wrongness as optimism

"We hope to have the oil seepage contained within 48 hours."

cherry popsicles

“Why are you yelling at me? Stickers sell themselves in this forsaken country!” I push the stack of bootleg Spider-man stickers back towards the vendedor. He doesn’t under stand why I wouldn’t want stickers. I don’t understand why anyone would. As he passes, the camposino seated to my back-left begins to unfurl deep-mucus-charged hacks, peppering my nape with pure evil. I begin to whirl around, retaliate with a disapproving “mother hell-beast” of a glare, but I am intercepted mid-pass by the two-toothed smile of the niña seated next to me. She had just bought stickers.

Slumping in my seat, I imagine the River Bear “skull dragging” the vendedor. Or at least puffing his chest and turning red like some kind of awkward tropical bird courtship. He took no guff from their lot, the bus hustler. It was in situations like this I had to man the bucket of ice water. Awaiting the precise moment in which to interlude and douche his inferno with cold rational thought. An arduous undertaking indeed, but it often fell on my crown. Someone had to keep the River Bear from getting knifed.

It’s hard to remember now where the wave broke. Where exactly the novelty of this experience peaked, crashed, and rolled back into the sea of good intentions. Someone asked me once “If this was the best or worst decision I ever made?” I said, “ I couldn’t say, probably neither, but I was proud that I once wanted to do this.” With every new group I see that look, quietly drunk on hope and self righteous expectations. It smells like cherry popsicles. Then there are the hope pumpers on their way out. Walking-talking grad school essays. Selling us-to convince themselves -before they have to sell someone else.

104…108…110…111...102…99…97, were the highs in my valley last week. A woman in the park questions why I wear shorts. Of all things American they have hawked, short pants remain uniquely controversial. Certainly, this makes me doubt how far we can go here. Perhaps if I have handed her a tri-fold pamphlet-explaining it was God’s plan for us all to enjoy short pants-she would have been more open minded. Fore Central America has become the new bull market for proselytes. A few weeks ago Don Carlos, a distinguished educated member of the town council, confronted me with confused eyes. Quickly he directed me into an alley across from his home. He leaned in close and wrangled a paper from his rear pocket. “Brian” he whispered, “did you know that Jesus visited the Indians?” The Mormons had descended on Jocoro.

At first they came in pairs. Pairs, which over night became herds. I explained to my townspeople that when wet they multiply. Yet, no one had seen the movie Gremlins and the joke failed. I was frequently asked if I knew or was of any relation to any of them. I carefully explained that they were just other white people, and that we were not related. The shiny sword-sharp handouts could be found on nary a dining mesa. This was the new exciting way. A uniquely American mythology. More elaborate than your fathers’ Christianity. Packaged and sold by with a smile by darling blue-eyed 18 year olds. Who could resist? It’s not an insult in any obvious way to send an 18 year old on a mission to reroute the lives of grown adults.

They say in El Salvador everybody is selling everything. Save alone us. We aren’t selling anything. Some of us are even sold-out of what we came with. Maybe that’s the best thing about us here. After a while in the sweat, we can’t even remember our own agendas.

Sometimes at dusk, a young sexy couple strapped to a dirt bike roar past my door. I watch them hum and bump violently through the ruts. The men from my town make lewd remarks about the girl on the bike. I call them “The Couple from the Future.” They look so unconsciously modern and out of place here in the valley. The local men say men say they are off,to the milpa, to fuck incognito. I reply she will be lucky to feel anything after that ride. They look at me perplexed.

Two days later “The Couple of the Future” on their magic dirt bike rattle and hum on by us. One of the men slowly begins to smile. Ahh, because of the vibrations….I nod with a smile, and watch as he scurries off to retell his amigos.

Hope springs eternal in the Savior. It smells like cherry popsicles.