It's taken all of three years to feel comfortable in this new home of ours in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. It continues to be a process, and it began by gradually becoming aware of our surroundings. It's the same for everyone who starts over. In order to begin, almost subconsciously, you gather a few subtle collections of experiences. Maybe you start seeing the same thing happen repeatedly, and suddenly a situation, moment, place, or person becomes part of your life. Those experiences become recognized landmarks on your personal horizon line. A French chef in the kitchen would call it your "mise en place" - a gathering of your stuff, as your new world begins to take place. For me, Hector was one of those first signposts and markers on the path.
There are a lot of people in tight spots in Mexico. It's true all over the world I guess, but Mexico is what I got, so that's what I see right now. At first, I didn't even notice Héctor. There are people scratching for money on so many different street corners every day, it becomes a blur of needing, wanting, pleading, and hustling for scraps. In the US, they call them panhandlers. In Mexico, they call them mendígos - beggars. Initially, Héctor on the street was just part of the traffic patterns, and for quite a while, I drove right by him. Desperate people on the street often become less than somebody - they are something to ignore on the way to something more important. A nondescript part of the background. Like all the rest, Hector was just there.
Héctor kept appearing at one busy intersection on the main street into San Miguel. After a while, I couldn't ignore him, so I started to watch him. Old guy, dark leather-skinned, ragged white scruffy beard, gaudy Mexican sombrero, loose pants, and a floppy yellow safety shirt costume with shirtsleeves rolled down like he was some kind of cowboy. He was selling newspapers with one hand in the middle of three lanes of traffic at the stoplight and directing traffic with a red flag in his other hand, even though traffic didn't need directing because there was already a stoplight at the intersection. How? Why? There was no point to it. It was almost theatric. He used the flag to direct traffic to nowhere like he was Leonard Bernstein pushing the New York Philharmonic uphill at Carnegie Hall. He seemed to be there all the time, getting beaten up over and older every day by the merciless Mexican sun. But there was one really important thing. He was smiling. Shaking people's hands. Pointing to his heart when he sold a paper for 10 pesos (50 cents). All of a sudden, I loved the guy. Admired him. Couldn't put my finger on it. In a way, I thought he looked a bit like a window - or maybe it was a mirror. I stopped one time and bought one of his Spanish newspapers I couldn't read. I paid him fifty pesos instead of ten. In crippled English, he said, "God bless you, sir." I asked if he spoke English, and he squeezed two fingers together almost tight and said he spoke a little. I asked him his name. He said he was Hector Apoderado. I said I was Walter Hodges. He did a short little formal bow and said, "It's very nice to meet you, sir," and he said it as though he meant it. I asked if he had an English language version of the paper. He did an impish naughty little smile, and said, "mañana, senior." I laughed out loud, and the light turned green.
Hector is 68 years old. He has no idea how many times he's been to the US. He lost count a long time ago. He learned English because he was in the US picking oranges in 76, and figured he'd get along better if he knew how to talk a little to the man. In later years, he would take his sons on his US trips with him. One of his sons died in gang-related violence in Mexico. He doesn't know why and he doesn’t ask. So it goes. His last visit to the US was five years ago.
They always come back to Mexico. Most of the workers who go north come back to Mexico or want to. They'd go to the US and make some money doing jobs the white boys refused to take because the white boys demanded insurance, more money, more time off, more beer, and less actual work. The migrant workers would work hard and then send some of their money home to their families every month, and sooner or later they would come back to Mexico. Who would want to stay in the US? In Mexico, there was a gentle pace to life. People laughed more and cared for one another. There was a decent common courtesy to living and a kinder view of the world. Where exactly do you find those kinds of attitudes in the US today? Hector says "I always came home, where life is lived in harmony and respect."
Again, he's lost count, but Hector's had more than a couple of jobs. He's been a golf caddy, janitor, construction worker, security guard, house painter, metal worker, and garbage collector. Hector was also hired to be a clown. The taco joint was down an alley and around the corner, so they hired Hector to put on a clown suit and stand out on the main street in the sun in Guadalajara, and dance with a big sign that said "Taco joint down the alley and around the corner. Come and get it." Or words to that effect. I think that may be where he worked out his theatric street routine selling papers and waving flags in the middle of three lanes of traffic in San Miguel.
To be fair, there are other people like Hector working the streets, but I love this guy. I am not alone. I know other people who give him extra money for papers they can't read. They love the guy. He's out there waving at the cars, and the kids, and the dogs in the windows, and the police, and the truck drivers, and the taxi drivers, and the buses. And he's selling a few papers. He's got bad feet now. They hurt standing on the pavement. It's getting harder. Winter closing in. But no matter what's going on in the world, he is out there in the intersection, making San Miguel just a little bit better than it was before he walked dead damn straight into traffic. If you drive through that intersection, tip a hat to a working man would you? Tell him thanks for being there. Maybe buy a paper you can't read, with more money than it's worth. If you can't do that, then maybe you can wish you could and send some good thoughts to him instead. For me, I drive into town, and the first thing I see is Hector - the signpost, the marker, and the cairn on the trail. As he stands there, he shows me the world is in its proper place, form, and time. His presence helps me with my perspectives. When I pass by, I know, that no matter what, at least for the moment, I'm headed in the right direction. Hector Apoderado works the main intersection in San Miguel de Allende, and the rest of us are the better for him being at his post.
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