He’s a lawyer, not an exciting one, but he seems to do okay. Short guy, obviously “hispanic,” based on his skin tone alone, dark, sometimes beady, but usually merry brown eyes. Eyes that are almost black.
“I grew up on the south side, back before that was an ‘up and coming neighborhood.’ Rough crowd. When I was five or six, always someone getting shot. No, for real, gunfire in the hood was common.
“I was, what, 12, maybe 14 at the time? That magical age where girls are no longer an object of ridicule but had long since become desirable.”
Can never tell with hispanic males, somewhere between 30 and 60, maybe older, maybe younger, can’t say for sure. The usual clues aren’t always available. The olive skin, a few pores on his face open, but otherwise, no way to tell anything. Seen those eyes go dark with sheer hatred, but that’s a combat element, probably necessary to be a good lawyer. Fight the good fight.
“Catholic. Mexican. You know, liberal and conservative. All the social programs except abortion, naturally.”
He was sitting in a black Town Car, and he had a business suit, as he was fresh from a court room appearance. It was a good suit, but it didn’t fit him quite right, which had the odd effect of making a good suit look cheap. Could be the seat scooted up close — too close — to the steering wheel, make up for his short stature. Might’ve been the slightest of slumps in his shoulders, a familiar air of resignation.
Could be a number of influences.
“I had this one girlfriend, that was before wives and divorces, and her initials were AS. The city finally got around to putting in sidewalks in my neighborhood, this must’ve been in the seventies? Maybe the late sixties? When the cement for the sidewalk was wet, I carved our initials in that concrete. ‘AS + AM.’ We didn’t have the ‘forever’ term — no text messages or anything.”
He reaches for the ignition, pauses. As the suit jacket rides up his arm, his cuff reveals a single gold cufflink, an Aztec coin, not much bigger than a quarter, a sun god, or warrior-prince-king, or the feathered head of a mythological serpent, something.
“What’s it been twenty, thirty, forty years now? City decides to repave the whole neighborhood, one street at a time. You know I still own my Mom’s place, I let her live there until she passed.”
His hand stopped and fell to his leg. He gripped the leg, as if in pain.
“Rental now. Why I found out, secretary told me they were going to repave the street and lay new sidewalks. Have to get out pavement ADA approved. New curbs and such.”
He smells like a Florida Water, not the water from Florida, but the floral and cinnamon scent sold in botanica, in the neighborhood.
“Do you realize the permit process with this city? What I had to go through to make this happen legally? All I wanted was to dig up those three squares of sidewalk, the city was going to rip it up anyway, and, here, I was going to save them work? Took three times as long as a normal permit, I should’ve just had my guys do it one evening, but I’ve got that one case before the judge, and I can’t afford to let anything happen.
“Honestly? I think the City was singling me out for undue persecution. Can’t make it stick. Not worth it to complain. All I really wanted was that one square of sidewalk. I swear, they’re tearing it all up anyway, why should they care?”
He gripped his right leg again, massaging an imaginary sore spot.
“I have this contractor, when I redid my house, gutted the whole place, and I had him do it. Charged me a grand, as long as I did the permit process.
“Got the permits, and then the exception from the owner’s group now. I have that sidewalk, from in front of my old house? It’s now my front walkway. I see those initials everyday.
“The old girlfriend? No way. She’s fat, married, has a couple of grandchildren she babysits every day.”
He turns the ignition over. Motor catches life.