Will Write For Food

 

Will Write For Food

 

 With my pen, I'm the boss. I'm a writer, even if I'm the only one to think I am. With my pen, I'm more powerful than Superman. I can bring the dead back to life and kill all the undesirables of the world. Or I can make my frustrations disappear and tell a thousand lies. I write to please me, but if you like what I write, that will satisfy me even more. I can have my characters act better than Pacino and Brando. I could invite Faulkner, McCarthy, and Garcia Marquez to write a few lines for you, though they wouldn't know. I can bring saints and Virgins to the page and marry them to monsters and sinners. I can turn superheroes into villains without you turning the page. I can kidnap your young wife, ask you for a million dollars, and keep both. Or rob a bank with just a note written with the same pen. I could write, and I know I could, though I'd be impressed if it was any good. I wrote I write, and I will write. I can accommodate twenty-six different letters any way I choose, like no one's ever done it before, of course, with a million mistakes in between, and most of it wouldn't make sense, but I can write. I can locate Hitler in a church and have St Francis of Assisi hunting for deer. I can make Gandhi challenge Mandela to a twenty-pace duel. I can turn Anne Frank into a Lolita if I want, though nobody would like it, not even I. How about Mother Teresa and Rigoberta Manchu? They're better than saints, but in my stories, I bet they can follow Charles Manson too. I can have the USA dominate the entire world. For that, I would only need a little effort. I can judge anyone or anything and hide behind my pen, call it fiction, and be safe. I can be handsome, young, strong, or the opposite. I can be the best with my brain and pen, but only on a page. I can imitate Jeffry Dahmer or Ted Bundy and have them kill everyone in the story, left and right, with just my pen. I can fix the entire world, cure cancer, end wars, and start new ones. I can eradicate poverty, feed the world, and replace dictators. If I use all my mental strength and all the cells in my brain, I can make the world love the USA. As hard as it seems, I can do all that with the ink in my pen. I can fight terrorism, capitalism, imperialism, atheism, and racism. I can even fill nihilism with positivism. (Oh, I love Wikipedia) I can be good and harmful, but that doesn't mean I have to be mean. I wouldn't insult anyone and always consider you more intelligent than me. My arch-rivals and nemesis are sometimes better than my heroes, but the worst enemy I know is bigger than the Great Wall of China: writer's block is the real boss; it annuls "my talent" instantly. When it hits, I feel like I'm writing with black ink on a black page in a dark cave. If you want to know writing is not that hard, what's hard is to be a good writer. I just found out anybody can write. Well, it's been a pleasure, but I must return to work. I need to feed the chickens now. Back to reality, I was on my break. I don't know who left this pen here. 

 

 

 

Edmundo Barraza

 

Lancaster, Ca. 09-11-2014

 

My heart and soul are with my friends (all of them) that died on Sept-11-2001

 

http://edbar1952-accomplishedignorant.blogspot.com

 

Clouds for Rent

 

Clouds for Rent

—I originally wrote this story in Spanish. I must say that Spanish is my native tongue. If you read some of my stories, you'll notice it. I must also tell you that English is a tough language to master (now, I have a valid excuse for my mistakes). I would also like to point out that this story feels more real when the weather is 110 degrees.

 

 

 

  

 

 The landscape could not be more horrible and devastating. The land looked sad and gray, and its dryness was intense.

That was the land of my father at that time. It remained fertile, but that fertility needed water. Water scarcity that we had suffered since I was born. Eleven straight years without rain.

The sadness was visible on my father's face, and he began to look like his land, for he had already shown arid furrows in the forehead and around his eyes.

Any desert could have more life. Indeed, there were deserts in the world with more joy—arid lands but full of pride and used to living without water. Land disintegrated and converted by the extreme heat into grains of sand. Impossible to create life and nourishment.

I was glad to see my dad happy, but his happiness was also in short supply.

Sometimes before going to bed, he'd leave the house and look at the sky, hoping that the clouds were more pleasant and friendly and finally come together to celebrate a miracle—the miracle of rain. But the next day, the sadness of my father accumulates seeing his desolate and dry land. The communal water was gone, and the river seemed like a vein, empty and dry, on which not a drop of blood was running. It was as dead as the people's hope in the surrounding areas; some neighbors had already migrated to the cities.

And I prayed to God and implored him to send water because it hurt so much in my heart to see my father sad. He didn't notice I saw him drinking a glass of water to quench his insatiable thirst, and he'd saved the last sip for the little plant in the pot we had in my window.

And I saw in the news that other parts of the world had floods, hurricanes, and torrential rains that razed everything in their path. And I asked God why it was so unfair, and why he didn't share his exaggerations, and why not bring a little of the excesses over there to our shortages over here. And why the poorest people were always the most affected by all the world's miseries.

Thinking about it, it occurred to me that there should be a way of gathering clouds in a specific place and forcing them somehow to drop their water, not for the pleasure of seeing the rain, but to satisfy hunger and the most basic needs of country people. Also, my three-year-old sister had never seen rain. And so I went to bed one night, thinking about bringing the rain and making my dad happy.

And that night, I dreamed of "Wet Cloud," an Apache chief from the tribe: "Sinsolnisombra," who taught me the rain dance. His supernatural power to attract the clouds and fame had already crossed borders. The heavenly paradise envied the vast lands of his tribe. I don't know how, but within the dream, I realized I was dreaming, everything looked authentic, but I knew it was unreal. And that forced me to pay more attention to learning the rain dance to apply it the next day in my father's land.

Well, I did learn it, and in the morning, before going to school, before my bath, and before breakfast, I danced as authentically as I could. With a pot and a spoon, I tried to imitate the beat of the drums. Everything was fine until my mom grabbed me by the ear and led me back into the house, saying she'd take me to the loony bin if I did not behave like ordinary people. 

We hadn't seen any water running in the river for three years. My sister didn't know what a river was. If they released water from the dam or lake, it would only wet the river bed briefly because the thirsty ground had been so dry. We were many miles away from wherever the water was born. And every time I passed the empty river, so torn and dry, it reminded me of my dad and his sorrowful heart.

One day I saw my dad with a tree branch in the form of a "v" walking tirelessly around the ranch. According to him, he was looking for groundwater, and all he found was a great thirst in his throat. Disappointed, he went to sit in the thin shadow of the last living tree left. He may need a bigger stick.  

My dad's concern caught me, and I just thought about our grave water scarcity day and night. Before bed, my mind revolved around my thoughts, and I only saw water in my brain. 

 

 One morning, I woke up to good news on television. Somebody had found a way to make it rain and invented a magnet cloud. This magnet could gather clouds in a couple of hours, and then guns or missiles launched from earth would explode above the clouds, forcing them to release the water with fright. But all this ended abruptly when a civil war began between neighboring peoples, claiming they had stolen their clouds. And they yet appeared larger and more powerful magnets until the government banned them.

Our concern grew when water for bathing was also considered a waste. In the house, there were no live potted plants, dogs no longer stuck their tongues to avoid sweating, and thus saving them a trip to their dry containers.

At night, I no longer prayed to God. Instead, I criticized him without fear and asked him to get off his cloud and lend it to us for a while, and I would remind him what I had learned at school: Seventy-one percent of the earth's surface contains ninety-seven percent of the water on the planet. 

 

 And I wondered why he didn't distribute it equally or why he didn't remove the salt from the seawater and make a million new rivers. Then the sun's heat could evaporate some of the water, and then this evaporation would turn into clouds, rain, rain back into the rivers, and so on—a nice never-ending cycle. And so, with much rainfall, the world would become a paradise on earth, and no one would ask for anything anymore. He would be resting in peace for all eternity, or He could go to other universes to create a new life with another Adam and Eve. I didn't think this was too complicated for God.

Looking more deeply, we could move to where there are large floods, and at least we wouldn't be so bored with this terrible dryness. My dad says it is very complicated, and we need at least ten years to adapt to such a drastic change. And I say that I would like to have been born in the middle of the water, and I say that in ten years, we will continue without water or rain. And he tells me to shut up and not to jinx it. 

I don't want to sleep; I don't want to dream anymore. Oh well, I still want to dream that I wake up drowning in a massive lake of fresh and cool water, well, not drowning. I want to live, enjoy my happiness, and see my father's face without wrinkles and furrows. I want to see his face with a perpetual smile, to come out and jump with me in the rain, looking at the sky with our mouths open and receiving water within our souls and hearts and letting it run through all our veins. That's what I want, to dream and never wake up.

But I awaken again. And I think I hear it's raining. But I don't get excited because I know I'm dreaming. But I can listen to my father and sister jumping out, screaming, and laughing in the rain. And then my mother comes to my bed, grabs my hand, and tells me to get up and see how much rain is falling. And I answer that I don't want to because I'm asleep and dreaming. She returns with a bucket full of water and empties it on my face. And then I wake up and get up and celebrate the rain miracle. And we jump together holding hands and get tired, but we're no longer thirsty. 

And I'm going to sleep, and again I wake up, and it's still raining.

And it's still raining.

Edmundo Barraza         

 Lancaster, Ca 01/09/2014

 

 

 

 

And She Was

 

And She Was

 

You could see she would be a beautiful girl from the day she was born, not like some girls whose, for some reason, beauty declines over time. Like the ones with ugly parents that, every year that passes, look more like them. Or the ones with overweight parents, that, as soon as they grow their teeth, they start eating junk food all day like them. Or the ones with parents with awful personalities or terrible taste in clothes and everything else. Or all other unexplainable reasons that make beauty disappear. 

 

 

That was not her case. This girl's beauty would stay with her until her last day. Everybody knew that.

 

She was a privileged girl; her parents were professionals and in a good economic position.

 

She was a spoiled girl from day one. They had little time to share with her but bought people with time, like nannies, babysitters, clowns, and nurses, and they got her all kinds of pets, not to mention all imaginable types of toys. They would take her to the best hospitals and doctors even with a minor cold. And if she were sad, lonely, or depressed, her parents would immediately take her to their psychiatrist.

 

They flaunted their money shamelessly and all they could buy with it. They displayed their wealth ostentatiously to everybody that crossed their path. And the girl noticed, and she became like them. 

 

She took piano lessons, singing lessons, gymnastics, and ballet. And all of that was fine. She was their only child.

 

And, of course, she became a cheerleader. A cheerleader's leader at her expensive private school, where all cheerleaders were beautiful, but no one was as beautiful as her. They all had to be pretty; it was the primary requirement, unlike public schools that nowadays have to follow affirmative action, to give room to all kinds of weirdos in all types of programs, even the cheerleader's squad. 

 

At a young age, she heard how her parents treated the help, with arrogance and airs of superiority. Their gardener was Mexican, Salvadorian, or Guatemalan. The gardener spoke Spanish, so all Spanish-speaking people were below her level. Her wise parents didn't notice the little girl was paying attention.

 

One day, her mom told a homeless man, "You're a freeloader and a loser; go find a job." Her mom was her idol, so that must have been a good example.

 

Her parents didn't like Mexicans, Hindus, Blacks, Orientals, or Arabs unless they were exceptionally brilliant, rich, or famous. And since the little girl was bright and could learn everything fast, she learned that too, and she became like her parents at an early age. 

 

They live in the entire world. They are racist, prejudicial, unfair, and discriminatory. They were white and rich, and some of them were not so white or not so rich. Let's be fair. Not only white people can be this way. Racist people exist everywhere.

 

Some might think that I'm exaggerating a bit, but they might be right. But this little girl was absorbing like a sponge all her parents did, and she was learning to be mean, heartless, selfish, and arrogant, just like her parents. 

 

She believed in God. Yes, she did, but her God was white, too, and she believed her God only loved people like her. And she would argue, "Have you seen a black Jesus or an Oriental God? Of course not. Oh, my God is beautiful like me and loves what I love. And He has a special paradise, exclusively for us."

 

And all the friends in her circle had similar thoughts. And it seemed that they were right because they had it all. God must be on their side. After all, He had granted every single wish they desired. 

 

She disliked poor people; she said it was their fault they were poor. She wouldn't come near anyone with any disability and despised ugly people. She thought all of them were a bunch of ignorant, useless bloodsuckers and parasites. And she had learned to express her thoughts adequately, just like her parents.

 

When she turned fifteen, she convinced her mom to take her to her famous plastic surgeon because she wanted fuller lips. Still, the doctor had good ethics and morals, and he refused to perform unnecessary surgery. He said she was perfect. At first, she was enraged by his refusal, but when she realized the famous doctor had said she was perfect, her ego got a huge boost. 

 

At sixteen, she recorded her first record. Her daddy hired a famous producer and two of the best-known writers. The final product was of above-average quality, but it flopped in any case, but only initially. Because a month later, her daddy bought fifty thousand records for himself, which remain in a storage room. 

 

As a reward for her new status as a "teen pop sensation," her parents bought her a new Mercedes. That night she went out with her friends to celebrate her recent success. The celebration lasted all night long. On their way back, with the sun shining on her face, she fell asleep on the last exit ramp near her house. A Mexican boy was selling oranges there; the boy left his business unattended to get all the beautiful teenagers out of the upturned Mercedes one by one. The girl wasn't wearing her seatbelt because she didn't want her new dress to get wrinkled by the belt. She was the one with the most injuries on her body.

 

They took her to the hospital by helicopter in critical condition, where they performed several urgent operations. She'd been driving at ninety miles per hour; her face and body hit the steering wheel and dashboard before it broke the windshield. Her face was unrecognizable; she had numerous broken bones, but the most severe damage had been internal. Some of her organs ruptured from their ligaments, veins, and muscles. And she had lost a lot of blood. 

 

The result had been catastrophic. The girl's corneas had to be transplanted. The donor was a seventeen-year-old Asian kid who died in another car crash. She also needed a spleen transplant; the donor had been a twelve-year-old Iraqi girl who had died in a house fire. The blood used in the transfusion had been donated or sold by a homeless man. A Hindu doctor performed the operations successfully, and Filipino and African-American nurses assisted the girl with tender care for the eight weeks that she remained in the hospital.

 

When she returned home, the Mexican gardener received her with a bunch of flowers picked from the girl's garden and a Spanish note.

 

She cried, trying to read the note, and she didn't understand a word. But she thought that Spanish was a beautiful language too. 

 

And she was happy to be alive, and the experience had transformed her.

 

And she was pleased with her new God, a God without preferences or favorite people.

 

And she was.

 

 

 

Edmundo Barraza

 

Lancaster, Ca. 08-25-2014

 

http://edbar1952-accomplishedignornt.blogspot.com

 

Losing My Religion

 

Losing My Religion

I dislike religions, "hate" is a harsh and offensive word that I've been trying not to use. I genuinely believe that religions need to be renovated and recycled. I think religions are still in antediluvian times, managed in a patriarchal way by antiquated leaders. Religions are losing adepts and believers and are becoming obsolete. Religious wars are not rare. We've certainly heard Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Protestants, Catholics, and Holy Wars mentioned in many wars around the globe.   

My parents raised me in the Catholic religion, and I'm still struggling to forgive them.

Many say that the etymology of religion lies with the Latin word religare, which means "to tie, to bind." That is a perfect definition of what religion does. They create unnecessary fear; they're manipulative, imposing, and authoritative. I need help understanding how something that is supposed to be a moral guide can be full of deception, confusion, and contradiction.

 

The typical definition in the dictionary describes religion as a belief or worship of a superhuman controlling power, especially a personal God or gods. In any case, any definition of religion needs to be more specific and clear. 

 

I began to lose faith in religion decades ago as a teenager. I can honestly say that the more I read and learned about fundamental human nature, the more I withdrew myself from religion. The less dumb I felt, the more skeptical I became. 

 

I don't remember how long ago I became aware that religion was the biggest lie in human history. It has been responsible for more deaths than all other unnatural causes combined. The Church was an authoritarian dictatorship that used religion to control the uneducated masses for a thousand years. 

 

I can honestly say I'm not an expert in religion or theology. I merely state my opinion, experience, and relationship with God and religion.

 

When I stopped going to Church and quit practicing all sacred rites and ceremonies, they still performed mass in Latin, which made the services even more boring. The pomposity and arrogance of the rituals and the officiating priests made it even worse. 

 

But things didn't start that way; initially, I loved my religion. My first recollection of going to Church was my first communion. My parents were firm believers in God and the Catholic faith. When I was six years old, my mom sent me to Sunday school to get prepared for my first communion. Back then, my love for my parents was immense; they were my idols and heroes. I probably love them even more now, and they're still my heroes, but back then, I would have followed every instruction they gave me. I believed everything they said. 

But over time, one thing happens, you get a mind of your own. Sometimes. 

 

I can describe my relationship with God and religion in three stages:

 

· The first was submission, surrender, awe and admiration, and total belief (from six to twelve years old).

 

· The second was hesitation and doubt, uncertain distrust, and the usual phase when you question authority (from twelve to sixteen years old).

 

· The final stage is a lack of faith and deception (from sixteen years old to now).

 

 

My dad used to buy me comic books about saints and angels after we went to Church. Sunday was a fun day with my dad. I enjoyed being next to my dad. Imitating all of his moves, making the cross sign, kneeling, taking communion, and even going to confession, I had little to say at that age. I was inventing innocent sins. 

If I had followed my dad to Church, I would probably have followed him to hell too. 

 

 I believe that the forced indoctrination of children by parents should stop. We should let them decide by themselves. I bet they would choose to be agnostics. I raised my kids without contact with religion, and I don't regret it. 

 

I was about sixteen when I lost my religion; my faith disappeared, and my devotion expired. If God is everywhere, I'm sure he witnessed my escape. My rebellion began with my enormous boredom during mass; it was unbelievably soporific and monotonous. Among other things, the smell of incense was unbearable and on the verge of making me ill.

 

And then, at that age, I thought I was committing sins that I couldn't confess. Now I know they were ordinary sins because I still commit the same sins. But it bothered me a little that I knew in advance that my confession would be incomplete or insincere. For those reasons, I quit confessing my sins.

 

I was confronting extreme boredom, the smell of incense, false confessions, and increasing disbelief. I was becoming an atheist. And 'atheism' is a horrible word, and I hate that word. Did I mention that I hate the word 'hate'?

 I would believe in God again if he granted one of my wishes once in a while. (most wishes are not for me.)

 

 If religion can impose fear in me, if God can punish me, He should also be able to please me occasionally.

 

And I'm still waiting.

 

 

Edmundo Barraza

 

Lancaster, Ca. Jul-29-2014

 http://edbar1952-accomplishedignorant.blogspot.com 

 

 

 

Things That Don't Exist

 

Things That Don't Exist

"Dad, when did I stop believing in Santa?"

 

"I would say ten years ago when you were six or seven years old."

 

"And what about mermaids, the tooth fairy, and unicorns?" 

 

"I don't think you ever believed in those."

 

"What about the boogie man, big foot, and extraterrestrials?" 

 

"I'm not sure, but you still believe in those. I remember the X-Files was your favorite T.V. show. Why are you asking me these questions?"

 

"For an article, I'm preparing for the school paper about things that don't exist."

 

"Honest politicians. That should be the first thing on the list."

 

"You're full of shit, dad."

 

"Hey, I never talked that way to my father."

 

"That's because my grandpa was not full of shit." 

 

 Sometimes I talk to my dad as I talk to any of my friends, but that is a little rough. "Sorry, dad." I sincerely apologize. 

"It's okay, I talk to all my friends that way, and I consider you my friend. But ask around. Nobody knows an honest politician. They might have good intentions initially, but later they forget their promises or have to pay for past favors, so they forget about their original agendas." 

"Is that the reason nobody wants to vote and things never change, and if they do, it's only for the worse?" 

 

 "Yes." 

 

 "Okay, dad, and why do you think I never believed in God?" 

 

"I'm probably to blame for that; I've always told you to question authority. And God is the foremost authority. If he exists." he concluded.

 

Then I check my long list. I don't believe in the Bible, the resurrection, mortal sins, or divine interventions. I don't believe in the afterlife or the final judgment. I don't believe in miracles, saints, or Virgins having babies. And capital punishment, by either the hand of God or humans (I find that completely absurd). Nor do I believe in legal or illegal aliens. I believe in humans instead. I don't believe in freedom either because everybody needs to respond to a higher authority for their actions. Nobody's ever free. You get your freedom when you die. 

 

I don't believe in intuition, fate or karma, eternal love, or matrimony (what a joke). Nobody respects marriage anymore. The perfect man, the perfect woman, or the perfect child don't exist.

 

Psychics, they're charlatans. Psychiatrists and psychologists all need professional help. Scientists keep predicting calamities that never materialize. The future doesn't exist because it never gets here. World peace will never exist. That's impossible. The only thing humans are good for is creating wars.

 

The more knowledge you acquire, the more fearful you become. We still can't find a cure for the common cold, and new illnesses keep emerging. Wait, these things exist, and I escaped the topic because all the negativity involved makes me furious.

 

"Now that I think about it, I don't feel happy. I don't believe in anything. And I should blame you for my unhappiness. You made me a skeptical cynic, dad." 

 

"Wait a minute. You were happy this morning. You hugged and kissed me and wished me a happy birthday. You're just beginning to think like an adult. Welcome to the real world."

 

He might be right! I suddenly found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but it was empty. What a shock. To compensate for my disappointment, I'll list the things I believe exist, like love and friendship. But I haven't fallen in love yet, and my friends keep stabbing me in the back, so there goes friendship too. How about "luck," if I was lucky, maybe? There must be something else. Let me see, "respect" no, I just demonstrated to my dad that I don't have any. But it's his fault. He told me to question authority. 

 

 Let's concentrate; am I trying to find what? Oh yes, things I believe exist. Material things, oh, yes, I found one, money. Money exists, and I believe in money. With money, you can buy all things that exist.

 

And with that, I finished my article. I only need to change the title. 

 

Instead of "Things That Don't Exist," I'll entitle it: "A Materialistic Incredulous Cynic." that's it.

 

 

 

Edmundo Barraza

 

Lancaster, Ca. 09-10-2014

 

http://edbar1952-accomplishedignorant.blogspot.com

 *My heart and soul are with my friends (all of them) that died on Sept-11-2001 

  

 

Jesus of Vislaia

 Jesus of Visalia

When I returned from my vacation, I discovered they had hired a new worker. His name was Jesus.

I'll train him as I do with all recruits. He's in his late twenties but looks older with his beard and mustache. I never liked bearded guys or guys with mustaches. It might be because I can't grow one. If they are ugly, they look uglier, and if handsome, they would hide their handsomeness with their ugly beards, but they always look older, dirtier, or smellier, but that's my opinion.

I work for a construction company in Visalia. They pay us and treat us well. I'm a supervisor in charge of the framing crew. We do rough carpentry, the heavy part of the building. We might be arrogant compared to other workers like plumbers, painters, electricians, and roofers. We're generally taller, stronger, and faster than they are. We use all kinds of power tools, saws, and nail guns. And, of course, we use bigger hammers.

We hate sissies. If we fall, we don't complain; if we injure ourselves, we proudly show off our scars. When I met Jesus, I was a little disappointed because he had no visible scars or callouses on his hands.

In other words, we have big egos.

When I talked to him in Spanish, he answered fluently. Even with the facial hair, I could tell he was handsome. I will try to convince him to shave it off.

He said his dad was a carpenter too. They used to make cabinets and furniture, a little different from rough carpentry. He'll be with us as a temp for a try-out period. I'll be the one deciding if he stays. I'll put him as a helper for Pedro and Andres. Our crew consists of a group of six workers, all Mexicans. Not all speak English well. We are the best crew in the company; they give us harder and bigger jobs.

I've never understood why anybody names their kids 'Jesus' here in America. I mean, they use all the names in the Bible except Jesus. But not in Mexico, where it seems to be a crime if nobody in your family is named Maria, (Mary) Jose, (Joseph) Jesus, or Guadalupe, as in the Virgin of Guadalupe. Anyway, I always thought it was strange that no Americans were named Jesus.

On the first day at work, just before our lunch break, Jesus was struck on the head by a small block of wood that had dropped accidentally. I checked on him immediately to see if he needed medical attention, but he said he was okay. I even looked for a bump on his head, but there was none, good. He must have rocks instead of brains. When the lunch truck arrived, he said he'd pay for all we ate. He had no idea of the big mistake he had just made. My guys are always starving; the total, $66.60, even the numbers were ominous.

Before the day was over, another accident happened. Jesus fell from a six-foot ladder, and again I ran to see if he had hurt himself. No, nothing, just a little scratch on his right elbow. Good, his first scar. I told him we were allowed just one little accident a week (I lied), but the way he's going, he'll be dead in a month. He laughed and said he'd be more careful from now on and that his accidents resulted from his desire and excitement to do well in his new job.

By day's end, we got paid, and as usual, we headed for the Green Olive to shoot some pool and have a few beers. Jesus volunteered to be the driver. But that was good and bad because when we designate a driver, we stay longer and we drink a lot more, but at least nobody would get a DUI.

It turned out that Jesus was a pool shark; nobody seemed to be able to get him out of the pool table, not even Felipe and Tomas, who were the best pool players in the joint. I almost got him, but I scratched after I made the eight-ball in the corner pocket. The table must have been out of level because the cue ball went into the pocket like a magnet or something attracted it.

We had ordered at least ten pitchers of beer, and I noticed that our designated driver was drinking just like the rest of us, which didn't look good. He was having a great time; we could take a taxi when we finished.

I noticed that when we drink, we automatically change our names to the corresponding names in English. Felipe turns into Phil, Tomas to Tom, Pedro turns into Peter, Andres becomes Andrew, and since I'm Matias, I turn into Matt. It seems funny, but we all like it. Even Simon and Pedro begin to speak in English  "fluently."

Finally, Tom kicked Jesus' butt. And we're glad because Jesus had the table for almost two hours. Jesus seemed proud when he came to sit next to me.

"Man, you shoot pretty well. Where did you learn?" I asked him.

"I have a pool table in my garage; I built it myself," he answered, as proud as a peacock.

"Is that right, Jesus?" I asked.

"Yes, it is Matt. You're welcome to practice. I can teach you a few tricks.

 'You cocky son of a gun,' I say, but only inside my head.

"Sounds like a great idea Jesus, but first, get a couple more pitchers, and remember, you're the driver, so you better take it easy."

"Don't worry. I'll be okay, Matt, and don't worry about it, okay?"
When Jesus returned with a pitcher of beer in each hand, a man got up from his chair without noticing that Jesus was passing behind him, and Jesus showered him with the beer on his back. The tall guy seemed so upset; he slapped Jesus on his cheek. Jesus apologized right away. We stood up and were ready to defend him in any way, but I signaled my co-workers not to intervene because I wanted to see how Jesus would react.
 
"What the fuck is wrong with you? " Are you stupid or what?" the tall guy said, slapping Jesus on his other cheek and pushing him menacingly.

"I'm sorry, man, I'm sorry. Let me wash your shirt in the restroom. Let me buy you some beers," Jesus said, stuttering nervously.

"Just get the hell out of here; I don't want to see your ugly face."

I must say Jesus disappointed me. I thought he was braver than that. His attitude in this bar counts as part of the test to approve or disapprove his temporary job-testing period.

After the little skirmish, he got two more pitchers and ordered some drinks for the table where the tall man sat with his friends.

"What's up with that, man? I thought you would fight him; it wasn't even your fault. You didn't have to apologize at all," I told Jesus as soon as he sat down.

"It's all right, Matt. I don't like to fight. I'm a pacifist. To me, it's all about Karma. He'll get what he deserves, sooner or later, you'll see."

A couple of hours later, Jesus went to the restroom, and a minute later, the tall guy followed him, obviously with mean intentions. But before he reached the door handle, Jesus opened the door from inside, hit him in the face with the door, and knocked him down. He hit the back of his head against the pool table and stayed on the floor, bleeding.

Fuck! This time Karma acted very fast.

His friends and I stood up, but they backed out. The guy couldn't stop bleeding from his face and the back of his head. They had to call the paramedics and finally took him away in an ambulance.

When we left just before midnight, I knew Jesus was in no condition to drive, but he insisted. He said we were drunker than he was. When we were about to exit from the parking lot, a cop was passing by on his cruiser, and sure enough, the cop followed us and pulled us over. Jesus told the cop he didn't know how many drinks he had, which was true. He showed him his license, registration, and car insurance too. He passed the field sobriety test, counted from a hundred backward, and followed the officer's finger with his eyes without moving his head. I spent the night in jail the last time I did the same test. Then Jesus blew in the breathalyzer a few times, and amazingly, he passed it too.

The cop didn't have any option but to let us go. Pedro mumbled quietly, "ha, you fool!" then the officer returned and asked the guys in the back, "what did you say?" Jesus answered for us and said, "Never mind, officer, he was talking to me," The police officer reluctantly let us go.

From that moment on, I and everybody else approved of Jesus. It was unanimous; he could keep working with us forever.

Being a good worker and a nice person couldn't hide his clumsiness. During the following week, Jesus had two more accidents. I explained to him in detail how to use the nail gun. I expressly told him how dangerous it was to operate it, and he still managed to shoot a nail through the palm of his left hand while holding a two-by-four against a piece of plywood. He also fell from a six-foot ladder and landed on the neighbor's iron fence. Thank God he held on to a tree branch, but still, one spear barely penetrated his rib cage.

He kept having minor accidents but always insisted on not reporting any of them. After every accident, even if he was bleeding, he fixed himself up, usually with a wet napkin and some duct tape, and continued working.

A few weeks later, the whole gang and I went to another bar to shoot pool and have fun. It was Karaoke night in that place, and Jesus sang the Ballad of John and Yoko twice. He was good at it. Jesus looked a little like John Lennon with his long hair. He seemed to be everybody's best friend now. Before we got wasted, Andres asked him if he wanted to be his Best Man; he'd be getting married in a few weeks. Jesus accepted.

I once gave him a ride home when he had his pickup truck at the repair shop. He lived on the outskirts of town in a small farmhouse. They had some farm animals, including a donkey. Jesus said that his dad never learned how to drive a car. He told me he bought a horse for his dad but still prefers his donkey. I could see that his mom was distinguished and beautiful. She could show it, even though her timid personality and humble garments. Both his parents were reserved and respectful.

His mom offered us some lemonade, and as we sat under the patio cover to drink, I noticed a slingshot and immediately grabbed it. I put a small rock in its pocket and aimed at a bird on a nearby tree, never thinking I would hit it, but I did. Jesus and his mom saw what I did and exclaimed sadly, as the bird fell from the tree, "Oh!"

I felt terrible and ran to get the little bird. I returned with it and apologized to them; the poor creature was barely alive. Jesus' mom had stared at me disapprovingly before she took the bird inside the house.

"You shouldn't have done that; it was just a little bird, man," Jesus said, making me feel smaller than an ant.

"I'm sorry, I never thought I would hit it. I swear I never meant to do it. I've never killed a bird in my life," I knew the apology wasn't good enough, not even to lessen the anger I felt at myself, but I continued talking,

"Why do you have a slingshot in the house?"

"I only use it to protect the chickens from coyotes, but I have never killed any of God's creatures. My mom is amazing with animals; she might save the little bird." I knew he said this to relieve my guilty conscience. Which I knew I sincerely showed it.

"Do you believe in God?" I asked him, knowing a hundred percent in advance that he did.

"Yes, I believe in my dad," he said hesitantly.

"No, I said God. Do you believe in God?" I corrected him.

"Oh, yes, of course . . . don't you?

"Yes, I do, well, sometimes, like right now. I wish God could save the little bird. Otherwise. I'd feel bad for a long time."

"Why did you ask if I believe in God?"

"I don't know, well, I knew you'd say yes. You seem to be a good spiritual person, but don't you have to kill your chickens to eat them? And what's the difference between a little bird and a big bird?"

"But you didn't kill that bird to survive, or because you were hungry, that was just a stupid action. I don't have to kill a chicken to survive, either. You got a good point there. In any case, what you did was very stupid, and you have to admit it. Such an innocent bird, and it was singing for us."

"Yeah, but your chickens are innocent too. Well, never mind. I feel bad enough already. I'm sorry, Jesus. I should have killed one of your chickens instead, and we'd be having chicken in 'mole poblano' by now," I finished mumbling the last words, and we ended our morality talk laughing.

After apologizing to his mom, I said goodbye and told Jesus I'd be back in the morning to pick him up. Before I got in my pickup truck, unbelievably, a bird shat on my head, and we laughed when Jesus said, "You deserve that."

When I went to pick him up in the morning, I felt relieved after seeing the little bird singing in a small cage.

Our crew consists of six workers. We divide the group into three pairs, so each leader has a helper or partner. Andres picked Jesus as his partner. Jesus is becoming a good carpenter; he's precise and clean with his cuts, but accidents keep following him relentlessly. Yesterday Jesus fell from the roof but stood up unharmed and smiling.

On the wedding day, before the ceremony, Jesus bought a Beatles CD from a group of vendors that gathered outside the church. He got upset after he opened the CD case and noticed that it was a pirated item.

When he asked for his money back, the vendor refused, saying he had already opened it. Jesus got mad, turned the table over, spread dozens of CDs on the sidewalk, and angrily shouted at them, saying it was immoral to sell merchandise outside the house of God, especially pirated stuff. They were deceiving and were committing fraud on decent people. He didn't calm down until the bride and the groom showed up. His attitude was a little bizarre.

Andres had invited the whole crew to be his groomsmen. We sat on the same pew. I was next to Jesus. Before the ceremony started, two seven-year-old kids approached Jesus shyly. One of them asked him, "Are you Jesus?" and he answered, "Yes, I'm the Best Man," the boy excitedly said to the other kid, "See, I told you he was Jesus, the best man in the world!" I couldn't contain my laughter. Then the priest asked them to be quiet because the mass was about to start.

When mass was over, many little kids were following Jesus, grabbing his hands and looking up at him, mesmerized. One of them kissed the palm of his left hand when he saw his scar. Jesus' face turned red, and he could only get rid of them until he spoke loudly in Spanish, "Váyanse de aquí, chiquillos, yo no soy Jesus, soy 'Heh-soos.'" — "Get away from me, kids. I'm not Jesus. I'm 'Heh-soos.'"

At the reception, a voluptuous girl with a glass of wine was trying to tempt Jesus. She kept chasing him all night. Finally, she convinced him. She danced sensuously. Poor Jesus had no rhythm at all.

My whole crew and I had bought all the wine, beers, and drinks for the wedding. We thought we had more than enough for everybody. But as usual, we were wrong. There's never enough alcohol at Mexican weddings, no matter how much they stock up.

When Jesus came from the dance floor, he was fuming. He said the girl he was dancing with had just insinuated he was gay.

"Damn, if a girl wants to save her virginity until her wedding, they say she's a virtuous girl, but if it's a man, they say he's gay. How stupid is that." He said.

"Come on. You're acting like a man born centuries ago. Oh, and don't tell me you're still a virgin."

"I don't have to answer dumb questions. Besides, you're acting like a typical Mexican macho man. Why can't a man say no to sex?"

Jesus was now talking in a low voice and close to my ear. He knew everybody would laugh at him if they listened to his antiquated opinions.

"But how can you say no to a girl like that."

"Never mind, I need a beer; this hasn't been a good day," he said.

"Sorry, we ran out of alcohol already. That's what always happens at all Mexican weddings. You know that."

Then he went to the unattended bar, jumped over the counter, and started to pump a beer keg. And he kept extracting beer from several 'empty' beer kegs all night.

In the end, he got drunk, his frustration disappeared, and he disappeared, too, along with the voluptuous girl.

On Monday, he didn't show up for work.

On Tuesday, we got bad news; he had been arrested and accused of rape by the girl from the wedding.

A week later, he was found guilty by a panel of twelve jurors. He was judged and sentenced to ten years in prison.

If you ask me, I think he was innocent.

On the third day, he disappeared from his cell without a trace.

And we never saw him again.



Edmundo Barraza

Visalia, CA. 10-24-2012

http://edbar1952-accomplishedignorant.blogspot.com/