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!

Death Comes to the Goat Sucker

Well, I shouldn’t be writing about this because, well, this is a serious blog. Yesterday, for example, I dealt with the eschatological views of the Jehovah’s Witnesses. So today I’m gonna talk about the chupacabra??

To those fortunate enough not to have heard of the chupacabra, well, let me introduce him, via Wikipedia:

The chupacabra (Spanish pronunciation: [tʃupaˈkaβɾa], from chupar "to suck" and cabra "goat", literally "goat sucker") is a legendary cryptid rumored to inhabit parts of the Americas, with the first sightings reported in Puerto Rico.[1] The name comes from the animal's reported habit of attacking and drinking the blood of livestock, especially goats.

Well, well—it’s something to know that Puerto Rico has given (in addition to Ricky Martin and salsa) the world the chupacabra. What I didn’t know was that the chupacabra has been busy, since it was first seen in August of 1995 in Canóvanas, Puerto Rico; sightings have been reported from Chile to Maine in the Americas, and even in Russia.

The first attacks in Puerto Rico were on eight sheep, which were, according to Wikipedia, afflicted with three-teethed puncture wounds in the chest and drained of blood. But was that enough for the chupacabra? Absolutely not, because the island went mad for chupacabras.

It was on everyone’s lips, it was believed in fiercely and disputed fiercely, it was a joke, it was a prank, it was a satanic cult, it was all bunk. Even scientists got into the picture; here’s Wikipedia again:

In late October 2010, University of Michigan biologist Barry O'Connor concluded that all the chupacabras reports in the United States were simply coyotes infected with the parasite Sarcoptes scabiei, the symptoms of which would explain most of the features of the chupacabras: they would be left with little fur, thickened skin, and rank odour. O'Connor theorized the attacks on goats occurred "because these animals are greatly weakened, they're going to have a hard time hunting. So they may be forced into attacking livestock because it's easier than running down a rabbit or a deer."

Coyotes in Puerto Rico? Puerto Rican coyotes? Listen, besides species introduced by man, there’s nothing else here in terms of fauna. OK—I looked it up, and it turns out that bats are native to Puerto Rico. But that’s it.

So we went chupacabra-crazy for a while, and in the end, there were 200 reports in 1995, again according to Wikipedia.

What won’t Wikipedia tell you? Well, I’m delighted to tell you that Tito Armstrong wonderfully caught the story of Chemo “Jones,” one of the very best of our small town mayors, and a man not cowed [sic.] by a mere goat sucker. Tito—tell it!

▪    Picture the scene: a lush forest full of dense vegetation, laced with dangerous beasts and wild, tropical fauna. An adventurer braves the danger to search for an elusive creature which has a propensity to drain its victim's blood. Sound like a movie script? No, it is the real life saga of Chemo "Jones" Soto, Mayor of Canóvanas and part-time adventurer. Chemo has undertaken a quest to capture the Chupacabra before it sucks the entire animal population dry. In the face of Government paralysis, Chemo is the last hope of a desperate citizenry who have given up hope.

▪    Chemo has assembled a crack anti-Chupacabra team and hopes to apprehend the beast sometime this year. He has devised a state of the art "cone-trap" which will no doubt trap the blood-sucking monster within the month. The Mayor's pleas to government agencies for help with the hunting efforts have been largely ignored but Governor Pedro Rosselló has wished him luck. Chemo, who happens to be up for re-election, is running on the anti-Chupacabra ticket and hopes to ride it to victory during the November elections.

Yes! And I might mention, by the way, that this account appears in a site linked to Princeton University—the chupacabra has definitely arrived.

Sadly, all this was taking place in 1995, just a bit before the Internet arrived. So unfortunately, I cannot present you with the image—indelibly fixed on my inner screen—of Chemo Jones and the boys with their chupacabra trap. But any Puerto Rican around at the time will remember it—Chemo and the boys had gone out, presumably after a few beers at the gas station (don’t ask—it’s a Puerto Rican thing….), and found some rusty old rejas (ornamental iron bars that cover all the windows on the island) in the back of City Hall. Responding to the urgent needs of the citizenry, who were faced with certain economic ruin from loss of livestock, and whose very lives were at risk…

Now, where was I?

Ah, so Chemo and the boys patched together a chupacabra trap, into which they put, sensibly, a goat—who was looking very wide-eyed, and why not? Wouldn’t you? Nor was this all, because the boys had gotten in the spirit of the occasion—anything to keep the morale up—and were wearing paramilitary clothes. Here, have a look—though this photo dates from 2010, when the chupacabra made a brief reappearance:

See? Inspires confidence, right? You wouldn’t mess with this dude!

Well, the entire island—especially that part of the island from the opposite party—was poking fun of Chemo, but guess what? He had the last laugh because Hollywood picked up on the story, and made a television movie starring Eric Estrada! Bijte? He who laughs last….

Now then, it turns out that the chupacabra was actually caught by a couple in Texas, as you can see in the clip below (which—even if you inexplicably have no interest in the chupacabra—you should definitely watch for the spectacularly retro-teased beehive hairdo of the wife). And quite a chupacabra it was—so what did they do with it?

Chupacabra Mystery

Dead Animal Won’t Be Tested

Texas can’t handle the truth!

That was the website TMZ’s headline four days ago. Sadly, the Texas couple—so staunch in their belief that it wasn’t a coon, a dog, a coyote—caved to the advice of an “expert” from the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department to put the animal down, because it was “suffering.” And now they refuse to do a necropsy, since “chupacabras are mythical creatures.”

Yeah?

And if you believe that, dear Reader, then might I remind you of the grassy knoll? The suspicious deaths of Lee Harvey Oswald and several key witnesses? The reports of multiple shots? Hah!

It’s a dark day indeed, Readers, here in sunny Puerto Rico….

Lands I'll Never See

OK—this is NOT what I’m going to talk about. I mean, why go on and on about the diocese of Arecibo, which has just been told by judge Ángel Pagán Ocasio that it has fifteen days to hand over the documents about its seven pederast priests and (minimally) twenty victims.

‘It’s old, Marc’ I tell myself. For the last thirty years (or thirty decades?) it’s been the same story. And even though the dioceses of San Juan, Mayagüez, and Caguas have handed over the documents, the bishop of Arecibo is standing firm. He’s not gonna hand them over. The Catholic Church, you see, first has to abuse these kids, and then it turns around and “protects” their privacy.

“I really think men should be barred from running religions,” I told Pablo. It was hardly a felicitous choice, since Pablo is a minister. But he’s gay, so he got it….

I told him because I had told myself—this ranting has got to stop. First you became obsessed with Joyce DiDonato, now it’s the Catholic Church. And besides, the Catholic Church is as open as a Kansas prairie compared to the Jehovah’s Witnesses. If memory serves, the video I watched last weekend claims that the Jehovah’s Witnesses organization has a database of 23, 720 reports of sexual abuse of minors, And, like you-know-what, their policy is to report to the Vati…sorry, that’s their headquarters in Brooklyn. Then, the pastor-or-elder-or-whatever is told to handle it internally. But guess what? Church policy requires that for anything to be settled, there must be two—hey, Marc, where’s that famous flare for punctuation?—TWO witnesses.

See what I mean about men in religion?

I knew they were crazy—how crazy I didn’t know. Want an example? Well, Charles Taze Russell, the founder of the denomination, had the really bad habit of announcing the end of the world (added value, Readers: think twice about this when establishing your religion…). He did it several times, and farmers did crazy things like not planting their fields—since why bother? Oh, and some people sold their homes.

So it was all a bit embarrassing when the deadlines passed, but not a problem, because Russell—who must have been quick of feet—came up with an explanation. Jesus had come back—but invisibly! And you know what? It may have been true, because, look—it’s just little me, sitting in a café in Old San Juan. And there are 7.9 million people out there—including two in the plaza right now standing next to a cardboard placard saying “What does the Bible REALLY say?”—who completely believe in the visible return of our savior. So the odds are that Jesus really did come back…

What else do these guys believe?

Well, it may be that my brain was fogged after reading the word—and dimly remembering its meaning—eschatology. (And why am I reminded of Dorothy Parker, just now, who, when asked to use horticulture in a sentence, came up with “You can lead a horticulture, but you can’t make her think?”) At any rate, I read the paragraph below three times, and then went off to eat a snicker doodle, just to get the blood sugar up a bit. And guess what? I still don’t get it. For anyone out there who really needs to know, here it is:

A central teaching of Jehovah's Witnesses is that the current world era, or "system of things", entered the "last days" in 1914 and faces imminent destruction through intervention by God and Jesus Christ, leading to deliverance for those who worship God acceptably.[191] They consider all other present-day religions to be false, identifying them with "Babylon the Great", or the "harlot", of Revelation 17,[192] and believe that they will soon be destroyed by the United Nations, which they believe is represented in scripture by the scarlet-colored wild beast of Revelation chapter 17. This development will mark the beginning of the "great tribulation".[193] Satan will subsequently attack Jehovah's Witnesses, an action that will prompt God to begin the war of Armageddon, during which all forms of government and all people not counted as Christ's "sheep", or true followers, will be destroyed. After Armageddon, God will extend his heavenly kingdom to include earth, which will be transformed into a paradise similar to the Garden of Eden.[194] After Armageddon, most of those who had died before God's intervention will gradually be resurrected during "judgment day" lasting for one thousand years. This judgment will be based on their actions after resurrection rather than past deeds. At the end of the thousand years, a final test will take place when Satan is released to mislead perfect mankind. Those who fail will be destroyed, along with Satan and his demons. The end result will be a fully tested, glorified human race. Christ will then hand all authority back to God. 

All I can think is that God—oooops, that’s Jehovah, sorry about that—put these people on earth to make the Mormons look mainstream….

OK—I’ll tell you what you already may know: the JWs prohibit blood transfusions, saluting the flag, joining the armed forces, celebrating birthdays and holidays. In addition, the religion is strongly patriarchal and conservative. Men lead and women are submissive, though men, according to Wikipedia, are encouraged to listen to their wives’ and children’s thoughts—thanks guys!

What if someone goes off the track?

Well, that can be a problem—since, in the first place, contact with any other religion is strongly discouraged. But if it’s really bad, the sinner is disfellowshipped (ah, computer, at last we agree!) and then shunned. So that means your family can talk to you, and any business obligations (especially those with a contract involved) can be done—but that’s it. Oh, and elders can invite you to repent and thus be reinstated (something I was hoping would be called refellowshipped, but no luck).

So the woman in the video of last weekend endured physical and sexual abuse, as did her children, and what was the advice? Go home, be more submissive, and pray harder.

It was, in short, a sort of Sophie’s choice: she could give up everything and save her kids, or she could throw her kids to the wolves, or rather, the wolf. Guess what she chose?

I told myself—I have to step back. This is my sanity, here. No more rants, Marc!

So consider the case of Wells Cunningham, whom YouTube—adept at tracking my history—suggested I watch. Well, I knew the Handel-Halvorsen duo, but what was the story with the man, Halvorsen himself? Is it right to have spent so much time with the JWs, and to know nothing about Johan Halvorsen, 1864 to 1935? Well, here he is, since cute guys have a special place in this blog:

Halvorsen was a Norwegian violinist, conductor and composer of—among other things—incidental music for plays. Oh, and he married Grieg’s—yes, that Grieg—niece. And he’s known for just a few pieces, of which the passacaglia below is one. And another one? The Entry March of the Boyars, which you can find on YouTube, and to which you can listen to the first minute and then safely go off to do something else. Don’t worry, you won’t have missed anything….

And Wells Cunningham, the cellist? Wait—not only is he an amazing cellist, but he also plays the violin—as he does in the clip below—the piano and the guitar. And damn, who is he, and where did he get that amazing technique? With a nod to Malcolm Gladwell, this guy got to 10,000 hours and then decided to do it all over again.

Well, he’s a graduate of the University of Miami and Eastman School of Music, and the principal cellist of the New World Symphony—or perhaps used to be. And he’s done work with popular artists like Jennifer López and Marc Anthony.   

So I listened to the Handel-Halvorsen, and then I listened to Cunningham play the 24^th caprice of Paganini, and was impressed enough to send myself the clip. It arrived in my inbox with the notation: this message has no content.

Absolutely true, I thought, the Paganini certainly doesn’t have any content, so why bother? So I turned to the second symphony of Halvorsen—which actually wasn’t too bad.

There are lands I’ll never get to, and that’s all right, I decided. I’ll never have Cunningham’s technique, for example. I’ll never have faith, or—perhaps—follow a spiritual path. But a nice, Nordic symphony?

Ah, I can go there!

Caldero Sails to his Nomination!

Well, well—lots to worry about today.

There’s our poor governor, who just can’t get it right. Readers will remember that our designated police chief had a curious habit, come springtime or tax time, of forgetting that he was married. So there were, well, irregularities or perhaps omissions or maybe you might be bold enough to say errors. But these Tuller—just remembered the guy’s name, sorry—resolved like a man to fix. So he did, to the tune of $30,000, and where did that get him? Was anybody satisfied? Any pats on the back? Calls at midnight to hold an emergency meeting to approve him?

Right—so then the governor was stuck looking about for a replacement. But not a problem, because down in the central part of the island there was a guy who had worked long years in the force, and he was man enough to step up to the plate. True, José Caldero, the gentleman in question, had retired from the force in the last administration, and was working as an asesor en seguridad pública para el Municipio de Caguas, in the words of a local paper.

Is it me—the cynical son of two newspaper people—or is there something just a bit vague about this title, which in English reads something like a public security advisor for the town of Caguas? That, coupled with fact that the last administration—the one in which Caldero resigned—favored statehood, whereas Caguas favors our current muddled mess, instantly suggests that Caldero left or was squeezed out from one position and sank gratefully onto a nice, plummy position. You know, one of those positions that are created so quickly that the first order of business of the person filling the position is to write the job description.

And in fact, there were hints in the press that…well, wait. Here’s what The New Day published last Sunday:

Por entender que introducirá la política en la Policía, el presidente de la Asociación de Miembros de la Policía, José Taboada de Jesús, rechazó este domingo la designación del coronel José Caldero López como superintendente del cuerpo de seguridad pública.

(Believing that it would introduce politics into the Police Department, the president of  the Association of Police Members, José Taboada de Jesús, came out Sunday against the designation of Coronel José Caldero López as superintendent of the body of public safety)

Unfurl your brows, Concerned Readers—the designee has cleared this up:

"Yo no soy político. Yo soy policía. Trabajé en el plan y la plataforma de seguridad (para el PPD), pero los que me conocen saben que el coronel Caldero no es político, que siempre ha sido policía". 

(Loose translation: “I’m not politician. I’m a cop. I worked on the security platform for the party in power, but everybody who knows José Caldero knows that I’m not a politician, that I have always been a cop…”.)

OK—got that cleared up!

Then yesterday, a legislator came up with a charge: Caldero had had a role in rearming Pablo Casellas, the son of Salvador Casellas, a federal judge. Pablo went on to—allegedly—stage a carjacking and then use the “stolen” weapon to kill his wife. Here’s what the legislator said:

Detalló que el 6 de febrero de 2007, el entonces superintendente auxiliar en Servicios al Ciudadano, José Marrero Ruiz, envió una carta a Casellas indicándole la orden de remoción de su licencia de armas (no. 7557) y el permiso de tiro al blanco (no. 14499). En dicha carta se le presentó a Casellas, de acuerdo con la legisladora, la opción de solicitar una vista administrativa si se encontraba inconforme con la decisión.

Charbonier indicó que “extrañamente, al día siguiente, Herman J. Wirshing, jefe de alguaciles federales y amigo cercano a la familia Casellas, así como del propio Caldero, le suscribe una comunicación, a puño y letra, al ahora nominado expresándole su disponibilidad para eliminar la orden de revocación”.

(She pointed out the on 6 Feb 07, the then auxiliary superintendent of Citizen Services, José Marrero Ruiz, sent a letter to Casellas indicating the cancellation of his license to bear arms (no. 7557) and permission to shoot at targets (no. 14499). In this letter, and according to the legislator, Casellas was presented with the option to request an administrative hearing if he disagreed with the decision.

Charbonier indicated that “strangely, the next day, Herman J. Wirshing, chief of the federal marshals and a close friend of the Casellas family, as well as of Caldero, wrote a communication, in his own hand, to the current nominee expressing his willingness to eliminate the order of suspension.”)

I know—this situation is raising your blood pressure, but relax, because guess what? Caldero has an explanation for this, too.

“Lo que existe es un documento que me envió a mí Herman Wirshing y yo se lo referí... Yo no tenía potestad sobre eso”, indicó. 

(“What exists is a letter which Wirshing sent to me and I just sent it on. I didn’t have any power over that,” he indicated.)

And today? All going well for Caldero?

Absolutely. All is completely under control and proceeding normally, though the New Day has pointed out that there is an unsettled lawsuit in place against Caldero. And in the suit, brought undoubtedly out of vengeance and a thirst to smear the name of an honest man in the mud, a couple of police officers allege that Caldero, with other high-ranking officials, created a hostile environment and improperly transferred them, after they had blown the whistle on some corrupt cops.

And corrupt they were—to the point of…OK, last quote:

El exteniente fue acusado el 18 de diciembre de 2008 por la Fiscalía federal por escoltar y prestar vigilancia a cargamentos de droga mientras ejercía como jefe de la División de Arrestos Especiales y posteriormente fue condenado a 14 años de prisión.   

(The ex-lieutenant was accused 18 Dec 08 by the Federal District Attorney of escorting and guarding cargos of drugs while he worked as chief of the Division of Special Arrests and was then convicted to 14 years of prison.)

Caldero’s defense? That the officers who sued him had failed lie detector tests, and he had had to transfer them….

There is something odd about this appointment, though, however much all else is going swimmingly. Because three chiefs ago, Hector Pesquera was making $283, 100.

Then, James Tuller was making $195,000….

And our new top cop? Well, according to the governor, he’ll get $106, 000

Are we—by any chance—getting what we’ll be paying for?

Shadow Land

It’s gotta be said—the combination of being a blogger and cruising the Internet for stories is a perfect recipe for a mouthwatering dish of paranoia.

The question of the day, therefore, is whether Dr. Thomas L. Philpott, of the University of Texas at Austin, really killed himself.

Well, the university is on record; here’s what they say:

Thomas Lee Philpott–associate professor of history, fiery Catholic moralist and polemical leftist, and charismatic and much-honored teacher–ended his life on October 9, 1991, in Austin, Texas, after a yearlong illness. He was 49.

OK—so why think that Philpott was murdered? Well, justly-named Paranoia Magazine has this to say about Philpott, who took part in a 1981 documentary called Boys for Sale. Here’s an excerpt from the magazine:

Boys for Sale depicts the pervasive practice of sex with boys in Houston, Texas—yet another dark tale of government and local authorities failing to live up to their electorates’ expectation that they will protect our most vulnerable citizens. Frank Morrow hosts a show in which Dr. Tom Philpott, history professor at the University of Texas, details the issues concerning the prostitution of boys and the power structure behind it that helps to promote and profit from the business.

Boys for Sale is mirrored in the later documentary The Conspiracy of Silence (1995), which concentrates on Omaha in the same years. Sadly, on October 9, 1991—soon after his interview was aired—49-year-old Dr. Philpott was “suicided” and investigations into what was happening in Houston came to a halt—much like what happened to “Baer boys” just before the Franklin Credit Union investigations began, though I don’t think that Dr. Philpott decided to wrap plastic around his face like the boys around here had done to them. 

Well, I had watched The Conspiracy of Silence, and the tale it told was not hard to swallow but hard to gulp. In essence, it alleges that rich and powerful people in Omaha, Nebraska, sexually abused boys from the legendary Boys Town (located nearby) and that the investigation had been covered up. Oh, and that the trail went all the way up to the White House. (At the time, George H. W. Bush was in office, if I recall correctly.)

In both Boys for Sale and The Conspiracy of Silence, similar charges are made. The perpetrators are powerful, straight men who form alliances to trade boys, and to crush anyone rash enough to investigate and ask questions. Philpott claims that he got a shotgun blasted though his car windshield, as well as through the living room window. The professor also claims, at one point, that Robin Lloyd, another person who had stuck his nose into a place where it wasn’t much wanted, suffered a highly suspicious accident.

OK—so is any of this true?

According to one study—no. Here are the findings from a 2008 study on prostitution of minors in New York City issued by the Department of Justice:

• Nearly half the kids—about 45 percent—were boys.
• Only 10 percent were involved with a "market facilitator" (e.g., a pimp).
• About 45 percent got into the "business" through friends.
• More than 90 percent were U.S.-born (56 percent were New York City natives).
• On average, they started hooking at age 15.
• Most serviced men—preferably white and wealthy.
• Most deals were struck on the street.
• Almost 70 percent of the kids said they'd sought assistance at a youth-service agency at least once.
• Nearly all the youths—95 percent—said they exchanged sex for money because it was the surest way to support themselves.

OK—if all of that is true, then we may have to rethink the notion of human trafficking that most of us have in our minds: a runaway girl falls into the hands of a pimp, who beats her and abuses her and forces her to bring home her “quota.”

Now then—how many kids are out there? Well, according to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, there were about 800,000 kids reported missing in 1999. As well, the Internet Crimes Against Children (ICAC) noted a 1,000% increase in complaints of child sex trafficking from 2004 to 2008.

I don’t know about you, but something about all these numbers is seriously screwy. 800,000 reports of missing kids? That’s an enormous amount of kids. And a 1,000% increase in child sex trafficking in just four years?

We got a problem, guys. And it seems clear—however “sexy” the image of a teenage girl being lured and controlled by her pimp could be to any of you, the reality is most likely different. Oh, and as for a vast hidden network of pedophiles? Nah—don’t think so.

But we have a large number of kids on the street—kids that nobody will or even can hire. And they’re all hungry, they all need shelter. We’ve gotta find a way to get help to these kids. And then, maybe it’s time to rethink the idea of arresting johns and putting their names…

…on the front page of the local newspaper!

How Do You Solve a Problem Like Montalvo?

“It’s like walking into a sit-com,” said Gaby, who both works and frequents The Poet’s Passage, where I write. “All the familiar characters are there. Marc is writing, Johann is reading or napping, Carlos is being a pirate. It’s wonderfully normal and predictable.”

That could be true. For example, a gentleman in white tights, white face, and a red nose has just greeted me—silently—by offering his hand and then posing in still life for several seconds. So if you’re a clown, or a writer, or a pirate—well, where else do you go?

Which may have been why it wasn’t surprising, somehow, when Lady, the owner of the café, told me the news, “Montalvo’s in jail.”

“What,” I said, “what did he do?”

“He stole a parrot!”

“Yeah, from the parrot guy, who works down by the cruise ships, when they come in. You know, he has five or six parrots, and he charges twenty bucks for a picture of the parrots resting on your arms and shoulders. Good business….”

“Montalvo stole one of that guy’s parrots?!”

“Yeah, and then he went running into La Perla, where he lives, and the cops were chasing after him, and now he’s in prison in Bayamón….” 

“Wow—didn’t think the police went into La Perla…”

“Well, they usually don’t,” said Lady, “but they did for Montalvo!”

My friend Sonia once described La Perla as a modern medieval city; medieval because it sprang up without planning between the walls of Old San Juan and the sea. It’s a hodgepodge of streets, alleys, walkways and once ramshackle wood houses that sheltered the poor but honest people who worked in Old San Juan. Now? Well, it’s rumored to be a haven for drug dealers. The only time the police go into La Perla, in general, is when they can do it essentially as the Army went into Iraq: shock and awe.

“So what are we going to do about Montalvo,” I asked Lady.

“His mother called me—and she doesn’t want me to bail him out. He’s 21 years old, and she wants him to learn his lesson. So she told me—no bail.”

Montalvo, you see, has worked for the café seven times, and has also been fired from the café seven times. At the time of his arrest, he was in the fired phase, and thus had no money.

“So why did he steal the parrot,” I asked.

“It was his mother’s birthday, and he didn’t have anything to give her!”

“So he stole the parrot!”

“Well, for his mother….” said Lady defensively, and then she started to laugh.

“I just have this picture of Montalvo running like crazy with the parrot on his shoulder, and the cops with their billy-clubs chasing after him, like the Keystone Cops….”

OK—so his mother didn’t want him out on bail. The plan then became to visit on Saturday, possibly with a cake with a metal file in it.

That was until yesterday.

“Eight whole fucking days, and not one fucking person called to find out how I was! I was in there over a fucking week, and who calls? So today, I call all the missed calls, and guess what? They all wanted something—not one of them was calling about me! So fuck all of them!”

He’s angry, and also buzz-cut—prison apparently takes after the army that way. We talk him down.

“Well, I was high, up to my tits,” he said. “And the thing was, the parrot came to me! I mean, the guy was texting or screwing around with his phone—he wasn’t even paying attention to his birds! And then the parrot jumped on my lap! So there I am, patting this bird and really getting into him and he’s looking at me with these intense eyes, and the next thing I know, I’m walking—fucking WALKING, not running—away with the bird. I mean, I even stopped and took selfies of me and the bird! I mean, look.”

He handed over the phone….

“It’s sort of a twist on the Monty Python routine,” I said.  “’I ain’t stealing the parrot, it was restin’ on my shoulder….’”

We passed the phone around.

“The bird looks great,” I said, “but Jesus, Montalvo, you look stoned!”

“…to my tits,” he repeated.

“And what kind of bird was it,” I said. “Gorgeous color….”

“That’s the thing,” said Montalvo, “of all the fucking birds, I had to go steal the most expensive one: a Blue Macaw. I mean, there are like 3,000 of them in the entire world, and there’s a list of everyone who owns one. So what the hell was I going to do with a Blue Macaw in La Perla? I didn’t have a cage, I didn’t have anything to feed it, I didn’t have any money to buy it food….”

“Champagne taste,” I told him.

“So how much was the bird worth,” I asked.

“That’s the thing—I had to go steal a 25,000 dollar bird!”

“What!”

“Yeah, 25,000 fucking dollars.

“Yeah, the cops were telling me ‘if you had stolen one of the $500 dollar birds, your bail would have been a lot less’ and they were right,’ he said. And went on to say, “you know, I’m really glad they arrested me, because if not, the dealers in La Perla would have killed me and fed me to the sharks….”

Justice outside the walls of the city is a little different.

“Do you have any experience representing parrot rustlers,” I asked Kayla. Because, guess what? It’s four PM, and Montalvo has his preliminary hearing in court at 8:30 the next morning. And Montalvo, with the twelve dollars in his pocket?

Right—it’s now Adventures in Paternity, or Fatherhood 101, or maybe a sort of alternative to the old TV show, “This Is Your Life”—all the people who weren’t in your life. Because I’m now feeling quite father-like.

“He’s a basically good kid,” I told Kayla, who’s a lawyer. “So I haven’t told him what my father told my brother….”

“What was that,” she said.

“Montalvo, you are going to HAVE to be honest, because you are too goddamned STUPID to be a criminal!”

“Did he wince,” said Kayla.

“Well, he looked down at the floor,” I told her. “So I guess that’s a wince.”

Guess what? Lawyers drink coffee, which is really good news, since Lady looked up and realized with a start: that wasn’t a customer, that was the cavalry coming over the hill.

The moment comes.

“How are we doing this,” I ask her. The lawyer has been getting Montalvo’s side of the story. But there’s a problem—he’s not a criminal lawyer, and he’s not sure that he’s up to the job. So he wants to consult his partner—who is a criminal lawyer.

“Half and half,” said Lady. “That’s how we always do it, right?”

Who knows how much it’ll be, but what are we going to do? The judge told him, the day she set bail, that if convicted, Montalvo could face eight years in jail.

“I’m gonna go out and find that parrot guy,” said Lady. “What if he dropped the charges? We’ll tell him that Montalvo’s the future national poet of Puerto Rico, he’s 21, he was stoned.”

“Up to my tits,” said Montalvo, who apparently likes the phrase.

“I’d go with an animal activist defense,” said Jessica, who had drifted by, kissed Montalvo, rubbed his buzz cut. “The bird was clearly abused and was attracted to Montalvo’s energy.”

“He was probably attracted to Montalvo’s dope fumes,” I said, “since we now know that Montalvo…”

“Up to…”

I cut him off.

“Do you have a tie?” I asked Montalvo. It’s now several hours later, and it occurred to me—what was he going to wear to court? So there Montalvo was, in my apartment, rummaging for shoes to wear.

“Too bad the shoes aren’t black,” I told him. “Otherwise, with the white shirt, black pants, and a tie, you make a perfect Mormon missionary!”

So we tied his tie for him, loosened it, and sent him on his way. I tell Raf that Montalvo is one stupid kid, but what could I do?

“Look at it this way,” he said, “at least you never had to change his diaper….”