Toribio |
by Tom Clark |
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Christmas Eve of the New Depression year Christmas Eve of the New Depression year And as usual Toribio's at his station In the doorway of the French Hotel cafe Philosophical, diffident, unhurried Among his compadres, exchanging words Now and then with tonight's counter man Jesus, the joven whose brother-in-law Cecilio even now tends counter three Blocks south at Fertile Grounds--the useful Underground railroad of coffee servers Floor moppers and sink and basin scrubbers, Without whom no necessary caffeine jolt Of temporary cognitive enhancement To keep anxious Christmas shoppers bent To last minute buying rounds--the street's high end Food markets overrun now by busy crowds Of cautiously intent-on-consuming Festive season celebrants; Toribio However half skeptical looks upon It all and comments bargain sales are good Business this year, this is good for Everybody. Is Toribio Serious? I can't make this out, then later Chastise myself for doubting, and tell Toribio so. He nods understanding It's my fate accorded me by my name That of the doubting Saint who insisted On sticking a dubious finger in the wound In the side of Jesus--the earlier one I mean, the one born in Bethlehem, So long ago. Toribio is thirty Three, same age at which the original Jesus died, as I once suggested While he stood on a Saturday night watching The fancy muchachas prance up Shattuck past The French--slouched against the bricks, checking Out the beauteous piernas largas And sipping an Anchor Steam from a brown Paper bag. When Toribio washes Dishes across the street some nights a week The money he makes he sets aside, Eats lightly, rides a bike, lets time go by And on the weekend buys two twenty- Fours of Anchor and goes through one per Night, his humor minimally improved, His philosophy deepened, his mood made More serene yet his nocturnal routine Unaltered, and on one such night I Bring up his age conjunction with Jesus And ask him, doubting, Toribio do you Think Jesus had a good time? Of course he did Says Toribio, he had life didn't he? And if there were Anchor Steam, Toribio, In Jesus' time, would that have made his life good? Somber Toribio nods, por supuesto. Toribio has no family here yet does, Toribio will spend Christmas with friends Toribio's Christmas present to himself --He's already told me, and when he did I made a pretend fist, chucked his wind Breakered shoulder and said Que hombre, Muy fuerte, with sincerity--will be ten Twenty-fours, which he will make grace with joy The ten days of his migrant's Christmas. In Toribio there is some Vasquez Family blood from back in Jalisco And some Gonzalez, and the Gonzalez Blood connects Toribio with his namesake Santo Toribio Romo Gonzalez The Santo Pollero or Holy Illegal Alien Smuggler--a Saint, canonized In Dos Mil by Papa Paulo Dos. All this I learned one cold full moon night in November, It was a Saturday night, the pretty young Woman who cleans the rooms was dancing And singing--a good feeling in the air-- She insisted the moon was not quite full, Toribio's bantamweight-sized hermano Lucho the Antonio Margarito Fan insisted good natured la luna esta Llena: when I tilted my head I could see both Points of view and said so, and at that moment Toribio said Santo Toribio Is here. Quien I said? Santo Toribio, He said, he is alive, he is here. I looked around. Traffic was rolling up the street. The moon Sat upon the tops of a few scant bare branches Above the post office. He is everywhere, Said Toribio. He comes when you need him. I now know he spoke then of his ancestor And namesake, the patron saint of the needy Migratores, who appears in the night To help them get across the river, provides Food and water at the other side, soothes Fevered brows in the desert crossing, heals Snake bite. I felt a chill in my spine As Toribio first explained all this that Full moon night, a ghost story about a Scarlet Pimpernel priest dead these eighty years, Killed by federales in his sleep, in Santa Ana, near Jalostotitlan, Jalisco. If you need him he will come. He is here, he is there, he is everywhere. As the nights went by and times got harder And nights got colder, I more than once quizzed Toribio as to when the Saint Might be expected to show up, given The evident ambient state of need On this street of illegals and bodies Huddled in doorways more numerous Each night. Toribio sneered As though I had no idea of the true meaning Of need. Que, no lo necessitamos? Toribio shook his head. If saints Had to come every time you need them There would have to be many saints, muchos Santos not just one, Toribio said. |
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