Another Day by mather Schneider

He stood in the sun-bleached sandy road looking at Phelp’s house. It was a one-story cement block house, painted white with marine blue trim. A rusty iron gate led to the back patio. He had often seen Phelp and his wife moving around in the patio, watering the flowers, talking, laughing, listening to music. Phelp was a fat Gringo and had gray hair but his wife was Mexican and she looked younger and was very beautiful. She reminded him of his mother, who he missed with all his heart.

It was already hot and a few battered pickup trucks drove by on the washboard road hauling fishing boats. Inside the gate was a big palm tree. The palm tree needed to be trimmed. The heavy fronds drooped down and it was going to seed. He had offered to trim the palm many times, for the cheap rate of 200 pesos. Even though he was small and skinny he was strong and he had a machete and he knew how to trim a palm. Each time, Phelp said no. 

His right foot had swollen up for some reason and it hurt. He had a plastic jug for water but he rarely had money for food. Mainly he ate tortillas or whatever he could find in the garbage outside Super del Norte. He slept behind the store. When he jumped off the train in this little fishing pueblo one year ago, he had found an abandoned house where he slept. But one night his fire popped a coal and he woke to smoke and flame. He got out, but his bag with his extra clothes burned up, his wallet and the few photos he had, even his shoes.

That was when he walked by Phelp’s house for the first time, barefoot, and saw him on the patio. He asked him if he had any work. Phelp spoke bad Spanish but he did ok. He said no, he didn’t have any work. Then his wife came out and asked his name.

He had come from Michoacan. His father had hung himself to death in the bathroom of the copper mine where he worked. His father was a red-haired Mexican and everybody called him Colorado. Even though Colo had black hair and dark skin, they named him Colo, after his father.

Colo, he said.

She went inside and came out with a bag of food and an old pair of Phelp’s shoes.

Colo said, Muchas Gracias, Señora, muy amable.

Then he said, The palm, Señor? I could trim that palm.

He had his machete which he had rescued from the fire.

No, Phelp said. Maybe another day.

He had walked around the pueblo and asked other people too if he could trim their palms, but they all said no. Most days Colo spent in the parking lot of Super del Norte. He washed car windshields with his rag. Sometimes the shoppers gave him a few pesos. If he saw an old lady, he helped her with her groceries, unless she cussed him and shooed him away.

For the past few weeks, Phelp had been acting strange. When Colo walked by his house, Phelp wouldn’t even say hello. He would see him and go inside. Colo hadn’t seen Phelp’s wife in a long time. The last time he saw her was at the pharmacy next to Super del Norte. She and Phelp got out of their car and went into the pharmacy. Colo cleaned their windshield while they were inside and when they came out she smiled and gave him a few pesos. She was more frail and pale than before, but still beautiful.

You still have the shoes, she said.

He nodded.

And the palm, Señor? he said.

No, Phelp said. I’m sorry.

After that Phelp came by himself to the pharmacy. But then he stopped coming.

Now the palm was out of control. As Colo stood in the road looking at it, Phelp came out the back door into the patio. He swayed and stumbled drunkenly even though it was only 8 a.m. He fell into a chair and almost toppled over. He didn’t see Colo with his machete and swollen foot that barely fit into Phelp’s old shoe. Phelp sat and stared into the blue sky. Then his head lowered to his chest. His beard was long and scraggly. Colo hoped his wife would come out but she didn’t. He almost called to Phelp, but a voice told him not to. It was his father’s voice, and he listened to it, and he knew.

He limped back up the dirt road to Super del Norte. There was always tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow is another day.

Back at Super del Norte, he wetted his rag with his water bottle and began to wash car windshields. It was a dusty pueblo and the windshields were always dirty, though nobody seemed to give it much thought.

Mather Schneider’s poetry and prose have appeared in hundreds of journals since 1994. His first novel, The Bacanora Notebooks and his story collection, Port Awful are both available from Anxiety Press. He lives in Tucson, Arizona and works as an exterminator.