UNO
The wind claims its space, hitting my face with the smoke coming from a nearby smoker. Two dogs stop a couple of meters away for their owners to remove their masks in order to rub their lips violently. It is Monday in Mexico City. It is the Alameda Central. And these are hours to reflect, even though the sun still illuminates these streets where people walk and feel safe seeing so many policemen in the area... It seems that nobody pays attention when every crime report presented by the Mexico City Attorney General's Office puts the Historic Center among the first tourist destinations for criminals.
Then, a homeless man approaches me. He asks me for money. I bring exact change for my return. He asks me for food. I offer him a piece of gum. He gives me back a “Chinga tu madre”. Thank you. Taciturn conversations between unscrupulous people; he and I are shameless entities, but he has found a way that, in my opinion, is more practical: to walk without a tie from Monday to Friday and to be able to use any window box as a bathroom.
I think that before the above (the appearance of the bum), any lady of La Alta would have fled; those ladies who tend to believe that everything that does not smell of Chanel 5 is to serve or to flee. Like the time one saw me outside a bookstore in Polanco and accosted me as if I were from the Valet Parking; that's what I earned for wearing a Pull & Bear shirt for the first time.
But, as that song by Forte Realta that has fallen into oblivion says: I'm not from Las Lomas, I'm not from Polanco, I'm a crazy guy who came from a neighborhood in the north of the city. And that's where I learned not to be afraid of the wild, drunken, drug addicts on the streets. They are my neighbors.
Back my head to ground zero. The boiling point of a society that is actually several societies living in perpetual revolt. The perimeter is motley: Juarez Avenue with its Hilton and more unaffordable businesses; Eje Central with its slums backing a tiled palace; and Mexico-Tenochtitlan Avenue with its transsexuals proud to carry the Guerrero neighborhood on their credentials.
A plaza that was, is and will be cosmos. A plaza that, before being remodeled, was a tianguis where you could get 3 hotdogs for 10 pesos and for 200 pesos plus a sneaky fuck. The only thing that has not changed here are the inhabitants of the benches: boyfriends, husbands, lovers and desecrators of cavities of any social and spiritual nature.
TWO
I am sitting on a stone bench that, along with 3 other benches, surrounds a closed fountain. The fountain is surrounded by a yellow ribbon with the word “Danger” inscribed several times. Danger? to whom? not to the group of young people spitting rhymes into the empty crevice.
Rhymes for the city that never shuts up. If all of us in the Alameda were silent, we would still hear the roar of the cars' tires and the melodies of the birds; if we stopped the cars and scared the birds away, we would hear the tickle of the wind breaking against the trees; if we subdued the wind and cut down the trees, we would die listening to our heartbeats. Listening. Music.
I see a crying woman walk by. She is covered by a white dress, black boots and green sweater. Her perfect features are distinguishable despite the ruined makeup. If I had my breath in better condition, I wouldn't hesitate to reach out to her to see if I could help her in her misfortune. Although I'm sure she'd be more frightened of me than of what brought on her tears.
This is not a city to meet people on the streets. Here there is no room for the pedestrian love at first sight that movies sell us. Here a glance is a sign to put away your valuables and hurry your pace. The experiences of distant relatives and the front pages of cheap newspapers have made us distrustful. Think wrong and you'll be right, that's how we survive.
THREE
Three policemen are evicting the young rappers from the fountain. The ‘guardians of the law’ do not seem happy. I have only seen officers smiling at taco stands, at ’tables' and after a bite, both of money and of their cakes that never lack Coca Cola. Puercos. Who coined that term and why? Puercos. Another of the enigmas of the city.
More enigmas: Who teaches a bus driver to drive? Who programs the music that plays in the subways? Who is the mastermind behind the mixes of more than 100 songs that can be found in any street market for fifteen pesos? Who writes the messages for Uno Noticias? Who still sends HOT to 21111 to receive the hottest photos of any artist? Who still thinks that this is the ‘City of Palaces’?
The cops leave, the rappers leave, and then a buzzer corrodes the atmosphere. “Well, well.” No response. ”Well, well.” The gentleman sitting next to me fails to connect with his wife? lover? boss? chance to finally get a job? “Well, well.” So many stories hidden in the phones. “You can't hear him well.” Will they try to tell her that her dad just had an accident? “Speak up.” Or maybe some government agency is informing you about the lack of a document to process something important? “I can't hear you, can you speak louder?” What if it's Telcel and their calls to promote new blowjobs? Hang up.
FOUR
Hello friend, are you nice? I guess so. I'm not here to bother you, I'm making a living selling popsicles. Here, have one, check it out. They're made of solid caramel, I have several colors. It's the only thing I have to make money for my family, I have my two children here. One for ten, two for fifteen. Maybe if you don't like it, take it to your girlfriend or someone in your family. Carnal, throw me out, I haven't made the sign of the cross yet, today is rough.
Someone recommended to me that, in the face of these attacks, you should never look them in the eye.
Thank you, worthy, but no; I just bought some gum.
EPILOGUE
A cigarette causes smoke in the mouth of a stranger. The mouth is a niche situation. Smoke is intangible. Cigar is an accepted vice. And this square is also an epicenter of future corpses.
The essence of Mexico City is defined here, where museums, a palace, government buildings, cantinas, plazas, public baths, Scientology followers, St. Jude, street vendors, tourists from 5 star hotels, El Sótano, Laboratorio de Arte Alameda, a Chilis, lawyers, marches, policemen, musicians, vendors, Sanborns and drug addicts converge. And I remember before, in the January of years ago, also the Three Wise Men.
I write in cheap notebooks and in media such as Milenio, Nexos and Yaconic. Fond of forests and panthers.