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!
