1.

I came across a fundamental truth on Tuesday night. There was nothing extraordinary about it; he looked like everyone else at Shoeshiner’s, but it was clear what he was, there was no doubt in my mind about it.

Tuesday nights aren’t particularly busy at Shoeshiner’s, especially late (it was a few minutes past 10), rainy Tuesday nights. But on this Tuesday night I couldn’t find an open seat or an empty barstool. A few minutes later a couple made ready to leave (she approached the table patting her hands on her pant legs; she reached for her purse as he threw back the last sip of beer. He walked behind her and helped her with her coat). Are you two leaving?

I hadn’t yet finished dropping my coat onto the seat next to the one I intended to sit on when he approached the table. Are you leaving? Just getting here actually. Oh, well excuse me the—gentlemen, what'll you be drinking tonight? She plopped a bucket of peanuts between us. Ah, actually I’m—(she cut him off) you two wanna share a pitcher? Six for domestic, nine for import. Actually, I’m—(this time I cut him off) Bitbürger, is that okay with you? Uh, sure. Bitbürger will be fine.

We didn’t say a word until we were ready to pour our second pint. Can I fill you up he asked. I pushed my glass across the table.

A second pitcher. I introduced myself and asked his name. What’s a name anyway? Let’s just have our beer. And that’s exactly what we did. At the end of the second pitcher I produced a ten and two singles, dropped them on the table—in case she comes I told him—and asked him to look out for my coat as I went to the bathroom.

He was gone when I got back. There was a caddy on the table holding a check, my bills, and another ten and two singles. I grabbed my coat and made my way outside, crunching peanut shells all the way to the door.

The clouds had broken up. They let the moon shine brilliantly on every slick surface it touched. I checked my watch. Eight minutes until the next train. Waiting to cross the street, I heard the grunts and heavy breathing of a scuffle behind Shoeshiner’s. When I walked around back I saw the two of them run off into the dark. I saw what they left behind. He lay on his side. A trickle of blood found its way from the corner of his mouth to the edge of his jaw; there was a puddle forming around his waist too, and a red spot grew into a larger one on the lower part of his shirt. I checked my watch. Four minutes until the next train.

2.

The train ride between Venice/Florence takes about six hours. In those six hours I listened to The White Album, Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, and a compilation of my own. I turned the CD player off when “Went Through Europe With My Headphones On” started playing. Just then the announcement: the train was approaching Pisa. Not too far from Florence now. It was then that I noticed, three rows ahead (and on the other side of the aisle) a not-pretty-in-the-way-I’m-used-to-pretty girl of 18, 19—no older than 19. Pale: a chalky paleness set in the black frame formed by short black hair that came to and curved out just past her ears; her lashes were long, her eyes black. High cheekbones (painted red). I could see a yellow shirt, canary yellow.

Getting off the train I would notice green lettering on the shirt. It would read Simple Wood Farms; there would be a green rooster just under the lettering. I would notice white khaki pants (down to her ankle) and dark, flat-bottomed shoes. She would walk to the end of the platform, look around, look at me. Are you lost? Lei è perso? (I would wonder if I had said it right, or what exactly it was I said). Lost. Yes. Lei parla degli inglesi? Yes, she would answer (I hoped I asked her if she spoke English). I would show her my map. She would smile. She would trace a route. She would smile. She would thank me. Five minutes after the exchange I would notice that my wallet was missing. It had been there when I got off the train; I had pulled out the hotel address from an inside pocket. I knew I put it back. Had it been her? The hotel would be able to exchange 500 dollars in traveler’s checks with just my passport.

I would see her again on Via Pandolfini. Joe’s Pub, An American Style Hamburger Bar, would have windows facing the street. I would be sitting at a barstool near the front doors. She would stop at the corner. I would run out and call out to her (Hey!). She would smile. You want your wallet. Yeah. You have it? This is Via Croce. She would point down the intersecting street. There is a church 500 meters down. Via Croce and Via Verdi. Be there at six. She would walk away. The beggar at the door of the church would give me a blessing when I dropped euro into her palm. The inside of the church would be all shadow and whisper. There would be me (still standing at the door), and two penitents at the altar. Someone would come in behind me. I would turn around and see her walk in—rather see her silhouette pushed in by the light flooding through the doors. She would lead me to one of the confessional booths, climbing in herself as she pulled me in behind her. Her fingers would undo the first two buttons on my shirt before I would reach up to stop her. What are you doing I would ask. Her left hand would bring her finger to her lips; she would shush me. I would hear the cover to the adjacent chamber slide open. Remorse, then a thrill, then remorse, then a thrill—by that time they would be too mixed up for me to distinguish one from the other. The cover would slide back with a crash, the priest would move about (probably reaching for the door), but nothing would happen. I would hear the cover slide open again, a deep voice would utter padre, ci perdona come abbiamo perdonato degli altri.

The train slowed. We arrived into the Firenze Termini. I looked toward the girl; she was pulling down a bag from the luggage rack. She wore black pants and a pair of puma trainers. She walked to the end of the platform, looked around, then looked at me. Are you lost, I asked.

3.

The sun rises later along these parts than perhaps where you are from. By the time the sun begins to peak in the eastern sky we have already been up (and working) for close to two hours. I get up at five. I’m sure you have read all about what farmers or ranchers do in the early hours. It’s mostly true you know. It is hard work to get the day started. Anyway, I assume you know because we are made to read all about city folk—city life—at school.

So after all of this is done, I come in and wash up (it’s around seven), ready to have breakfast. But I can’t come in unless all the morning work has been finished; there have been plenty of times that I’ve been late to school on account of me finishing the morning chores late, thus eating late. But one thing is for sure, I won’t step a foot out the door without first having eaten. Teachers don’t usually mind; they know most of us have to work.

You ask me to relate a significant event in my life, something that has had an effect on me. You might expect that there aren’t any, but in fact there have been. One that comes to mind happened the summer my father caught my mother in bed—technically it was a bed, a truck bed—with the hired fruit picker. Momma had lined the truck will all sorts of blankets and pillows (a good idea considering the shape of the truck bed) but the hired help didn’t drive out farther than the edge of the field; someone was bound to find them. Well Poppa did, but he didn’t confront them then and there (it’s better to get even, my dad always says). Instead he drove them clear into the middle of where all the other hired help was working—there were some 20-30 of them—and there was plenty of family around too. He parked the truck right where everyone could see them. My father quietly got out of the truck, lit a cigarette, and walked over to the gate to look on at all the action. Well I saw my mother’s face change into a thousand shapes, each one filled with shame.

Momma ran straight to Gram’s, didn’t even come home that evening to pick up any fresh clothes. Poppa must have not wanted to see her, in case she came back, because he went straight into town after the picking. He told me not to wait up for him. After he helped stack the last of the crates onto the trucks he told the main driver to follow him into town. Poppa never drives into town after the picking.

That same night a group of guys drove by the farm. They passed by once, a second time, and on the third time I turned on the porch light and stood at the door. Their car stopped just a few paces from the front gate. One of them got out and came up to the fence. A tire, he said, had blown out and they didn’t want to run too much longer on the spare. Did I know of anyone that could patch it? I did, I told him, but you’ll have to drive into town for that. I doubt anyone will be willing tonight though. Are you in a hurry? He told me they weren’t. Well I can have a look at it for you now. If it’s not too bad I might be able to patch it up. Bring it on back.

An easy patch, took me no more than five minutes. One of them asked to go to the bathroom, the other three kicked rocks around the yard. They were right around my age, maybe a year older, maybe a year younger. They told me they were on a road trip of some sort, not one of them really knew where to though. They asked if I lived alone, for now at least is what I told them. Anyway I had them stay and eat. After that, they discovered my father’s liquor cabinet. By 2 a.m. they were too drunk to drive anywhere, and I was too drunk to kick them out. We ended up in a heap on the living room floor. As soon as the lights were turned out I felt someone’s arms wrap around my torso. Are you gay? I asked. He said no. Then I felt his hot mouth on mine. I told Joni about it the next day on our way to her parent's place. She asked if the alcohol had affected my performance, I asked if she cared. I’ll give you something to care about tonight she responded. And she did.

It was at the end of that summer that Pastor Mark made an announcement to the congregation that Jennifer Wampler, who had fallen ill in previous weeks, was now having a hard time getting food on the table for her two boys. What’s more, Pastor Mark remarked that he thought that it would be impossible to get the boys into proper clothes for the start of school. He urged the congregation to look into their hearts for whatever help they could afford. I offered to collect whatever gifts were made; I told Pastor Mark to instruct members to drop things off at the farm. By the time school got around only two people had come around to offer something to the Wamplers. Squanto, the hired picker that had caused so much stir at the beginning of the summer, brought over a bundle of bills, all of it amounting to 53 dollars. That same day Lori came by with a box full of clothes—most of which she hoped would be “just right for the boys.” Lori, like Squanto, was hired out by many around, but she offered a very different service.

When I think about it I realize how much this place has taught me. It’s hard for me to imagine leaving it anytime soon, but then again, that’s what I’m writing this for right? There’s a different sort of learning in college, I expect.

~by Rubén Casas