Old Man on a Park Bench (Figuras # 2)

Published in BCNWEEK
Issue # 8
July 7 - 13, 2006

I hid there for some time, crouching behind an arbusto so as not to disturb them. If you startle them, they might stand up e-x-t-r-e-m-e-l-y slowly and begin to waddle away. Fortunately though, elderly Spanish men are easy to spot. But don’t be fooled! Beneath the abuelo uniform lies the real Spain . . . back when men were hombres, and they all wore the same shirt. The ensemble is unmistakable and I knew just where to find it; sittin’ on a park bench.
Start with brown loafers over dark socks. Dark slacks, maybe pin-striped, and held up (and I mean UP) by a dark leather belt so worn that half the shine is long gone. There’s a handkerchief in the back hip pocket. A tucked-in, button-down, used-to-be-white or maybe faded yellow shirt comes next, and then a classic watch, some glasses, a conservative haircut, and a cane. A viejo may lack one or two of these trinkets, but the uniform doesn’t vary much.
I approach the bench pretending to be a guiri writing in his guiri notebook. As I take notes, this noble species glances at me occasionally but I don’t worry. I write in English and I’m 99.99 percent sure that these dudes don’t speak a lick of it. What they do speak doesn’t sound much like Spanish either, at least not to these guiri ears, and I struggle to get the gist of the conversation as they verbally joust back and forth.
I should have guessed . . . futbol. They’re having the same conversation they’ve had for 50 years, maybe more. “Es que . . it takes 11 jugadores to win the World Cup, not two or three.” “Hombre, claro.” I fail to follow most of the conversation, but hear, “Have you seen how Ronaldhino dances?” I certainly haven’t. That question ended the football conversation.
Then, one of them puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out ( . . . what could it be? . . ) a shiny, new Nokia mobile. This is abuelo uniform 2006. His friend grabs it from him and tries to feed it to a passing dog who shows interest in consuming it. I laugh out loud and they look at me, laughing as well, and there’s my in! “Excuse me, senores, do ustedes come here often?”
Everyday. But why? Santiago Rafael waves his glasses in the air as he talks, like punctuation. Siempre vengo aqui para despejar de mi mujer. It takes a minute to understand he comes to get a break from the wife. I ask his friends to tell me a story about him and Fernando Blanco da Silva (no joke, that’s a real name) tells me they used to call him Don Capullo because he always had red cheeks thanks to the whisky. Buenisimo.
To get revenge, Santiago tells me old Fernando used to be a torero, or, matador, and that once, he saw a rat and got so scared he jumped off the small hill he was standing on at the time and tore up all his clothes in the process. “What kind of torero is afraid of rats?” he laughs. Fernando isn’t laughing.
And what about your friend over here? It turns out that Juan Rodriguez, old-man-on-a-park-bench number three, smacked a kid once at that bus stop right over there! The chaval tenia mala leche (bad mood) and punched the glass. Juan slapped him around a bit. “These jovenes,” says Juan, “estos jovenes no saben.” All three nod their heads in silent agreement, and keep sitting on that bench.