Casco Viejo: the Second Season
Chapter Five
“Okay,” Beth thought, “this is a bad idea.” Joe Berger was asleep beside her, snoring in a regular, apparently contented rhythm. “I don’t need a man in my life, right now or ever, as a matter of fact, but definitely not now.”
They had dinner at a new place called Callejon de Gato, the Alley Cat, and Beth thought the food, tapas, langostinos and meat balls, was pretty good. Joe was attentive and complimentary and most importantly not overly interested in real estate. Sure, he would like her to help him find a “nice little, inexpensive condo in Casco,” like everybody else. Nobody ever seemed to be looking for a horrible, big, expensive place, but that seemed normal for the situation he claimed to be in. But that was a point—there was something about the guy she didn’t trust exactly; or quite believe; even though he didn’t seem to be scamming her or trying to weasel his way into her operation or anything remotely like that—he didn’t want to be a partner, in the business at least; or that’s what she thought. Her judgment or sense of human nature gave her just a hint that this guy wasn’t one hundred percent honest or candid or aboveboard, whatever that meant.
So, why did she go to bed with him? It seemed so natural, inevitable even. After dinner, they went for a drink at Havana Viejo, the Old Havana, which sometimes had a lively crowd, many of whom Beth knew, but not that night—only a couple of couples. Joe made pleasant enough conversation and told two or three mildly funny jokes. So, “what the hell,” she invited him back to her place and they ended up sitting on the couch and smoking a joint. Beth was in the mood to get high and so she did. Joe was neither smooth nor not. He smiled, put his arm around her shoulder, like a date at the movies (years, actually decades ago), and kissed her. To Beth the kiss seemed friendly, not overly aggressive or desperate, and to be honest, she was kinda, sorta, okay, rather horny.
Joe, who was completely naked, rolled over on his side, with his back to her. The hair on his narrow shoulders was gray and wispy. Beth was aware of how thin and ordinary he looked. “Well, he’s not moving in here,” she decided in advance; “and I don’t think he should assume that I’ll be falling on my back every time I see him either.” The point was that she could use a male escort sometimes and Joe already demonstrated that he was willing to at least try to fend off unwelcome attention.
The problem was that Beth Page, real estate operator and deal maker, was involved in a number of disputes at the moment. In fact, the least of her concerns had to do with that grumpy old Jerry Cole, who Beth considered nothing more than a chronic complainer, who made matters worse by getting bent out of shape with the builder and contractors and even the ordinary workers out at his site in Gorgona. Even though Beth did feel sorry for Madge, who was obviously bullied by Jerry, there was nothing she could do, even if she wanted to, to help him out of a work slowdown inspired by his own asinine behavior.
No, Beth was swimming with bigger fish, much bigger fish than Madge Cole’s silly overwrought husband. As far as Beth was concerned she was in a tricky war, one she could lose, and on two fronts at that. Her first battle was with Billy Belize, a 35-year-old developer from Columbia, who acted like he had a lot of money until it came time for him to pay his bills. They were in a partnership in a promising three-story building on Avenida “B” between Calles Quarto and Cinco. The plan was to restore the building that had lovely arched windows, wrought-iron balconies on the second and third floors and thick stone walls, with a commercial property on the first floor and two condos on each of the remaining levels. Belize showed up with his half of the down payment, no problema, but since then there were promises but no more money coming in from his side. He had become a classic “fly-by-night” guy, as far as Beth was concerned, with long absences, purportedly back and forth from Cartagena, where he was also developing a couple of old buildings. At first, she was confident and liked the guy, thin, classic dark short hair and what was becoming a more and more mischievous smile. Eventually, she was going to have to sue him, a deal she was sure was a “lose-lose” situation.
The biggest fish in her particular sea of troubles was Rodrigo Feliz, a short, dumpy fellow, maybe fifty, probably closer to sixty, with a male-pattern bald head trimmed in jet black hair. The first time she met him, Beth suspected that he dyed the hair he had. Feliz reportedly owned 19 buildings scattered around Casco Viejo. Eighteen were just sitting there moldering, some with squatters including a couple that were inhabited by drug dealers and some gang members, and most that were either boarded up or empty shells. Apparently, Feliz’s plan was to eventually sell off his buildings, when they acquired more value due to the restoration of the rest of the neighborhood. Far be it from him to actually contribute to the revitalization by actually investing any money or effort himself.
There was one notable exception; the building directly next to Barb’s on Avenue B, right at the corner at Fifth Street. Here the other half of Feliz’s plan seemed to be taking shape. Not only had the building been gutted, but because of the lack of support, two of the four walls had collapsed as well; which meant that the entire building needed to be rebuilt from the ground up. At first, this particular rebuilding project seemed like a positive, until the structure rose to a grand six stories, with modern rectangular windows.
Casco Viejo, after all, is a World Heritage Site officially designated by UNESCO. What that means is that there are a complicated set of rules and regulations that stipulate that any restoration of a building must be consistent with its original, historical design and that all the buildings have to be compatible and true to the heritage of the “protected” area. As far as Beth was concerned, this historical designation was what gave the district its value. There were and could only be some 800 buildings in a clearly defined area, which was to be preserved as a memorial to the original city of Panama. Old Town San Juan came immediately to mind, and of course Billy’s stomping grounds Cartagena.
Before anyone could restore a structure, a detailed building permit was required, that insured the integrity of the original (for example, if the old building had a courtyard, the new building had one too), specifically having to do with appropriate design and dimensions. “What in the hell is goin’on,” is what Beth wanted to know with the monstrosity next door. Her building was literally hunched in the shadow of what looked like a Soviet apartment block. Naturally, she had her lawyer, Bobby Boar, a Zonian, file a complaint, only to find out that Feliz “allegedly” had all the permits.
“That’s not possible,” Barb pointed out. “That place, has nothing to do with the original building or anything remotely like preservation of the surroundings.”
“Obviously,” Boar said with a grin that Beth never knew quite how to interpret. “We’ve just experienced a change in administrations (Ricardo Martinelli ran on a reform, anti-corruption ticket and soundly defeated Balbina Herrera and the party that had been in charge previously.), but it appears that our boy Feliz may have pulled a fast one right before the end or during the transition.”
“You mean he bribed someone and got phony permits or what,” Barb said.
“We have no proof that such a thing happened,” Boar pointed out in his smug lawyerly fashion.
Beth knew she was swimming in shark infested waters, but decided to file a formal complaint against Feliz. Boar also managed to get a judge to issue a restraining order that forced Feliz to stop construction, at least temporarily for 90 days. Boar was cautious.
“I just don’t see how he can win this,” Beth said. “The old building was no more than four stories. Rodrigo’s skyscraper is at least six stories, if the fat bastard is going to stop there. He should not only be made to cease and desist, but he needs to be taken down a coupla pegs—like about two stories.”
“I am sure he will not like that idea,” Boar said, then flashed a brief grin.
“Too fuckin’ bad,” Beth said. “The rules are the rules and they have to be followed or…”
“Or what,” Boar interrupted. “I got a theory for ya, that ya might not have considered.”
“Oh, good,” Beth said. Even though Boar wasn’t very personable, Beth knew he was smart, fairly well connected and knew the so-called ropes. “Tell me.”
“Were you aware that the bi-annual review of the status as a World Heritage Site by UNESCO is scheduled for next month?” Beth nodded but Boar did not grin. “Have you heard that there are a number of problems with the maintenance of several of the government buildings; the cobblestone streets (which were a mess because of truck traffic and had been filled in at several points with black top or concrete); and the fact that the previous government supposedly failed to file much of the necessary paperwork?” Beth had heard rumors too. “Now, I don’t know if any or all of it is accurate or if it will even affect the World Heritage status. What I am pretty sure of is that Senor Feliz would be just as happy if UNESCO was no longer involved with his building plans, so he could do whatever he wanted with his properties; maybe even put up a coupla towers, if you get my drift.”
“Are you telling me that that shit is trying to sabotage the ruling by putting up a building that is clearly in violation?”
“I don’t have any proof and I’m not in Senor Feliz’s inner circle, but it is curious that he has recently become interested in developing one of his properties. You know don’t you that if it comes to a battle in the Panamanian courts that it could take two or more years and you could quite possibly lose.”
“Oh, I know,” Beth said, “and if I don’t fight the fat, bald bastard, I lose. What do you suggest?”
That was when the biggest grin of the day came over Boar’s narrow face. “I do have some connections with the local press. Let’s see if I can get a reporter or two to start asking the right questions.”
“I’ll be glad to talk to the press,” Beth said and stood up to make her point.
“I don’t think you fully understand,” Boar stopped grinning. “My job is to protect you and your interests, so the last thing I want you to do is hold a press conference or even be quoted in the papers.”
"Fine." As the sun came up, Beth lay in her bed going over her current “challenges” in her head and wondering what would happen next. Nothing good, she was sure. All the while Joe Berger, who had not yet fully achieved the status of boyfriend, slept soundly at her side.
* * *
Joe Berger didn’t have to pretend to be asleep. Following the first sex he had had in over a year, he slept soundly, content that his life had taken a positive turn. After all, Beth was an attractive, apparently prosperous woman, and she had asked him up. He hadn’t needed to be pushy or suggest it or anything. He was goin’ with the flow, as they say, and it was working. God knows, he was nervous and had even practiced some small talk before their dinner date. He also brought cash in case there was a problem with his credit card. He checked himself in the mirror and even brushed his teeth twice, before venturing out.
At times, Beth acted maybe a bit too casual, as if she wasn’t all that interested much less excited; but then she invited him up for a drink. Beth looked good too. She seemed to favor strapless outfits and had on a snug-fitting green and brown striped dress that showed off her faintly freckled shoulders. Her perfume had what seemed to Joe a tropical fruit scent.
Yes! Berger shouted in his head while he attempted to accept the invitation naturally. Then she came out of the bathroom with a joint. Even though Joe hadn’t smoked pot since his first wife (His second would not allow it.), he thought this was a positive sign as well. He tried not to inhale, so he wouldn’t go nuts or fall asleep, but he still managed to get a pretty good buzz, which scared him. Don’t fuck up now. Beth seemed to relax and had kicked off her sandals. When she stretched out her legs and put her bare feet, with bright red toenails, on the coffee table, he, oh, so smoothly, put his arm around her shoulder. She actually leaned into him and rested her blonde head on his shoulder. So far, so good. The only thing he could think to do then was kiss her, so he did. Pretty soon, she stood up, put out her hand, with bright red fingernails, and led him into the bedroom. Sweet dreams.
* * *
Most mornings, Carmen would cruise on over to a construction site on Avenida “B”, where a number of construction workers would be sitting on the curb having breakfast. Carmen was cool. She would not attempt to steal any food, patacones or bread, but simply hang about, nearby, until something was dropped or more often tossed in her direction. How the workers knew the dog’s name was Carmen was a mystery, but some greeted their small black and white friend with jovial "buenos dias, Carmenlita" and none of them ever kicked at her or shooed her away.
Mitch, the provisional owner, often took an early morning walk and more than once noticed his would-be pet working the crowd at one construction site or another. “It is hard to believe that our puppy isn’t mucha gorda,” he would say to Barb upon his return. “Carmen has breakfast with us, each morning and joins the local work force for desayuno numero dos.” Actually Mitch had learned very little Spanish and what he did know he often used for comic effect, a classic defensive maneuver for the language challenged. Sometimes Carmen would abandon her amigos and follow Mitch for the rest of his walk and sometimes she would allow the man to go on his own.
Mitch never caught her at Beth’s breakfast nook and had no idea. Mitch did know that one of his pup’s best amigos was Jamon; and that particular morning, (the one Joe Berger would always think of as the morning after) Mitch watched as Carmen stopped in a doorway, where Jamon was curled up after apparently spending the night. Mitch always called him Horace, because he just couldn’t get himself to call the guy “Ham” to his face. Jamon/Horace did not look very good –his clothes were dirty and extremely wrinkled and his socks could be seen sliding down into his shoes, baring chubby ankles. There was a smile on Jamon’s pink, puffy face as he fiddled with Carmen’s black ear. It appeared to Mitch, that the left side Horace’s face was swollen and redder than the right side, though both of the guy’s eyes were half hooded by red lids. He certainly wasn’t fat, but he was soft and formless and pretty much deserved his nickname.
“Buenos dias, jefe,” Jamon said as he stood up on uneasy legs. An empty half-pint bottle rattled at his feet. Mitch was just liberal enough to be uncomfortable being called boss, but he reached in his pocket and handed Horace a dollar and said emphatically “para desayuno.” Jamon almost bowed to his flabby waist and said “gracias, jefe.” Mitch went on with his morning constitutional, while Carmen, her white tail wagging, lingered for more pets, from her gentle friend. “I am such an enabler,” Mitch thought as he turned the corner, “but whatcha gonna do?”
Soon too, Carmen left Jamon on the doorstep to contemplate yet another lost day. With the big old man still in sight in the distance with his back to her, Carmen ducked down an alley and then slid under the gate toward the smell of coffee and her third breakfast of the morning. Halfway, up the walkway, she noticed a strange man sitting on her chair. He had short gray hair and was wearing a blue and white flower-print shirt open to the waist, a pair of chino slacks and was barefoot. Carmen went directly to her place and looked up at the man expectantly.
“Oh, oh,” the man said. “Where did you come from, you little rascal?” Berger was amused, but thought it best to shoo the dog away. “Scat,” he said and waved his hand, palm down, at the mutt. The dog just stood there, with its black and white face cocked at a quizzical angle. “Scat!” Joe said, in what he felt was a commanding voice. When the dog didn’t budge, Joe tried “Vamos!” thinking maybe Spanish would work. Nope. The dog stood stoically beside his chair. This is when Joe’s hopes took an unfortunate turn. Berger made what he felt was a playful swing at the dog with his bare foot, in an attempt to get the animal to move away. What Beth saw as she passed through the door was the guy who she had spent the night with kicking her favorite breakfast companion. Poor Joe didn’t see or hear Beth until he attempted an even firmer nudge, no not exactly, kick, not really, swipe with his foot at the dog, who he thought was the intruder.
“What in the fuck do you think you’re doing?” It wasn’t a scream exactly, but the protest was decibels louder than a simple question. It caught Berger completely by surprise as Carmen leapt from the terrace and hid behind a rose bush.
To his eternal regret, Joe answered “Nothing.”
“Nothing,” Beth snarled. “I just saw you kick Carmen. What gives you the right to kick that dog?”
“I didn’t know it was your dog,” Berger said, and then immediately corrected his defense to “I didn’t really kick him. I was like, you know, shooing him away.”
“It’s a her, you idiot.” Beth looked like she was shaking in rage, which put Berger in a panic. “And, I saw you kick her. So don’t deny it.”
“But, I didn’t.” By that time, the argument was lost and Berger knew it. Nothing. Why did I say nothing? I am an idiot.
“Get the fuck out of my house.” Beth stood rigid and pointed toward the doorway, where Tica, the maid, stood with two large plates and one small one of scrambled eggs. Apparently the maid had adapted much better to the situation than Joe, who only expected that two would be having breakfast that morning.
“Oh, please Beth—this is a silly misunderstanding.” When Joe stood up, it must have looked to Carmen as if he was threatening Beth, because she started barking at him.
“I wasn’t kicking your dog,” Joe insisted.
“She’s not my dog,” Beth said waving her arm in an exasperated manner.
Joe’s mind was racing. Not her dog, so what’s the big deal. He was playing around, not trying to hurt him or her or whoever. “Oh, come on,” he said, while Carmen barked incessantly, from the foot of the terrace. Joe also saw Tica smiling broadly, and that pissed him off. “This is stupid,” he said in a voice with a brand new but not welcome tone of anger.
“Get__the__fuck__out__of__my__house,” Beth pronounced each word with individual emphasis, “Right, now.”
“Jesus Christ, Beth, would you calm down for a moment.” It was too late for Joe to attempt to take some sort of control.
At that Beth whirled around and told Tica to “telefone las policias, por favor.” Joe didn’t speak Spanish, but he could figure that out.
“Okay, okay, Christ this is stupid, but I’ll leave. Just let me get my shoes, and wallet and stuff.”
“Tica, policias, pronto.” Tica put the plates down and went inside.
“You are overreacting,” Joe said, pointing his finger in his ex-girlfriend’s face. However, he didn’t hesitate and soon had his wallet in his pocket and his shoes in his hand. In another moment, he was out the front door, which was slammed behind him.
“How in the hell was I supposed to know that that dog was going to have breakfast with us,” Joe asked rhetorically, out loud, as he sat on the steps and slipped the boat shoes on his feet.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Casco Viejo: The Second Season
Chapter Three
All the usual suspects turned up around 5:30 to stand around the rather small pool situated on the roof of the Columbus House, a four-story building on Avenita “A.” Ice tinkled in a couple of vodka tonics as a light cool breeze came in off the Pacific about four blocks away.
Jerry Cole leaned over and fished an Atlas beer out of a large cooler. Retired at 62, the minimum age for social security, Jerry used to be an engineer with a few different oil companies over the years, but now he and his wife Madge, a nurse—not yet retired at 58, but on leave, were building a beach house on the Pacific coast about two hours away from Panama City. They had moved around quite a bit, Texas, Indonesia, Venezuela, and so, with no roots anywhere, found Panama to be both an exotic enough place for their tastes and rather affordable as compared to where else they had lived. Madge was not thin, with big white framed glasses perched on a small nose and a perpetual smile, and looked larger than her husband, who was thin, nervous and just a bit hunched over. She referred to herself as a “bottle redhead” and kept a wary eye on her husband who wanted to have words with Beth Page, “if or when she has the chutzpah to show her face.”
Madge and Jerry were renting an apartment in the Columbus House until the construction of their house in Gorgona was complete. The problem was that completion was already six months overdue, with no end in sight. Beth had put the deal together, so Jerry held her responsible, even though she had nothing to do with construction and had never even been to the site. Lately, Jerry’s mood was more and more angry and agitated, and he often snapped at Madge, whose “bedside-manner” approach didn’t seem to calm him down like it used to. Jerry expressed machine gun and machete fantasies to Madge at one time or another involving their contractor, most of the work crew and even Beth Page. Madge was glad to see that Jerry was drinking beer and not scotch, so if Beth did show, he might not be tempted to throw her off the roof.
Not only was there a view of the sea, just a few blocks away, but the spires of the church of Saint Francis out toward the water and the National Cathedral, off to the side, stood out above the red tiled roofs of the old stone and concrete buildings that were protected as a World Heritage site by UNESCO. The skyscrapers of the city were visible off across the bay, because nothing in Casco was allowed over its original height, almost in every case three stories and seldom higher than four.
It might have looked like Jack Smith was chatting casually with Allen Myers, but he was actually checking out Allen’s date, a small pretty Latin girl in a tiny, tight white dress. Jack, a widower, who lost his Panamanian wife nearly five years ago, had an eye for “Latin ladies,” and the young woman standing beside Meyers, seemed to appreciate it when Jack spoke to her in reasonably coherent Spanish. She smiled shyly, even though there was nothing shy about her outfit. Her breasts were squeezed together and looked as if they might burst free from the low-cut neckline held taught by two thin spaghetti straps.
Allen Myers already had a reputation as a lady’s man, even though he had been in Panama for less than six months. A very successful plastic surgeon, Allen escaped a nasty divorce by moving his millions, tucked neatly away in several foundations, to Panama for safe keeping. According to Allen his wife “got greedy” and wanted a substantial share of his future earnings “on top of” what Meyers characterized as a generous settlement. “Now she gets nothing,” Allen often summarized, with a wink and a sneer, even though it wasn’t quite true, since she owns all their assets that are still located in the States, including a country club home, a beach house, three cars, their joint bank account, which he didn’t clean out (“I’m no criminal,” he said.) and his beloved Chocolate Lab, Buddy, who had been named after Bill Clinton’s dog. At 50, Myers was young for retirement and still planned to practice his specialty in the future, but currently was in Panama on an investor’s visa. Because of pending law suits and warrants (He failed to appear at a couple of court dates.) Myers considered it “ill advised” (according to his lawyer.) to return to the United States, anytime in the near future. So, with plenty of money to spend and his life on hold, he dressed the part of a playboy, with a huge gold Rolex, a heavy gold chain around his neck, a black silk sport shirt open to his navel , sharp slacks and Gucci shoes. Since he was balding already, he decided to go all the way and shave his head for what he called the “Telly Savalas look.”
Obviously, Allen’s date, a 24-year-old hooker from Columbia, had no idea who Savalas was, but it did sound kind of Spanish. Bebe Castro, actually was allowed into Panama to be a prostitute and worked as a pole dancer and professional escort at one of the city’s most popular “gentlemen’s clubs” The Desert Island Club. Bebe had a single ambition in life and that was to marry a rich gringo. It certainly looked like Allen Myers fit the bill; and since Allen seemed to be on a self proclaimed quest “to fuck as many good looking women as humanly possible,” they appeared to Jack, anyway, as a “perfect couple.”
Old Jack had no such ambitions, though he wouldn’t mind getting into Senorita Castro’s panties, that is, if she were wearing any. No, he was happy to just look. To be honest, he still really missed his wife, Patricia, who he had met 40 years ago, when he taught English in the Canal Zone at Balboa High School, and she was a first-year teacher in the History department. After his two-year contract, they moved to College Park, Maryland, where he scratched his way up through grad school at the university and got his doctorate in Composition Studies, while Patricia worked as a school secretary at High Point High School. Pretty soon, he landed a job teaching Freshman Comp at Western Maryland College, eventually becoming head of the department; and that was where he ended up until retirement.
Jack tried not to be bitter because he remembered many good times when he considered himself a popular, successful member of the faculty, with stints as the college senate president and the editor of a respected though small circulation journal, with the uninspired title College Composition. The last few years, however, didn’t go smoothly, with his students showing up for class with earphones and plagiarized essays downloaded off the internet. Somehow, over the years, the English Department, had, according to Jack, turned into a bunch of “school marms,” who saw themselves more as counselors than instructors dedicated to maintaining standards. Nobody seemed to flunk English 101 anymore, even though few of the students knew the difference between there, their or they’re or cared. He wasn’t forced out or anything so dramatic, but the time to leave Western Maryland felt long overdue, and so he and Patricia decided to retire back to good old Panama, where his wife still had plenty of family and they both had fond memories.
It was a shame because Patricia, the little dark-eyed love of his life and mother of two American daughters, died from a stroke soon after their condo on the third floor of The Columbus House was completed, nearly two years before. Patricia had grown up in Casco Viejo and gone to primary school there, so it had been a true homecoming for her. Jack Smith had no other place to go, so he stayed. The fact that he wrote restaurant reviews for a bilingual tourist newspaper called The Visitor/El Visitante, helped pass some of the time. Because his reviews were often witty while still being reliable, even though he really wasn’t supposed to pan any potential advertiser, Jack had become a personality in the expat community. “I’m not sure how,” one of his readers had written in an e-mail, “but somehow I can tell if the place is really first-rate or not, and especially not, even when Jack seems to be saying all the right things about yet another new restaurant .”
“Hardly a celebrity,” Jack pointed out, but “known around town” and often asked for his opinion or for a recommendation for a nice place to eat, “not too expensive.” Actually, that was exactly what Allen Myers was asking him about, just without the price proviso.
“Jeese,” Jack thought, “he doesn’t have to impress this chick. She’s already ready, willing and able to turn him every way but…oh, never mind.” Jack graciously suggested a couple of spots including his usual standby, La Posta, a fine restaurant located in an old house in the center of the city. At that, Jack turned to survey the group that was steadily growing as the roof-top terrace continued to fill with middle-aged ladies in flowing dresses and thin-strapped sandals and “geezer” guys in flower print shirts and boat shoes with no socks. No shorts—long pants was how men “dressed up” in Panama. The building only had eleven apartments, so obviously some of the twenty-plus people were friends and neighbors, most of a certain age.
The exception to the rule (besides bouncy Bebe, who was standing off to the side, not welcomed into any of the gaggles of gals), was Tony Perdu, the young (35) fit and trim yoga instructor, who lived on the top floor with her Polish businessman husband (He was at least 60, wealthy and often absent). Their apartment took up the entire top floor, while the third floor was divided into two suites (Meyers owned one and Jack the other), and the first two floors housed four small apartments each. In a tank top and dark, slim slacks, Tony looked healthy rather than sexy, with her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was popular with the ladies, who came regularly for her “tough” classes held up on the roof-top terrace in the early morning sun and then again in the late afternoon, three times a week. Tony struck most of the ladies as inspired and thus inspiring, always encouraging her students firmly but positively to do better. The classes were somewhat informal, and Tony allowed the participants to pick and choose among the six classes a week by providing a coupon book, with a dozen prepurchased classes at a reasonable ten bucks a pop. “She’s obviously not in it for the money,” was a common refrain among her ladies, even though it was unclear what she was in it for, besides a vaguely defined missionary zeal for the benefits of yoga and a healthy mind and body. Most of her students (including a couple of guys, with Allen Myers on a semi-regular basis) felt lucky to have Tony.
According to the notice in the hallway, the party was supposed to start at 5:00 p.m. and so Joe Berger arrived a few minutes before. He thought he might be able to ingratiate himself, with whoever was setting up, a good first impression. The only problem was that when Joe stepped off the elevator and climbed the last few steps to the terrace, nobody was there. Nada, not a soul.
“Oh, shit,” Joe said out loud, as his face and neck flushed red in what would have been an obvious blush had anyone seen it. Clutching a bottle of white wine and a bag of tortilla chips, he virtually leaped back to the landing, slammed his palm against the button and slumped into the elevator. Going down. Even though Joe had been looking forward to the get-together since he saw the sign, he didn’t want people to think he was desperate and that’s how he was sure he would have looked to whoever found him waiting forlornly for somebody else to show up. Berger was relieved when nobody was there when the doors opened to the second floor to find him muttering to himself about possibly having “the wrong date or time; or being the only idiot to show up on time; or at all for that matter.”
Back inside his nearly empty bachelor pad, with only one picture on the wall, that of a large pineapple, Joe sat down on one of the two chairs around the kitchen table and considered what to do next. Well, I’ll never show up early again, that’s for sure. He wondered if he could check the sign downstairs one more time without being detected, but thought it was too risky. Instead he decided to wait until “at least 5:30,” and then try again. If nobody was there by then it would be clear that it wasn’t going to happen; maybe it got cancelled or postponed; or maybe they all hid until he left; or it was a cruel practical joke on the new guy.
So Joe was both relieved and surprised when he found nearly two dozen people fully engaged in conversation when he next ascended the final few steps. “Timing’s everything,” Joe thought as he placed the bottle on a table stacked with plastic cups and looked around helplessly for a bowl for the chips.
“Hi, there,” Madge said with what looked to Joe like a smirk. “You’re late.” She immediately regretted the remark because of the odd expression that flashed across this stranger’s face. It was an instant, but the guy looked shocked and bewildered before he quickly composed himself, and with a faint smile, said “Hi. My name is Joe Berger, and I’m new in this building and in Panama for that matter.”
“Well, good to meet you Joe,” Madge said and offered her cheek for an air kiss. “Let’s put these chips on the table, and I’ll introduce you to some of your neighbors.”
“Thank, god,” Joe thought, “for a second there…, oh, fuck it, I’ll get used to stuff around here, soon enough;” but meanwhile, he was actually going to meet some new people. It didn’t take Joe long to spot Tony Perdu, who was pouring herself a glass of white wine. Joe pounced. “Hello,” he said “I hope you’ll like that wine. That’s the one I brought.”
“Oh, great,” Tony thought, “he’s hitting on me.” To be fair, Joe was, and that was a problem since Tony had grown tired of “older guys” constantly coming on to her. She wore her wedding ring and tried not to make eye contact, but without fail, some optimistic “old dude” with hair in his ears, would give her “that look” which meant she was going to be cornered. Within a moment, Madge, in her green and white flower print dress swooped in to save Joe, who immediately recognized the meaning of his target’s body language. “Jesus Christ,” he thought, as he noticed her faint cringe and pursed lips. “I still got it, and it’s not good.”
“Hey there, Tony, I’d like you to meet our newest neighbor, Joe from Florida,” Madge said. “This is Tony, everybody’s favorite yoga instructor,” she continued as Joe observed the woman across from him fain a cordial smile. “Yoga, huh? Maybe I’ll take some lessons,” Joe offered, as he watched Tony do a poor job of concealing her lack of enthusiasm. He then tried out the retired sports agent angle on the two physical opposites,one slim and trim and one not, but it was clear that neither were interested, much less impressed. “Oh, I don’t even understand sports,” Marge said with a giggle and a wave of her hand. “Neither do I,” said Tony. Conversation over. Joe wandered over to the railing and watched as one falcon and then a second landed on the red roof of the building across the street. They were small, compact birds, with sharp curved beaks, brown/gray wings and a row of horizontal grey bars across their white breasts; and held on to the peak of tiles with what looked like oversized yellow claws.
When Joe turned around he noticed the blonde woman, he had seen a couple of days before on the street, come up onto the terrace. “Oh, good,” he thought, “she’s more in my age bracket, and nice lookin’ too.” Beth Page, who did look good in a Spanish style peasant blouse that showed off her bare shoulders, lived around the corner and knew just about everybody in the building and most of the gringos in Casco Viejo. She immediately spotted a fellow she didn’t know by the railing staring at her. “Oh, oh,” she thought as she tried to avoid eye contact, and quickly stepped up to little Barb Multusky, who was standing by herself with a glass of white wine in her hand.
“Who’s that new guy,” Beth said as she moved her head slightly in his direction.
“I have no idea,” Barb replied. “There are always new people and sometimes I just can’t keep up with all the comings and goings. You know what I mean?”
“Absolutely. So where’s Mitch?” Just as she asked, Beth spotted Barb’s husband’s head sticking out from a group of average height men across the room. She could see Allen Myers and Jack Smith with Jerry Cole, whose back was to her. “Well, the gang’s all here.” Barb shrugged. First Mitch, from his higher vantage point, saw Beth and smiled, but then Allen and Jack turned and smiled as well. At that, Jerry literally spun around and glared in Beth’s direction. “Oh, Jesus, not again,” Beth moaned and Barb shrugged again.
“You have a lot of gall, showing your face around here,” Jerry said as he strode over to confront the woman he held personally responsible for getting him into a construction nightmare that seemed destined never to end. At the same time Madge was literally scuttling across the terrace in what turned out be an unsuccessful attempt to intercept her husband before he confronted Beth Page.
“Oh, come off it.” Beth stood defiantly with her hands on her hips. “I don’t even have a drink yet. Gimme a break.”
“Jerry, now…” Madge cautioned.
“Shut up, Madge,” Jerry said a decibel too loud and in an angry tone that made everyone on the terrace take note and feel uncomfortable. “I simply want to find out what Mrs. Page has done to facilitate matters as far as our house project is concerned. For example, did you know that our contractor has not been on site for a week and is not returning my phone calls?”
“I’m not surprised,” Beth said as she pushed past toward the bar. “Why would anybody want to call you back?” It was the way she said you (dripping with asshole connotation) that even stopped Jerry for a moment to contemplate the answer to the question. A quick scan of the audience showed that the group of guys Jerry had abandoned was thoroughly enjoying the confrontation, while Barb, Tony and even Bebe seemed more interested than distressed. Only Madge looked worried. “Please, honey, she said in a voice so plaintive that her husband, paused a moment, before he continued “it’s your damn responsibility, and you know it.”
“Okay, friend, enough is enough.” It was the new guy standing between Jerry and Beth. If a group could ever have a communal thought, it was then; and could be generalized as something to the effect of “What the fuck does he think he’s doing?”
What Joe Berger, the new guy who had been renting an apartment on the second floor for almost two weeks, thought he was doing was coming to the aid of a damsel in distress. He saw his opportunity to impress this attractive woman and he leapt on it. The surprising thing was that it appeared to work. Jerry, for a second, hunched over even more than usual and clenched and unclenched his fists, but it was clear that the air was leaking out of his balloon. Madge pushed her glasses back up her nose as far as they would go and hesitantly placed her chubby hand on her husband’s thin arm. Jerry turned to Beth’s back as she poured herself a full glass of red wine and hissed, “I’ll being calling you first thing, Monday morning.”
“Good luck, with that,” Myers said under his breath to Jack and Mitch, who nodded, while attempting to stifle a laugh. Everyone, except Bebe of course, whose bare back shined with a thin coat of perspiration, turned back and attempted to remember what they were talking about before Jerry went on his rampage.
That left Beth to turn around and deal with a smiling guy, standing right behind her, who she didn’t know and had never met before, but for some reason had decided to take her side.
“So, who in the hell are you,” she said as she brushed past the rather ordinary looking guy with a short gray haircut, and a dumb grin on his face. (“Joe …) After she balanced the wine glass on the railing, (Berger, I’m…), Beth rummaged through her purse for a second (new in the building…), and brought out a pack of Kools. (…and you’re?) Joe was thrilled—he too was a smoker, a dying breed. In a flash he whipped out his lighter. Beth couldn’t help it; she touched his hand to steady the lighter and lit her cigarette. She regretted the tiny intimate gesture and tried to make it appear that she was shielding the flame from the breeze, but it was too late. The Joe fella reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights.
“You know back in the States, it’s almost impossible to smoke in public anymore,” Joe said, as he beamed at Beth. “We’re outside here though, so I guess it’s all right.”
“Listen Joe,” Beth said, more exasperated than peeved, “I really don’t need your help, and in the future, I would appreciate it, if…”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Joe said, hoping to keep up his confidence for at least a few more moments, “you’re obviously a very capable woman. I’ve seen you before, around town, and I wanted to meet you; and I was worried that that jerk would cause such a scene that you would leave or sock him or something and I wouldn’t get a chance to introduce myself.”
“Okay,” Beth thought. “He’s not going away, and that is a pretty good line, which could even be true, so what the shit…” and with a sigh, she asked the mandatory series of introductory questions.
“So, where in Florida are you from?”
“Miami. And where are you from?”
“Arizona. The Phoenix area. My husband and I had a real estate business and we moved down here because of the many opportunities in that field.” When she noticed a quizzical look on Joe’s face, Beth added, “He died almost two years ago, but I’m still at it. So, what did you do in Miami, and what brings you to Panama?”
“I was a sports agent, but it wasn’t as glamorous as some people suppose,” Joe offered.
“I really have no idea what that entails,” Beth admitted.
“Good,” Joe thought. “And, to be honest, I’m not sure why I ended up down here.” Joe reverted to honesty for just a brief moment. “I’m retired and looking for something new.”
Beth took a long sip of her wine. “Oh, shit,” she thought, “if he says that he’s keeping his options open, I’ll just throw myself over the railing.”
“So anyway, I’m pretty much keeping my options open.” When Joe noticed Beth shrink back, barely perceptibly, he laughed. After years of experience, Joe had become sensitive to even the slightest sign of distain or rejection, but he was turning over a new leaf, so he pretended not to be discouraged, and countered with, “Pretty weak huh?”
“Well…” Beth knew he had detected her cringe.
“Actually, I’m escaping,” Joe said.
“Oh, great, probably the police” Beth thought, even though she was aware that he seemed to be acutely aware and reading her thoughts, or at least anticipating her reactions.
“The cops,” Joe said, and when a look of amazement appeared on Beth’s face, “just kiddin’. I caught my wife in bed with another man—literally my neighbor. It’s the worst kind of divorce, because to prove you have grounds, you have to prove you’re a cuckold, which is no fun at all. So, any way, that’s what I left behind in Florida. That’s what I’m getting away from.”When Beth looked relieved, Joe’s confidence soared. Honesty isn’t always the best policy. “Here let me get you another glass of wine.”
When he returned from the bar, Barb and Mitch Multusky were standing beside Beth, who introduced them to Joe. Unlike at first, Beth did not feel any more like she needed to lose this Bozo, and actually filled Joe in when they turned to go. No they didn’t live at Columbus House either, but had a little courtyard apartment down Avenida “A” “in a building called Casa something, I don’t remember; but they’re the nicest couple.”
At seven o’clock sharp, as if a factory whistle had sounded, people gathered at the stairwell and made their goodbyes. Beth and Joe were smoking off to the side, near the pool. “So, how about a bite to eat,” Joe enquired, keeping things casual.
“Sure,” Beth said, "why not?”
Chapter Three
All the usual suspects turned up around 5:30 to stand around the rather small pool situated on the roof of the Columbus House, a four-story building on Avenita “A.” Ice tinkled in a couple of vodka tonics as a light cool breeze came in off the Pacific about four blocks away.
Jerry Cole leaned over and fished an Atlas beer out of a large cooler. Retired at 62, the minimum age for social security, Jerry used to be an engineer with a few different oil companies over the years, but now he and his wife Madge, a nurse—not yet retired at 58, but on leave, were building a beach house on the Pacific coast about two hours away from Panama City. They had moved around quite a bit, Texas, Indonesia, Venezuela, and so, with no roots anywhere, found Panama to be both an exotic enough place for their tastes and rather affordable as compared to where else they had lived. Madge was not thin, with big white framed glasses perched on a small nose and a perpetual smile, and looked larger than her husband, who was thin, nervous and just a bit hunched over. She referred to herself as a “bottle redhead” and kept a wary eye on her husband who wanted to have words with Beth Page, “if or when she has the chutzpah to show her face.”
Madge and Jerry were renting an apartment in the Columbus House until the construction of their house in Gorgona was complete. The problem was that completion was already six months overdue, with no end in sight. Beth had put the deal together, so Jerry held her responsible, even though she had nothing to do with construction and had never even been to the site. Lately, Jerry’s mood was more and more angry and agitated, and he often snapped at Madge, whose “bedside-manner” approach didn’t seem to calm him down like it used to. Jerry expressed machine gun and machete fantasies to Madge at one time or another involving their contractor, most of the work crew and even Beth Page. Madge was glad to see that Jerry was drinking beer and not scotch, so if Beth did show, he might not be tempted to throw her off the roof.
Not only was there a view of the sea, just a few blocks away, but the spires of the church of Saint Francis out toward the water and the National Cathedral, off to the side, stood out above the red tiled roofs of the old stone and concrete buildings that were protected as a World Heritage site by UNESCO. The skyscrapers of the city were visible off across the bay, because nothing in Casco was allowed over its original height, almost in every case three stories and seldom higher than four.
It might have looked like Jack Smith was chatting casually with Allen Myers, but he was actually checking out Allen’s date, a small pretty Latin girl in a tiny, tight white dress. Jack, a widower, who lost his Panamanian wife nearly five years ago, had an eye for “Latin ladies,” and the young woman standing beside Meyers, seemed to appreciate it when Jack spoke to her in reasonably coherent Spanish. She smiled shyly, even though there was nothing shy about her outfit. Her breasts were squeezed together and looked as if they might burst free from the low-cut neckline held taught by two thin spaghetti straps.
Allen Myers already had a reputation as a lady’s man, even though he had been in Panama for less than six months. A very successful plastic surgeon, Allen escaped a nasty divorce by moving his millions, tucked neatly away in several foundations, to Panama for safe keeping. According to Allen his wife “got greedy” and wanted a substantial share of his future earnings “on top of” what Meyers characterized as a generous settlement. “Now she gets nothing,” Allen often summarized, with a wink and a sneer, even though it wasn’t quite true, since she owns all their assets that are still located in the States, including a country club home, a beach house, three cars, their joint bank account, which he didn’t clean out (“I’m no criminal,” he said.) and his beloved Chocolate Lab, Buddy, who had been named after Bill Clinton’s dog. At 50, Myers was young for retirement and still planned to practice his specialty in the future, but currently was in Panama on an investor’s visa. Because of pending law suits and warrants (He failed to appear at a couple of court dates.) Myers considered it “ill advised” (according to his lawyer.) to return to the United States, anytime in the near future. So, with plenty of money to spend and his life on hold, he dressed the part of a playboy, with a huge gold Rolex, a heavy gold chain around his neck, a black silk sport shirt open to his navel , sharp slacks and Gucci shoes. Since he was balding already, he decided to go all the way and shave his head for what he called the “Telly Savalas look.”
Obviously, Allen’s date, a 24-year-old hooker from Columbia, had no idea who Savalas was, but it did sound kind of Spanish. Bebe Castro, actually was allowed into Panama to be a prostitute and worked as a pole dancer and professional escort at one of the city’s most popular “gentlemen’s clubs” The Desert Island Club. Bebe had a single ambition in life and that was to marry a rich gringo. It certainly looked like Allen Myers fit the bill; and since Allen seemed to be on a self proclaimed quest “to fuck as many good looking women as humanly possible,” they appeared to Jack, anyway, as a “perfect couple.”
Old Jack had no such ambitions, though he wouldn’t mind getting into Senorita Castro’s panties, that is, if she were wearing any. No, he was happy to just look. To be honest, he still really missed his wife, Patricia, who he had met 40 years ago, when he taught English in the Canal Zone at Balboa High School, and she was a first-year teacher in the History department. After his two-year contract, they moved to College Park, Maryland, where he scratched his way up through grad school at the university and got his doctorate in Composition Studies, while Patricia worked as a school secretary at High Point High School. Pretty soon, he landed a job teaching Freshman Comp at Western Maryland College, eventually becoming head of the department; and that was where he ended up until retirement.
Jack tried not to be bitter because he remembered many good times when he considered himself a popular, successful member of the faculty, with stints as the college senate president and the editor of a respected though small circulation journal, with the uninspired title College Composition. The last few years, however, didn’t go smoothly, with his students showing up for class with earphones and plagiarized essays downloaded off the internet. Somehow, over the years, the English Department, had, according to Jack, turned into a bunch of “school marms,” who saw themselves more as counselors than instructors dedicated to maintaining standards. Nobody seemed to flunk English 101 anymore, even though few of the students knew the difference between there, their or they’re or cared. He wasn’t forced out or anything so dramatic, but the time to leave Western Maryland felt long overdue, and so he and Patricia decided to retire back to good old Panama, where his wife still had plenty of family and they both had fond memories.
It was a shame because Patricia, the little dark-eyed love of his life and mother of two American daughters, died from a stroke soon after their condo on the third floor of The Columbus House was completed, nearly two years before. Patricia had grown up in Casco Viejo and gone to primary school there, so it had been a true homecoming for her. Jack Smith had no other place to go, so he stayed. The fact that he wrote restaurant reviews for a bilingual tourist newspaper called The Visitor/El Visitante, helped pass some of the time. Because his reviews were often witty while still being reliable, even though he really wasn’t supposed to pan any potential advertiser, Jack had become a personality in the expat community. “I’m not sure how,” one of his readers had written in an e-mail, “but somehow I can tell if the place is really first-rate or not, and especially not, even when Jack seems to be saying all the right things about yet another new restaurant .”
“Hardly a celebrity,” Jack pointed out, but “known around town” and often asked for his opinion or for a recommendation for a nice place to eat, “not too expensive.” Actually, that was exactly what Allen Myers was asking him about, just without the price proviso.
“Jeese,” Jack thought, “he doesn’t have to impress this chick. She’s already ready, willing and able to turn him every way but…oh, never mind.” Jack graciously suggested a couple of spots including his usual standby, La Posta, a fine restaurant located in an old house in the center of the city. At that, Jack turned to survey the group that was steadily growing as the roof-top terrace continued to fill with middle-aged ladies in flowing dresses and thin-strapped sandals and “geezer” guys in flower print shirts and boat shoes with no socks. No shorts—long pants was how men “dressed up” in Panama. The building only had eleven apartments, so obviously some of the twenty-plus people were friends and neighbors, most of a certain age.
The exception to the rule (besides bouncy Bebe, who was standing off to the side, not welcomed into any of the gaggles of gals), was Tony Perdu, the young (35) fit and trim yoga instructor, who lived on the top floor with her Polish businessman husband (He was at least 60, wealthy and often absent). Their apartment took up the entire top floor, while the third floor was divided into two suites (Meyers owned one and Jack the other), and the first two floors housed four small apartments each. In a tank top and dark, slim slacks, Tony looked healthy rather than sexy, with her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was popular with the ladies, who came regularly for her “tough” classes held up on the roof-top terrace in the early morning sun and then again in the late afternoon, three times a week. Tony struck most of the ladies as inspired and thus inspiring, always encouraging her students firmly but positively to do better. The classes were somewhat informal, and Tony allowed the participants to pick and choose among the six classes a week by providing a coupon book, with a dozen prepurchased classes at a reasonable ten bucks a pop. “She’s obviously not in it for the money,” was a common refrain among her ladies, even though it was unclear what she was in it for, besides a vaguely defined missionary zeal for the benefits of yoga and a healthy mind and body. Most of her students (including a couple of guys, with Allen Myers on a semi-regular basis) felt lucky to have Tony.
According to the notice in the hallway, the party was supposed to start at 5:00 p.m. and so Joe Berger arrived a few minutes before. He thought he might be able to ingratiate himself, with whoever was setting up, a good first impression. The only problem was that when Joe stepped off the elevator and climbed the last few steps to the terrace, nobody was there. Nada, not a soul.
“Oh, shit,” Joe said out loud, as his face and neck flushed red in what would have been an obvious blush had anyone seen it. Clutching a bottle of white wine and a bag of tortilla chips, he virtually leaped back to the landing, slammed his palm against the button and slumped into the elevator. Going down. Even though Joe had been looking forward to the get-together since he saw the sign, he didn’t want people to think he was desperate and that’s how he was sure he would have looked to whoever found him waiting forlornly for somebody else to show up. Berger was relieved when nobody was there when the doors opened to the second floor to find him muttering to himself about possibly having “the wrong date or time; or being the only idiot to show up on time; or at all for that matter.”
Back inside his nearly empty bachelor pad, with only one picture on the wall, that of a large pineapple, Joe sat down on one of the two chairs around the kitchen table and considered what to do next. Well, I’ll never show up early again, that’s for sure. He wondered if he could check the sign downstairs one more time without being detected, but thought it was too risky. Instead he decided to wait until “at least 5:30,” and then try again. If nobody was there by then it would be clear that it wasn’t going to happen; maybe it got cancelled or postponed; or maybe they all hid until he left; or it was a cruel practical joke on the new guy.
So Joe was both relieved and surprised when he found nearly two dozen people fully engaged in conversation when he next ascended the final few steps. “Timing’s everything,” Joe thought as he placed the bottle on a table stacked with plastic cups and looked around helplessly for a bowl for the chips.
“Hi, there,” Madge said with what looked to Joe like a smirk. “You’re late.” She immediately regretted the remark because of the odd expression that flashed across this stranger’s face. It was an instant, but the guy looked shocked and bewildered before he quickly composed himself, and with a faint smile, said “Hi. My name is Joe Berger, and I’m new in this building and in Panama for that matter.”
“Well, good to meet you Joe,” Madge said and offered her cheek for an air kiss. “Let’s put these chips on the table, and I’ll introduce you to some of your neighbors.”
“Thank, god,” Joe thought, “for a second there…, oh, fuck it, I’ll get used to stuff around here, soon enough;” but meanwhile, he was actually going to meet some new people. It didn’t take Joe long to spot Tony Perdu, who was pouring herself a glass of white wine. Joe pounced. “Hello,” he said “I hope you’ll like that wine. That’s the one I brought.”
“Oh, great,” Tony thought, “he’s hitting on me.” To be fair, Joe was, and that was a problem since Tony had grown tired of “older guys” constantly coming on to her. She wore her wedding ring and tried not to make eye contact, but without fail, some optimistic “old dude” with hair in his ears, would give her “that look” which meant she was going to be cornered. Within a moment, Madge, in her green and white flower print dress swooped in to save Joe, who immediately recognized the meaning of his target’s body language. “Jesus Christ,” he thought, as he noticed her faint cringe and pursed lips. “I still got it, and it’s not good.”
“Hey there, Tony, I’d like you to meet our newest neighbor, Joe from Florida,” Madge said. “This is Tony, everybody’s favorite yoga instructor,” she continued as Joe observed the woman across from him fain a cordial smile. “Yoga, huh? Maybe I’ll take some lessons,” Joe offered, as he watched Tony do a poor job of concealing her lack of enthusiasm. He then tried out the retired sports agent angle on the two physical opposites,one slim and trim and one not, but it was clear that neither were interested, much less impressed. “Oh, I don’t even understand sports,” Marge said with a giggle and a wave of her hand. “Neither do I,” said Tony. Conversation over. Joe wandered over to the railing and watched as one falcon and then a second landed on the red roof of the building across the street. They were small, compact birds, with sharp curved beaks, brown/gray wings and a row of horizontal grey bars across their white breasts; and held on to the peak of tiles with what looked like oversized yellow claws.
When Joe turned around he noticed the blonde woman, he had seen a couple of days before on the street, come up onto the terrace. “Oh, good,” he thought, “she’s more in my age bracket, and nice lookin’ too.” Beth Page, who did look good in a Spanish style peasant blouse that showed off her bare shoulders, lived around the corner and knew just about everybody in the building and most of the gringos in Casco Viejo. She immediately spotted a fellow she didn’t know by the railing staring at her. “Oh, oh,” she thought as she tried to avoid eye contact, and quickly stepped up to little Barb Multusky, who was standing by herself with a glass of white wine in her hand.
“Who’s that new guy,” Beth said as she moved her head slightly in his direction.
“I have no idea,” Barb replied. “There are always new people and sometimes I just can’t keep up with all the comings and goings. You know what I mean?”
“Absolutely. So where’s Mitch?” Just as she asked, Beth spotted Barb’s husband’s head sticking out from a group of average height men across the room. She could see Allen Myers and Jack Smith with Jerry Cole, whose back was to her. “Well, the gang’s all here.” Barb shrugged. First Mitch, from his higher vantage point, saw Beth and smiled, but then Allen and Jack turned and smiled as well. At that, Jerry literally spun around and glared in Beth’s direction. “Oh, Jesus, not again,” Beth moaned and Barb shrugged again.
“You have a lot of gall, showing your face around here,” Jerry said as he strode over to confront the woman he held personally responsible for getting him into a construction nightmare that seemed destined never to end. At the same time Madge was literally scuttling across the terrace in what turned out be an unsuccessful attempt to intercept her husband before he confronted Beth Page.
“Oh, come off it.” Beth stood defiantly with her hands on her hips. “I don’t even have a drink yet. Gimme a break.”
“Jerry, now…” Madge cautioned.
“Shut up, Madge,” Jerry said a decibel too loud and in an angry tone that made everyone on the terrace take note and feel uncomfortable. “I simply want to find out what Mrs. Page has done to facilitate matters as far as our house project is concerned. For example, did you know that our contractor has not been on site for a week and is not returning my phone calls?”
“I’m not surprised,” Beth said as she pushed past toward the bar. “Why would anybody want to call you back?” It was the way she said you (dripping with asshole connotation) that even stopped Jerry for a moment to contemplate the answer to the question. A quick scan of the audience showed that the group of guys Jerry had abandoned was thoroughly enjoying the confrontation, while Barb, Tony and even Bebe seemed more interested than distressed. Only Madge looked worried. “Please, honey, she said in a voice so plaintive that her husband, paused a moment, before he continued “it’s your damn responsibility, and you know it.”
“Okay, friend, enough is enough.” It was the new guy standing between Jerry and Beth. If a group could ever have a communal thought, it was then; and could be generalized as something to the effect of “What the fuck does he think he’s doing?”
What Joe Berger, the new guy who had been renting an apartment on the second floor for almost two weeks, thought he was doing was coming to the aid of a damsel in distress. He saw his opportunity to impress this attractive woman and he leapt on it. The surprising thing was that it appeared to work. Jerry, for a second, hunched over even more than usual and clenched and unclenched his fists, but it was clear that the air was leaking out of his balloon. Madge pushed her glasses back up her nose as far as they would go and hesitantly placed her chubby hand on her husband’s thin arm. Jerry turned to Beth’s back as she poured herself a full glass of red wine and hissed, “I’ll being calling you first thing, Monday morning.”
“Good luck, with that,” Myers said under his breath to Jack and Mitch, who nodded, while attempting to stifle a laugh. Everyone, except Bebe of course, whose bare back shined with a thin coat of perspiration, turned back and attempted to remember what they were talking about before Jerry went on his rampage.
That left Beth to turn around and deal with a smiling guy, standing right behind her, who she didn’t know and had never met before, but for some reason had decided to take her side.
“So, who in the hell are you,” she said as she brushed past the rather ordinary looking guy with a short gray haircut, and a dumb grin on his face. (“Joe …) After she balanced the wine glass on the railing, (Berger, I’m…), Beth rummaged through her purse for a second (new in the building…), and brought out a pack of Kools. (…and you’re?) Joe was thrilled—he too was a smoker, a dying breed. In a flash he whipped out his lighter. Beth couldn’t help it; she touched his hand to steady the lighter and lit her cigarette. She regretted the tiny intimate gesture and tried to make it appear that she was shielding the flame from the breeze, but it was too late. The Joe fella reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights.
“You know back in the States, it’s almost impossible to smoke in public anymore,” Joe said, as he beamed at Beth. “We’re outside here though, so I guess it’s all right.”
“Listen Joe,” Beth said, more exasperated than peeved, “I really don’t need your help, and in the future, I would appreciate it, if…”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Joe said, hoping to keep up his confidence for at least a few more moments, “you’re obviously a very capable woman. I’ve seen you before, around town, and I wanted to meet you; and I was worried that that jerk would cause such a scene that you would leave or sock him or something and I wouldn’t get a chance to introduce myself.”
“Okay,” Beth thought. “He’s not going away, and that is a pretty good line, which could even be true, so what the shit…” and with a sigh, she asked the mandatory series of introductory questions.
“So, where in Florida are you from?”
“Miami. And where are you from?”
“Arizona. The Phoenix area. My husband and I had a real estate business and we moved down here because of the many opportunities in that field.” When she noticed a quizzical look on Joe’s face, Beth added, “He died almost two years ago, but I’m still at it. So, what did you do in Miami, and what brings you to Panama?”
“I was a sports agent, but it wasn’t as glamorous as some people suppose,” Joe offered.
“I really have no idea what that entails,” Beth admitted.
“Good,” Joe thought. “And, to be honest, I’m not sure why I ended up down here.” Joe reverted to honesty for just a brief moment. “I’m retired and looking for something new.”
Beth took a long sip of her wine. “Oh, shit,” she thought, “if he says that he’s keeping his options open, I’ll just throw myself over the railing.”
“So anyway, I’m pretty much keeping my options open.” When Joe noticed Beth shrink back, barely perceptibly, he laughed. After years of experience, Joe had become sensitive to even the slightest sign of distain or rejection, but he was turning over a new leaf, so he pretended not to be discouraged, and countered with, “Pretty weak huh?”
“Well…” Beth knew he had detected her cringe.
“Actually, I’m escaping,” Joe said.
“Oh, great, probably the police” Beth thought, even though she was aware that he seemed to be acutely aware and reading her thoughts, or at least anticipating her reactions.
“The cops,” Joe said, and when a look of amazement appeared on Beth’s face, “just kiddin’. I caught my wife in bed with another man—literally my neighbor. It’s the worst kind of divorce, because to prove you have grounds, you have to prove you’re a cuckold, which is no fun at all. So, any way, that’s what I left behind in Florida. That’s what I’m getting away from.”When Beth looked relieved, Joe’s confidence soared. Honesty isn’t always the best policy. “Here let me get you another glass of wine.”
When he returned from the bar, Barb and Mitch Multusky were standing beside Beth, who introduced them to Joe. Unlike at first, Beth did not feel any more like she needed to lose this Bozo, and actually filled Joe in when they turned to go. No they didn’t live at Columbus House either, but had a little courtyard apartment down Avenida “A” “in a building called Casa something, I don’t remember; but they’re the nicest couple.”
At seven o’clock sharp, as if a factory whistle had sounded, people gathered at the stairwell and made their goodbyes. Beth and Joe were smoking off to the side, near the pool. “So, how about a bite to eat,” Joe enquired, keeping things casual.
“Sure,” Beth said, "why not?”
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Casco Viejo: The Second Season, Chapter Two
If this is your first time at Casco Viejo, The Second Season, please go back to chapter one and catch up on the beginning of the story...listed under 2009
Chapter Two
Carmen was a Casco Viejo street dog. She roamed freely around the old section, along the narrow, cobblestone and brick streets, bordered by uneven, pock-marked sidewalks and around piles of sand and stacks of cinderblocks in front of construction sites. There were cats in doorways she knew to avoid and small barky dogs on balconies that seemed to yell at her, jealous of her freedom.
Carmen was also a pet. Her owners, Barb and Mitch Multusky, two retired educators from Saginaw, Michigan, would take Carmen on walks on a leash at least twice a day along the Paseo General Esteban Huertas, a promenade that curved around the top of Las Bovedas, the fortified walls that protected the old city. Mitch, who used to coach basketball before he became a vice principal, often said that this “had to be one of the prettiest dog walks any where in the world.” A trellis of pink, white and purple bougainvillea shaded about one third of the walkway, and then opened up to breezes off the Pacific Ocean that lapped at the walls where dungeons (bovedas) were located. The legend is that prisoners were sometimes chained to the walls at low tide and faced their fate at high tide.
Barb liked to sit on a bench, with Carmen at her feet, and gaze out at the skyline of the modern Panama City. More and more skyscrapers seemed to be rising up every day along the coast of Panama Bay. Barb was trying to cut back on her cigarette habit so she never smoked in their one-bedroom loft apartment, about a block away. She only indulged her guilty pleasure outside, so the bench was ideal as pelicans swooped by in formation. Mitch called them “the Panamanian Air Force.” Carmen would sit patiently and wait to be adored by young tourist women with ankle bracelets, or kids, who had gotten loose from their parents (Some Panamanian children were afraid of dogs, which seemed silly in Carmen’s case, since she was less than 30 pounds and on a leash.) or couples of various ages, who were out for a romantic stroll.
The rest of the walkway curved around the tip of the peninsula, with views of the Amador Causeway, the man-made break water that bordered the entrance to the Panama Canal and then the Bridge of the Americas, a tall, steel-girder arch that spanned the canal and connected the city, with the western half of the country. Out at sea, a number of ships rested at anchor, waiting their turn to pass through the canal. At night, their lights reflected in long thin lines across the water, near three small islands that were stuck in shadow at the end of the causeway.
Every time, Carmen paused at the top of the steps that led down to the Plaza de Francia, where the monument to the failed French effort to dig the canal is located. Mitch liked to say, as Carmen seemed to survey the statues and tall obelisk with the French rooster at the tip, that “Carmen loves a view.” Especially in the evening when the sun set behind the mountains past the far end of the bridge, the views were, as Mitch often noted, “stunning.” Scattered along the way, were Kuna Indians, at tables or sitting beside blankets, selling molas, ornate, stitched panels of cloth with bird and lizard designs that were actually part of their native costume. The tiny women (Kunas are the second smallest people in the world, after pigmies) wear the molas as kind of bibs, and they also wear colorful scarves, multi-print blouses and skirts and beaded anklets. The men wear tee shirts and baseball caps. Tourists buy the squares of dark black or green cloth with bright green, yellow and orange designs and turn them into pillows or wall hangings. Most of the vendors know Carmen’s name. “They don’t have any idea what our names are,” Mitch points out, “and they don’t seem interested; but they all know Carmen.” Maybe it is because to some extent Carmen is one of them.
Barb and Mitch feed Carmen and take her for regular visits to the vet, but they have no intention of interfering with Carmen’s freedom. Like the Kunas, who resisted Spanish domination in the old days of conquest, Carmen has no intention of being held prisoner. The Kuna nation still rules over an autonomous province in Panama today—tiny free spirits. The Multuskys put the collar on Carmen (a simple, thin leather affair, with no dog tag), in the hope that no one else would take custody of the little dog with the funny black and white face. Their apartment is located on the ground floor and looks out on a court yard in the center of a three-story restored colonial house. There are six other apartments in the building. Three barred windows open onto the courtyard from the Multuskys’ living room. When ever, the windows are open, which is often, Carmen has no trouble slipping her thin white, wiry body between the bars. She then slips out between the bars of the locked gate at the building’s entrance and is on the street again.
Barb first spotted a small white puppy with a half white and half black face curled up behind a potted palm in the courtyard—it was as if she was hiding out after she had apparently snuck in through the bars of the gate. The puppy was thin and dotted with what turned out to be nearly thirty ticks. “Okay, we can keep her” Mitch said “but only if we can clean up her dirty black paws.” It was a joke. Mitch at 6’4” 240 pounds, found it difficult to deny anything to his 5’3’’ thin, almost frail wife of 40 years, who had spent most of her career teaching fifth grade. Even though he could look imposing after all the practice he had in front of the bench at basketball games and in hallways filled with rambunctious kids, he was her gentle giant. They never had kids, but “we’ve had hundreds of other people’s kids,” Mitch liked to say, “actually thousands.” Both of them, particularly Barb, had become pet lovers over the years, numerous dogs, mostly Labs and a few cats; but when their last Labrador Josie died, they decided not to get another, since they were planning to move to Panama in a few months.
That was almost a year before, so both of them were ready for Carmen. They actually liked Carmen’s independent streak, though neither could resist worrying that she might one day never again step though the window grate, one black paw at a time. So far, so good—Carmen always came back from her daily jaunts around the neighborhood and slept every night at the foot of their bed. Her water bowl was always kept full; and there are usually at least a few nuggets of dry dog food in a matching stainless steel bowl. Unlike the Labs that they had back in the States, that gobbled food as if it was their only meal ever, this mutt would snack, (Barb called it “grazing.”), eat some, or most, but seldom all of the food that her (Now there’s a question. Would it be owners—not exactly; parents—when talking to Carmen, Barb and Mitch referred to each other as “Mom” and “Dad”; friends; benefactors; roommates?), people would fill when they noticed it was empty.
Sometimes, Carmen would be locked in the apartment, when her people went out; but she didn’t seem to mind. The dog seldom barked; and never even cried when she was a puppy. There was food and water in her bowls; and when the door shut, she would climb up on the couch and sleep. Sometimes, the Multuskys were gone for most of the day and sometimes for just an hour or two, but they always came back. It is hard to tell if dogs tell time, but Carmen never punished them for their absence, by chewing or peeing or wailing. When a key was inserted in the door, she would jump up and greet who ever came in, which turned out to always be Barb and Mitch. Soon after, one or the other humans had the leash and a plastic poop bag, and Carmen would accompany that person for a stroll.
Barb and Mitch were confident that most of the street guys that helped park cars; and most of the squatters, who occupied the building next door; and the Policia Tourismo, who patrolled the streets looking out after the clueless tourists; and the residents nearby knew that Carmen was their dog and that the neighborhood would look out for and keep an eye on their happy, innocent , independent pet/ward. They were right too. Particularly, the street guys, “bien cuidados,” Juan and Jamon, who staked out the intersection by the building where the Multulskys lived, liked Carmen, who often hung out with them as the fellas pointed out parking spots and directed people into the spaces. The usual rate was fifty cents for such a service. Juan or Jamon (…which means ham in Spanish. The man’s actual name was Horace, but his skin was kinda pink like ham.), would watch as Carmen’s curved tail would disappear around a corner; and they would always grab her ears and pet her with plenty of “Hola Carmens” when she returned from where ever she had been.
In fact, Carmen had a secret life. Every morning, around nine, she would slip down a narrow alley between two buildings and then crawl under a wooden gate located in a six-foot wall that enclosed a small backyard garden. A narrow laha (stone and concrete) pathway led through the rose bushes and ginger plants to a patio where Beth Page was having her morning coffee at a glass topped table with white-painted iron chairs.
Beth, at 58, was not quite retired and ran a real estate operation from her lap-top computer that sat on a table just inside the sliding glass door. Both she and her husband made “a very good living” in real estate in Arizona, before moving to Panama, where they bought the narrow three-story house. The plan was that they would put baby boomers together with real estate deals, while enjoying “a nice change of scenery” along with some “opportunities to make a killing” in their adopted country. The only problem was that her husband Frank died suddenly of a heart attack, at 57 (he was actually a year younger) on the day after they celebrated their first year in Panama. Beth, who still had a good figure with what some people would describe as a nice set of tits, dyed her hair blonde like many women whose hair had turned gray. When she was younger, her hair had been brown. Even though Frank was gone, she was determined to follow through with the plan.
Without hesitation, Carmen would hop up on the empty chair and sit there like a little girl at a tea party. “Buenas dias, Carmen,” Beth would usually offer as a greeting. It was funny really, but Beth never mentioned breakfast with Carmen to Barb. Some people don’t like other folks feeding their dogs. Some get jealous. “What they don’t know, won’t hurt ‘em,” was Beth’s philosophy. Beth readily admitted to herself that having Carmen over for breakfast, was a selfish pleasure. Carmen was like a reliable rental dog, that would provide an element of entertainment, companionship even, without any of the hassle. If Beth wanted to go to the Pearl Islands for the weekend, she didn’t need a dog sitter. That was another reason Beth hadn’t mentioned Carmen to the Multuskys—if they needed a dog sitter, Beth didn’t want to be on their short list. She did tell herself that if Barb asked directly, that she would consider taking care of Carmen, for a while, but preferred this clandestine arrangement.
Usually, within a minute or two Tica, the maid, would place a dish of scrambled eggs in front of Beth and another smaller dish of eggs in front of Carmen. Instead of being chagrinned about serving a dog, Tica, a small young Indian, was as charmed as her mistress, because Carmen never dived in but seemed to wait politely for Beth to pick up her fork. Then Carmen licked her plate clean.
Carmen never did much dumpster diving, probably because she was hardly ever that hungry. Mongrels in Panama City were often referred to by the locals as “tinaqueros” which translates to tin-can dogs. It comes from the fact that at one time the brand name on many of the metal trash cans around town was Tinaco (a shortened version of Tin Can Corporation) and these were being regularly raided by los perros pobres, until tinaqueros became a nickname for strays, who often knocked over a few cans in the process of scavenger hunting for food. Even though she looked the part, technically—floppy ears and uncut tail, Carmen was not a tinaquero, but rather the slightly more socially acceptable designation, “a rescued dog.”
Chapter Two
Carmen was a Casco Viejo street dog. She roamed freely around the old section, along the narrow, cobblestone and brick streets, bordered by uneven, pock-marked sidewalks and around piles of sand and stacks of cinderblocks in front of construction sites. There were cats in doorways she knew to avoid and small barky dogs on balconies that seemed to yell at her, jealous of her freedom.
Carmen was also a pet. Her owners, Barb and Mitch Multusky, two retired educators from Saginaw, Michigan, would take Carmen on walks on a leash at least twice a day along the Paseo General Esteban Huertas, a promenade that curved around the top of Las Bovedas, the fortified walls that protected the old city. Mitch, who used to coach basketball before he became a vice principal, often said that this “had to be one of the prettiest dog walks any where in the world.” A trellis of pink, white and purple bougainvillea shaded about one third of the walkway, and then opened up to breezes off the Pacific Ocean that lapped at the walls where dungeons (bovedas) were located. The legend is that prisoners were sometimes chained to the walls at low tide and faced their fate at high tide.
Barb liked to sit on a bench, with Carmen at her feet, and gaze out at the skyline of the modern Panama City. More and more skyscrapers seemed to be rising up every day along the coast of Panama Bay. Barb was trying to cut back on her cigarette habit so she never smoked in their one-bedroom loft apartment, about a block away. She only indulged her guilty pleasure outside, so the bench was ideal as pelicans swooped by in formation. Mitch called them “the Panamanian Air Force.” Carmen would sit patiently and wait to be adored by young tourist women with ankle bracelets, or kids, who had gotten loose from their parents (Some Panamanian children were afraid of dogs, which seemed silly in Carmen’s case, since she was less than 30 pounds and on a leash.) or couples of various ages, who were out for a romantic stroll.
The rest of the walkway curved around the tip of the peninsula, with views of the Amador Causeway, the man-made break water that bordered the entrance to the Panama Canal and then the Bridge of the Americas, a tall, steel-girder arch that spanned the canal and connected the city, with the western half of the country. Out at sea, a number of ships rested at anchor, waiting their turn to pass through the canal. At night, their lights reflected in long thin lines across the water, near three small islands that were stuck in shadow at the end of the causeway.
Every time, Carmen paused at the top of the steps that led down to the Plaza de Francia, where the monument to the failed French effort to dig the canal is located. Mitch liked to say, as Carmen seemed to survey the statues and tall obelisk with the French rooster at the tip, that “Carmen loves a view.” Especially in the evening when the sun set behind the mountains past the far end of the bridge, the views were, as Mitch often noted, “stunning.” Scattered along the way, were Kuna Indians, at tables or sitting beside blankets, selling molas, ornate, stitched panels of cloth with bird and lizard designs that were actually part of their native costume. The tiny women (Kunas are the second smallest people in the world, after pigmies) wear the molas as kind of bibs, and they also wear colorful scarves, multi-print blouses and skirts and beaded anklets. The men wear tee shirts and baseball caps. Tourists buy the squares of dark black or green cloth with bright green, yellow and orange designs and turn them into pillows or wall hangings. Most of the vendors know Carmen’s name. “They don’t have any idea what our names are,” Mitch points out, “and they don’t seem interested; but they all know Carmen.” Maybe it is because to some extent Carmen is one of them.
Barb and Mitch feed Carmen and take her for regular visits to the vet, but they have no intention of interfering with Carmen’s freedom. Like the Kunas, who resisted Spanish domination in the old days of conquest, Carmen has no intention of being held prisoner. The Kuna nation still rules over an autonomous province in Panama today—tiny free spirits. The Multuskys put the collar on Carmen (a simple, thin leather affair, with no dog tag), in the hope that no one else would take custody of the little dog with the funny black and white face. Their apartment is located on the ground floor and looks out on a court yard in the center of a three-story restored colonial house. There are six other apartments in the building. Three barred windows open onto the courtyard from the Multuskys’ living room. When ever, the windows are open, which is often, Carmen has no trouble slipping her thin white, wiry body between the bars. She then slips out between the bars of the locked gate at the building’s entrance and is on the street again.
Barb first spotted a small white puppy with a half white and half black face curled up behind a potted palm in the courtyard—it was as if she was hiding out after she had apparently snuck in through the bars of the gate. The puppy was thin and dotted with what turned out to be nearly thirty ticks. “Okay, we can keep her” Mitch said “but only if we can clean up her dirty black paws.” It was a joke. Mitch at 6’4” 240 pounds, found it difficult to deny anything to his 5’3’’ thin, almost frail wife of 40 years, who had spent most of her career teaching fifth grade. Even though he could look imposing after all the practice he had in front of the bench at basketball games and in hallways filled with rambunctious kids, he was her gentle giant. They never had kids, but “we’ve had hundreds of other people’s kids,” Mitch liked to say, “actually thousands.” Both of them, particularly Barb, had become pet lovers over the years, numerous dogs, mostly Labs and a few cats; but when their last Labrador Josie died, they decided not to get another, since they were planning to move to Panama in a few months.
That was almost a year before, so both of them were ready for Carmen. They actually liked Carmen’s independent streak, though neither could resist worrying that she might one day never again step though the window grate, one black paw at a time. So far, so good—Carmen always came back from her daily jaunts around the neighborhood and slept every night at the foot of their bed. Her water bowl was always kept full; and there are usually at least a few nuggets of dry dog food in a matching stainless steel bowl. Unlike the Labs that they had back in the States, that gobbled food as if it was their only meal ever, this mutt would snack, (Barb called it “grazing.”), eat some, or most, but seldom all of the food that her (Now there’s a question. Would it be owners—not exactly; parents—when talking to Carmen, Barb and Mitch referred to each other as “Mom” and “Dad”; friends; benefactors; roommates?), people would fill when they noticed it was empty.
Sometimes, Carmen would be locked in the apartment, when her people went out; but she didn’t seem to mind. The dog seldom barked; and never even cried when she was a puppy. There was food and water in her bowls; and when the door shut, she would climb up on the couch and sleep. Sometimes, the Multuskys were gone for most of the day and sometimes for just an hour or two, but they always came back. It is hard to tell if dogs tell time, but Carmen never punished them for their absence, by chewing or peeing or wailing. When a key was inserted in the door, she would jump up and greet who ever came in, which turned out to always be Barb and Mitch. Soon after, one or the other humans had the leash and a plastic poop bag, and Carmen would accompany that person for a stroll.
Barb and Mitch were confident that most of the street guys that helped park cars; and most of the squatters, who occupied the building next door; and the Policia Tourismo, who patrolled the streets looking out after the clueless tourists; and the residents nearby knew that Carmen was their dog and that the neighborhood would look out for and keep an eye on their happy, innocent , independent pet/ward. They were right too. Particularly, the street guys, “bien cuidados,” Juan and Jamon, who staked out the intersection by the building where the Multulskys lived, liked Carmen, who often hung out with them as the fellas pointed out parking spots and directed people into the spaces. The usual rate was fifty cents for such a service. Juan or Jamon (…which means ham in Spanish. The man’s actual name was Horace, but his skin was kinda pink like ham.), would watch as Carmen’s curved tail would disappear around a corner; and they would always grab her ears and pet her with plenty of “Hola Carmens” when she returned from where ever she had been.
In fact, Carmen had a secret life. Every morning, around nine, she would slip down a narrow alley between two buildings and then crawl under a wooden gate located in a six-foot wall that enclosed a small backyard garden. A narrow laha (stone and concrete) pathway led through the rose bushes and ginger plants to a patio where Beth Page was having her morning coffee at a glass topped table with white-painted iron chairs.
Beth, at 58, was not quite retired and ran a real estate operation from her lap-top computer that sat on a table just inside the sliding glass door. Both she and her husband made “a very good living” in real estate in Arizona, before moving to Panama, where they bought the narrow three-story house. The plan was that they would put baby boomers together with real estate deals, while enjoying “a nice change of scenery” along with some “opportunities to make a killing” in their adopted country. The only problem was that her husband Frank died suddenly of a heart attack, at 57 (he was actually a year younger) on the day after they celebrated their first year in Panama. Beth, who still had a good figure with what some people would describe as a nice set of tits, dyed her hair blonde like many women whose hair had turned gray. When she was younger, her hair had been brown. Even though Frank was gone, she was determined to follow through with the plan.
Without hesitation, Carmen would hop up on the empty chair and sit there like a little girl at a tea party. “Buenas dias, Carmen,” Beth would usually offer as a greeting. It was funny really, but Beth never mentioned breakfast with Carmen to Barb. Some people don’t like other folks feeding their dogs. Some get jealous. “What they don’t know, won’t hurt ‘em,” was Beth’s philosophy. Beth readily admitted to herself that having Carmen over for breakfast, was a selfish pleasure. Carmen was like a reliable rental dog, that would provide an element of entertainment, companionship even, without any of the hassle. If Beth wanted to go to the Pearl Islands for the weekend, she didn’t need a dog sitter. That was another reason Beth hadn’t mentioned Carmen to the Multuskys—if they needed a dog sitter, Beth didn’t want to be on their short list. She did tell herself that if Barb asked directly, that she would consider taking care of Carmen, for a while, but preferred this clandestine arrangement.
Usually, within a minute or two Tica, the maid, would place a dish of scrambled eggs in front of Beth and another smaller dish of eggs in front of Carmen. Instead of being chagrinned about serving a dog, Tica, a small young Indian, was as charmed as her mistress, because Carmen never dived in but seemed to wait politely for Beth to pick up her fork. Then Carmen licked her plate clean.
Carmen never did much dumpster diving, probably because she was hardly ever that hungry. Mongrels in Panama City were often referred to by the locals as “tinaqueros” which translates to tin-can dogs. It comes from the fact that at one time the brand name on many of the metal trash cans around town was Tinaco (a shortened version of Tin Can Corporation) and these were being regularly raided by los perros pobres, until tinaqueros became a nickname for strays, who often knocked over a few cans in the process of scavenger hunting for food. Even though she looked the part, technically—floppy ears and uncut tail, Carmen was not a tinaquero, but rather the slightly more socially acceptable designation, “a rescued dog.”
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Casco Viejo: The Second Season, Chapter One
Introduction to Casco Viejo: The Second Season
This is truly a novel-in-progress. In other words, it is not finished—I’m writing it as you’re reading it. I do not know how it will turn out because I am trying to stay true to “the creative process” and letting the characters; the setting; the situations; and the times lead me to discover what happens next as I continue the writing…
If you’re here at the beginning, welcome; and I hope you find a reason to continue checking in regularly as I attempt to add a chapter a week or so. If this process has already begun, when you check in, please go to the archives and begin at chapter one and catch up. I might also rewrite or add elements to chapters already published, and I’ll attempt to alert you to these changes if and when they occur.
Obviously, this method encourages comments and I do welcome your input. Please understand that I’m not looking for a couple a dozen copyeditors (though I do want to avoid egregious errors) and that I am not obligated to make changes that are suggested (though I might); but rather I want to include you, my readers, in an ongoing constructive attempt to write a new novel. If nothing else, this setup will encourage me to keep writing because I will have an obligation to those of you who are interested in following the story’s progress.
I hope you find this concept stimulating and that you’ll get a kick out being there at, or pretty near, inception. I believe that this is a unique way of going about writing a novel, and that it will be a shared positive experience.
Please see the current chapter, which follows immediately:
Casco Viejo: the Second Season
Chapter One
Joe Berger arrived in Panama with high hopes. He hoped to meet some interesting new people—people who would also be interested in meeting him. For the past ten years, since his second divorce, that’s been a problem—women in bars who turned away as if he were a leper; job interviews that made him wonder about his breath; e-mails that didn’t get a response; investments that turned sour; an elderly father, who remarried “the Bitch.” Joe didn’t feel desperate exactly, though at times “kinda”, but he definitely was actively seeking a brand new set of relationships.
The sidewalk café, where he sat alone sipping a Panama beer (that’s what it was named, so Joe figured when in Rome…) was located in front of a bar/restaurant called Casa Blanca that fronted onto Bolivar Square, with a rather magnificent monument to Simon Bolivar, the South American liberator, in the center. Several people wandered by under the mushroom shaped Fica trees, a number of Panamanians, who maybe worked in the government offices nearby and a few very white tourists in Bermuda shorts, bright white sneakers, and baseball hats, with cameras at the ready; but nobody stopped for a late afternoon drink. The large patio umbrellas offered little shade as the sun still glared.
When the department store he managed went out of business (What turned out to be an early symptom of the recession that was on the way.), he decided he didn’t have to stay in Miami and managed to sell his condo, right before the bottom fell out of that market. Panama, according to a couple of magazine articles he read, was “the next hot spot,” so he jumped off the cliff and moved (both of his ex-wives would say he “fled…”) to Panama. It wasn’t a totally blind leap; after all, he looked it up on the internet; a small, rather prosperous Central American country, best known for being cut in half by the Panama Canal.
Both of his adult daughters from his first marriage were virtual strangers, one was married to a golf pro in Georgia and the other was on the west coast, whatever that meant. So when his father, who had been a widower for eight years, remarried, Joe soon realized that he no longer had a family. “The Bitch” had five grown children of her own—a real working class bunch—two fat married mommies with multiple children and a plumber, complete with low-riding jeans and a too-small tee shirt; a fireman; and a mailman, who preferred being referred to as a postal worker. Joe sincerely believed that he had made an effort to embrace his extended family, (The fireman talked about “apparatus” and expected Joe to know to what he was referring.), but never felt that they gave “a flying fuck” about him. “The Bitch” never even made an attempt to pretend that she had a positive feeling toward her step son. At 50, Joe hardly considered her a mother figure and never referred to her as his stepmother; but realized he felt more as if she were his mother-in-law, with all the unwelcome connotations that implied. He missed his mother, a sweet though distracted little woman, who died when a third stroke attacked her frail brain. His father had spent the last ten years of their marriage taking care of a woman that neither he nor his son recognized as the woman they loved when they were younger. However, Joe believed that he would still have been a part of “a family” had his mother still been alive. His father who was then 73 had been assimilated as part of the inheritance system by “the Bitch” and her offspring and didn’t even remember his son’s birthday the previous year.
Joe didn’t get it. He wasn’t bad looking, kinda average at 5’11” with gray hair that really hadn’t thinned that much. And the weight he lost, from 210 to a very respectable 185, made him feel sleek, except nobody seemed to notice; or care. Even though he tried to be a good listener, even when folks rattled on about their golf scores or grandchildren; and in spite of putting forward a friendly smile and a firm handshake, people didn’t take to him. In Miami, he was in a rut; a couple of loser friends, who were no help on the dating scene; his regular foursome at the club, who teased him more than necessary; one or two lady friends, who he’d escort to the Valentine’s charity dance for heart disease or the Halloween charity dance for breast cancer, with no real prospect of sex afterward, unless they were really drunk and then what was the point?
Joe Berger pulled the plug. Nothing half ass. Panama was definitely somewhere else; with, as one of the magazines pointed out, a lively and growing group of expats mostly from the States, but also from Canada and Europe. With so many people from all over, Joe reasoned, chances of meeting new people were heightened, almost exaggerated. He hadn’t met anybody “new” in awhile, but in Panama, everybody was new and obviously open to new experiences and so how hard could it be?
Okay, he couldn’t speak Spanish, but the guidebooks said that English was spoken “extensively in Panama City,” so Joe figured he could get along on his rudimentary south Florida Cuban style el espanol—muchas gracias y por favor. The guidebooks lied. Maybe in the lobby of the Intercontinental Hotel, a form of English was attempted, but no taxi drivers; waiters or waitresses; store clerks; police officers; or people on the street seemed interested in even giving English a try. Instead, they spoke very rapidly, which meant for Joe that even the few words he knew, flew by unrecognized, much less understood. “No problemo,” Joe thought, “I’ll take Spanish lessons.”
He decided to rent a small apartment in a restored building in Casco Viejo, for all the right reasons. Casco Viejo literally meant old town, and was located out on a peninsula by Panama Bay looking out on to the continuously growing skyline of towers rising all along the waterfront. Joe hadn’t really expected the city to look like Hong Kong, but was pleased with the apparent scene of prosperity and growth, while at the same time being able to hang out in an area that looked like a rather run-down colonial capital, with narrow cobblestone streets, and wrought-iron balconies decorated with potted plants. His real estate agent told him that many expats were moving into the renovated buildings because the area had been declared a World Heritage site like old San Juan. With squatters playing loud salsa music in some of the buildings, Casco Viejo seemed to have a long way to go, but to Joe at least, also appeared to be headed in the right direction, with plenty of new people moving in.
The biggest flaw in his plan, as Berger saw it, was that he didn’t really have that much to offer. If he could get past the opening series of polite inquiries:
Where ya from? Miami. No problem.
Married? Even better—no, divorced. After all, he hoped to meet some lady, lonely and looking.
But:
What doya do? I’m retired.
What didja do? Well, I used to manage a Thrift Center, but then they all closed, if you remember … No, that would not impress. Joe knew that from a disappointing career of experience. He figured he would be meeting, hoped he would be meeting airline pilots and their still pretty ex-stewardess wives; artists; gamblers; real estate speculators; published authors; wealthy widows; college professors; world travelers all, who would delight him with their stories set in L.A. and/or London; Mexico City and/or Cyprus. But what could he be, that would impress or at least interest, his new found friends?
Being a store manager had not brought happiness in the past, and so Joe had no intention of being that in the future. Stock broker? Didn’t know enough and could get slipped up in a minute, by people who were actually experts, who could afford to winter in Panama. Engineer? Either/or, most people would have no idea or really care about nuclear reactors on submarines, but if somebody did, Joe knew nothing. Soldier of fortune? Don’t be ridiculous. Hey, wait a minute, how about sports agent? One thing Joe knew plenty about was sports, and lot’s about the Miami Heat (season tickets) and the Dolphins—plenty of names he could drop and only had to be wary of other folks from South Florida. Heck, Joe was the commissioner of his NFL fantasy league for the past two years (Things got lonely on the weekends.), and he had read Billy Blackburn’s book Getting Paid about being a big-time agent and he had loved Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire. So that was his new persona—retired sports agent at 50, made some money; too stressful, needed to kick back and relax with a lovely tropical change of scenery. It might just work.
The only problem, so far, was that he hadn’t met anybody. The Panamanian real estate agent, who spoke pretty good English, was youngish and good looking and obviously not interested in hooking him up, though she did mention that there was plenty going on in Casco Viejo—jazz concerts on Wednesday evenings; a flea market every Saturday; and a number of restaurants. He even tried the sports agent angle on her, but it didn’t even register. So there he sat, sipping from a dripping glass, with almost as much sweat glistening on his forehead. The tropical humidity would take some getting used to. He tried a confident, nonchalant pose with an expectant tilt of his head, when a blonde woman in a low-cut yellow sun dress, (“Nice tits,” thought Joe.), who looked to be in his age bracket, walked by; but she took no notice, and continued down Calle Quatro with a slice of sea view at the end of the street.
Walking briskly down the middle of the street in the opposite direction was small white dog, with four black paws and a harlequin face, half black, half white. The woman stopped and petted the dog, which stood patiently welcoming the attention. “Jesus,” Joe thought, “that dog has more luck than I do.” Then the dog almost passed by, but turned and stood expectantly next to Joe’s chair. “Well, aren’t you the social butterfly,” Joe said as he held his palm out for the dog to lick. That’s when Berger noticed the collar, a thin leather band around his new friend’s neck. Definitely a mutt, short wiry hair, looked a bit like a medium sized terrier, except for two floppy ears bent in the middle and a rather long tail that curved up at the end.
Joe slid two dollars under the sweating glass. Beers only cost a buck and Joe knew he was over tipping but he didn’t have any change, and so he headed back to his sparsely furnished apartment about a block away. The dog walked beside him as if trained, but stopped at the door for one final pet. “See ya later,” said Joe as the dog turned and sauntered off down the narrow sidewalk, as a yellow taxi passed by closely.
There was a sheet of paper scotch taped to the wall by the stairs, with clip-art palm trees and bold type in bright blue. Joe’s heart actually leapt when he read the notice:
“This is great,” Joe thought, “I’ll finally get to meet somebody.” Berger took the steps up to his second-floor apartment two at time. Friday was only two days away.
This is truly a novel-in-progress. In other words, it is not finished—I’m writing it as you’re reading it. I do not know how it will turn out because I am trying to stay true to “the creative process” and letting the characters; the setting; the situations; and the times lead me to discover what happens next as I continue the writing…
If you’re here at the beginning, welcome; and I hope you find a reason to continue checking in regularly as I attempt to add a chapter a week or so. If this process has already begun, when you check in, please go to the archives and begin at chapter one and catch up. I might also rewrite or add elements to chapters already published, and I’ll attempt to alert you to these changes if and when they occur.
Obviously, this method encourages comments and I do welcome your input. Please understand that I’m not looking for a couple a dozen copyeditors (though I do want to avoid egregious errors) and that I am not obligated to make changes that are suggested (though I might); but rather I want to include you, my readers, in an ongoing constructive attempt to write a new novel. If nothing else, this setup will encourage me to keep writing because I will have an obligation to those of you who are interested in following the story’s progress.
I hope you find this concept stimulating and that you’ll get a kick out being there at, or pretty near, inception. I believe that this is a unique way of going about writing a novel, and that it will be a shared positive experience.
Please see the current chapter, which follows immediately:
Casco Viejo: the Second Season
Chapter One
Joe Berger arrived in Panama with high hopes. He hoped to meet some interesting new people—people who would also be interested in meeting him. For the past ten years, since his second divorce, that’s been a problem—women in bars who turned away as if he were a leper; job interviews that made him wonder about his breath; e-mails that didn’t get a response; investments that turned sour; an elderly father, who remarried “the Bitch.” Joe didn’t feel desperate exactly, though at times “kinda”, but he definitely was actively seeking a brand new set of relationships.
The sidewalk café, where he sat alone sipping a Panama beer (that’s what it was named, so Joe figured when in Rome…) was located in front of a bar/restaurant called Casa Blanca that fronted onto Bolivar Square, with a rather magnificent monument to Simon Bolivar, the South American liberator, in the center. Several people wandered by under the mushroom shaped Fica trees, a number of Panamanians, who maybe worked in the government offices nearby and a few very white tourists in Bermuda shorts, bright white sneakers, and baseball hats, with cameras at the ready; but nobody stopped for a late afternoon drink. The large patio umbrellas offered little shade as the sun still glared.
When the department store he managed went out of business (What turned out to be an early symptom of the recession that was on the way.), he decided he didn’t have to stay in Miami and managed to sell his condo, right before the bottom fell out of that market. Panama, according to a couple of magazine articles he read, was “the next hot spot,” so he jumped off the cliff and moved (both of his ex-wives would say he “fled…”) to Panama. It wasn’t a totally blind leap; after all, he looked it up on the internet; a small, rather prosperous Central American country, best known for being cut in half by the Panama Canal.
Both of his adult daughters from his first marriage were virtual strangers, one was married to a golf pro in Georgia and the other was on the west coast, whatever that meant. So when his father, who had been a widower for eight years, remarried, Joe soon realized that he no longer had a family. “The Bitch” had five grown children of her own—a real working class bunch—two fat married mommies with multiple children and a plumber, complete with low-riding jeans and a too-small tee shirt; a fireman; and a mailman, who preferred being referred to as a postal worker. Joe sincerely believed that he had made an effort to embrace his extended family, (The fireman talked about “apparatus” and expected Joe to know to what he was referring.), but never felt that they gave “a flying fuck” about him. “The Bitch” never even made an attempt to pretend that she had a positive feeling toward her step son. At 50, Joe hardly considered her a mother figure and never referred to her as his stepmother; but realized he felt more as if she were his mother-in-law, with all the unwelcome connotations that implied. He missed his mother, a sweet though distracted little woman, who died when a third stroke attacked her frail brain. His father had spent the last ten years of their marriage taking care of a woman that neither he nor his son recognized as the woman they loved when they were younger. However, Joe believed that he would still have been a part of “a family” had his mother still been alive. His father who was then 73 had been assimilated as part of the inheritance system by “the Bitch” and her offspring and didn’t even remember his son’s birthday the previous year.
Joe didn’t get it. He wasn’t bad looking, kinda average at 5’11” with gray hair that really hadn’t thinned that much. And the weight he lost, from 210 to a very respectable 185, made him feel sleek, except nobody seemed to notice; or care. Even though he tried to be a good listener, even when folks rattled on about their golf scores or grandchildren; and in spite of putting forward a friendly smile and a firm handshake, people didn’t take to him. In Miami, he was in a rut; a couple of loser friends, who were no help on the dating scene; his regular foursome at the club, who teased him more than necessary; one or two lady friends, who he’d escort to the Valentine’s charity dance for heart disease or the Halloween charity dance for breast cancer, with no real prospect of sex afterward, unless they were really drunk and then what was the point?
Joe Berger pulled the plug. Nothing half ass. Panama was definitely somewhere else; with, as one of the magazines pointed out, a lively and growing group of expats mostly from the States, but also from Canada and Europe. With so many people from all over, Joe reasoned, chances of meeting new people were heightened, almost exaggerated. He hadn’t met anybody “new” in awhile, but in Panama, everybody was new and obviously open to new experiences and so how hard could it be?
Okay, he couldn’t speak Spanish, but the guidebooks said that English was spoken “extensively in Panama City,” so Joe figured he could get along on his rudimentary south Florida Cuban style el espanol—muchas gracias y por favor. The guidebooks lied. Maybe in the lobby of the Intercontinental Hotel, a form of English was attempted, but no taxi drivers; waiters or waitresses; store clerks; police officers; or people on the street seemed interested in even giving English a try. Instead, they spoke very rapidly, which meant for Joe that even the few words he knew, flew by unrecognized, much less understood. “No problemo,” Joe thought, “I’ll take Spanish lessons.”
He decided to rent a small apartment in a restored building in Casco Viejo, for all the right reasons. Casco Viejo literally meant old town, and was located out on a peninsula by Panama Bay looking out on to the continuously growing skyline of towers rising all along the waterfront. Joe hadn’t really expected the city to look like Hong Kong, but was pleased with the apparent scene of prosperity and growth, while at the same time being able to hang out in an area that looked like a rather run-down colonial capital, with narrow cobblestone streets, and wrought-iron balconies decorated with potted plants. His real estate agent told him that many expats were moving into the renovated buildings because the area had been declared a World Heritage site like old San Juan. With squatters playing loud salsa music in some of the buildings, Casco Viejo seemed to have a long way to go, but to Joe at least, also appeared to be headed in the right direction, with plenty of new people moving in.
The biggest flaw in his plan, as Berger saw it, was that he didn’t really have that much to offer. If he could get past the opening series of polite inquiries:
Where ya from? Miami. No problem.
Married? Even better—no, divorced. After all, he hoped to meet some lady, lonely and looking.
But:
What doya do? I’m retired.
What didja do? Well, I used to manage a Thrift Center, but then they all closed, if you remember … No, that would not impress. Joe knew that from a disappointing career of experience. He figured he would be meeting, hoped he would be meeting airline pilots and their still pretty ex-stewardess wives; artists; gamblers; real estate speculators; published authors; wealthy widows; college professors; world travelers all, who would delight him with their stories set in L.A. and/or London; Mexico City and/or Cyprus. But what could he be, that would impress or at least interest, his new found friends?
Being a store manager had not brought happiness in the past, and so Joe had no intention of being that in the future. Stock broker? Didn’t know enough and could get slipped up in a minute, by people who were actually experts, who could afford to winter in Panama. Engineer? Either/or, most people would have no idea or really care about nuclear reactors on submarines, but if somebody did, Joe knew nothing. Soldier of fortune? Don’t be ridiculous. Hey, wait a minute, how about sports agent? One thing Joe knew plenty about was sports, and lot’s about the Miami Heat (season tickets) and the Dolphins—plenty of names he could drop and only had to be wary of other folks from South Florida. Heck, Joe was the commissioner of his NFL fantasy league for the past two years (Things got lonely on the weekends.), and he had read Billy Blackburn’s book Getting Paid about being a big-time agent and he had loved Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire. So that was his new persona—retired sports agent at 50, made some money; too stressful, needed to kick back and relax with a lovely tropical change of scenery. It might just work.
The only problem, so far, was that he hadn’t met anybody. The Panamanian real estate agent, who spoke pretty good English, was youngish and good looking and obviously not interested in hooking him up, though she did mention that there was plenty going on in Casco Viejo—jazz concerts on Wednesday evenings; a flea market every Saturday; and a number of restaurants. He even tried the sports agent angle on her, but it didn’t even register. So there he sat, sipping from a dripping glass, with almost as much sweat glistening on his forehead. The tropical humidity would take some getting used to. He tried a confident, nonchalant pose with an expectant tilt of his head, when a blonde woman in a low-cut yellow sun dress, (“Nice tits,” thought Joe.), who looked to be in his age bracket, walked by; but she took no notice, and continued down Calle Quatro with a slice of sea view at the end of the street.
Walking briskly down the middle of the street in the opposite direction was small white dog, with four black paws and a harlequin face, half black, half white. The woman stopped and petted the dog, which stood patiently welcoming the attention. “Jesus,” Joe thought, “that dog has more luck than I do.” Then the dog almost passed by, but turned and stood expectantly next to Joe’s chair. “Well, aren’t you the social butterfly,” Joe said as he held his palm out for the dog to lick. That’s when Berger noticed the collar, a thin leather band around his new friend’s neck. Definitely a mutt, short wiry hair, looked a bit like a medium sized terrier, except for two floppy ears bent in the middle and a rather long tail that curved up at the end.
Joe slid two dollars under the sweating glass. Beers only cost a buck and Joe knew he was over tipping but he didn’t have any change, and so he headed back to his sparsely furnished apartment about a block away. The dog walked beside him as if trained, but stopped at the door for one final pet. “See ya later,” said Joe as the dog turned and sauntered off down the narrow sidewalk, as a yellow taxi passed by closely.
There was a sheet of paper scotch taped to the wall by the stairs, with clip-art palm trees and bold type in bright blue. Joe’s heart actually leapt when he read the notice:
Happy Hour This Friday
5 to 7 p.m.
By the Pool Deck, on the Roof
For All Residents of The Columbus House
Beer and Wine provided
please bring a dish or a nibble
“This is great,” Joe thought, “I’ll finally get to meet somebody.” Berger took the steps up to his second-floor apartment two at time. Friday was only two days away.
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