That was the type of statement Santiago would make. He could steal the sun from the clearest of skies; point out your faults no matter how perfect your performance. It was as though he was not satisfied until you were as miserable as he was.
Yet, when I think back, I could say he was pragmatic in his approach to life. At the time his blunt assessments felt harsh to my delicate ears. He told things as they were, and the truth can feel harsh.
I do think he was just mean; made ornery by the life he’d led. For the longest time I thought it was just that he didn’t like me, but then I came to understand he didn’t talk much to anyone, and when he did, he was rude and offensive.
Santiago worked for my grandfather. He was also drunk most of the time, which meant he didn’t get work done fast, though his attention to detail was amazing. It was fortunate the cemetery’s clientele weren’t in much of a rush, and also too bad they couldn’t admire the work he did on their lawns and flowerbeds.
As afraid of him as I was growing up, I felt bad for him. He always appeared shabby and unkempt. He stank of cheap beer and most mornings last night’s vomit stained the front of his shirt. Sleep crusted the corners of his eyes and he was incapable of conversation until he’d had a cup of Jack Daniels watered down with coffee.
His stink permeated throughout the garage. Pap allowed him to live in the apartment above it, which didn’t help matters. Somehow the smells of gasoline and fresh cut grass couldn’t overpower the stench of Santiago.When I was working for Pap, he’d invite me up for a ‘snap’ or a ‘pop’ after work, but Pap had two rules I had to follow or else he’d skin me. First, I had to work hard every single day. If I didn’t put out my best effort, Pap would know, and I would hear about it. Second, I was under no circumstances to go up to Santiago’s apartment. Not that I wanted to. While I didn’t fear him as I had as a child, I also wasn’t eager to be in an enclosed space with him alone.
