The Beerman (Figuras # 1)

Published in BCNWEEK
Issue 7
June 30 - July 6

His hands raise the beers, his first two fingers slung through the plastic loops that choke seagulls and drown pelicans. I recognize this tio. I've bought from him before. Never talked to him before, though. He doesn't speak much Spanish. Quiero hacer una entrevista. Que? En-tre-vista . . . in-ter-view? He shakes his head and shruggs his shoulders. That’s international communication. He’s from Pakistan. Then he nods toward his friend across the street. I cross and start over again. I get a similar response, poco Spanish poco English. Interview? Que? I want to talk to you. This times he understands, but refuses. The distrust bleeds through his eyes. Also Pakistani eyes. The fourth cerveza vendor I approach is younger, wearing a plain orange t-shirt and smoking. His Pakistani eyes are bloodshot but wide open. He's hesistant too, but something in those wide-open eyes says yes.
Sahi has been in Barcelona for two years. Finding out the details of his life is a linguistic challenge while I follow him from place to place. For the first part of his two years here his brother gave him money to survive. I wonder how he spent that time (forgot to ask) because his Spanish is quite poor. Back in Pakistan he didn't need a job. His mother and father took care of him, gave him, "lunch, dinner" and home. They also gave him the money to leave when he expressed his desire. It's your life, they told him. But whatever grace period he had is now up and it shows in his eyes, which are not the eyes of a man who sleeps much. He pulls out another of his cheap brand cigarrettes and cracks one of the beers he stands there holding silently. He's not much of a salesmen. And if I'd been more alert I wouldn't have asked if he is religious. He was, after all, standing there smoking and drinking a brew-dawg.
He works during the day in a place to remain unnamed because he works there illegally. It's a menial job, which is to say any special skills he may possess are not required. Let's just say he chops things. Then at night he sells Estrella cans and those dirt-cheap lagers that I avoid when I purchase my street beer. He usually gets home at about 3 or 4 o'clock in the morning, where he might talk for a while with one of the 8 roommates that share his 3-bedroom apartment in El Raval. Then he's up again for the day job at about 9. For fun? No fun. Work fun. He pays 250 euros for his room, food and phone included. That's cheap rent. So where does the money go? Home to Pakistan.
Or that's what he said. To tell the truth, I don't believe him. His parents had enough money to support him and to send him here. He doesn't want to go home. "I like this culture." He wants to meet a girl, but not a Pakistani one, a European one. It seems he wants to live here, to be a perma guiri. We'll see. Maybe the money goes home, but maybe it's stockpiling, an immigrants goldmine, an immigrants future in B-to-the-CN.