Casco Viejo: The Second Season


Chapter Four

It got lonely, sometimes. Barb Multusky sat on her favorite bench along the promenade at the end of Las Bovedas and watched an afternoon thunderhead build ominously behind and above the line of skyscrapers that surrounded the steel gray Bay of Panama. The windows of the buildings reflected the late afternoon sun and seemed to burn bright in contrast to the smooth gray of the water and the darkening gray of the clouds behind. She puffed on her cigarette, only the second of the day, while Carmen rested at ease at her feet. With her two front black paws crossed in a dainty prone pose, Carmen waited patiently, the leash slack on Barb’s wrist, until the cigarette was flicked over the wall and their routine stroll would continue. Two benches down, a small black guy, with a natty black straw hat, sat and strummed a ukulele and sang a guttural version of The Banana Boat Song. Every once in a while, a tourist (usually the male member of a couple) would drop a quarter in the tin can at his feet as a reward for a rendition that reminded Barb more of Tom Waits than Harry Belafonte.

Barb had lots of acquaintances, people she liked, like Marge and Beth and Suzanne, who ran a store filled with Peruvian rugs and handmade hammocks; but she didn’t really count on any of them as friends. Most of the expats and especially most of the Panamanians she met, were friendly enough and in fact were more social, meaning that they actually liked going out to dinner and having cocktail parties and meeting for drinks, which Barb seldom did back in Saginaw. (Back in Michigan, people would say “We have to get together, sometime…,” but that wouldn’t necessarily mean soon, or within a fortnight or ever really.) But friends? Like Morgan, who she taught with off and on for her entire career, or Jackie, her best friend from high school, who was her maid of honor—no, there was nobody like that in Panama. Of course, those friendships took time, and if anything most of the retirees she knew were getting older and running out of time. They just didn't share the background—West Coast; East Coast; Midwest; South or Great Britain or South Africa. In some ways they were as different from the people Barb knew back home as were the Panamanians.

“Everybody has their ways,” Mitch would say and it was true. It seemed like everyone spoke with an accent. There were however a couple of things most people that made up the so-called expat community seemed to have in common. The first thing was a willingness, maybe even a need, to meet other people, what Mitch called “a common bond between strangers in a strange land.” Many of the ladies would share shopping tips, particularly leads on where to find certain hard-to-get grocery items, like tender beef for example (Panamanian beef was grass fed, lean and tough. Barb never realized how important “corn-fed” was until she tried to chew a piece of grass-fed steak.) The guys would discuss car repair places (Flat tires were not rare, but only cost three bucks to repair) and service people like plumbers, electricians and movers. Plenty of folks were generous with advice. Barb tried to be.

Carmen seemed to always be on the lookout for bits of food and the promenade, which was the main tourist attraction in Casco Viejo, was a good place to find chunks of hot dog buns; a solitary fried yucca; or chicken bones. Barb felt embarrassed sometimes and thought people might think that she didn’t feed her dog enough. Pollo was obviously Carmen’s favorite and she seemed to have a knack for locating the remains of a chicken dinner, whereever she sniffed. “It’s genetic,” Mitch liked to say. “She’s a street dog and always will be and the love of pollo is in her blood.”

The other thing that Barb understood, but didn't always appreciate was how self-centered many of the expats were. When Barb complained, Mitch would ask rhetorically, “Well, who isn't a bit self-centered when you get down to it.” Barb agreed that everybody was a bit and so the only ones who were actually designated as “self-centered” were those who were very much so. Many expats were very much so. When Barb said something like “Everybody is so damned self-centered,” Mitch would get agitated and throw his meat hooks in the air and say “Everybody. It can’t be everybody. It’s not all, by any means, but, I gotta admit it’s not some, or a few, either.”

“No, you’re right,” Barb would fight back, “I wouldn’t just say many, though—I think it’s more like most.”

“Many, most, more than some, lots,” Mitch would agree, “whatever, it’s too many.” When the topic came up, like over cocktails before dinner at Indigo’s, the couple would allow each other to vent for a while and then agree that it was rather self-centered of them to complain about how self-centered everybody else was, but “then again, we’re expats too and can’t help it.” Mitch would grin and get Barb to smile.

When she met somebody new, which seemed to be a weekly occurrence, if not more frequently, the new comers had plenty of questions: Where’s the nearest mall/ liquor store/ beauty shop/ garage/ hardware store/ dry cleaners/ kosher deli/ movie theatre (with the latest Hollywood movies—which translates to “in English.”)/ bookstore (with books in English)/ etc.? Who’s your Spanish instructor/ doctor (Educated where?)/ lawyer (Jewish? Male?)/ architect/ builder/ masseuse/ hairdresser/ dentist/ psychic/ mechanic/ manicurist/ gardener/ maid/ etc., and do they speak English? What’s your favorite restaurant/bar/radio station (…English?)/ bakery/ beach/hardware store/route to the airport? And, can you lend me your can opener/telephone book/car/sports jacket/ maid (“I really need her Tuesday, just this once. Naturally, that would be the Multusky’s regular day.)/ lap-top/ tweezers/map of Panama City/corkscrew? Barb didn’t mind exactly, (except when somebody tried to steal her maid), but after awhile it got tedious, maybe even relentless.

Had Mitch and she done the same thing? Of course, but they mostly went out and bought stuff they needed or waited for it to arrive in their container; and if they did borrow something it was never anything essential to the other person like their coffee maker; and as far as they know they returned what was borrowed. Mitch and she would drive around town in their new lime green Hyundai Santa Fe SUV to explore and find where the stores were located. It was part of the adventure. It just seemed like more give and much less take than seemed fair. It was highly unlikely that they would need to borrow something from a “newbie”; or get directions to the dentist office; or advice on title insurance; only vice versa.

Sometimes, Carmen would pull on the leash that was attached to a small harness strapped neatly around her white fuzzy shoulders. Most of the time, her pulling meant that she needed to relieve herself, which was one of the purposes of the walk. When Barb and Carmen came around the tip of the peninsula past the Ministry of Culture building, they were hit by a stiff breeze. That was when Carmen squatted and took a dump. Barb was good. She carried a small plastic bag for just such a situation. However, when Barb leaned over with the bag covering her hand, the wind blew the dog droppings away; not far but just out of reach. Barb quickly grabbed one as two or three others rolled along the tiled sidewalk. “Oh, shit!” Barb said and then laughed at herself for the unintended pun. With Carmen helping not in the least, but actually wanting to pull away, Barb scuttled along and eventually captured the last tootsie-roll sized bit of puppy poop. Barb knew that at that point Mitch would have quoted Johnny Carson and said “No good deed goes unpunished.”

The other thing about expats, especially newcomers, was that many, maybe not most but a majority, quite naturally assumed that the other person, like Barb, for example, was not only interested but eager to hear “their story.” Seldom was “how are you?” met with a simple “Fine.” In Barb's experience, the new wife of the retired car dealer from Jacksonville or the retired Air Force Colonel immediately assumed you wanted to hear all about them and how the furnishing of their condo was going. Maybe what bothered Barb most was that the stories were hardly ever unique or interesting. The shipping container arrived two weeks late from the States; or the air conditioners blew only hot air; or the construction of a new high-rise had just broken ground right in front of their view of the sea. One guy spoke non-stop for 45 minutes about cabinets he was having installed. “He never once seemed to notice that we were just sitting there,” Barb pointed out. “If I was his wife, I would have kicked him under the table. But she didn’t and that amazed me as well.”

“I just hope I’m never the guy who deserves to get kicked,” Mitch said.

“The longer I stay here,” Barb would say as Mitch would admit that it was true, “the more the same old stories repeat themselves; and we haven't been here that long. If I hear another sad tale of woe about a tile job that didn't turn out perfect, I'm gonna scream.”

Mitch agreed that there was “a lot of the same-old, same-old bitching and moaning” going on, but tried to be philosophical about it. “I guess it's kinda new and scary for them; they don't know what to expect.”

“Fine,” Barb replied “but how about after a blow by blow by blow description of their visit to Immigration; how about inquiring or even faking some interest in our experiences. Half of ‘em; more than half of ‘em; go right on to their next topic,” which was often how screwy, or stupid or simply wrong things were in Panama.

The thing Barb almost couldn't stand at times was Panamanian bashing. It appeared that a significant minority of the expat community hated the people who populated their adopted country, or at least talked as if they did. “Those damn Panamanians...” was like a refrain that drove Barb batty sometimes. Another refrain was “It's hard to believe the locals can stand...” followed by something like the heat or the lack of customer service that frustrated the usually white, elderly speaker. Okay, traffic was nuts, with drivers honking their horns as they cut off whomever they wanted to be in front of. And manana was a fact. The cable guy; the fellas delivering your new couch; the investigating police officer; your regularly scheduled maid; or your dinner guests seldom if ever arrived on time and often came a day or two later than scheduled.

For the most part, Barb really liked the Panamanians she had met. It's not very practical to generalize about a nation, even a small country of three million, (She wasn’t generalizing about the expats—they were an identifiable self-centered group.), but the people of Panama seemed to be quite friendly, a bit shy but quick to smile and most tried to be helpful. Barb readily admitted that she found it infuriating that the telephone repair guy had called that he was on his way but didn't make it until 11 a.m. the following day. Yes, she's not so old and out of it that she doesn't remember that the government agencies were somewhat more efficient in the States; but she also remembers dreading going to the MVA or standing in line at a U.S. post office during the holidays. Part of the problem, Barb was sure, was that expats were seen quite legitimately as foreigners (by some locals as rich foreigners), who couldn't be bothered to learn to speak Spanish. So some of the tradesmen and business people who the newcomers encountered did in fact try to take advantage or simply dealt with people, in what to foreigners, seemed like a cockeyed manner. Again, if it was different in the States, it was more a matter of degree rather than opposites. “I guess all construction superintendents in the States are honest, on-time perfectionists and the fact that problems sometimes arise down here catch people by surprise,” Mitch would say with a straight face and Barb would laugh.

Often, when Barb dropped what both Mitch and she called a “doggy bag” into the trash can, she would recall her husband’s misadventure trying to pick up what his dog dropped. One day, Carmen apparently wasn't feeling well, because when she did her duty, it was in puddle form in the middle of the walkway and Mitch didn't have a spatula to scoop her dirty work into the bag. So, he force marched his dog back to their building and found a nice new bucket where the concierge had left it in the laundry room. Mitch filled it with warm water at the utility sink and hurried back to the scene of the crime.

As he briskly approached, Mitch spotted a woman in the distance, who looked like she was doing that old sixties dance called the frug, with a little mashed potatoes thrown in. He guessed that she had hit the spot, which usually has a positive connotation, but not in this case. After some slippin' an' sliddin', she finally did an awkward spin and then landed on the seat of her pedal pushers. Mitch felt terrible and rushed to her aid, but not before putting the bucket down, not only so he could move faster, but admittedly so she might not realize that he somehow had partial ownership of the brown slick. Luckily, she was okay, only slightly shaken up but stained. Mitch walked her down the stairs and over to where he hailed a taxi for her, in front of the French Embassy.

Whirling quickly, Mitch hustled past several vendors selling molas, jewelry and old Panamanian license plates and took the steps two at a time with his long legs. There were a half dozen skate boarders attempting to crack all the tiles on the promenade. That's when he noticed one groovy guy skidding dangerously close to Carmen’s catastrophe. The surfing term “wipe out” probably popped into his head an instant before it popped into Mitch’s, as it became clear that his board was planing. For a split second, Mr. Multusky witnessed the scene in slow motion. The board went one way and spun in the air as the boarder danced tip-toe in the direction of the wall. For a moment, Mitch feared that the skate-boarding “dude” would suffer the same fate as the ancient prisoners at high tide; but instead of going over the wall, he rather gracefully belly flopped on to the rim of the precipice.

Well, enough of that. Mitch wasn't interested in going for a third strike, so he dashed for the bucket. It wasn't where he thought he left it. Breathing heavily, Mitch darted back and forth, guessing that he had simply forgotten the exact location. It wasn't anywhere. Somebody had stolen the bucket.

Maybe they were lucky. When they first arrived, a couple a years back, Mitch and she knew no one. They retained a young lawyer by the name of Benito Cortez (They saw a small ad for “Newcomers” in Focus, a tourist magazine, and liked his historic sounding last name.), who helped them with their pensioners’ visas and setting up a corporation and a bank account. In Panama, a lawyer is required to get anything done. Immigrants who try to get things accomplished on their own are always frustrated and soon gone, as Barb had dutifully advised several newcomers. Benito was 28 and engaged to Candida Riva who was 24 and had majored in hospitality and tourism management at the University of Miami. Both spoke English very well (“Beni”, as he was called, had gone to military school in Virginia, before attending Texas Tech. He got his law degree in Panama). What Barb and Mitch didn’t know until later was that they were the very first clients of the brand new company Newcomer Services, Inc., that “Candi” and her fiancée had set up.

Barb and Mitch were pleased and impressed by how much time Beni and Candi spent on their behalf. They didn’t know that there were no other customers to distract their guides. Beni, tall, dark and, yes, handsome, maybe even male-model handsome looked the part of an up-and-coming lawyer. Even though she was thin and blonde, Candi was still very Spanish in the way she passionately approached every conversation, with big brown eyes and plenty of gestures and vehemence. While Beni, with his “Jon-Jon style” as Barb liked to refer to his approach, was there for any legal matters, Candi, who wasn’t pretty exactly but stylish in peasant blouses, jeans and high heels, was almost like a personal assistant. After she had shown them the apartment in Casco Viejo that they really liked and could afford; she would pick them up and take them furniture shopping (she would demand a discount and usually get it); arrange for the place to be painted (she scolded the painters about tardiness and drips.); and answer any question, since the Multuskys had her cell phone number and called it once or twice a day, at least.

Usually, an older couple would take a young couple under their wing and show them “the ropes,” whatever that meant. However in this case it was the younger couple who looked out for the older ones, who lacked the experience. Yes, at first, the Multuskys paid for the services provided, but soon after spending literally whole days together, the two couples started spending social time together. The Multuskys were invited to the Cortez family beach house out near Coranado. Before long, they attended Candi and Beni’s wedding and danced and drank until three in the morning. Mitch stood out on the terrace and smoked cigars with Beni’s uncles Alfredo, Juan and Mike. More than once, Barb had lunch with Senora Riva, Candi’s mother, who spoke pretty good English, was always charming, but seemed impatient with Barb’s very limited Spanish. Candi’s parents were the same age as the Multuskys, while Beni’s parents were actually a couple of years younger; and yet, Barb and Mitch would still go out to dinner or at least have drinks with their younger mentors at least once a week and spoke several times a week on the phone.

Barb and Mitch didn’t get it exactly. Why would these youngsters take such an interest in them, but the Multuskys considered themselves very fortunate indeed. It certainly had something to do with the Multuskys being the first “newcomers” that Candi and Beni worked with and wanting it to be a successful venture, but after a while, the two couples (who Mitch called “the geezers and the go-getters”) had actually become friends. Neither Barb nor Mitch had strong family ties back in Michigan, which made leaving relatively easy. What they didn’t expect was to be included into a nice, generous Panamanian family, who welcomed them to birthday parties and Easter dinner and Mitch’s favorite, New Year’s Eve, with plenty of fireworks.

In fact, Newcomer Services, Inc. was not a successful business and “the kids” as Mitch and Barb referred to them but never addressed them as such, shut the operation down soon after it started. It was never determined how many clients were served, but it did seem that the Multuskys were members of an exclusive club. It was a shame; Barb thought that more expats couldn’t have benefitted from the same type of help that Mitch and she had received. But then again, there were only so many newly retired couples that Candi and Beni could adopt.

Barb unlocked the gate that led to the canopied walk way back to the courtyard in front of their apartment. She always let go of the leash and flipped it into the air. Carmen seemed to like to catch the leash in her teeth and carry it back to the next set of locked doors herself. Carmen then stood patiently by the door to the building and then the apartment door itself as Barb unlocked each. In moments the little harness was off and hooked in the front closet. “Okay, kiddo” Barb said as Carmen walked over to her water bowl, “you’re free.”

That was when Barb noticed Mitch sitting on the couch in the shadows with his head in his hands. “Oh, my,” Barb could tell from his slumped posture that something was very wrong, “what’s the matter Darling? Are you all right?”

“I’m okay, I guess,” Mitch said, as his tiny wife tried to put her arms around his wide shoulders. “I just got mugged, or car jacked or whatever you want to call it.”

“Oh, no, Darling.”

“Yeh, I was short-cutting through Chorrillo, had just turned down a side road off Avenita de los Poetas, to cut across to Avenita “A”, when this young guy, who was crossing the street stopped in front of my car. He stood there smiling at me; smirking actually. I was being patient, you know, not honking my horn or anything. Well, I should have run the little prick over. It all took about five seconds. Suddenly all four of my doors were open and guys, young men, teenagers, I don’t know, were lunging into the car. Yes, my doors were unlocked and the front windows were open, I know, but it was 2 p.m. and I’ve gone that way a dozen times; well anyway, this one guy has a hold of my St. Christopher medal and I grab him by the wrist when I see a hand reaching for the keys in the ignition. Some punk had dived across the seat; so I let go and grabbed his wrist as I elbowed the first fella in the forehead as he pops the chain and gets the medal. The guy has the keys so I don’t let go. I’m holding on with both hands, basically as they clean out the rest of the car. CDs; my golf clubs; our groceries and the case of beer I just picked up; but I wasn’t going to let that bastard get my car keys. Somebody had opened my door and had his arm around my neck and was trying to pull me out, but as they did the keys slipped into my hand and allowed me to start throwing elbows. I was standing next to the car and pushed the one guy down as I watched a couple of other punks running off with my golf clubs.”

Barb was sitting straight up, rigid. She noticed that Mitch had a scratch on his face and his hair was mussed and that he seemed smaller, more vulnerable than he had ever seemed before. He was her giant, bigger than most men; and he could have been killed.

“No kidding, the cops arrived right then. Obviously, they patrol that area regularly. They pull up in one of those pickup truck van things and two guys in flak jackets get out with shotguns and stand there looking mean, basically guarding me, but it’s over. They didn’t get my wallet, which I was sitting on for most of it and they didn’t get our phone which was in my front pocket, so I called Beni, who I got to talk to the police, who shrugged when I asked them ‘Hablan ingles?’ Beni said the cops said I had to go down to the main police station and file a report where they have translators; and ‘what the hell was I doing in that neighborhood?’

“I’m telling you, it was over in seconds and the cops were sending me on my way within minutes. They weren’t pursuing any perpetrators. I was so angry and so frustrated and so embarrassed, I can’t tell you. You could tell the police thought I was an idiot, but I had been that way before, and I’m a big guy, you know and it was broad daylight and there is road construction the other way and traffic and this was so much quicker, but the windows were open and Jesus, the doors were even unlocked. I was probably their easiest mark in months.”

Carmen had slowly inched up to where she was leaning against one of Mitch’s long legs. Mitch absentmindedly fingered her black ear.

“It’s not your fault,” Barb said firmly. “People should be able to drive around, without being attacked.”

“Not in that neighborhood,” Mitch said, and he was right. Chorrillo, which was next door to Casco Viejo, was one of the most notoriously dangerous sections of the city. Nobody would consider driving through there at night, not even with the doors locked and the windows up—not even a big old guy like Mitch, who had spent most of his life not really being afraid of anyone. What neither one said but both were thinking was that Mitch was lucky none of his attackers appeared to have a gun.

Chorrillo was where the 1989 US invasion of Panama had taken place. Noriega’s old neighborhood had been bombed out and never really recovered from what was called at the time Operation Just Cause. Much of Panama was poor, but Chorrillo had the most resentment, the meanest streets, the toughest gangs and the worst reputation, fully deserved. So more than anything else Mitch felt foolish, naïve, like just any other silly gringo, who didn’t know shit. The first guy probably spotted the open windows and stepped forward. Unlocked doors were a bonus. It was sad that thugs would hang around waiting for marks to happen by, a grim way to live, but that was how it was in Chorrillo, truly infested with crime. Mitch’s plight didn’t even draw much of a crowd; a few kids gawked, while some might have been hoping for an opportunity of their own. That’s why the police stood around looking menacing, but that is also why they copped an attitude. It was obvious in Spanish, English or body language that they had very little sympathy for this tall, white ignorant man who walked into the lion’s den wearing a pork chop jacket. What a fool.

“So what are we going to do?” Barb asked.

“Well, I’m going to talk to Beni and see if there’s any point in filling out a police report. I mean I doubt if I could ID anyone except maybe that jerk who stopped my car. I’d like to wipe that look off of his face. Otherwise, I’m going to have a beer, lick my wounds and I guess we’ll never be able to go that way again.”

All valid, but that wasn’t actually what Barb meant. For the first time since they had moved to Panama, Barb thought that it was all a big mistake. “We can’t stay here,” is what Barb thought as Mitch fished a Panama out of the frig. The only problem was that their small apartment in Casco Viejo was their only home. They had no place back in the States. There was no place to go.