Amigoland (3 page)

The attendant was waiting with his last tray of food; after a while he stuck one of his tattooed fingers under the plastic
covering and touched the mashed potatoes, just to make sure the food was still warm.

Don Fidencio felt weak; his head was beginning to hurt. They had strayed off the main road and gotten lost in some dense scrubland.
By now it had been more than a day or two since their last meal. Close to dusk he spotted something scurrying under a huisache.
Before they could surround the shrub, the armadillo bolted out into the clearing and found cover somewhere else. Each time
they thought they had it cornered, the animal would rush off past them because nobody had anything to hit it with. They started
throwing stones, but most of these missed or ricocheted off the animal’s shell. Half an hour went by this way. It was getting
dark and they were about to give up on catching it when the armadillo stopped suddenly and dropped dead from exhaustion. One
of the men who knew how to cook prepared the meat on a spit over an open fire. Don Fidencio had eaten without thinking of
what he was eating or why he was eating it or how gamy it tasted or how tough it was to chew or how the meat was getting stuck
between his teeth or if the memory of any of this would stay with him. He just ate.

The One With The Worried Face was working on cutting his corn bread with the edge of his spoon. He scooped up the first piece,
but it kept toppling over to one side. After the fourth or fifth time, it was clear to him that he had cut too big a piece.
So he worked on it until he had whittled it down to three smaller chunks. In between he stopped to take a sip of his iced
tea with the bendable straw. Then he stared at the spoon, as if unsure where it had come from, and a few seconds later switched
over to the vanilla pudding.

The Gringo With The Ugly Finger stirred a second packet of Sweet’N Low into his coffee. “Really it wasn’t much of a lunchroom,
just some metal chairs and an old Coca-Cola-bottle machine, so I usually ate my sandwich out in the hangar somewhere.”

“Please, Mr. Phillips, I’m talking to Mr. Rosales right now.”

The One With The Big Ones turned back to Don Fidencio. “Well, sir, what’s it going to be? Dinner or no dinner?”

“You can’t tell me when I can eat,” said the old man. “I’m not even supposed to be here. Against my will they brought me to
this place.”

“You’re here for your own good, Mr. Rosales. So we can take care of you.”

“This is how you take care of people?”

“Miss Saldana says you skipped your lunch so you could smoke outside. Is that true?”

Don Fidencio shook his head but without looking at the man.

“How can we take care of you, Mr. Rosales, if you won’t let us take care of you?”

“I don’t need you or anybody taking care of me.”

“Your daughter thinks you do.”

“And what does she know? If you people let me, I could do everything like I used to. One day you’ll see.”

“See what?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just give me my food.”

The One With The White Pants came around to the table with his own cart. His was bigger than the food cart or The One With
The Flat Face’s cart. To begin with, the wheels didn’t rattle or get stuck, so it was hard to know when he was getting close
to your table. One minute you were eating your carrot cake and the next second there he was, standing next to you, dressed
in his white pants and shirt, smiling like he knew you were expecting him and here he was with his tiny paper cup full of
goodies.

The One With The Worried Face took the cup and steadily raised it toward his mouth until he was able to tip a purple pill
onto his tongue, which was now chalk-colored from the milky supplement he drank with his meal.

“Water?” asked The One With The White Pants.

But The One With The Worried Face already had some and raised his glass as if he were about to toast the beginning of another
miserable year. Then he took a swig of the water, cocked back his head, and swallowed. The One With The White Pants gazed
up at the ceiling while the old man took eight more pills this way.

“Not yet for Mr. Rosales,” The One With The Big Ones said when The One With The White Pants came around the table. “Take care
of Mr. Phillips, someone who likes to follow the rules and procedures.”

“Now I sure as heck do,” The Gringo With The Ugly Finger said and then held it up for everyone to see.

Don Fidencio could feel his stomach grumbling. The One With The Big Ones thought he was making him suffer by not letting him
have his paper cup, as if he looked forward to taking so many damn pills. He was doing him a favor. Thank you very much, he
wanted to say. A cupful of pills was the last thing he wanted. If he even thought he could find some crackers in one of his
shoe boxes, he would have grabbed the walker and headed back to his room. A man who looked like he needed to wear a brassiere
shouldn’t be talking to him in this way, telling him what to do, when he could and couldn’t eat. Only a few years earlier
he would have laid him out flat on the floor, made him regret having spoken to him in that way. He didn’t know who he was
dealing with, what Don Fidencio had lived through in his life.

It was late in the evening when they finally made it back to the river. What little money they had started with was gone now.
Don Fidencio and the two other men walked along the dense riverbank, trying to figure out where exactly they could cross.
The current seemed strong no matter where they looked. They finally spotted a bend where the river was narrower and it wouldn’t
take but a minute or so to tread water and reach the other side. Don Fidencio stripped down and rolled his clothes and shoes
into a tight ball. But when he looked around, only one of the men had undressed. I never learned to swim, the other one said.
He was more boy than man, but he had worked hard to prove himself the last five days. You can hold on to us, Don Fidencio
told him. But he refused and said he preferred to remain on this side. He claimed to have family he could stay with. But if
he really had family here, then why come all the way to the river with them? They waited to see if he would change his mind
and then went ahead and took their first steps into the river, making sure to keep their knotted-up clothes raised above their
heads. The water wasn’t as high as they had imagined and they were able to stay on their feet most of the way. Don Fidencio
wanted to tell the boy he could make it, he would go back for him, but when he turned around he had already lost him.

He closed his eyes and tried to count the extra hours he might have to wait until breakfast. It was past five o’clock, which
meant he had less than two hours before they started to turn off the lights. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept a
whole night, so he would most likely wake up around four in the morning, not including however many times he was sure to wake
up to go sit on the toilet. So the five hours since lunch, plus however many hours he said he needed before he fell asleep,
was something like nine hours, maybe ten. Then he had to add in the hours since he had last eaten, however many he’d said
it had been. If he could just write this down, he could figure it out, not let all these numbers get jumbled up inside his
head. He reached for the ballpoint pen in his shirt pocket but then figured The One With The Big Ones would be rushing him
as he wrote down the numbers, so instead he kept his eyes shut, left the pen where it was, and pretended to have an itch at
his armpit.

No matter how long it was overnight, what he knew was that after he dressed in the morning he would have to wait until they
unlocked the patio before he could go outside for a smoke and kill some of his hunger. It was brighter at the front of the
building, but he didn’t want them coming to take him back inside by the elbow. The sun would hardly be out at that hour. The
yardman didn’t let himself in through the back gate until later in the morning. If someone were to look outside, all they
would see was the burning tip of a cigarette and the shape of an old man attached to the end of it. The package had seemed
kind of flat when he was smoking at noon. He maybe had two cigarettes left. Two cigarettes wasn’t much after picking at his
breakfast and not eating lunch and now dinner. If only his hands were still steady, he could roll his own, but he had given
this up years ago when the cigarettes kept coming out looking like broken fingers.

Then after going out to the patio, he would have to wait another hour before they opened the mess hall. That seemed like an
extra long time to wait, however many hours that would end up being. He imagined arriving in the mess hall and waiting in
one of the chairs closest to the kitchen. Maybe he could find a newspaper or a magazine to distract himself until they brought
out the food. Maybe The One With The Net On His Head would do him the favor of serving him a little early. He would be willing
to pass the man a small tip on the side, a few extra cigarettes when he had some, just so he wouldn’t have to wait any longer
than he already had. He couldn’t say he even cared for the oatmeal breakfast they served. Every day the same thing, oatmeal
and raisins. Monday, oatmeal and raisins. Tuesday, oatmeal and raisins. Wednesday, oatmeal and raisins. On and on that way.
He usually spread sugar over the top of the oatmeal and then mixed it in with a little bit of milk until it got creamy, but
he could see himself skipping this part of his routine just so he could start eating. The biscuit he would bite into while
it was still hot (normally he liked to save it for later, sometimes taking extra care to wrap it up in a napkin, placing it
in the center of the paper and folding the napkin end over end until it formed a small brick that he could stuff inside his
shirt pocket). No, these people didn’t know who they were dealing with. He had been through much worse in his life. The One
With The Big Ones actually thought he could keep him here.

Now he was the one smiling. He knew they were all around the table, he could feel their eyes on him — The One With The Flat
Face, The One With The Big Ones, The One With The Worried Face, The Gringo With The Ugly Finger, The One With The White Pants,
The One With The Net On His Head — staring at him and waiting for his next move. It all seemed possible to him, the waiting,
the restless night of sleeping, getting up so many times until he couldn’t go back to sleep, waiting for the patio to open
up, smoking his one or two cigarettes, and finally making his way into the mess hall when they turned on the lights. Then
he realized the first person he’d see would be The One With The Flat Face, coming around with her cart.

T
he urge came with no warning, the third one since waking up. A few years earlier his urologist had said the problem had to
do with Don Fidencio’s prostate. His urologist was an Indian man, tall and slender, who spoke in a hushed tone as if someone
might be listening at the door. He explained that on a normal man the prostate was about the size of a pecan. He drew a pecan
on one of his prescription pads. But in the particular case of Don Fidencio, his prostate had grown to what was closer to
the size of a small avocado seed. He drew the seed next to the pecan. Clearly there was a problem: a pecan was not an avocado
seed. And it was this enlarged prostate pressing against his urethra that was necessitating the frequency of his trips to
the lavatory. He drew the urethra on the pad, placing it between the pecan and the avocado seed. The doctor explained that
because of the patient’s advanced age, surgery was not an option, but there was medication that would help to ease the symptoms.
The old man listened attentively, as if he were taking in all this new information, committing it to memory, but in truth
he was only amazed how the doctor knew so much from sticking his long, delicate finger in there for what couldn’t have been
more than two seconds. Not that he wanted it in there any longer than necessary, but still, it wasn’t much time to determine
that his was the size of an avocado seed. The doctor was good at drawing the nut and the seed and the little tube. Maybe this
was what he told all his patients. The old man took the medicine for a few weeks, but he stopped when he didn’t notice any
real change in how often he had to urinate. He took enough damn medicine as it was. The doctor probably had it wrong. How
could he really be sure after only two seconds, maybe less?

Once he undid his pants and suspenders, he held on to the support rail and, with his yellowed and cracked toenails digging
into the foam cushions of his orthopedic shoes, eased himself down, down, down, down, until finally touching the pot. Never
would he have imagined it would come to this, urinating like a woman. All for falling in the yard and not having the sense
to wake up and get himself back inside the house. Earlier that same afternoon he had gone over to watch a Little League game
and then stayed in the car where he could drink his beer. Maybe he should’ve paid more attention to the numbness he felt along
his arm, but he blamed it on his medicines, which were liable to cause all kinds of side effects. The blurriness, though,
that was something he couldn’t ignore so easily and it finally made him give up on watching the game and head home, taking
the side streets so he could drive slower than usual. When he got back to the house, he left the two remaining beer cans on
the floorboard. He staggered into the front yard, toward the old mesquite, and sat down with his back against the trunk. He
planned to rest his eyes for only a few seconds, but the seconds soon turned into minutes as a warm breeze passed over him.
From the taller branches of the tree, a group of chicharras serenaded him, starting with a low chirp that grew louder, almost
imperceptibly at first, then with time harmonized into a shrill pitch that resounded far beyond the small fenced-in yard,
but by which point the old man had already passed out on the grass.

The doctor at the hospital explained to Amalia and The Son Of A Bitch that with some rehab her father could be expected to
make an almost full recovery, though he would need extra care from now on. The part about the old man wetting himself, from
his crotch to down close to his knees, was probably just an accident, nothing to worry about. Don Fidencio swore no such thing
had ever happened to him and never would again, he guaranteed her. She had been trying for years to get him to sell his house
and move up to Houston. Okay, so he was finally ready to accept her offer, only right then The Son Of A Bitch stepped in and
said he thought her father needed more assistance, in a place where trained people could take care of him, before something
else happened.