Amigoland (12 page)

“And who the hell are you?”

“I thought you were asleep,” The Stranger With The White Hair said, turning around. “You didn’t answer me when I called your
name.”

“That gives you the right?” The old man began to stand up, until he realized how much effort this might take and finally sat
back. Then he shifted in the chair, but only so he could adjust his pants.

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I prefer to be woken up than have my things stolen.” He used his shirt cuff to wipe a trace of spittle from one of the crevices
where his face drooped the most.

“Do you recognize me, Fidencio?”

The old man blinked a couple of times. He hadn’t heard his own first name in months, however long it had been now since he’d
arrived in this place. With the helpers it was “Mr. Rosales” and “sir”; with the other ones it was whatever they could remember,
Filemón, Fernando, Fausto, Fulano, as if he cared; with Amalia it was Daddy or My Daddy; and with The Son Of A Bitch it was
nothing because he never came around except to say, “Your father needs more assistance.” But here The Stranger With The White
Hair had said his name as if they knew each other or they had worked together, which seemed unlikely given his look. Then
again maybe so, if he had worked only at the station, sorting the letters and whatever else they did back there all day, because
this man wasn’t out delivering, that Don Fidencio could guarantee. Even if the man had somehow avoided wearing the hat, which
would have been hell during the summer months, he never would have been able to get his hair to stay in place the way it was
doing now. It seemed to rise up like a frothy white wave and then eventually ebb toward the back of his head. There was only
one other time he could remember seeing hair like that.

“You look like a brother I used to have,” the old man said. “The younger one, Celestino.”

“You remembered my name.”

“I’m old, not stupid,” he said.

They looked at each other for a moment, both unsure what to do next. Don Celestino noticed that the man on the other side
of the retractable curtain was in bed asleep, but his head kept twitching as if he were dreaming.

“I thought you might still be mad,” he said, “because of our disagreement.”

As if he hadn’t heard him, his brother gazed at the ceiling for a moment, then leaned back. “And what disagreement was that?”

Don Celestino only looked at him, wondering if he should remind the old man of what had happened in the barbershop and, if
he did, what good it would do. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he said finally, then took a seat at the edge of the bed. “I can
hardly remember myself, already after so many years.”

“Sometimes it takes me a long time to remember what I used to know.”

“You look strong, the same as always.”

“And getting stronger each day,” Don Fidencio replied, tapping his palms on the armrests of the chair. He tried to calculate
exactly how long he had been here. The calendar on the wall said it was December, though he was pretty sure Christmas had
come and gone.

“You used to be a barber, didn’t you?”

“For many years I had my own business.”

Don Fidencio stared at him now, as if he might have mistaken him for someone else. “And where was that exactly, this barbershop
of yours?”

“Close to the stadium.” He pointed out the window, in the general direction of the shop, as if this might jar his memory.

“Where your boy used to play football?”

“Yes, not far from there.” He motioned again with his hand. “You used to come on Saturday mornings for your haircuts, before
work.”

“Forty-two years I delivered the mail.”

“People knew you all over Brownsville.”

Don Fidencio adjusted himself in the chair and looked out the window. An attendant paused in the doorway and then continued
pushing a laundry hamper down the hall.

“They come clean your room every day?” Don Celestino asked.

“Only because of The Son Of A Bitch.” The old man slammed his palm on the armrest. “The one my daughter lies down in bed with
every night!”

“¿QUE FUE?” The One With The Hole In His Back stirred out of his sleep. “WHO THE HELL IS OUT THERE? COME OUT LIKE MEN, SHOW
ME YOUR FACES!”

“Maybe we should talk outside the room,” Don Celestino suggested.

“Ignore him.” Don Fidencio flicked his hand in the direction of the retractable curtain. “He wakes up and then thinks his
dreams are real.”

“YOU THINK I CARE WHO SENT YOU? COME OUT HERE LIKE REAL MEN! TRY AND SEE IF YOU CAN HANG ANOTHER INNOCENT ONE.” The One With
The Hole In His Back banged his bedpan on the bed railing. “LET ME SEE HOW MANY OF YOU COWARDS THEY SENT IN THE MIDDLE OF
THE NIGHT TO KILL ME!”

“See what I told you?” He twirled his index finger near the side of his head. “Ignore him, he’s just another prisoner.”

“That part of you hasn’t changed.”

“And can you tell me where you live?”

“In the same house as always.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, alone,” he answered. He wasn’t exactly sure how he was supposed to mention Socorro.

The old man turned toward the window.

“Sometimes I think God forgot about me.”

“God doesn’t forget people.”

“I’m not talking about other people. I said that He forgot about
me,
Fidencio Rosales, the one in this room, that He left me here with all these strangers. That wherever it is that He writes
down all the names, my name has been forgotten or erased, something. That by now he should have taken me.”

“So now you want to complain because you haven’t died?”

“How do you explain that I am here, almost ninety-two, and still giving people trouble, so much trouble that nobody wants
me in their house? My time should have come years ago. This morning they had eight dead ones listed in the newspaper. Guess
how many were as old as me?”

Don Celestino kept looking at his brother.

“Don’t break your head trying to guess.” He held up his hand and slowly bent one arthritic finger after another until he managed
to curl his thumb and forefinger into a zero. “You remember Dr. Hernandez?”

“I heard that he had been sick.”

“He was thirty years younger than the old man you see here. He came to the hospital the last time I was so sick. He talked
to Amalia, and I heard them just outside the room. They thought I was asleep, but even with my eyes shut I could hear them.
And he told her, ‘At his age, your father is like a candle, his life is only flickering to stay alive.’ He said it, I heard
him. And now look where he is and look where I am and tell me, tell me that God hasn’t forgotten me.”

“Still, that you are alive doesn’t mean God has forgotten about you, Fidencio.”

“You can say that because you don’t live here, because you have your own house, because you think you know how it is to live
here, where you cannot walk two paces beyond the door without somebody coming to take you back inside by the arm. They tell
you everything: how to walk, when to eat, when to watch television, what time to go to sleep, the days to take a shower, when
to make cacas.”

“There must be some who like it here.”

“I DON’T CARE WHO SENT YOU DOWN HERE — YOU HEAR ME? THIS LAND HAS ALWAYS BELONGED TO MY PEOPLE!”

“Yes, like this one!” He motioned toward the other bed. “You should take me to live with you. Take your brother from this
prison. If you have space for another person, why not?”

“And how do you think I would take care of you?”

“I don’t need nobody taking care of me. I can take care of myself, same way I used to. I still could, if they would let me.
Take me, and I will prove it to you.”

“And if something happens? You think I’m so young that I would be able to help you?”

“But that’s what I am trying to tell you, that if something was going to happen, it would have happened already. But here
you see me, no different from the first night they came to leave me in that bed right there. All they want is to keep me alive
for another fifty years. Tell me, tell me why it is nobody wants me, but nobody wants me to die either. Answer me that one.”

“They must have had a reason,” Don Celestino said. “So these people could take care of you and nothing happens.”

“Yes, exactly! That is exactly what is happening to me — nothing! Every day a little more of nothing is happening to me! Tell
me how much longer I have to go on this way. Even something bad would be better than more of nothing!”

“Mr. Rosales?” The One With The Flat Face was standing at the door.

“These other ones, they don’t know what happened to them! But I know, I know where I am, where they left me!”

“BRING THEM TO ME! WATCH HOW THEY RUN AFTER I SHOOT THE FIRST ONE!”

“Mr. Rosales, you need to be quiet,” The One With The Flat Face said. “You woke up Mr. Cavazos, and we can hear both of you
all the way to the nurses’ station.”

“See, what did I tell you?” He cocked back his head. “They send this girl to tell me when I can talk.”

“You can talk as much as you like, Mr. Rosales, just in a quiet voice, for inside.” She raised her finger to her lips. “Shh…”

“Now you tell me, when was the last time they sent a young girl to your house to tell you, ‘Shh’?” He wiped the corner of
his mouth with his cuff, then turned away and looked out the window.

Don Celestino stood up from the edge of the bed and patted his brother on the shoulder. “We can talk more later, whenever
I come back for another visit.”

“Mr. Rosales, next time you can get together outside on the patio, where you can talk as loud as you like.”

The old man wished they would just leave him already. He ignored them both and continued to stare out the window. The One
Who Likes To Kiss Your Forehead was helping one of The Turtles stand up from her wheelchair and get into the front seat of
a waiting car. He stayed watching until after The Turtle was buckled and the car had pulled away and another arrived in its
place.

T
he next time Don Celestino stopped by, he brought his green-and-beige tackle box and set it on the overbed table. The extending
tray held four shears, a pair of combs, and his straight razor. Down below, in the main section of the box, he kept his two
clippers: one with a narrow blade for trimming sideburns and around the ears; the other with a wider blade for trimming hair
in the back, either squared off or rounded, or even tapered, depending on the man’s preference. Each machine came with an
attachable cord for when the batteries were running low. He kept a bottle of hair tonic sealed tight inside a plastic bag
to prevent any leaking onto the shears or the black cape that was folded into a square shape at the bottom of the box.

“Why do you want to cut an old man’s hair?” Don Fidencio asked. “You cut it this morning and I could be dead later this afternoon
— all that work for nothing.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“And if I do?”

“Then you still need a haircut,” Don Celestino said. “You want me to do it or somebody at the funeral home?”

The old man sat back and looked at his brother in the mirror.

“If you really wanted to help me, you would get me out before I die here with all these strangers.”

“So I can be struggling with you at the house? We would have to hire somebody to come help you, and then if you got sick on
me in the middle of the night? No, you’re better off staying here.”

“It sounds like the one who would be better off is you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“It would be good for you to have company, someone to talk to.”

“I already have someone to talk to.”

“Who?” Don Fidencio asked.

“A friend.”

“Who?”

“Just a friend.”

“A woman friend?”

“I don’t know,” Don Celestino said, “maybe it is a woman.”

“You haven’t checked?”

“This isn’t so you can go telling everybody.”

“Yes, like I have so many people I could tell your news to.”

“Still.”

Don Fidencio rubbed the bill of his cap, then shook his head.

“You didn’t waste no time, eh?”

“It just happened, without us planning it.”

“Does she have a name, or is this a secret, too?”

“Socorro,” he answered. “Now are you going to let me cut your hair or not?”

Don Fidencio removed his baseball cap and waited for his brother to snap open the black cape.

“We need to find another chair,” Don Celestino said. “The back is too high on this one for me to reach your neck.” He turned
to the resident in the next bed. “Excuse me, but can we borrow your chair?”

“TAKE IT, TAKE IT,” the old man said, flinging his hand in the air. He had a couple of pillows tucked beneath him and was
tilted toward the opposite wall. “IF I NEED TO GO SOMEPLACE, I CAN TELL THEM TO BRING ONE OF MY HORSES.”

But when Don Celestino pushed the wheelchair to the other side of the room, he found his brother motioning back and forth
with his index finger like a tiny windshield wiper on its lowest setting.

“No, what?”

“No to that chair.”

“Just for me to cut your hair, Fidencio.”

“For nothing. Not for a haircut, not so you can clean the wax out of my ears,” he said calmly enough and put his cap back
on. “For nothing.”

“You see what I mean about struggling with you?”

“Because I refuse to sit in a wheelchair, for that reason you want to leave me here?”

“What is it going to hurt you to sit for a few minutes?”

“They already took my canes from me.”

When it was clear his brother wasn’t moving, Don Celestino walked to the nurses’ station and a couple of minutes later returned
with a chair with a lower backrest. Once they had switched chairs, he removed his brother’s cap for the second time, draped
the cape around him, and rolled the new chair closer to the mirror hanging from the back of the closet door.

The old man looked at his brother in the mirror. “So this woman, Socorro, she’s why you don’t take me to live there at your
house?”

“She has her own house, Fidencio.”