It was another hot day on the
bus as H made his way across
town. Driving in this country did
NOT inspire personal freedom,
as the pushy taxis, buses, and
suicidal motorcyclists covered
every inch of asphalt. The bus
was nice, a bit crowded, but with
a MP3 player the feeling of a
personal space could be had. He
had his arm out the window, and
thought about what he was
going to do with the rest of his
day off.
An entire childhood of being
told “keep your hands inside the
vehicle at all times” made it a
hard habit to break, but he
didn’t care. This was a different
place, and on the streets you
could see all manner of strange,
dangerous things being done on
and in motor vehicles. Women
riding side saddle on
motorcycles, a young guy with
his arms in the air trying to mimic
an ape. Turns out “old’ ape
arms” had a huge sheet of glass
that he was balancing on his lap,
and stabilizing with his hands, as
the driver of the motor cycle
weaved through a line of cars.
H’s elbow was jetting out from
the bus when a loud thud
startled passengers, the sound of
something hard crashing into the
side of the bus. The noise
shocked him, and slowed the
message of pain racing through
his arm and shoulder heading
toward his brain. The throbbing
in his elbow started immediately
as his stomach turned. He nearly
vomited. Everyone on the bus
was staring at him.
The driver slowed as he
approached the next stop. H
turned his head to see where the
bus had been, and saw three
boys continuing to throw rocks,
a common pastime here in
Central America it seemed. As
the bus stopped he quickly
moved down the steps and
stumbled onto the sidewalk. He
fought the urge to succumb to
the pain in his arm, and
breathed deeply.
He walked with all the
confidence he could muster as
he was suddenly more aware of
every movement of his body. The
three adolescents, saw the tall
gringo bearing down on them,
and dropped the rocks they had
in their hands that were
intended for the next passing
bus. He exploded into a full
sprint as he chased the boys
down the street. They split up
each heading in a different
direction. He locked his eyes
onto the biggest of the three.
The street narrowed and became
a footpath running between
houses. The boy put his hands
out in front of him as he
slammed into a closed gate. He
tried to open it as fast as he
could. Hearing the noise and
commotion a short woman came
from the back of the house,
yelling for the boy to calm down,
that she was coming to let him
in.
But it was not fast enough. H
was on him, planting his
shoulder, the one not with a
wounded elbow, into the young
man’s ribs. The teenager flew to
the ground and H with the
upper hand had no clue what to
do in the position he now found
himself in.
Just as quickly as H had gained
the higher ground it was
challenged, as a man with a
machete stepped out from the
house that the boy had been
trying to enter. H heard shouts
behind him, and when he turned
and saw the man with the
machete, was surprisingly not
that alarmed. H figured if the
guy had wanted to use the thing
he would have, and with no
warning. Going with this
reasoning H shuffled his feet and
kicked the armed man in the
groin. He doubled over with a
yelp. H reached and grabbed the
machete.
The woman was screaming in
Spanish and H didn’t have to be
fluent to get the idea of what
she was carrying on about. He
shouted in Spanish for her to
“shut up!” As she fell silent he
showed his hurt arm to her, and
explained what the boy or boys
had done.
He found sympathy with no
success, as she began to cuss
and scream at him. The boy even
got in on the action as he
regained his breath and joined in
with his mother. The man on his
knees began to stir. H had no
options, what was he going to
do, start using the machete? His
eyes wandered away from the
mother and son choir and
focused on the front room of
the house. The gate the boy had
wanted to escape through was
now and had been open since
the machete and its owner got
involved.
H letting the machete lead the
way marched into the house as
the mother with eyes wide open,
and a look of fear flattened
herself against the opened gate
to make room for H. He made a
beeline for a Catholic shrine set
up in a corner.
The statue of Mary fell to the
floor in a million pieces, along
with the ornamental backdrop,
and some candles. The machete
in H’s hand made quick work of
it, and left the corner looking
like a sacked Jerusalem
Cathedral during the Crusades.
H smiled at the family of three,
mother in tears, machete guy/
father still on his knees, and son
backed against a wall. He
dropped the machete a block or
so away, and as he turned a
corner and changed his
victorious tall proud march into
a brisk jog in fear of any
retaliation. He saw a bus making
its way down the street and ran
to catch. He didn’t care what
route it was, and thought “I’ll
just switch when I can.”
He got home about an hour
later than usual. His wife Janie
listened fearfully and doctored
the quarter sized wound on his
elbow, as he told her everything
that had taken place. H would
have a large plum colored
bruise, limited mobility, and quite
a bit of swelling for the next
week and a half.