The Curious Case of the Parrot Rustler, Resolved

Now that it’s over, now that the stress is off, now that justice has been done…but wait, was it?

Readers of this blog know the story—Montalvo, a 21-year old kid whom I barely know but who has made me several hundred dollars of excellent coffee, got it into his head to…wait, I’ll do bullets:

·      Get stoned up to his tits

·      Wander the streets of Old San Juan

·      Interact with a blue macaw, estimated value $15,000

·      Really look into the bird’s eye

·      Feel a magical connection to the bird

·      Magical turns to mystical!

·      Share a destiny with the bird

·      Remember that it’s his mother’s birthday

·      Put the bird on his shoulder

·      Take numerous selfies of himself and the bird

·      Decide to give the bird to his mother

·      Stroll to his apartment in the seaside community of La Perla, where the police arrest him

You may ask, and Montalvo—in his stoned-up-to-his-tits state was probably asking as well—why did the police arrest him? What was the big deal?

There are, it appears, people in this world who bring an unduly fussy approach to the concept of private property. As well, that macaw was a working bird, since its job was, yes, to sit on shoulders, as it obligingly did with Montalvo. Unfortunately, Montalvo, instead of venturing to La Perla, was supposed to smile, get his picture taken, and then pay 20 bucks and take the photo.

There was another problem—the picturesque seaside community of La Perla has a commendable system of local justice: it’s swift, cost-effective and certainly efficient. And for certain offenses, the community….

OK—drop the ironic voice. Two days ago, somebody stumbled on a dead body right in front of La Perla, and I spent several hours worrying that it was Montalvo.

“There was a guy with a tattoo of a number under his right eye—and he spent several hours looking through the window,” said María, who works in the coffee shop where Montalvo had worked and been fired seven times. There’s something about Montalvo—he has second chances as cats do lives.

The guy with the tattoo was replaced by a punk with a mohawk.

The community, you see, was interested in resolving an issue with Montalvo, since he had violated a sacred precept of the group: you don’t bring the police into La Perla.

So that was a problem, since the owner of the café has her 14-year old daughter being home-schooled in the café.

For this act of parrot rustling, Montalvo was sent to prison in a neighboring town, where the first question presented to him was his gang affiliation. The prisons, you see, are segregated by gangs, in this case either the Ñetas or the G27s. And how do all these gentlemen get along? All amicable in the gang world?

To give you an idea—the G27s call the Ñetas gusanos, or worms. The Ñetas call the G27s insectos.

Montalvo, in short, was going to have to declare an affiliation. Nor was that the worst—Montalvo was 21, relatively short, and cute. So what had saved his virginity, those eight days he spent in jail before his mom bailed him out? Well, he’s a vegetarian, and the prison was reliably feeding him meat. So Montalvo gave the meat to his cellmate, who announced to everybody that Montalvo was off limits, guys, Montalvo was his meat, so to speak. So, for eight days it worked, but would it work for eight years?

“Where the hell are his parents,” I said to Lady. Well, the father has been out of the picture for most of a decade. Mom has no money, and not much patience, since this road? It’s not the road less traveled.

There’s a wonderfully descriptive and extremely coarse word —beginning with the letters pendej… in Spanish which means a little pubic hair. Why? Because there are some people who sit around and watch while someone else is having all the fun.

Also, there are some people who pay while someone else has the fun….

“So what are we gonna do,” I ask Lady.

Lady knew a lawyer, who put the matter quite succinctly to Montalvo: you fucked up.

For that he went to law school?

So all was perfectly splendid; Montalvo drifted off to Arecibo, to spend quality time with his grandmother and get away—very incidentally—from the heated air of Old San Juan. During that time, and the day before the trial, we got the tab for the lawyer.

It was not cheap.

Nor was it unreasonable. Because the likelihood that Montalvo could sail into court, get everything settled in one day, and walk out was less than likely. The cops had to show up, and guess what? They worked a night shift the night before, and then they’re gonna go sit in court all day? Nah—so they don’t show up. Or the parrot guy—who, by the way, had been convicted of stealing a parrot himself, or so said the street—he might not show up. Not to mention the judge…. In short, in Puerto Rico we have a plethora of people who might not show up….

It came down to the wire—what were we gonna do? Would we throw Montalvo to the wolves, let him take his chances with a public defender, and live with knowing that Montalvo was getting raped in prison?

Readers, send me congratulations and prayers.

I’m a father.

Damn fool got two years probation.

Just don’t expect cigars.

I’m broke!