
I often sit gazing at your picture and I still dream. Through the day and into the night I imagine us together. But then, suddenly, the flutter of hope subsides and I am left with the wings of dead butterflies that fall and wither away into a powdery nothingness, like my dreams that come as a wave and recede again into the ocean


~~

III
This day I long for the guns of yesteryear when we boldly crossed that little Rubicon of hope. You showed me the fate of destiny, it was bound in our love entwined like the roots of aged trees. Harbinger of many firsts, firsts that fell upon my ignorance like grapeshot. You alone silenced my cannons of fear and guarded me in the phalanx of your love. Repose I gained in the convent of your bosom and there I stayed. Til came the belligerent usurper and tore our house asunder and there, in platonic upheaval, I lept once more into the breach. Compelled to live in the light of mere memories now hallowed like soldiers on the ground.


~~

IV
I didn't count the cost that came with reverie. A life I thought was there ahead for me to see. Enraptured psychology, I walked right through the doors of independence. A different sort of fruit now grows upon this tree; cracked and marred by a cruel destructive victory. Constant soliloquies, I rage against the tears that flow within me.


~~


V
I thought I saw you in the sway of the tree. Your lovely form it took when it danced in the wind and caused within me a sigh; a sigh like you used to. And there in the sharpest break of green and blue and in the softest hiss of its song I knew you once again; and I was happy.


~~

VI
Y pienso que hamas voy a ver de amores, bebiste todo el agua que tenia. Y sin tu amor no es justo que se llena de nuevo. El quietud que quedo despues de tu presencia me fastidia y solo hay que cantar tu nombre. Como es que me encanta estar en mi jacal con mis suenos y mi deseo solo por hervir en ti.



~~

VII
See here my new found joy! She came as the morning sun and perforce drove many darknesses from my eyes. Bits and pieces they fell from my person like tiny scabs set in their way. As often happens on these sharp and bright mornings, when awake, the day presents her gift in a thousand forms of splendor, like the many faces of her.


~~
VIII
Part I: Elation

Kaleidoscopes may have once embraced the melody of her faces
And may someday capture the spring in her dance
Tonight, gaze brazenly into the sky for mere hints and glimpses of the wonders in her expression
Impetuous delights abound in the art of her playfulness
Entangled with each moment, like conspicuous pearls, are new and better reasons to smile

~~~
Part II: Longing

Renlinquish as best you can the gift of her presence
Assuage the sting of that cold darkened sound
Compelled to live in the light of mere memory
Hallowed like soldiers on the ground
Echoes of her linger: that porch, that couch, that tree
Leading to long winding roads of reverie
Longing to embrace once more the melody of her faces
Ebbing inevitably with the passage of time

~~~
Part III: Jubilation

Songbirds kiss the dawn, greetings in a thousand forms of splendor: the many faces of her
Mana falls with new expression-the shape of her smile
Inundated by wealth in her attention
Taken by the warmth of her style
Hail, O Fourtuna, she gave me new eyes and new meaning; evermore besotted in the brightness of her being