Custodio

On reaching maturity, sea turtles return to the same Michoacan beach where they hatched.

"Hey man," a cheerful voice startled me, "why don't you sit down?" The English was fluent, with only a trace of accent.

A young man, shaved head, emerged from the shady enramada, menu in hand.

It was early morning in Playa Azul. The sun just rose over the Ocean, and I was getting ready to jog. I was not in a mood for cheery voices, yet I was intrigued. "Where did you learn your English?" I asked.

"I lived in Washington State for twenty three years," the young man answered smiling,

"What brought you here?"

Lowering his voice he answered, "A bit of trouble man, you know"

More awake now, I noticed the tattoos that extended up along his forearms and under the sleeves of his neatly pressed shirt. "You did time." I asked, acting cool.

He lowered his eyes and nodded "Yeah."

"I'll see you later," I said and started jogging along the water line. I ran slowly, enjoying the cool air, the fresh sea smell, and the sound of the breaking waves. I felt sorry for the young man trying to earn a living on a beach totally devoid of tourists. On the way back, he was waiting for me in front of the empty enramada.

"Hey man, how about it?" he pleaded.

I chose one of the tables arranged on the soft white sand, and ordered breakfast. He brought the orange juice, and I asked for his name.

"Custodio"

I asked him to sit. He told me that his age was twenty-five, and he has been living here for the last two years. I remarked that my arithmetic placed his birthplace in Washington State.

"No man," he protested, "I was born right here". "I was a little baby when my mama took me to the states."

I asked about the father.

"He died when I was just a …, you know, just a…" he struggled, "…before I was born."

I wanted to know more. At first, I had to probe to get the details, but as his story emerged, his descriptions became more expansive.

"My dad was a fisherman. They say he brought in drugs. Who knows, man? Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. Anyway… they shot him." He concluded and left to get my coffee.

He brought a cup of instant coffee, nothing else. I asked for milk; he hit his forehead, apologized, and went back to the kitchen to get it. The coffee was lukewarm.

"I grew up a good boy. Then I started getting into trouble. You know, girls. Girls, and then smoking and stuff. …First smoking, later crack, crystal, and stuff, you know. Then I started dealing. No, I didn't drop out of his school. I am not stupid. I got good grades. I figured if I get good grades at school, than I won't get in trouble with my mom, and I could do whatever, after school. I could get away with it, you see."

A shout from the kitchen indicated that my eggs were ready, and he brought the plate to my table. Another smack on the forehead, and he went back to the kitchen to get the fork and salsa.

"Thanks man," he returned smiling, "for teaching me what costumers need"

I never saw a customer in this enramada, and I could not help but assume that I might have been the first one in the two months that Custodio has been working here. He sat down, and we returned to his past.

At the age of fourteen, he was sentenced to eight years. I was incredulous. Eight years are a long time for dealing drugs.

"Well, it wasn't drugs," he answered with the same apologetic smile, "I shot somebody."

"I was in this house, you know. There were a bunch of us kids living there. One day, I discovered that all the money was gone out of my pocket. I knew it must have been this girl. She was laughing right in my face. It must have been her."

"There was this automatic gun on a shelf. I was high on drugs. I wasn't thinking straight. I don't know what I was thinking. I went crazy, man." Custodio picked up an imaginary gun and pointed it, "I took the gun, she kept laughing, I pressed the trigger. The gun went trrrrrr." He fell silent, still pressing the imaginary trigger. For a few moments, I was silent too.

Sometimes, things are not as bad as they seem. The girl survived. Custodio completed his education in jail. During this period, he was transferred a few times into the adult jails. "They couldn't handle me in Juvenile." He used the prison library to learn the law, and managed to avoid deportation.

He got up to return with more tortillas, and I utilized the interruption to ask a rhetorical question.

"Custodio," I asked, speaking as clearly as I could, "Why is it that in the States, young Mexicans are considered bad, violent, gang members, while here in Mexico, all the people I meet are kind, friendly, and gentle?"

Custodio stayed silent, thinking. Finally, he looked directly at me and said, "Racism, man. Racism."

We talked about his mother. Custodio's problems got his mother in trouble with the Immigration Service. Unlike him, she did not want to go through the hearing ordeal. She moved to another city, and dropped out of the system. Custodio does not have much contact with her.

"I am a grown up now," he says inflating his chest, "I can't just come to her door and say: Mom take me in. Can I?"

For a while, things went well. He even got married. However, the lure of easy money was too great. He started dealing again.

"If I did less than 100 grand a month, it would be a bad month." "My wife didn't know, man. She thought I inherited the money or something." "Later in court she called me a dirty Spic"

The police got him while he was making a delivery.

Custodio described the incident, his pitch noticeably higher. "They surrounded me, man. I ran, I threw the stuff away, but they got it anyway."

This time, he could not avoid deportation. His wife moved in with another man. Custodio came back to Playa Azul. He lives here with his cousins.

"Now I am staying clean, man."

I looked at him skeptically; I had a different impression.

"Well I smoke some. How did you know, man? After the shower in the morning, I smoke a joint. I have to. I have some here. I can roll you one."

I declined the offer.

"I really don't know why I am here," said Custodio looking around him, "I don't make any money. I guess I need the calm. "

Holding his head, he continued, "There is this bad side of me, you know, and there is this other side, and I am trying to put them together. It's hard. Sometimes, all of a sudden, I need to clear my head and I start running along the beach. People think I am crazy. I just need to clear my head, you know."

Eventually, I paid and left. I wished Custodio well. I hope that one day he will put himself together and accomplish his goal of becoming an accountant.