New Broom

Modesto's sitting on the ground at the corner of Folsom & Norfolk, right by "Wish". He's got a clean San Francisco Fire Department T-shirt on, the ragged denims replaced with green khaki. "So you got some new clothes, nice" I tell him. He slowly pulls up the leg of his pants, up to the knee. He points to the black and blue marks. "What happened to you?" 


"Four guys. Four guy - one has baseball bat. One breaks my broom. One hits me with the bat." "That's terrible! Did you tell the police?" He shakes his head. "Nah. I'm no snitch. Don't matter. If I see 'em again, they better watch out".  One of the guys from the auto sales store comes up. Modesto ask him for money for a beer. "Hey, I need money. I need to get drunk." The guy (who obviously knows him) says, "how many have you had today?" Modesto points to the empty can, next to him. "Just two, today. I need beer. My pain" he explains as he points the bruises on his knee. The guy takes out two dollars. "Here ya go man."


I notice Modesto's got a new broom. A good, sturdy straw broom. He still keeps the broken one, which is all handle, no broom. "Take care of that nice new broom", I tell him as I cross the alley. He says good-bye and adds, "if anyone try to mess with you, I'll take care of them".

Modesto in torn jeans waves to me from the bus-stop. Modesto says, "New owners, Caliente, is gonna open soon. You see!"
"Are you sure, Modesto?"
"Yes!" he says emphatically. "I know. I sleep in doorway, I see two, three, big heavy guys. They new owners."

Three Screws

Modesto sitting outside Paradise. No wheelchair, no crutches.
"Modesto, where's the wheelchair?"
"I no need anymore".
There's a bandage around his other knee. "What happened?"
"Guys try and rob me. I fight them."
"You're fighting with your broken leg"?
"No matter. I got *three* black belts".
"What does the doctor say?"
"I no more go to doctor. Doctor make it worse.
They put screws in. Three screws. Don't work.
I take apart. Fix myself. Don't need doctor."

Modesto Mobile

Modesto limping down the street. His right leg in a black boot with velcro straps. "Hey Modesto, nice boot! No more wheelchair?"

"Wheelchair broke. I no need. I got 4 appointments for the doctor, but I don't go."

"Why not?"

"They don't know what they doing. I got four screws here," he points to the area around his knee. "They lose one screw!I fix it myself. Don't need doctors."

"How's the healing coming?"

"Good. Almost better. I mix together, garlic, onion, vinegar ..."

I don't need doctor".

 "Modesto, can I write it down?"

"Onion, garlic, salt, vinegar. Mix all together. Leave in sun FIVE days."

He said when he was 15 he had very bad asthma. He used this mixture, and "never again in my life have asthma." Perhaps it's an old Cuban folk remedy. In the past he's told me it cures everything, even Cancer. "Put on, my neck, here" he puts his hand on his neck. "Cancer, *never* come back."

"Where you sleeping, Modesto?"

He points down the street. "Around the corner. Different places."

"What about the boot, when you sleep?" He shows me how he sleeps with his leg raised up.

He's got a new jacket. A puffy, hooded, winter jacket, with the insignia of a private security company. "I go to work now. I clean all today."

"With your leg like that?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "I'm fine." Points to sidewalk. "See? I clean".

He says, "I have pain. Police give me . . ."

I can't understand what he's said. "What"?

"Per-co-set," he says emphasizing each syllable."Don't help. Nothing."

"Modesto, Percoset is a strong pain-killer. No, this one only 300%."

I know he means milligrams. But certainly not 300.

"I don't take. Don't matter. I drink alcohol . . . no pain."

"Listen," he says. "I got check in my pocket. Tomorrow I cash check for 250 dollars. I give you some money."

"Modesto, how do can work with your leg in that boot, and with so much pain?" He looks up to the sky, points, and says, "Him".

"I Dream of Jeannie"

Sunday night deserted streets. Modesto in his wheelchair in front of a dark "Fat City". "I'm lonely" he tells me. "No-one talk to me except you. They all say, "fuck you".

His right leg gives him pain. He says he has a prescription, but he can't find a pharmacy that has it. I ask him the name of the drug. It's something I've never heard of. He says he went to seven other drugstores. "Why don't you ask for a different prescription; have you tried to fill it at General?"

"The sheriffs at the hospital ask me "what are you doing here? I tell them I need pain medication for my leg. "They push me away."

"Modesto, do you still have that room?"
"No more; big Indian man throw away my key. I don't like staying that room, there's too much "cockaroaches".

A man comes up to us. He's wearing khaki shorts, a nice shirt. A silver bracelet on his right wrist catches my eye. The bracelet looks like it could be from Nepal. I've never seen this man before. He introduces himself to me and then kisses my hand. Modesto tells him I'm his good friend and that he "knows me five years". The man with the silver bracelet whispers something in Modesto's ear. "We have to go *now*," he says. Modesto asks me if I can watch his wheelchair. "I'll be back in 20 minutes". They leave together, Modesto limping.

I push the wheelchair down to the Garage Cafe. It's difficult to maneuver. I leave it by the door where I can see it. I sip Turkish tea and wait. The TV is tuned to "I Dream of Jeannie".

Modesto's been gone for close to an hour. I go outside to look for him and see him limping down the street.

He thanks me for watching his wheelchair. "Sorry I take so long; that man, he very, very rich. His brother is a millionaire."

Any News on Modesto?

Dear reader,

Please forgive my negligence. I haven't kept up and now there's so much to tell.

Here's a quick update copied from an email I sent to Audrey. Audrey lives in the neighborhood. I had sent a distraught message to the neighborhood group, desperate for information. Audrey asked for news of "Cookie". (Yet another nick-name, details to come.)

November 14th

Great news! Modesto is out of the hospital. He's doing fine. He didn't have a stroke after all. He was hit by a drunk driver in the FoodsCo parking lot and ended up at SF General for about 7 weeks. I don't know if the driver was caught. I don't know about the details of his injuries, except that he has seven stitches in his leg and pins in his ankle. He was given a wheelchair. He looks much healthier. Hiroshi has been helping him out, giving him rides back & forth to the hospital. He has a room now, but it's the kind of place where people get robbed so he's been going back to the hospital and sleeping in the emergency room.

Considering he was hit by a drunk driver, he's extremely lucky.

News

Another warm night South of Market. I went to the show at Fat City. I asked B** if he'd seen Modesto. "Modesto had a stroke".

I was shocked. "How do you know this?"
"One of the homeless guys in the neighborhood said so."

I asked how reliable the "source" was. B** said he didn't really know; he'd just heard this from Hiroshi. I asked Hiroshi, "Where's Modesto, what happened to him?"
Hiroshi said, "He's probably at (San Francisco) General."
I had so many questions, but I could barely hear myself or Hiroshi over the music.
"Is there a way of checking on him without knowing his last name?"
Hiroshi shook his head, no.

What will happen to Modesto? I want to see him. How do you get information on a patient when you don't know his last name?

Raising His Broom

Modesto is doing well of late. For a while there, his behavior was erratic. We wondered if he was doing crack again. One night he was having a virtual tantrum. Yelling out to and even raising his broom to police cars on the corner. While I tried to calm him down, a local shop owner put his arm around me and said, "he's not hearing you, he's not in his right mind". He might not have been in his right mind, be he did "hear" me. Finally he calmed down and apologized profusely.

Jubilant and Joyous

Modesto's eyes sparkle under the fluorescent light of the convenience store."I got a place."He tells me an address, but I can't understand his clipped English. "I gotta room," he says proudly. Points towards downtown. "The Royal Hotel". He pulls the key out of his pocket," rm. 116. "How much is the room?""It free. I had a meeting with the Mayor. Room for now, then a house with a yard.""Meeting with the mayor?""Last week," he says shaking his head."Do you have a stove?""No, is one room, no kitchen," he replies, "tomorrow I get my check gonna by me a hot plate"."You've got to be careful with those,""Don't worry. I know how to use. Very safe."

He goes into the convenience store to collect his couple of dollars for sweeping the sidewalk. He is sober, his clothes are clean, and his work gloves brand new. I find Isabelle and her the story. She shakes her head. "He told me the same thing a few days ago." Like me, Isabelle believes it's possible that Modesto had a meeting with the mayor.

Is this another delusion? Am I delusional for thinking his tale could be true? His happiness feels genuine. But delusions can be the source of genuine happiness. It's great to see him so happy. Meeting with mayor or not, it *is* possible that Modesto has a room.

I can't believe how much I want it to be true.

Hello

This weekend was the coldest of the year. I see Modesto and wonder how he fared in the cold. "I have no blanket, someone stole it" he says.

Once in my apt., I drop off my packages in the kitchen and quickly grab a heavy grey blanket. "Here you go, amigo, keep it safe".

"Don't worry, I keep it here" he says as he puts it in a bucket with his other belongings.

One of our friends is moving away. I want Modesto to give him a mesage. "Modesto, dice a nosotros amigo, hmmmm, I'm not sure exactly what I want to say".

"Not good-bye," he says. "Good-bye no good." He turns his head up and points to the sky. "You say goodbye, it means you die".

"Ok. Then, tell him I say hello".

Pink or Green

Monday evening. I've got a cold I'm trying to fight off. I feel pretty lousy. I'm almost home when I see Modesto standing in the alley, leaning on his broom smoking a cigarette. "Que tal, amigo?"

"ok"

"I'm not feeling so well today," I tell him.

"So Modesto, is R. gone, all moved out?"

He's been helping R. move. "No, not finished, he's back tomorrow."

"Modesto, how did you do the other night, it was so cold?"

"I sleep in doorway, round the corner. Now, I don't have blanket."

"You don't have a blanket? I'll see if I have an extra blanket."

"How about a jacket?"

"A jacket, too. My clothes dirty".

He spreads open his arms revealing a vest, blackened with soot.

"OK. I may have a jacket. It's a nice warm jacket. It's big and fleece."

"This jacket was Mark's". Mark died. I can't yet write about the details. Come to think of it, I think it was Mark who introduced me to Modesto and to several of the homeless characters in our neighborhood. It feels like I've always known Modesto. I wish I could remember the details of our meeting.

I go into my apt., drop my packages in the kitchen and quickly find a blanket. I don't know if this is exactly an "extra" blanket, but he needs it more than I do. It's a very heavy blanket. My brother sent it to me. Feels like it weighs about 15 pounds.

"Modesto, here's a blanket. Take good care of it".

"No problem, I put it here, no one take it." He puts it into a bucket he keeps with him.

"Modesto, the jacket is no good. It's red. Red is bad, it's a gang color.
I don't know if it's the color of "Los Surenos" or "Los Nurenos", but you can't wear it."

"No" he agrees. "Those gangs, pink and green bad too".

"All together, those colors bad. Only for gang."

"Pink, green, red, no good."

"So," I ask, "I shouldn't wear pink?"

"No, it's ok. Pink's ok for you".

I know a bit about gang colors, but I've never heard anything about pink or green.

Hot Treats

Modesto calls me as I walk down 11th straight. I'm on my way to get a salad at the pizza place. "Hey, I've got a sandwich, hot, you take half."

"Where'd you get that, Modesto?"

"Around corner, sandwich place, they just made it for me."

"What kind of sandwich is it?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "Take it, it's hot, very good."

I take half of the hot sandwich and open it. It's some kind of burger. I walk around the corner to the sandwich shop and show them the sandwich. "Modesto just gave this to me, is it turkey or beef?"

"Beef."

I don't eat beef.

Feeling Normal

Dear Readers, I've fallen behind for many a reason. I talk with Modesto just about every day now. I see him more than any of my other friends; including those that live here in SoMa.

Wet Blankets

11th street clean wet sidewalk
just washed bar mats draped over parking meter
half-moon clear sky
Modesto leaning on his broom
"Modesto, where's your sleeping bag?"
"I have no sleeping bag. Just two blankets. But they all wet."
He opens the door to the janitor closet.
"See. They all wet. I make some money, go wash blankets."
I wish him a good night.
"Be careful. Anyone try and mess with you, call my name," he says nodding his head, "I'll be there."

Broken Glass

6pm
I head out for a walk. I have the bracelet with me. Here comes Modesto. "What's up Modesto?"
"I gotta make a dollar. No problem. I'll make it," he said smiling.
I'll wait for a better time to give him the bracelet.

9pm
Modesto stands in front of "Wish". One of the bartenders is lighting a cigarette for him. Modesto's hands are cupped around the cigarette. He inhales, then looks up and sees me. We both cross the alley meeting in the middle. He points about half-way down the block. Some guys are smoking and drinking.
"Broken glass and cans," he says.
"They broke bottles?" I ask.
"Is ok. I go clean up." he says.
"Modesto, wait, I've got something for you." I take out the woven bracelet and give it to him. He turns it over in his hands and examines the bracelet, not quite sure what to make of it. "It says Modesto. Keep it with you, in case you forget your name," I joke.
He looks at the bracelet, slips it into his coat pocket and goes to sweep up the broken glass.

Stories to Come

Watching the Lunar Eclipse with Modesto
"My Father was a General in the Cuban Army"
How Modesto Came to Be in This Country
13 Children, 4 wives
Finding Money, Hiding Money
Modesto is Given a Van for His 60th Birthday
Modesto: Ex-Marine, Black Belt in Karate

Sunglasses

More than two weeks have passed since Modesto's birthday. I still haven't gotten the bracelet to him. I've been working during the day, staying home at night, so our paths have not crossed very often. I took the bracelet out of my bag. I didn't want to lose it.

On Tuesday I was on my way home from the local food co-op. I'd picked up a few ounces of "Fair Trade" dark-roast decaffeinated coffee beans, a sesame bagel from a local bagelry, a couple of pieces of spicy, "Mayan" dark chocolate, about an ounce of organic arugula and some organic whipped cream cheese. A cornucopia of flavor for only a few dollars.

I was waiting for the light to turn when I saw Modesto. He shook his head, and smiled "hello" in his customary fashion. He was holding a pair of stylish sunglasses in his left hand. "Nice sunglasses," I said.

He smiles. "Five dollars. I want to sell for five dollars."

I said, "You should keep them, you need to protect your eyes from the sun."

He shook his head. "No, I don't need".

As he crossed the street he turned around and called back to me, "I give you sunglasses if I don't sell them in half-hour."

Gift for Modesto

Finding a gift for someone who has and needs next to nothing poses a challenge. I didn't want to give him anything that would invite theft. At the Powell street turn-around there were about half-a-dozen different crafts booths. "Bracelets Your Name Five Minutes". I had "Modesto" woven with threads of warm brown, copper and yellow against a black background. Colors to blend in with his sun-toasted skin.
Modesto was walking toward me, broom in hand, when I got off the bus at 11th and Folsom. "Modesto, how does it feel to be 61?"
"I'm sixty! Born 1947". His eyes glimmered.
"Modesto, I have something for you". I held the bracelet up against his wrist.
"No," he said. "I can't wear. I'm too dirty, need to shower."
I had never noticed the black on his hands.
As we turned the corner he said, "I need to make a few dollars. Get something to drink. I'm alcoholic. Gotta work."