The Revolutionaries Try Again

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Everyone’s saying that lightning struck the phone on Palm Sunday, Don Leopoldo. The one public phone at the Calderón that didn’t filch your coins. At least not all of them. That soon after hordes were pilgrimaging to it and lining up to dial their departed. That the single witness of the fateful strike, who’s the custodian at the Calderón — you know that park? The one by that gas station caught watering its diesel and dumping burnt Pennzoil in the Salado, imagine that, as if that river needed any more muck, a bit more and the stench won’t let us breathe, hopefully you don’t live by the Salado like I do, luckily León’s in charge and he’ll send someone to rinse it soon. That’s why I voted for your boss, Don Leopoldo, you know I’ve always voted for León. So the custodian hears thunder and sees lightning and he’s spooked. Brimming with liquor Patito, too. Apparently he’s known as a drunk and a troubadour. Little Jaramillo they call him over in El Guasmo. Apparently he serenaded his second wife at the Calderón and still shoulders his guitar to serenade the domestics that stroll by on Sundays. Cuando tú / te hayas ido / me envolverán / you know that pasillo by Julio Jaramillo?

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