by Christian Alexis Olmeda
For the forgotten lives lost in Puerto Rico after the passing of Hurricane Maria.
The clacking echoed throughout our small, sparsely furnished two-bedroom apartment. Every afternoon for as long as I could remember, the sound was preceded by the rhythmic and almost musical drag of her old sandals, like sand against the open pores of the floor’s wood grain finish. She moved slowly but deliberately. There was also an ever-present, almost quiet fan, whooshing softly in our living room. She eventually made her way about eighteen feet, from the seventies yellow-tiled kitchen over to the now plastic-covered furniture of our living room.
Clack.
Clack.
Clack!
She changed those channels like she meant it! It annoyed the hell out of me, but I knew it was about that time. She sat quietly, processing the news while saying a cliff’s notes version of a prayer when the anchor shared something particularly troubling. At about six in the evening when the Puerto Rican sun draped the island landscape a soft shade of gold, she approached the television and turned the channel dial once more and began her nightly ritual before returning to her sillón.
“¡La novela está poniéndose más buena!”
She tried to rope in anyone in her proximity to join her, to share in her novela. As of late, it could only be me. Even then, I still hated that old TV set, it was ancient! I lost count of the times I offered to get her a nice new flat panel screen. One day, I tried to surprise her with one. I was certain she would be pleased, but I ended up having to take it back. She refused to change that stupid old TV set. Old and worn, the original cream white of the set’s plastic finish turned a mustard and beige that grossed me out a little. She wouldn’t hear of it. So, when the big cut over from analog to digital signal happened across the entire island, I had to get her one of those digital to analog converters just so she could continue watching her old television. It seemed the clacking of the old set’s channel dial wouldn’t stop any time soon, though it eventually did.
Abuela had Maria la Del Barrio and Rosa Salvaje on heavy rotation. I’m fairly certain she watched each of those series beginning to end, several times. But you wouldn’t know it. When she sat down, she enjoyed them so much. Her novela time was her sacred time. Perhaps, a very close second to her nightly rosary, but not by much. One thing I didn’t hate about it was the coffee. Part of her ritual was brewing her Puerto Rican coffee just before the soap started. Her old grecca coffee maker had to be at least a billion years old. It was scorched and dinged, signs of its many lives; over wood fire pits in the mountains of Jayuya in the 30’s, the tiny matchbox apartment kitchens of the Bronx in the 40’s, and finally to the onyx electric stove top of our San Juan apartment. I must admit; that little tin pot made the most delicious cup of coffee I’ve ever had.
There’s no such intoxicating aroma today, but I notice her sitting in her tweed rocking chair, arguing with the stupid old TV about something going on in her novela. It must be about that time. The protagonist did or said something that set her off, but I can’t see it.
“Don’t be a fool, muchacha! Leave ese canalla!” she yelled excitedly at the screen.
I don’t know if Latina Abuelas are all the same, but I can tell you that she fought out loud with these fictional characters as if they were real. This time, I think she was upset because María, the protagonist of a rags to riches story, suffered some horrible new defeat. These protagonists are put through every imaginable humiliation in every episode. A long-protracted Cinderella type story, with way more virgencitas and ruthless yuppies.
“¡Somos pobres pero honrados!” says the lead character at some point always. Somehow in these stories, the honor and goodness of the female protagonist is buffed to a shine through a gauntlet of suffering and humiliation. Then, a charming prince always emerges and lifts the poor woman from squalor and they live happily ever after. Until that climax, novelas are usually exaggerated, dramatic misery. And my Abuela would have it no other way. My grandmother, the kind, fragile-looking old lady who blessed everybody on the street and had a friend in Jesus, would curse at that television like a sailor for a few hours every evening. Mi Abuelita, bajando santos.
Surely this explained the second daily prayer session right after. If you ever heard her, you would agree that an hour of “Jesus time” was perhaps not enough for the things that came out of that sweet old lady’s mouth during her novela.
María was inching closer to her second on-screen meltdown when I got a text from my friend Walter letting me know he was waiting downstairs. He made no secret that he was concerned about me, and wanted me to tag along to go check out a local rock show. This was not the first time he invited me to hang out and I felt bad saying no again, so I relented. I was heading out of the apartment when I caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye.
This was the first show I’d gone to since the storm. The bill was going to be stacked; like four different bands playing, most of them people I knew. Walter was not known for his careful driving, but given the circumstances, I enjoyed the ride and the company. He drove a beautiful pickup truck that he and his dad poured their hearts into. It was like something out of a magazine. Leather-lined cream interiors, killer sound system and the paint was a particular point of pride; kinda like the VW New Beetle green paint with more yellow metallic pearl flakes. I knew this by heart because he would have to shout it over the Fania Allstars Live in Africa record he religiously blasted on his decked out stereo system. As soon as we’d stop at a light, there was some other car guy asking about the paintjob. The drive up the island coast was brief, but it was beautiful.
At the concert, for a moment, I felt like myself. The last band of the night was fixing to go on when I stepped outside. I quit smoking years before, but I liked to bum one when I went to a show. When asked about it, I used to say it helped me think, but now I needed to forget.
Abuela used to ask me to sit with her on the porch of the old house before we had to move. We, along with everyone else, were priced out of our own neighborhood. Sometimes, I was headed to a big gig to play, but it didn’t matter. I’d end up being late, sometimes to my own shows because I was cooking with abuela, or we were breaking some freshly picked gandules out of their pods, sitting en la marquesina.
You know why I did it? Because I knew that when she asked me for something, she really needed it. As a little boy, she walked me to and from school every day. On the way, we would stop at all the little shops, colmados or bodegas in the neighborhood. Everybody knew her, and she knew everybody, and their parents’ parents. As we walked, she would tell me stories about growing up in the mountains of Jayuya or working as one of the first female switchboard operators in the golden era of tourism in Condado at the legendary Sands hotel. Some days, she would even share those hidden bits of our family history that by then only she really knew. It was the best.
Before I knew it, it was two o’clock in the morning and they kicked us out of the venue, so Walter dropped me off. He avoided my gaze, but I could see his concern and his hesitation to drive off. I smiled and waved as I turned away and walked inside. As I opened our apartment door, I tried to be as silent as humanly possible. I had a drink or two and I imagine that’s why it made sense to me at the time. I must’ve not done a great job, because there she was. Sitting in the living room, rosary in hand.
“Abuela!” I said, startled by her presence in the early morning darkness. I stumbled over to the lamp and turned it on. That usually did the trick.
“It’s okay, Mijo,” she replied. “I didn’t want you to come home alone and not have anybody waiting for you.”
“You really don’t have to,” I said, looking away. I knew this was not fair to her, lingering, waiting around like this. Just not fair.
“Besides, to me you will always be mi nietecito and I have to look out for you, it’s my job you know!” I looked up to see her smile as she made her way toward me. With her right hand, she made the sign of the cross over my head. “Que Dios te me bendiga mi hijo. Always remember how much I love you.”
“Ay mi vieja, yo no se que decirte,” I caught a tear streaming down my cheek. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning?” I said, afraid of the unavoidable answer, her silence. I continued toward my bedroom.
Perhaps, I figured that if I didn’t acknowledge her, that she would finally rest. I was wrong. I crashed in bed and silence took over as I struggled to fall asleep.
Clack.
Clack.
Cla-Knock!
Knock!
Knock!
“Mister Diaz! Are you there?” I could hear someone calling from a distance.
“Yes?” I yelled out as I awoke and realized I was still wearing the same clothes from the night before. I hurried and made my way to the door.
“Señor Díaz! Hello? I’m John Santiago, I’m a social worker with the county,” I barely cracked the door open and the man pushed through, uninvited.
“I’m sorry, what is this about?” Half asleep, I stood confused as he pulled aside the throw that covered Abuela’s beloved tweed chair and sat without really asking.
“Mister Diaz, you know we have been trying to reach you, right?” he adjusted his glasses and straightened his tie over his large belly. “We need an answer from you regarding your grandmother’s remains.” His last word echoed throughout the mostly empty apartment. You would think I would have grown used to the sound. It had been that way for weeks.
“I’m sorry about that. I was about to call you back,” I said.
“We know it’s hard, but it’s been more than a month now and we have a lot of other, well you know,” he said as he took out a pack of antacid, offering me one before throwing two into his mouth. I noticed her robe hanging over the ironing table. I hadn’t the strength to put it away, I hadn’t the strength to do anything with any of her things, except pack and place them all in the living room. The small ornaments, her sandals, her ugly old television. Her life. I wasn’t ready to let her go.
“I guess,” I said with some hesitation. “Cremation is what she always talked about, but-” “Great!” The man cut me off before I could finish my thought.
He grunted and his knees made a disturbing cracking sound as he stood. I sensed this was what he wanted to hear, for me to decide on anything so they could be done with me. The feeling was mutual, but we don’t get that luxury, to move on. She felt worse every day since the storm hit. The hurricane was devastating, but what came after was much worse. There was a buffoon, a clown, flanked by a presidential entourage and the local sell-out politicians. The clown was telling us how fortunate we were that we had deaths in the teens compared to other real disasters like Katrina. But there were thousands like my grandmother, who were older or had chronic illnesses and fell ill in the aftermath of the hurricane, one of the most powerful ones in recent history. Not a real tragedy, said the buffoon. So lucky, said the clown.
My grandmother’s heart was huge, as large as the sun; generous and loving. But it was also failing her with no medication to keep it in check. The damage became irreversible.
I knew she was gone. I knew that she wasn’t there, but I couldn’t have endured this any other way.
“If it’s any consolation,” the man said as he stood, “at least she won’t go into one of those god-awful refrigerated trailers full of bodies from last year.”
I instantly thought of punching him in the mouth. I remained silent. I walked him to the door. I heard something behind me as I watched him leave.
Clack.
Clack.
Clack!
I closed the door, but I was afraid to turn around. If I did, I would have to face her and maybe, myself.
“Mijo,” she said with tears in her eyes for the first time, the ones that were really mine. “I know it’s hard, but you know that I will always be with you.”
She came closer to me. I sat down and she took a seat in her sillón beside me. Surrounded by the boxes containing the remnants of her life, the little knick knacks and robes and rosaries that she loved, I watched the novela with my Abuelita on her lousy old TV one last time. We laughed, we cried, and just for a moment, it didn’t even matter I was alone doing it.
Christian Alexis Olmeda is a Puerto Rican writer of English and Spanish genre contemporary fiction, speculative fiction and poetry. His writing touches on elements of human and social challenges, stories that expose the balance between personal conflict, ideology, the individual versus the collective, and the threats to true social equality. His goal is to examine these questions in his own life and perhaps inspire others to do the same.
Christian holds Master of Fine Arts (MFA) and Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing and English (BA) degrees from Southern New Hampshire University. In addition to writing, Christian is a musician, has a twenty-year career focused on technology, computer science and is a technical writer and content strategist for Carnegie Mellon University. He lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania with his wife Mariana, their two children, and an unnecessary number of books and comics.
Christian Alexis Olmeda es un escritor puertorriqueño de ficción contemporánea, especulativa y poesía. Su trabajo se centra en la realidad humana con historias que exploran el impacto de nuestra identidad, conflicto individual y colectivo, nuestra ideología y los retos que amenazan una verdadera equidad social. Su meta es considerar estas interrogantes en su propia vida, y tal vez inspirar a otros a hacer lo mismo.
Christian posee una maestría en bellas artes en escritura creativa (MFA), graduado de Southern New Hampshire University, donde también completó un bachillerato en bellas artes. En adición a su escritura, es músico, tiene una carrera de más de dos décadas en tecnología, ciencias de computación y es un escritor técnico y estratega de contenido para Carnegie Mellon University. Christian vive en Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania con su esposa Mariana, sus dos hijos y una cantidad innecesaria de libros y cómics.