Señor González

[108 fountains]

I've been working on a couple of longer stories. This one is practically a novelette. I have it pretty near to final form, but am not fully satisfied with certain parts of it. Some good feedback and constructive criticism would really help me in going into a final revision. Since it is so long, I'll break it up into parts. Here are the first two of five chapters.



Señor González

Chapter 1

On Christopher Crooker’s first day on the job as Science Attaché at the American Embassy in Santiago, he was introduced to his Chilean assistant, Mr. González, or “Señor González” using the Chilean terminology. Christopher’s boss, Blaine Blade, the Economic Counselor, had warned Christopher about Señor González – “He’s an older man and is just nine months away from retirement. Don’t expect much from him. I’m afraid he has lost whatever enthusiasm he ever had and has outstayed his usefulness. He might be a bit difficult to work with.”

So Christopher was unsure if Señor González was purposely trying to be humorous at their introduction. Christopher said, “Buenos dias, Señor González. How are you?”

And Señor González looked up and replied, “Well, sir, any day that I am still looking down at the green grass and not up like a potato is a good day for me.”

Christopher spent his first two days going through the embassy’s check-in procedures and all the administrative matters that come with beginning a new job and relocating to a new home in a new country. He filled out forms for his computer log-on, for enrolling his children in the International School, and for delivery of his airfreight and household goods. He had his photo taken for his Embassy ID card and for his diplomatic visa. He paid a courtesy call on the Ambassador and Deputy Chief of Mission and introduced himself to all the Embassy section heads. And he began learning the combinations and passwords for all the doors, safes, electronic keypads, and other security measures that accompany working at a United States embassy.

On the third day, Christopher started going through his in-box. He found a three-month-old one-page memo from his predecessor outlining the “unfinished business” that Christopher was inheriting. He also found a five-page memo dated three days earlier from Señor González that explained in crisp paragraphs each of the significant issues he would be facing, the current status of each issue, suggested next steps, and a list of Chilean officials whom Christopher should meet with in his few weeks on the job, along with a brief biography of each official. Chris skimmed through the first memo, but read Señor González’s memo carefully, highlighting certain key points. Then he called Señor González and asked him to step into his office to go through the memo. Señor González was in Christopher’s office in less than a minute.

Christopher complimented Señor González on the document – it was comprehensive yet concise. He had several questions for Señor González about Chile’s hydropower sector, its flirtations with nuclear energy development, and the Chile Renewable Energy Center’s collaboration with the U. S. Department of Energy. He and Señor Gonzalez identified the first three Chilean government officials whom Christopher should meet and determined suitable dates and times for the appointments. At the end of the meeting, Señor González invited Christopher to join him for lunch. Christopher readily accepted the invitation.

Señor González brought Christopher to a mid-scale restaurant four block’s walking distance from the Embassy. Profusely embellished with chrome and glass, the modern bistro was abuzz with young office workers in suits and skirts in conversation with each other, texting on their cell phones, e-mailing on their Blackberries, and – yes – eating their lunches. “I don’t normally come here,” said Señor González, “but it seems to be a favorite with the younger officers and staff in our Economic Section. I thought you might like it.”

“It appears to be a busy and bustling place,” replied Chris watching the brisk movement of the waiters and waitresses and the comings and goings of the customers. He perused the menu, which contained descriptive photographs of the various entrées. “Do you have any recommendations?” he asked.

“Well, sir,” said Señor González, “I recommend you try the Porotos Granados. It is a traditional dish, a kind of stew made with cranberry beans and butternut squash.”

“Then that is what I’ll have,” said Chris decisively.

Señor González had been quite formal during their morning meeting and maintained his starched demeanor into the lunch. When it became obvious that Christopher was truly enjoying the dish that Señor González had recommended, however, he relaxed somewhat, and his lineaments softened.

Señor González was sixty-four years old. He was about five and a half feet tall, and his waistline revealed evidence that his wife was proficient at preparing Porotos Granados and any number of other Chilean cookery. His once smoky black hair had gradually developed into roan before going the way of grullo and was rapidly developing into Sabino-white. He wore a thick, bushy gray mustache on his upper lip and thick black frames on his glasses, which tended to slide down a rather oily, red nose. He had a habit of pushing his glasses back up his nose by pressing on the lenses with his pudgy fingertips so that smudges of fingerprints on the glass lenses obscured his vision.

Many of the other American officers at the Embassy spoke Spanish, but Christopher had not been required to learn the language before coming out to Chile. In his job as Science Attaché, he generally would be meeting with officials and professionals who had studied in the United States or otherwise were proficient in English. As a result of missing out on language lessons, he also missed the opportunity to attend the cultural “area studies” seminars that accompanied the State Department’s language courses. He had done some reading on his own, of course, but still had much to learn about Chile’s history, culture, and traditions. So, a considerable amount of the lunchtime conversation consisted of questions about Chile submitted by Christopher and answers eagerly provided by Señor González. By the end of the lunch, Chris had decided that Señor González would be a wealth of information on these topics as well as on the science, technology, energy, and environmental issues that he covered in his portfolio. After the young waitress cleared the table, Chris conceded to Señor González’s insistence on paying the bill, but only after he agreed to allow Chris to pay for their next meal together. Walking back to the Embassy in the bright sunlight, both Chris and Señor González felt they had attained their mutual objective – to lay a solid foundation for a strong professional relationship.

Over the next several days, Christopher began his work in earnest. Accompanied by Señor González, he met with the Superintendent of Electricity and Fuel at the Ministry of Economy, Mining and Energy and with the head of the National Environmental Commission. Señor González had already begun drafting the minutes of those two meetings, as well as preparing a report on Chile VA!, a program to promote science and technology vocations by organizing science camps for students. Christopher was somewhat puzzled by Blaine Blade’s warning concerning Señor González. So far, he was proving to be an exemplary employee.

Señor González took great pride in and spent the greater portion of his time preparing an online monthly newsletter on science and environmental developments in Chile. After he showed Christopher his draft of the publication for September, Christopher said. “I don’t normally like to start making changes in office operations until I am familiar with the way things work, but don’t you think we could spice up the newsletter if we included a few photographs or other graphics?”

“We used to include photographs until Ms. Kaufman, your predecessor, said we shouldn’t,” replied Señor González.

“Why didn’t she want to use photographs,” Christopher asked.

“Well, sir, we were just taking them off the Internet, and she was afraid we were violating copyright laws.”

“Hmmm,” Christopher demurred, “I see her point. On the other hand, this is only for internal use back in the Department. It’s not intended as a publication for the public. I wonder…” he thought out loud for a moment and then suggested, “What if we include a citation – a notation under the picture citing the source?”

“Mr. Crooker! That’s what I suggested to Ms. Kaufman!” Señor González cried.

“Then let’s do it!” said Christopher.

From that moment on, Señor González viewed Christopher as something of a hero.

On the Friday of Christopher’s fourth week, Señor González invited him to have a drink and “a unique cultural experience” after work. They took a taxi to an open-air restaurant on the outskirts of Santiago. The restaurant contrasted in every respect with the bistro where they had taken lunch nearly a month earlier. The restaurant itself was a family home to which a rather out-of-place ramshackle addition had been made in the back to accommodate a public eatery. The restaurant portion of this improvised architectural creation shared one wall with the adjoining house, boasted another wall comprised of pieces of plywood and plastic sheeting, and open space where two other walls might have been, affording a pleasant view of a sizeable back yard that resembled a Valdivian temperate rain forest. A donkey stood tethered to a nearby beech tree. The tables inside, as well as the benches that took the place of chairs were constructed from roughly hewn wooden planks. The single waitress, who was also the owner and manager, a plump, matronly little woman, wore an apron with a faded flower print over white knee-length slacks and an orange, long-sleeve shirt. She greeted Señor González by name.

Señor González spoke familiarly with the matron and with three men who appeared to be members of her family. Señor González did not need to order. The matron set in front of them two small glasses, a bottle of Coca-Cola, and a small bottle of a cloudy, light amber colored drink. Señor González enlightened Chris. The restaurant served Curanto, a Chilean dish that would be prepared shortly. Because they had arrived early, they would have about an hour before food was served. In the meantime, they could converse and partake of the amber colored drink, which he called Pisco. He said that this bottle contained Pisco Especial, stronger than regular Pisco, but not quite as strong as Gran Pisco. Using his right hand, Señor González filled the two small glasses about halfway with the Pisco Especial. Then he filled the first glass to the rim with coke. He was about to do the same with the second glass when Christopher stopped him. “I don’t usually like sweet drinks,” Christopher said.

“Well, sir, that is up to you,” declared Señor González, “but most Chilean people prefer it this way. We call it Piscola.”

Señor González held up his glass, gazed happily at the fizzing mixture, smacked his lips in delicious anticipation, and exclaimed “Salut!”

“Salut!” responded Christopher. Christopher took a small sip and was able to maintain an amiable expression on his face despite the taste. It had a flavor that drifted somewhere between vodka and brandy with a musty, woody aftertaste. Christopher was not much of a drinker in the first place, so perhaps he was simply unable to correctly appreciate the subtleties of this new aperitif.

While they drank, they talked – about work, of course. Christopher noted that it must be tough for local employees like Señor González, who had worked in the office many years and knew their job backward and forward, to put up with the caprices of newly arriving American supervisors every two or three years. Señor González was surprised to hear his new boss talk in these terms and was pleased. He confided that he felt less satisfaction in his work than he used to feel. Many of the coworkers with whom he had spent most of the past 32 years were long since retired themselves. The newcomers, especially the young ladies who had come on board in the past few years to work alongside him in the Economic Section, had a different outlook on life. They were intelligent and hard-working, no doubt, he said, but they had no patience, they gossiped, and they had no respect for their elders. He found it hard to relate to them or to understand them.

Chris listened to Señor González and took a sip from his Pisto whenever Señor González took a sip from his, which was frequently. After finishing two glasses, Señor González pulled out two cigars from a leather case in his pocket. Chris politely declined his invitation, but expressed no objection to Señor González “lighting up.”

While they conversed, Christopher noticed a few more customers filter in and take their places at the long, wooden tables. Some of them nodded familiarly to Señor González. Most of them were older or middle-aged working-class men, but a few white collars appeared among them, as well as a sprinkling of middle-aged female cohorts. All of them drank either Pisco or beer, and the atmosphere in the restaurant, which had been subdued and muted at first, gradually developed a boisterous, folksy conviviality. The three men, who had appeared lethargic and without occupation when Chris and Señor González first arrived, were now hard at work preparing the Curanto. Chris watched as one of the men arranged the ingredients – clams, mussels, giant barnacles, pieces of chicken, bits of ham, potatoes and other vegetables – into layers, each layer covered in white cabbage leaves. The other two men fired up a pit just a short distance from the tables, where the entire preparation was placed, cooked by red hot stones heated by a bonfire. The white smoke wafting back over the tables carried with it an exquisite, mouth-watering aroma. Engrossed in watching the preparation of the meal, Chris did not even notice when the matron set another bottle of Pisco down in front of them.

Christopher commiserated with Señor González. The State Department, too, seemed to place an emphasis on youth, he said. The Department had an “up or out” policy – if you are not promoted within a certain number of years, you would be forced into retirement to make way for younger, more eager, more aggressive rivals. Chris told Señor González that he had only two more years to achieve a promotion or he would be “out.” “I will be just fifty-three then,” said Chris. “Who’s going to hire me at fifty-three? And I’ll still be too young to receive a pension. How am I going to pay for my son’s college tuition?”

“Well, sir, perhaps you will be promoted during your tour here.”

“It’s unlikely,” began Chris. He was about to say that he did not expect anyone in Washington to be impressed by science and technology reporting out of Chile and that his assignment there was not among his top choices, but he realized a statement like that might be offensive to Señor González, so he held his piece.

“Salut!” interrupted Señor González, holding up a freshly poured glass of Piscola.

“Salut!” returned Chris with a beaming smile and a face reddened by frequent sips of the amber colored drink.

Chris resumed his discourse and noted that his own supervisor, Blaine Blade, the Economic Counselor, was ten years Christopher’s junior. That in itself did not bother Chris, but over the years, he had come to the conclusion that the promotions often went to those who knew best how to play the promotion game – and those were not necessarily the people who were most deserving. Señor González was surprised to hear his new boss talk in these terms. He was pleased that Christopher was being so candid with him. Christopher himself was surprised at his lack of reticence in front of a subordinate. It must be the Pisco, he said to himself, taking another sip.

Whether if it was from the effects of the Pisco or of the bonfire burning just yards away, but Christopher definitely sensed a warm, rosy glow and a feeling of light-headedness gradually come over him. Señor González’ pink cheeks had turned almost crimson and he began having difficulty pronouncing his words.

“Mr. Crooker!” exclaimed Señor González. “I rilly, rilly like workin’ for yer. Thish pash mon hash been rilly, rilly lovely. Plish, lemme pour shum Coca-cola in yer Pishco.” He picked up the coke bottle, leaned over, and poured the cola in the general direction of Christopher’s glass, spilling most of what he poured onto the table. Christopher laughed outright at this humorous feat.

“You better be careful,” admonished Christopher. “If you drink too much of this stuff, you might…” and here he broke off mid-sentence.

“I mie whar?” asked Señor González.

“Huh? What’s that?” said Chris staring at Señor González as if he had just noticed him sitting across the table from him for the first time.

“You shed I mie drink too much of thish shtuff,” said Señor González, taking a significant swallow from his glass.

“I did?” said Chris in genuine amazement, taking another sip himself. “I don’t remember.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Señor González. “Now, yer drinkin’ Pishcola. Now yer rilly, rilly Chilean.” He smiled broadly and heaved a contented sigh as he refilled his own glass and puffed away at his second cigar.

“Well,” said Chris, suddenly remembering a fragment of their earlier conversation. “I really enjoy working with you, too, Señor González. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I have to say in all honesty that I really like working with you – Salut!”

“Mr. Crooker!” cried Señor González.

“What is it, Señor González?” asked Chris, somewhat startled by his alacrity.

“I godda go badroom!”

“Then by all means, go, go!”

Señor González got up from the table and hurried away clutching in between his legs like a three-year-old boy who was not quite completely potty-trained. Christopher watched as he sped bowlegged toward the restroom. “He’s quite a character,” Christopher chuckled out loud to himself. “I would like to have known him when he was a younger man.”

Señor González breathed a huge sigh of relief on his return. “Shinsh I turned shixty, whenever I drink, I godda go badroom. And when I godda go, I rilly, rilly godda go!”

By now, the three men were pulling off the fronds that had been covering the smoking pit. They dished out Curanto in copious helpings on large plates to be served to all the diners in the establishment. Christopher was famished and the Curanto was delicious – entirely worth waiting the time it took to prepare. The mussel and clam shells had opened up to reveal the succulent meat inside. The potatoes and other vegetables were juicy and steaming. Several minutes elapsed with neither Chris nor Señor González saying a word. They were too absorbed in the act of doing justice to the meal.

The meal also had the effect of partially curing their light-headedness and the word-slurring that had begun to plague Señor González. At last, after several grunting and slurping sounds, Señor González began a new conversation. He said that he expected to request some vacation time over All Saints Day. He said he would travel to the Tarapacá Region in the country’s far north to visit his parents’ graves. “I have one younger brother and five older shisters,” said Señor González. “And, welsher, not one of ush is getting any younger, but not one of ush hash ever mished going to our home town on All Shaints Day these many years. It is like a reunion. We call it familia,” he said. “We believe that the family should remain together and shtedfasht, no matter the sheparation in time or distansh. Mr. Crooker! Here! Please take shum more of these potatoes. And here is a big peesh of ham!”

“That is a big family,” said Christopher. “And what about you, Señor González? How many children do you have?”

A slight shadow passed fleetingly over Señor González’s eyes. “Well, sir, I have one son and one daughter. They are both married, and my daughter herself has a seven-year-old daughter, my only grandchild.” Señor González paused to clear his throat, then resumed, “They have both moved away. I last saw my son eight months ago. He lives in La Serena, about 250 miles to the north of Santiago. My daughter lives in Concepción, about 250 miles to the south. It has been more than two years since I have seen her – or my grand-daughter.” Señor González took a swallow of his Piscola. “We have never had any quarrels, but as they grew up, they also grew distant. I remember them as they were as young children. We were as happy as any family has reason to be. Then, suddenly, they were grown up, and I no longer knew them. My wife explained to me that they had to develop their own interests, make their own friends, and find their own way.” He cleared his throat again. “I wonder,” he said, more to himself than to Chris, “I wonder if they will visit my grave on All Saints Day.”

After a respectful pause, Christopher told Señor González that he had only one son, a senior in high school. He regretted that he had to start over at a new school in his senior year, but such was life in the Foreign Service. His son was putting his applications in at Dartmouth, University of Pennsylvania, and Penn State, he added. Señor González resumed his composed, contented demeanor as he listened to Christopher. He asked Chris what his son planned to study in college.

“He hasn’t decided yet, but he is considering a law degree.”

Then, a twinkling, impish expression came over Señor González's face as he leaned forward over the table towards Chris and said, “Mr. Crooker! I hope he will decide to study something else – anything but law.”

“Why do you say that, Señor González?”

“Well, sir, you know what they say about lawyers – ninety-nine percent of them give the rest of them a bad reputation.” And he laughed heartily at his own joke.

[108 fountains]

Chapter 2

One afternoon the following week, Chris stopped by Señor González’s office after lunch. It wasn’t really an office – just a corner cubicle with molded plastic desks and cabinets in a large area where space was shared by six other cubicles in front of which was a fax machine, a copy machine, a scanner and printer, and a reception desk. All but one of the other cubicles were inhabited by female Chilean staff working for the Embassy’s Economic Section. The single other male assistant, or “specialist,” as they called themselves, sat some distance from Señor González. His name was Mister Fuentes. He was the “Macro-Economic Specialist.” His head was full of financial statistics, graphs, charts, interest rates, and trade data. Christopher never really knew for sure why everyone called him “Mister” instead of “Señor,” but thought it might be due to his aloofness. He brought his lunch to work every day in a brown paper bag and ate at his desk. He preferred e-mail to actual conversation and had never been known to converse with anyone on matters outside of his financial area of expertise.

On one side of Señor González’s cubicle sat Doña Silva, a middle-aged, arrogant little woman who looked condescendingly over her reading glasses at the forestry, timber, and lumber sector, which constituted a significant part of Chile’s overall economy. On the other side of Señor González’s cubicle sat Señora Soto, bright, young, and efficient and belonging to a family that was rich and well-connected. She had a Bachelor’s Degree in Economics from Wheaton College, a Master’s Degree in Econometrics from Emory, and an Embassy portfolio that consisted of bilateral trade with the United States. At the reception desk sat Señora Rojas, a fresh Modern History graduate from the University of Santiago. She viewed everyone who walked by her desk with a pleasant smile as they approached and a narrow, suspicious glare after they passed. Together, the three of them - Doña Silva, Señora Soto, and Señora Rojas –were known as “the triumvirate.” They were the ones who spoke up at meetings, did not hesitate to collectively give advice to the Economic Counselor, planned the Embassy local staff’s social events, and made it their business to be in charge of whatever at the Embassy the Americans failed to take charge of. None of this mattered much to Christopher, but he did not care for their condescending manner toward Señor González. It was obvious they didn’t like him. He had heard them call him “abuelo” – “grandpa” in derisive tones behind his back.

Two other relatively young, Chilean women members rounded out the locally-hired staff, covering the remaining economic issues of importance to the Embassy. They were amiable and competent, but they kept to themselves, relinquishing the limelight to the triumvirate. The American officers occupied real offices with wooden desks and doors that opened and closed in an adjoining suite, separated from the local staff by a glass door.

On the afternoon that Christopher stopped by Señor González’s cubicle, Señora Rohas put on her best smile as he approached and said, “Buenas tardes, Mr. Crooker!” After Chris returned her greeting and passed, she eyed him narrowly and watched him walk to the far corner of the suite.

Christopher was going to ask Señor González to arrange an appointment for him at the Fundación Chile, but when he turned the corner, he saw Señor González leaning back in his chair, his hands behind his head, mouth wide open, snoring peacefully and serenely, his mustache vibrating in unison with his palate. Chris decided not to wake him up, but to come back after an hour or so. Before he left, however, he noticed several plaques, framed and hanging on the wall behind Señor González. Here was a Meritorious Honor Award dated eleven years ago, another one dated fifteen years ago. There was a twelve-year-old Superior Honor Award. Next to that was a Franklin Award from 23 years ago. In a silver frame was a Letter of Appreciation from the U.S. Ambassador, dated 26 years ago. And scattered here and there in smaller frames were various less significant achievement and recognition awards. Chris noticed that there was nothing on the wall less than ten years old.

In addition to the awards and certificates, a dozen photographs depicted Señor González shaking hands with various Chilean officials. One five-by-seven inch photograph caught Christopher’s eye. Its washed out colors suggested its age. It showed a young man with a thick, bushy black mustache in a wide-brimmed black hat wearing a maroon and brown poncho mounted upon a magnificent Caballo Chileno. The dashing huaso was bending over toward a young woman with a lively smile and handing her a branch of red Chilean bellflowers. The resemblance was as faded as the colors in the photograph, but was nonetheless strong enough to leave no doubt who the young man was, and the imagination needed no more prodding to realize that the young woman in the photo was Señor González’s wife. “I bet he was a real cowboy in his day,” Chris said to himself in a subdued undertone. He shrugged his shoulders as he looked down from the photograph to the gaping, snoring mouth in front of him.

Christopher smiled to himself as he walked away past Señora Rohas on the way to his own office. As he left, Doña Silva poked her head out from behind her cubicle’s partition and followed him with her eyes and then looked across the way furtively at Señora Soto who returned the glance with a slow shake of her head and a roll of her eyes. Señora Rohas watched Christopher with narrowed eyes as he walked down the hallway.

One day, Christopher and Señor González set off together for a meeting at the National Environmental Commission. Their meeting was on the third floor of a very old building that had been partially renovated on the inside. The corridor had been freshly carpeted and new sliding glass doors installed at each office. Modern office doors in Chile slide open when you press a button on the wall. Some doors are locked and need to be opened using a numerical code on a touchpad next to the door. As they approached room 322, where their meeting was to take place, Chris noticed a numerical touchpad on the near side of the door and a “door open” button on the far side of the door. As Chris was in the lead, he was about to reach for the “door open” button when Señor González said, “Mr. Crooker! What should we do? I don’t know the combination.” Señor González had seen the cipher lock touchpad but had not seen the “door open” button.

An inspiration struck Chris. He said, “Well, Señor González, try hitting one-two-three. It always works.”

“Well, sir,” replied Señor González somewhat dubiously, but he nevertheless pressed one, then two, and then three.

The moment Señor González pressed “three,” Christopher pressed the “door open” button outside of Señor González’s line of sight. “Mr. Crooker!” cried Señor González in awe as the door slid open, “You are a genius!”

“Yes, yes, I know,” chuckled Christopher, “One-two-three. It always works.” Chris laughed to himself. It was funny, but at the same time, he felt a tinge of remorse. Señor González often mentioned the incident with unabashed amazement in the weeks following. Chris was embarrassed to have made a joke like that at Señor González’s expense. He never told Señor González the truth about the sliding glass door.

The more settled Christopher became in his job and the more familiar he became with the issues in his portfolio, the faster the time approached for Mr. González’s retirement. The Embassy needed to place an advertisement to hire a replacement. Blaine Blade showed Chris a four-line job description to be placed in the local newspapers and on the Embassy’s website and asked him to “clear on it.” Chris sent the paragraph to Mr. González via e-mail and asked him to review and make any changes he felt were necessary. He was surprised when he opened his e-mail the following day to see that Mr. González had expanded the four lines into a two-page job description. “What’s up with this?” Chris thought to himself as he got up from his desk and walked down to the local employees’ cubicles.

“Buenos dias, Mr. Crooker!” greeted Señora Rohas with a smile brighter than usual.

“Buenos dias,” returned Christopher as he passed and made his way to Mr. González’s cubicle.

He found Mr. González behind his desk, awake, and at his computer keyboard. “Mr. Crooker!” he said with some surprise. “Have a seat, sir,” he said, motioning to a chair next to his desk while rising up from his own chair.

“Thank you,” said Christopher sitting down and motioning for Mr. González to do the same. “Señor González,” he began, “I appreciate your detailed job description. I see you put a lot in thought and time into it. But really, I just wanted you to review the blurb that I sent you. You see, it is only to be used in a newspaper advertisement to find your replacement.”

“Well, sir, I thought my successor ought to have a better understanding of what the job entails.”

“I appreciate that,” replied Chris, “and no doubt I will be able to use your longer document to help explain the job once we move further along in the process of finding your replacement – successor, I mean. But for the advertisement, we will have to use the shorter paragraph.”

“I understand, sir,” said Mr. González. “It is just that I found it very difficult to reduce my professional responsibilities to four lines of Times New Roman 12. I could easily have composed a ten-page document.”

A tremor in Señor González’s voice belied his attempt at calmness. Christopher was perceptive enough to realize that Señor González was struggling with deep emotions. And he knew Señor González well enough by now to recognize some of those feelings – vulnerability, umbrage, and – above all else – wounded pride.

Christopher sought to ameliorate Señor González’s sensibilities as best he could. “We hope to place the advertisement soon,” he said. “If at all possible, we’d like to have your successor overlap with you for a month or so before your retirement. Of course, it will take years before he or she could even come close to your level of expertise. Still, if you could pass on just some of your knowledge and insights to your successor, then that would be a considerable legacy to leave behind.”

As Señor González remained silent with his eyes cast downward, Christopher got up from his chair and took a step to the wall behind where Señor González sat. “I saw all these awards a few weeks ago when I stopped by and you were… you were out. You have quite a collection. What was this one for – this Letter of Appreciation from Ambassador Della Rocca?”

“Well, sir,” said Señor González, also rising from his chair. “That one was for when your Secretary of State visited here twenty-six years ago. He came with the White House Director for the Office of Science and Technology Policy, and they signed an Agreement with our Foreign Minister and Minister of Education to develop cooperation in science, including student exchanges at the university level. There was a lot of work to be done in preparation for that visit. I’ll never forget it. One night, I worked past midnight with your predecessor at that time, preparing papers and going over the agendas for the various meetings. The hard work paid off. Everything went according to schedule. The Ambassador was pleased.”

“And this? This Superior Honor Award?”

“That? Well, sir, that was for my work with the Ministry of Agriculture. There had been an avian influenza outbreak on a poultry breeding farm near Santiago. Of course, we didn’t know it was avian influenza at the time. All we knew was that more than 100,000 chickens on a poultry farm died suddenly. I put the Ministry in touch with the U.S. National Veterinary Services Laboratory, which confirmed the presence of highly pathogenic avian influenza. The disease spread to one other poultry farm, but we were able to destroy all the birds on both farms before the virus spread any further. Otherwise, it could have been a catastrophe.” 1

“I would say you deserved a Superior Honor Award for that.”

“Yes, I have always tried to work hard and to do my best,” said Señor González. “I take some pride in that. Yes, these awards remind me that my life has had some significance. But after I retire…”

Christopher was beginning to better understand the depths of Señor González’s emotions. He now understood why Señor González refused to allow his job description to be captured in three lines of Times New Roman 12.

“And this photograph?”

“Yes, that is me. That is me and my wife during our honeymoon. I was twenty-four years old when that picture was taken,” he said somewhat wistfully.

“Do you still ride?” asked Chris.

“Well, sir, my wife and I both enjoyed riding for many years, but we stopped when I turned fifty-five. My wife explained the risks involved.”

“I have begun work on a book,” continued Señor González. “I don’t want my thirty-two years of service at the Embassy to be forgotten. So I am putting together a book of my experiences here. I am working on it from my home computer. If you are interested, I would be happy to send you a copy when it is complete.”

“Yes, I would like that very much, Señor González.”

“And the job description,” said Senior González as Chris turned away to leave. “The four-line job description I think is fine the way it is. I have no changes to make to it – although it is rather short.”


to be continued...


1Avian influenza (AI) was diagnosed in May 2002 for the first time in Chile and South America… In both outbreaks, surveillance zones and across-country control measures were established… All actions taken allowed the control of the epidemic, and within 7 mo, Chile was free of AI.
Vanessa Max, José Herrera, Rubén Moreira, and Hernán Rojas (2007) Avian Influenza in Chile: A Successful Experience. Avian Diseases: March 2007, Vol. 51, No. s1, pp. 363-365

[DATo]

Good day 108,

I intentionally waited until the weekend before beginning this piece so I could read it straight through without interruption. I was expecting something special - I was not disappointed.

Your character descriptions are excellent and each character, including the minor ones, became alive as I was reading this; their physical descriptions, as well as their quirks and behavioral nuances were well-noted and appreciated. You are painting Señor Gonzalez as eidetically as any character I have ever read in literature. The description of the setting was also very vividly painted, as were the other sensory details such as the sights, smells and tastes. I found myself salivating over your description of curanto though I haven't that slightest idea what it tastes like *LOL* Though we (regrettably) did not have this dish when we met, at the time I was reading this I was reminded of our visit together and the refreshments we shared.

I was impressed with the way you wrote the passages regarding the nostalgic manner in which Señor Gonzalez reminisced about the awards and photos in his cubicle, as well as the fact that the people who awarded them, and the colleagues he had spent most of his time with were in his past. I cannot tell you how profoundly this resonated with me. I can tell you from personal experience that you lassoed that idea and the attendant feelings it evokes perfectly in prose.

There are a thousand literary glints of light, shadow and color that dance playfully across this piece and I for one appreciate every one of them.

VERY WELL DONE !

I am looking forward to reading more.

[108 fountains]

DATo,
Thanks for all the encouragement. This is one of those stories that has a lot of personal emotional investment, which can be dangerous because it's easy to get wrapped up in the story itself and not pay as much attention to the writing as should be. As I said, I think there are parts that can be improved. But it's great to get praise from you - since we have such similar tastes, I'll admit that I expected it from you, but nonetheless am grateful to have it!
You know, I've never been anywhere south of Texas myself, so that the descriptions of the food, etc. are based solely on research. Much of the heart of the story is based on a person I know in real life.
So here, to make your weekend complete, is the rest of the story.

[108 fountains]

Chapter 3

“I am afraid you are going to have to have a talk with Señor González,” said Blaine Blade. He had stopped in Christopher’s office early in the morning with a serious expression on his face. “The others have been complaining. They say he reeks of cigar smoke. Señora Soto says he sits in his chair and snores so loudly after lunch that it’s impossible for her to do any work. I understand that he’ll be retiring in two more months, but you are going to have to talk with him. His habits are negatively impacting the work of the section.”

Christopher invited Señor González to lunch the following day. They went to the same sparkling chrome and glass restaurant that Señor González had taken Chris his first week in Chile. Chris was reluctant to broach the subject. He disliked uncomfortable interactions and tended to avoid confrontation of any kind. He thought it was mean-spirited of the triumvirate to complain about Señor González, especially when he would be leaving them for good in just a matter of weeks. Chris waited till the lunch was over and then told Señor González about the complaints. “Perhaps you could forego the cigar after lunch,” he suggested.

Señor González was livid, but tried to control his temper in front of Chris. “They have no respect,” he said in a hoarse voice. “No respect for their elders!” He looked around him to see if any other of the restaurant’s patrons were listening. “Mr. Crooker!” he continued, “Who are they to complain about me? I was working at the Embassy in a… in a position of prestige before they were even born! Except maybe for Doña Silva. But even she would have been in diapers!”

“Try not to get upset, Señor González,” intoned Christopher pathetically.

“I am not upset,” replied Señor González. “I am not upset,” he said seemingly trying to convince himself that he was not upset. “I am… disappointed. I am extremely disappointed in them. Shame on them. They are not honorable. They are not worthy of my attention. I will not think about the matter anymore.”

Chris decided it was useless to remonstrate. And in his heart, he agreed to some extent with Señor González. He regretted having brought up the matter. He decided he would not think about it anymore either.

About halfway through their walk back to the Embassy, Señor González told Chris to go on ahead of him. He would remain outside a few minutes more, he said in absolute defiance – to smoke a cigar.

Back in the office after lunch, Christopher noticed the arrival of the Economic Counselor with several of the younger American officers of the section. They had been out to lunch, as well, and it had been a much more pleasurable repast, too, judging from their high spirits. Christopher felt a small measure of resentment that he had not been invited to join them.

A few days later, Blaine asked Christopher if he had spoken with Señor González. “I discussed the problem with him,” Chris said, “but I believe I was unsuccessful in effecting any change in behavior.”

The Economic Counselor seemed annoyed. “I will have to speak again with Señora Soto then. I will have to see what else can be done.” Then he brightened and said, “By the way, Chris, you will be glad to know that we’ve selected a replacement for Señor González. We’ve hired a woman in her late twenties – she’s a friend of Señora Soto’s, works at the Prime Minister’s office on climate change and green growth, received a full scholarship to study at Sciences Po in Paris, has excellent written and spoken English, is very articulate and polished, likely will stay on here for five years or so and use the job as a stepping stone to position herself for a political career in Chile. Well, I think we went for the polar opposite of Señor González.”

“That’s great news!” replied Christopher, forcing a pretended enthusiasm while suffering a sinking feeling in his heart.

Chris felt he should come to the defense of Señor González, but decided it would be useless. Blaine Blade was on the fast track to promotions and was inclined to surround himself with young, energetic staff members who would buoy him up. He was always on the lookout for babies to be rescued from burning buildings, and was not particularly concerned with distinguishing smoke from fire if it suited his purposes. He and the other younger officers stayed late in the office every night, often making frantic phone calls to Washington on urgent issues that would be forgotten in a matter of weeks, if not days. Chris remembered Blaine told him once that he was trying to persuade management to distribute Blackberries to the entire Economic Section – “so that we can all work 24/7,” he said enthusiastically. Chris was satisfied with doing his job to the best of his ability and trying to get home to his family at a decent hour. He sometimes wondered if Blaine considered him to be a drag on the Section.

The next morning, when Chris walked past the local staff area, he saw that Señora Soto and Mr. Fuentes had changed cubicles. Señora Soto was seated now as far away from Señor González as office space would allow. Señora Rohas said nothing as Chris walked by the reception desk, but watched him narrowly as he passed.

Less than a month before Señor González’s retirement date, Christopher broke the news to Señor González that although his successor had been selected, it would be impossible for her to begin working before his retirement date. The Human Resources Section said they could not pay two salaries for the same job, so there would be no opportunity for an overlap. Rather than being disappointed, Señor González appeared pleased, even relieved.

“Mr. Crooker! Do you remember some time ago, I told you I was putting together a book about my years with the Embassy? Well, sir, I’ve completed it now, and would like to send it to you by e-mail.”

“That’s great, Señor González,” replied Christopher. “That is a real accomplishment. I’ll look forward to reading it.”

Señor González’s book was in Christopher’s in-box the following day. Chris opened it up to find a 125-page document. He was delighted that Señor González had succeeded in completing something that could only be regarded as a legacy. From many of their previous conversations, Christopher knew that Mr. González’s worst fear about going into retirement was the prospect of being forgotten. Here, at least, would be a lasting testament to his significance.

As he scrolled through the pages, however, Chris became disheartened. The entire book was a collection of articles from Señor González’s monthly Science and Environment newsletters, dating back some 32 years. Interspersed among them were a few other reports that Señor Gomez had written on such topics as clean energy initiatives, deforestation, air pollution, and the threatened extinction of the green sea turtle. At the end was a random assortment of photographs of Señor González shaking hands with various persons or standing as part of a group photo at some official event. None of the photos were captioned leaving Chris completely uninformed about the identities of the individuals in the photograph. Chris was disappointed. He had been expecting something more, something more personal – a memoir of sorts, a description or narration of Señor González’s actual experiences at the Embassy. Señor González had, in fact, worked for the Embassy for 32 years. No one else had worked there nearly as long. He could have filled the book with a whole history of anecdotes of his experiences. Better yet, he could have written about his feelings – how his life had intertwined with his work over the years – but there was none of that. There was only a collection of dry reports that were outdated at best, insignificant at worst. No one, including Christopher, would be interested in reading through 125 pages of that.

In the past few years Christopher had become persuaded that his own reporting on scientific affairs had a very limited audience in Washington, that most of it was filed away unread, and that nearly all of it was “OBE” within weeks or months. If, when he returned home from the office, his wife asked him what he had done that day, he often could not remember. He mused about his own lack of significance. Had he become just another bureaucrat spending his days responding to e-mails that no one would remember even six months or even six weeks later?

Señor González came into Christopher’s office later that afternoon to ask questions about the itinerary of a mid-level visitor from the U.S. National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. He could hardly restrain the anticipation in his voice when, before he took his leave, he asked, “Mr. Crooker! Did you have a chance yet to look at my book?”

Christopher swallowed and said, “Yes, I did have a chance just to glance at it. I’ll look closer tomorrow. It really is a nice collection. It gives a good perspective to the history of science and technology in Chile and the Embassy’s role in fostering that development.”

“I’m very pleased you like it. You know, I have been working on it for more than six months. I could have made it much longer. I spent hours trying to winnow out the less important reporting that I have done over the years. I wanted to include only the more significant items. Nearly all the entries have been taken from my monthly Science and Environment newsletter.” Señor González was more animated in talking about his book than Christopher had ever seen him before. “If you go back and read through the articles that I selected for my book, you can see clearly how the various trends in science and technology topics in Chile have developed over the years. You know, in my entire career, the monthly newsletter has been the one thing that I am most proud of.”

“Well, I don’t blame you for being proud of it,” replied Christopher.

“I am having it self-published,” continued Señor González, “in hard-bound. I am going to produce one hundred copies. It will cost me, but it will be worth it.”

“A hundred copies!” cried Chris involuntarily. Then, composing himself, he said, “What will you do with so many?”

“Well, sir” said Señor González, “To tell you the truth, I don’t know. But I will give one to you and several to old colleagues of mine from the Ministry who are also retired. I plan also to present one to Ambassador Jovic.”

Christopher cringed. He couldn’t imagine the Ambassador would have any interest in the book, and he foresaw an awkward moment on the horizon. Chris sought to divert the topic of conversation, “Señor González, I’d like to invite you for dinner this Friday evening. Do you remember that place where you brought me when I was new here? We had that food that was cooked in a hole in the ground. What did they call it?”

“Do you mean the Curanto?” asked Señor González.

“Yes, that’s it. I’d like to invite you for some Curanto – and of course, some Piscola.”

“Well, sir, I accept your invitation with pleasure,” replied Señor González.

[108 fountains]

Chapter 4

That Friday, after work, Christopher and Señor González took the 45-minute taxi ride to the Curanto restaurant. Chris had now been living and working in Chile nearly nine months, and was beginning to consider it home. Returning to the Curanto restaurant, with its wide veranda, rough, thick wooden tables, and homey atmosphere, made him feel nostalgic. At just past six o’clock, they were nearly an hour ahead of the dinner crowd that would cram into the place later. He and Señor González sat at the same table where they had feasted nearly eight months earlier. The same matron greeted them; the same three men were preparing the food and the fire pit.

“Salut!” cried Señor González after he had mixed Piscola for both of them.

“Salut!” returned Christopher enthusiastically.

“So, Señor González,” Chris opened with a smile, “What will you do during your first week of retirement – besides sleeping late in the mornings?”

“Well, sir,” said Señor González, “I am afraid that my first few weeks will be very busy for me and my wife. We are selling our house and are moving into an apartment. It is something we should have done a long time ago. After my children moved away, there was no need to keep a big house anymore, no need for us now to stay in one. We can put the money from the sale in the bank, and use it as an annuity. It will be enough to pay the rent on our new apartment for at least twenty years, and that will be in addition to my pension from the Embassy.”

“That sounds like a smart move,” said Chris.

“It will be a lot of work,” resumed Señor González. “Besides selling the house and physically changing residences, we will also have to sell most of our furniture. The apartment is much smaller than our house – our furniture won’t all fit. And I have books – so many books – I will have to sell them, or more likely, I’ll have to give them to a library or to a school. No one will buy those old books.”

“It does sound like you have a lot to do,” said Chris.

“Well, sir, at first I did not want to sell the house. When I was younger, I always wanted a big house. After I got the job at the Embassy, I could afford one. The house we bought was beautiful. Spacious, two-story, three bedrooms, with a big yard for the children to play in. I worked so hard for it, paying every month for so many years. Do you know? I made the last mortgage payment just two years ago. At that time, I was so happy! The house was finally mine after all those years.”

Señor González took a long draught of Piscola, sighed, and smacked his lips. “But my wife, she is very smart. She looked at the amount of my pension and the amount of savings we have and the value of the house. She explained to me how much better off we would be to sell the house.” He took another sip of Piscola and continued, in a somewhat more subdued manner, “It is intriguing really – that our outlook on things – what we think is important – changes as we get older. When we made the first down payment on that house… Oh! We were so proud! That was our home! That was where we would raise our family! That house was the most important thing for us! And now, well, yes it makes much more sense to sell it. But to tell you the truth, Mr. Crooker, it is hard to give up. It is filled with so many memories. Every scratch on the wall, every stain on the carpet… We still have toys in the basement from when our children were small. No, I didn’t want to sell it, but my wife explained it to me, and now that the decision has been made, it is easier. I can see now that the house was nothing after all – really, nothing, nothing at all.”

Christopher listened and took his own sip of Piscola. “The same thing with the furniture. I remember when we bought each piece. The tables, the chairs, the beds, the lamps, the mirrors, the figurines, the dishes and silverware… Do you know? We have two very nice sets of porcelain bone china. Well, sir, there are just two of us. What need have we of more than a few plastic plates and bowls and a couple of glasses and spoons? It is so surprising to me now how we accumulated all these things over the years and how important they seemed at the time when we bought them. They somehow became a part of our lives, but my wife explained to me how utterly useless they have all become. What need have we of them anymore? Well, sir, at least we are keeping some tables and chairs and the bed. I… I don’t want to give up everything. Not everything has become useless.”

“But my books! My books! They are the hardest thing for me to give up. I collected them over the years. The classics of literature, the classics of science, in English and in Spanish. I have read them and re-read them all. I have spent hours and hours with them. They are like old friends to me. And yet… And yet, I see now. What need have I of them now? If I want to read them again, most of them are available now online. Still, to hold them… To feel their binding in my hands… But my wife explained it to me. What need have I of them now?”

They sat for several minutes in silence. Señor González refilled Christopher’s glass and refilled his own glass twice more. The familiar warm glow and rosy cheeks appeared and intensified as the Curanto baked in the earthen pit and the contents of the bottle of Pisco diminished. Then suddenly, “Mr. Crooker! Ekshkoosh me one minner! I godda go badroom!” And he rose from the chair and literally ran to the bathroom with his hand clutching between his legs.

Christopher laughed gently to himself. “I’m really going to miss him.”

While Señor González “paid his rent” in the restroom, the waiter brought out and set the Curanto on the table. It was steaming, and its luscious aroma filled Christopher’s nostrils with culinary desire. Señor González returned and brought with him the second bottle of Pisto. As he mixed the Piscola, Chris served the Curanto onto their plates, placing the chicken, barnacles, and potatoes on beds of steamed white cabbage leaves.

“Señor González,” Chris began, eyeing him hesitantly, “Señor González, you know that there will be a retirement party for you on your last day in the office. Señora Rojas is already making arrangements.”

“No!” cried Señor González setting his glass of Piscola down on the wooden table none too gently. “I woan go! I woan go!”

“Come now, Señor González,” said Christopher in a coaxing voice. He had anticipated Señor González’s reaction. “Of course, there must be a party. It is tradition.”

“Ha! What der dey know of drudisher? What der dey know of rishpeck? I doan wanna parter. I didden ash for one.”

“I understand,” Chris commiserated, “I really do. But it is already settled. Mr. Blade told me today. But don’t worry. It won’t be much. We will all bring in some food and some chips and dip and some drinks. It won’t last more than an hour. You know how these things go. It will be the same as how they did for Mr. Fuentes on his birthday. You won’t have to do anything” – here Chris smiled – “the triumvirate will take care of everything.”

Señor González’s frown gradually turned into a mirthful smile. “The triumvirun? You call them el triunvirato? Ha, ha! Thar ish rilly, rilly very funny!” Señor González hiccupped as he laughed.

Christopher held up his glass and exclaimed, “Here’s to el triunvirato!”

“El triunvirato!” returned Señor González as he finished an entire glassful.

“Mr. Crooker!” Señor González said after some minutes in which the two of them devoured half the plate of chicken, barnacles, ham and potatoes. “My lash day will be shoon. Ash I shed, I doan wanna pardy, but I will endure it. I have worked rilly, rilly hard and have made many shackerfishes for the Embasher over the pash thirter years. I will think of thish ash my final shackerfish. But I wanna come back here – yer an me – for shumore Curaner and anner grash of Pishcola when the pardy in the Embasher is finished. Tha’ll make the pardy more endurable.”

“Yes, I have thought about that, too. It would be nice to have dinner with you on your last day. But I’m sorry. My son is acting in a school play that evening. He has the leading role. I will have to go to that instead. But there is nothing to stop us from going out the following week. Just because you are retiring does not mean we cannot remain friends.”

“Frenge,” replied Señor González is a slow dreamy tone, looking at his empty glass. “Welsher, I have had many boshes at the Embasher over the years anna good relationsher with ever one ovum, but I never had one call me ‘frenge’ before. Thank yer ver, ver mudge. It rilly, rilly means a loddamee.”

“Señor González, the past eight months have been very pleasant for me. You have made my job easier. You have made my life here in Chile more enjoyable. And I thank you for that. I am proud to call you my friend. Salut!”

“Mr. Crooker! Mr. Crooker! Wait! My grashish empter! Shall we order anner bol?”

A third bottle of Pisco was ordered, justice was done to the remainder of the Curanto, and the warm glow fueled by alcohol, good food, and genial emotions settled over Chris and Señor González for the rest of the evening. Over the following two weeks, the two of them took lunch together several times, and Chris anticipated Señor González’s retirement day with a wistful melancholy.

[108 fountains]

Chapter 5

As the days counted down, a palpable excitement hovered in the air, similar to that of an approaching holiday. The triumvirate went about their daily tasks with increasing enthusiasm. Chris knew that they enjoyed planning social events, whatever the proximate cause. He also knew they were happy that Señor González would be leaving them soon. He wondered, as the day approached, if any of the three of them would feel any regret at Señor González’s departure. The unrestrained, joyful expressions on their faces gave him his answer.

The morning of Señor González’s final day in the office, Doña Silva tapped hesitantly on Christopher’s office door.

“Come in, Doña Silva. Come in!”

“Good morning, Mr. Crooker,” she said as she entered. “I am so sorry to disturb you.” Although her voice contained a quiet apologetic intonation, her eyes flashed scorn as they looked over her reading glasses at their target.

“Not at all, Doña Silva. Please have a seat. Now, what can I do for you?”

“Sir! As you know, Señora Soto, Señora Rohas, and I have been working very hard to prepare an enjoyable going away party for Señor González. It will reflect well on us all if we separate on friendly and amicable terms.” She paused to take a breath. The effort to speak about Señor González was obviously taxing.

“Yes, I have heard that you have been going to great lengths to arrange for a memorable farewell party. It is very honorable of you and Señora Soto and Señora Rohas to go to the trouble.”

“Sir! Thank you, sir. It is good to know that at least one person appreciates our efforts.”

Christopher looked at her inquiringly.

“But, sir! I must tell you that Señor González told Señora Rohas this morning that he does not plan to attend the party. He told her… He told her he would not be bullied anymore.”

“He said that?”

“Yes, he did. I heard him. I was standing nearby. He said he was tired of being ‘henpecked!’”

“No!”

“Yes! And then he said… He said…” Doña Silva appeared much agitated.

“Then he said what, Doña Silva?”

“Sir! He said… Then he said, ‘Cluck-cluck-cluck, says the hen, and Bow-wow-wow says the dog!’” 2 And then he looked over at me, and he… he…”

“And then he did what, Doña Silva?”

“Sir! He blew me a kiss!”

Christopher somehow managed to stifle his laughter. He told Doña Silva that he would speak with Señor González. He said he was sure Señor González did not mean to be so impolite. He explained that Señor González was under a lot of stress since today was such an emotional occasion for him. He assured Doña Silva that Señor González would come to the party at four o’clock and, furthermore, that he would be on his best behavior.

At lunch, Chris and Señor González shared a meal at the restaurant where they had first dined together nine months previously. Following the meal, they lingered over a strong cup of black coffee. Chris thought it best not to allude directly to his conversation with Doña Silva, but he did want to make clear that he expected Señor González to be in attendance at his own retirement party.

“You will have to give a speech, you know,” said Chris.

“Yes, I know,” replied Señor González pensively. Then his face lightened as he posed the question, “What would you think if I said what I really think about them?”

“You won’t do that,” replied Chris, not quite as confident in his assertion as he tried to appear. “You have too much dignity for that. You will say what they want to hear, what is said at every retirement party – that you are grateful for the opportunity to have worked at the Embassy for so many years, that you hope you have contributed to the Mission, that you will remember all of them fondly, and that you hope to stay in touch with them.”

“I will say that?” asked Señor González, raising his eyebrows and his bushy gray mustache at the same time.

“Well, I expect, or, at least I hope that you will say something like that,” replied Chris.

Señor González sipped his coffee in silence for a few minutes. “Well, sir, I also hope I will say something like that, but I cannot be sure what I will say when the time comes.” After another pause, he resumed, “It has not been easy for me to face this day. My wife explains to me that this is a new beginning, but I cannot help thinking that this is the end. More than thirty-two years I have been devoted to my job. I know nothing else. The hardest thing for me is the thought, the question, of – here at the end, have I made any difference? Does anybody care?” He was talking more to himself than to Chris.

Chris waited for Señor González to reply to his own question, but no response was forthcoming. So, Chris attempted to lighten the mood by saying, “Well, you have certainly made a difference in the nine months that I have worked with you. We’ve started several new projects, we increased the level of scientific cooperation between our two countries, and we have had a lot of fun doing it. It has been great working with you, Señor González.”

“Well, sir,” said Señor González, attempting to shake off his gloominess. “If you say so. You have been very good and understanding of me. I thank you for your kindness.”

“We had best go back now,” said Chris. “You do not have to worry about coming back late from lunch, but I still have a boss who notices such things.”

As they approached the Embassy, Señor González told Chris to walk on ahead of him. “I will stay outside here a few minutes to enjoy my after-lunch cigar,” he smiled.

Back at the Embassy, the remainder of the afternoon passed quickly. Christopher busied himself with making grammatical corrections to Señor González’s monthly newsletter. At about half past three, he noticed the triumvirate coming in and out of the American officers’ suite carrying paper plates, Styrofoam cups, plastic knives and forks, and an assortment of Chilean culinary delicacies that stimulated his olfactory rhodopsin-like receptor sites and made his mouth water.

The preparations were completed by four o’clock. The other American officers began milling around the dishes set out on the tables in the reception area, munching on tortilla chips dipped in spicy Chilean pepper salsa. All the Chilean employees – Mr. Fuentes, Doña Silva, Señora Soto, Señora Rohas, and the other two female specialists – had already gathered. “Chris, can you please go and bring Señor González? He should be here already. It’s typical that he would keep us waiting.” This last was uttered by Blaine Blade who had stepped into Christopher’s office.

Christopher walked out to the adjoining suite and approached Señor González’s cubicle. He had a nervous presentiment that Señor González would be gone – already gone home. He held Señor González in high regard, but he also knew he could be impulsive and unpredictable. He was relieved then, when he saw Senior González sitting at his desk, a blank expression on his face, staring off into space.

Christopher noticed the emptiness of the scene. All the awards, citations, and photographs that had been hanging on the walls were gone. The two-foot thick pile of papers that collected dust on top of Señor González’s filing cabinet was gone. The scattering of papers, paperclips, pens, and books that habitually cluttered Señor González’s desk were gone. Christopher said nothing, but Señor González read his thoughts, “Well, sir, I took some things home and I threw some other things into the trash. It took me all week to clean it up.” Then he turned around and moved his head slowly from one side to the other to survey the bare walls. “Tomorrow, it will be as if I had never been here.”

As they entered the American officers’ suite, Señora Rohas had already poured the soft drinks, and Doña Silva had already begun serving out helpings of Cazuela into plastic bowls. Other colorful Chilean dishes enticed both the eye and the palate. Seafood Paella, a rice dish containing shrimp, mussels, cuttlefish, onion and tomato, Charquican, a stew made of potatoes, pumpkin, minced beef, and white corn, Aliados, a kind of ham and cheese sandwich made with Hallulla bread, Pebre, a condiment made with coriander, chopped onion, olive oil, and pureed Aji peppers, and a cake covered with Manjar Blanco, a sweet caramel spread, rounded out the afternoon fare.

“You have really outdone yourselves this time,” Blaine Blade was saying to the triumvirate.

“Well, it is a special occasion,” replied Señora Soto. “Our last chance to say good-bye to our dear Señor González. And here he is now.”

Señor González entered the room stiffly, accompanied by Christopher. He replied languorously to the sprinkling of greetings from the hesitant grouping of well-wishers and reluctantly shook hands with the Economic Counselor. The party proceeded with the usual small talk and a smattering of congratulations directed towards Señor González. Christopher found himself at one point engaging with Señora Rohas and one of the younger American officers. “I found this wonderful new coffee shop – a cafi – in the Bellavista neighborhood,” she was saying. “They play really old music and have big, black antique CDs on the walls.”

Chris watched from the corner of his eye as several American officers, most of whom had never said anything more than “hello” to Señor González before, asked him about his future plans, whether he intended to travel, what were his hobbies, if he expected to throw away his alarm clock, etc. Señor González, uncomfortable with the unaccustomed attentions being bestowed on him, provided listless answers to their vague questions, cognizant that they neither cared nor attended to what he said.

The members of the triumvirate were sublime, reveling in the compliments they received for their party preparations. Chris complimented them on the food; he especially enjoyed the Charquican, which Señora Rohas had slow-cooked in a crock pot. Even Señor González complimented them and thanked them politely for going to all the trouble. Chris observed that Señor González was awkward as he conversed, and knew that his friend was anxious for the party to conclude.

At the elapse of about ten minutes, Blaine nodded to Señora Soto as a sort of signal. She began pouring red wine into Styrofoam cups and passing them out to the attendees.

“Colleagues,” began Blaine when everyone had received a cup of wine. “Today is a very special day. But before I remark on the main event, I do have one other small announcement.”

Señora Rohas, who tended to regard Blaine as some sort of god, perked up her ears. The others looked up with varying degrees of expectation.

“Next week, we will all be issued Blackberries!” continued the Counselor in a triumphant tone. “That means we will all be able to work 24/7!”

There was a buzz of approval and excitement among those assembled that rapidly broke out into applause. Christopher looked around the room incredulously. “Am I the only one who does not want to work 24/7?” he thought to himself.

Then he caught the glance of Señor González, who smiled at him as if to say, “Well, sir, I do not want to work 24/7, and I won’t either!”

“And now,” continued Blaine, “as you all know, today is a day that several of us have looked forward to for a long time.” Here Señora Rohas and Señora Soto exchanged meaningful glances. “After thirty-two years of service Señor González is leaving us. While I have witnessed only two of those years, I think I can say that, without a doubt, Señor González’s technical contributions to Embassy operations have been indispensable. I know that we all have appreciated his sense of humor. He has been a real team player. But I think that since he reports directly to Christopher Crooker, it is more appropriate that Chris, rather than myself, say a few words. And so Chris, I turn it over to you.”

All eyes turned to Chris, who was caught totally unprepared. “Well,” he stuttered, “I wasn’t expecting… I really don’t have anything prepared, but… Well, so… I’ll keep it short… Señor González… Thirty-two years. That is a long time. I don’t know what to say except that… Except that it is a long time.” These meanderings were greeted by a few giggles from those assembled as it was clear that Christopher was improvising and not doing a very good job at it.

“I can only imagine,” Chris continued, grasping at straws, “how you must feel… No. No…. Let me begin again… There are certain milestones in our lives that mark a time of important transition. And at such times, it is appropriate to look back and take stock of where we have been and what we have done and to question if, in fact, our accomplishments have amounted to anything of significance. But how – by what measure – can anyone answer that question?

“Señor González – and I use the term ‘Señor’ not as a formality, but as an expression of respect – I would like to say… I would like to say that in the short time that I have worked with you in the waning days of your long career with the United States Embassy, I have come to know you a little. I have come to know that your job here at the Embassy has defined who you are. And I have come to know that you take pride in your work and in your accomplishments. And that pride is justified. I’ve seen the awards and the citations that you have collected over the years.

“But I believe you are more than that. You are more than a scientist and a diplomat; you are a husband, a father, a friend, and… and a… a gentleman. And I would like to say… I would like to say that the significance of any life is measured not so much by the mark it leaves on history or on society, but by its goodness and its honesty, by having done harm to no one, and by acknowledging that the value of human decency includes compassion for human imperfections.”

Here, Christopher stopped to swallow before going on. “And I would like to say… I was going to say that the significance of any life is best measured not by the recognition it so desperately craves, but by its impact on those lives around him, by the friendships, by family… but no… no, not even that. It’s not even that. It’s a matter of simply being true to oneself. That’s all. In the end, that’s all that matters. And in my opinion, inner satisfaction and quiet dignity are their own rewards for a life well lived. And for that, Señor González, I will say Salut!”

Everyone in the room raised their Styrofoam cups and echoed, “Salut!”

“Here! Here!” interjected Blaine, “And now, Señor González, do you have anything you would like to say?”

Señor González cleared his throat. “Well, sir,” began Señor González. “Yes, there is much I would like to say.” Then he glanced at Chris and resumed, “But I will refrain from that and say instead that I have enjoyed working here at the Embassy for the past thirty-two years. I am looking forward to the future, whatever it may hold. And I would like to stay in touch with all of you. Thank you very much for this delightful party.”

Señor González held up his Styrofoam cup. The others followed suit and burbled a somewhat indifferent “Salut!” before finishing off the contents.

Following the speeches, the participants split up into groups of two and three and continued the small talk that had preceded the speeches. Señor González refilled his cup to the brim and gravitated toward Mr. Fuentes. Chris found himself in between Doña Silva and Blaine Blade. “That was a very nice speech, Mr. Crooker,” said Doña Silva in as sincere a tone as she was able to muster.

“Yes, thank you Chris. I had prepared something, but when I started I just drew a blank. I was glad to be able to turn it over to you. I wouldn’t have been able to say such nice things.”

“That’s alright,” returned Chris. “I was glad to do it.”

Another bottle of red wine was opened, and Chris noticed Señor González fill his cup once more to the brim.

“Blaine,” said Chris continuing the conversation. “I thought the Ambassador was going to make an appearance.”

“Ah, I talked with him about it,” replied the Economic Counselor, but he has a meeting outside this afternoon. Chris looked at Blaine suspiciously. He had checked the Ambassador’s schedule himself and knew there were no outside meetings that afternoon. Blaine may have noticed Chris’s expression. “It’s something that came up at the last minute,” he explained.

“Too bad,” said Chris with real disappointment. “That would have been a nice touch. It is something that Señor González would have appreciated.”

After several more minutes and another brimming Styrofoam cupful of red wine, Señor González addled his way unsteadily over to Chris in a quiet corner near the door. “Mr. Crooker!” he said taking an obvious look at his watch, which read 4:45 p.m. “Do yer think I will ginna trouble iffa leave a lil early?”

“No, Señor González,” Chris said with a smile, “I think you have earned it.”

“Neksh Friday, then” continued Señor González. “Yer promish. Neksh Friday werl go owshide for shum Curaner and Piscoler.”

“I promise,” said Chris. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Welsher, then I will shee yer neksh Friday. And now” he said clutching in between his legs. “I rilly, rilly godda go badroom!” He turned rather suddenly, opened the door, and departed. Chris smiled as he watched Señor González run bowlegged toward the restroom at the end of the hall.

Another ten minutes elapsed before anyone noticed that Señor González was gone. One of the American officers remarked, “What? Is he gone? I didn’t see him leave. That was sort of rude of him.”

“Well, he’s shy,” Chris started to explain. “He didn’t want to have a big farewell scene.”

“But it is rude not to say good-bye, after all,” returned Blaine with some annoyance. “It is to be expected, though. Ah! Señor González! The end of an era!”

“I’m glad abuelo is gone,” said Doña Silva.

“No more cigar smoke!” cried Señora Rohas.

“No more of that snoring in the afternoon!” added Señora Soto.

The party livened up considerably after Señor González’s departure. The mood changed from one of awkward pretension to one of genuine amiability. Two more bottles of red wine were opened, and the American and Chilean staffs talked easily and pleasantly among themselves.

Chris retired to his office while the others continued the party well beyond five o’clock. He heard Señora Rohas talking, although he couldn’t see who she was talking with. “Practically speaking, old people have no very important advice to give the young,” she was saying. “Their own experience has been so partial, and – just like Señor González – their lives have been such miserable failures…” 3

Chris rewrote the final sentence of the monthly Science and Environment newsletter and hit the “send” button. That would be the last monthly newsletter he would send. He had already decided that once Señor González retired, he would concentrate his efforts on other types of science reporting. He would discontinue the newsletters. He was convinced that nobody ever looked at them.


The End



2 “Win her affections,” retorted Mr. Boffin, with ineffable contempt, “and possess her heart! Mew says the cat, Quack-quack says the duck, Bow-wow-wow says the dog!”
Charles Dickens, Our Mutual Friend, Chapter 48


3 Practically, the old have no very important advice to give the young, their own experience has been so partial, and their lives have been such miserable failures, for private reasons, as they must believe…
Henry David Thorough, Walden, Chapter One

[DATo]

Very nice story 108, and very well written.

I found myself sensing a universal, underlying theme to your story and spent some time thinking about it, and then it came to me. We tend to live in the moment, and a career is nothing less than the sum total of a lot of moments: moments spent dealing with monumental challenges, and some not-so-monumental details; in serious, and not-so-serious discussion; in laughter; anger; grief; in dealing with the tragedy of failure and censure, and basking in the glow of adulation and triumph. We tend to ignore the stream of time as our careers unfold and pass from one epoch to another. Much like a boat sailing down a river the scenery, the current, and the obstacles change but we remain fixed at the helm till one day we see ahead of us the object of our journey - the inevitable destination. Only he who has navigated that stream knows what he has endured and if he is wise he does not speak of it, for he knows that there is no one interested enough to listen, or capable of understanding.

I think this is why most men who have endured combat in war are reluctant to discuss their experiences. How can they convey what they have experienced to one who was not there? Only someone who has made that journey beside him can truly understand the words he speaks. How can you describe the color blue to someone who has never had the gift of sight? And how unfair and infuriating it must be to such men to know, as Señor Gonzalez knew, that the unknown and unappreciated benefits that his coworkers enjoy today was paid for, at least in some measure, by the battles fought in his yesterday. No one cares anymore or is interested in who invented the transistor, but without the transistor we wouldn't have the microchip, and without the microchip we would not be having this discussion.

I think you captured the essence of this theme very well. Your story is a sad statement of bureaucratic pedantry, ineptness and insensitivity as well as a heartwarming story of unrecognized triumph. I salute Señor Gonzalez and all of his ilk from every time and clime.

Beautifully wrought! My compliments! ... and thank you.

[MANICHAEAN]

Senor Gonzalez

Review of Chapt 1:

Well let me say straight off 108 fountains, that although you wanted critique for this story, I found it hard to give; as it was quite simply easy flowing, with enjoyable nuances of almost imperceptable shadings.

I made notes as I read, so let me use these for reference:

• Straight into what initially appears to be an old codger with an “attitude”; a bit like myself and so I related well. But then you let it evolve, as the elder one makes a definate effort to relate to the younger, as for example in choosing the more modern bistro. More I thought out of good manners and upbringing perhaps? It reminded me of when the British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan back in the 60’s heard that Kennedy was elected President. “How am I ever going to deal with this cocky young Irishman?” he was purported to have said; then proceeded successfully to appeal to the younger mans imagination.

• Its difficult to do, but reduce to a minimum the number of “ Signor Gonzalez.” Although having said that, it is a rythmetic name easy on the ear. See how onerous it is to critique?

• I like the way you do not describe Signor Gonzalez until later into the story. There has always seemed to be an imperative in earlier classics, (especially the Russian ones) to describe the character up front. Your approach works well, and I must remember the technique.

• Then the subtlety kicks in as you explore the inter-relationship between the two men. The curse of ambition and the withering uncertainties it evokes. Take it from me, the end of ambition comes as a great relief, whether it be at 53 or 64. The finding of common ground , (albeit half pissed), between the extremities in the ages of man. What would Shakespeare have made of the restaurant scene? The delicate touching upon emotions, still tender and relating to family ties, and the whiff of ones mortality. Even the reverent silence of the feast: the curanto and the pishco / the bread and the wine.

Anyway, I trust this helps, although for only one chapter so far. Your writing has stirred my needs to disappear into the Yokohama night to a gem of a working class restaurant down near the station, where they serve delicious food that I cannot pronounce and something called “Golden Bombe,” a sugar cane based sake poured over a glass full of crushed ice. Salute!

Best regards
M.

[MANICHAEAN]

Review of Chapters 2-5:

I finished the remaining chapters of the story and I think that one of the reasons it resonates with me personally, is that I, (perhaps like yourself) have both observed and experienced all these circumstances. The almost institutional prison type sadness which you capture in the story though, I have managed to avoid. Perhaps being a writer does help after all? You can step outside of it all, that uppermost spray on the waves of emotion and rationalise.

The incestous world of office politics, the distinctions in the type of office furniture and its placement, the seeming finality of retirement; all these you got to a tee. Also, for a guy who has not stepped south of Texas you have done your research well.

In Chapter 3 you explore the corporate themes that one is suppose to embrace without question. Tell me about them, these flavours of the month, this concept of being a “positive team player.” More like dumbing down and not using your brains. When I encounter this now, I retreat into what I regard as meaningful work i.e. I write stories.

The concept of leaving a legacy has always been a tough one, especially for the male. At one time it all used to be about leaving a male heir; then we have all these celebrities and politicians that feel there is an imperative to write their memoirs for posterity. What is wrong when you die that; your wife says you were a good husband, your kids that you were a good father and others that you were a good friend? I’ve left out enemies, because that is unfinished business whether this side of the grave or beyond.

In Chapter 4 another subject dear to my heart, my books. Would any of my kids ever appreciate what close companions they have been to me over the years, what sources of pleasure to dip into? Will they end up in a house clearing lot, being sold in a charity shop at 50p per item? Perhaps like my body, they should be cremated in a common Viking type ceremony if not appreciated.

Finally the valedictory speech. The real appreciative nexus of the retiree being expressed cogently by one close to him, and yet the latter was relatively new to his acquaintenance. A speech that likely went over the heads of many, including the head of department.


It was a bloody good read, so thank you. My learned friend DATo summed up eloquently everything else I wanted to say.

Best regards
M.

[Hawkman]

Firstly, let me say that this was a very readable and human tale, executed with sensitivity, presenting recognizable characters in what has become a ubiquitous corporate milieu. A man approaching his retirement after a lifetime’s service, in which he has seen himself passed over for promotion and come to be regarded as joke by the younger staff who have replaced all his old colleagues. It has a universal appeal as it represents a universal scenario, though in the modern world, as is hinted at in your narrative, it is becoming harder if not impossible, to remain employed by a single institution for one’s entire working life.

This story, told from the perspective of a younger man, who recognizes his own future perhaps, in Señor Gonzalez’ career sunset, and who befriends him taking the trouble to get to know him a little, unlike the younger staff, showing him respect and appreciation, presents us with the timeless question of “what have I really achieved: have I made a difference; how will I be remembered?

But because this tale is a well-worn path, though no less worthy of following for all that, you have injected a modicum of exoticism into the tale by making Gonzalez a foreign employee of an American embassy in Chile. By doing so, you have left a huge hole in Gonzalez’ back-story.

Gonzalez, I feel, should be much more interesting than you have made him. He has lived through the regime of Pinochet and the political turmoil of coups and revolution, death squads and disappearances and worked at the American embassy (a hub of political intrigue) during this period. Instead of filling out his character with how this life would have shaped him, you have concentrated on the safe and mundane so that really it could have been set anywhere.

To be fair, the human tale is a valid one, and you have presented it well, with gentle humour and delicate observation, mercifully shorn of gratuitous action and the dictates of contemporary creative writing courses, which seem to like to emphasise the importance of plot, a character’s needs and desires, and snappy, present tense, screenplay-ready sass. This is almost a master-class in the plotless short, an observational piece worthy of early Joyce highlighting the older man’s perspective on the drives and pace of modern world. You have given your characters room to grow. You also effectively recruited the reader to Gonzalez’ cause through your subtle depictions of his brash, ambitious, cliquey colleagues. The overall pace and style is very engaging and well written. But, and it is a significant but, your choice of setting and geopolitical location has emphasized a significant lack of drama which one feels should be present in this case.

Nevertheless, I enjoyed reading this piece for all its positive features.

Live and be well - H

[108 fountains]

DATo, MANICHAEAN, and Hawkman,

Thank you so much for your thoughtful and thorough comments. It was unexpected to see that Senor Gonzalez’s story seemed to strike such sympathetic chords. And it was gratifying to read in your comments that I was able to convey the themes, emotions, and ideas that I had in mind while writing the piece. Yes, the main theme is not particularly original, but I hoped to create a memorable character in exploring it, and am pleased that Senor Gonzalez turned out to be someone that at least some readers can identify with.

The sub-theme of “leaving a legacy” has always been important to me, and I think that I took up fiction writing as a means for leaving my own legacy. I could go on and on about the inspirations for and the ideas in the story, but enough of that.

Hawkman, I really appreciate your criticism about the lack of backstory about Senor Gonzalez’s having lived through historical times in Chile. You are 100 percent correct. It’s something I never even thought of. I chose Chile as the setting almost randomly because it is far away from the place where the person whom this story is based upon lives. I researched some of the cultural aspects such as the importance of All Saints Day and the concept of “familia” and the traditional respect for elders, (and the cuisine), but I never even thought about the historical aspect – and you are right in that this aspect is all the more lacking given the local setting in the story of the U.S. Embassy. Even without that local setting, it would have been a significant part of the life of any Chilean person who had lived through those times. That is something I definitely will add when I do what I hope will be a final rewrite. Thanks very much for pointing that out.

[AuntShecky]

In this story the reader sees the title character as filtered through the narrator's middle-class American lens (or perhaps mirror) He is a typical life-long career public servant, with no higher ambition than being competent at his job. He takes pride in having been a good family man, perhaps justifiably so, but what would the alternative be, do you think? A wife-beater or an absentee father? In other words, there is nothing wrong with Senor Gonzalez; the problem is that's as far as it goes.

That alone would still be enough for a compelling short story, were it treated with irony or even a pinch of satire. In its present form, however, Sr. Gonzalez and his immediate superior are presented at face value, evidently in an attempt to make the ordinary extraordinary, or at least a subject for good fiction. The theme of how even an ordinary life is worth living undeniably has been, as Hawkman says, "a well-worn path." The trick lies in showing how a character's life is NOT ordinary, how he possesses an ability to rise above mundane circumstances, most of all manifesting himself as a unique individual. If you had touched upon some off-the-beaten-track aspect of the character's personality, or shown some amusing or otherwise interesting interaction between the two major characters, you might have created something special.

Imagine how a Bellow or a Roth would have treated such a situation. As a matter of fact, to get a clearer idea of what I mean, take a look at a short story by Bernard Malamud called "The Magic Barrel," about a guy enlisting the services of a professional match-maker or even closer to the point, "El Sur," the story about a streetcar conductor by Jorge Luis Borges. You want less Babbitt, more "Zorba the Greek."

My other criticism is about the style of the writing (not your writing in general, but in this particular piece.)Just as the two main characters seem banal, so is the prose used to depict them: literal, linear, and straightforward rather than "literary." That racks up points for consistency, but not necessarily compelling fiction. The primary problem seems to be more focus on telling rather than showing.

For instance, there is a missed opportunity with the paragraph describing how Christopher settles in at his new assignment. The description gives the impression that the transitional move went about too smoothly and as such seems unrealistic. Even moving across town carries more hassles than we see here. The nuts and bolts of relocating could have been a source of humor, what with the usual ways bureaucracy moves, especially where a language barrier is involved. If Sr. Gonzalez had been included in this section, that also could have been an opportunity for introduce him to the reader, as well as show him interacting with his new boss.

In the paragraph there is a sentence or two describing Christopher's inability to tell his wife about his day at work simply because it was so routine, he couldn't remember. Had you set this material in dialogue, the material would have made a greater impact upon the reader, rather than being "told" about it third-hand.

Sometimes "showing" -- dramaticizing a scene rather than mere describing it -- uses up space, but such space could have been opened up by cutting back on some of the descriptions. Also ordering lunch and a drink shouldn't use so many words. When every word counts, why spend so much time describing the restaurant's decor, or the waitress? (By the way, say "sole" or "only"; "single" has a whole different connotation.)

The descriptions of the office co-workers are indeed vivid, but not, as a previous comment said "eidetic," which refers to bold but false images, as in a dream or a childhood memory of an imaginary friend. The way the co-workers appear is like a Scorsese-style tracking shot. They are introduced one-by-one, but with the exception of the lady who organizes the retirement party, their presence is beside the point. If these characters are meant to contrast with the main characters, show them interacting in some way. If not, drop this passage and save the space.

In the passage where Senor Gonzalez laments selling off his belongings, he doesn't have to do an extended aria upon the sacrifice of every single dish and pot and pan. If his book collection is significant, show us how.

Additionally, the reader is told too often not only how the characters feel but also how she should feel. For example:
"I wonder, he said, more to himself than Chris. . ."

Nor do you want to draw neon signs pointing at the jokes, such as the incident with the 1-2-3 sliding glass door and lines such as this:

"As he laughed heartily at his own joke."
If it's funny, we'll get it. We don't need a laugh track.

I appreciate the attempt at humor though, when Sr. G. gets tipsy on Piscola. (Maybe he should have tried Pepsi Cola, which like the ubiquitous Coke,reportedly can be obtained nearly everywhere across the globe.) Unfortunately, the slurred speech is turned on and off like a faucet. Even with the absorbent (?) effect of the large meal, Sr. G. seems to have sobered up way too quickly when speaking about his children.

There are a couple of phrases here and there that baffle me. Among them:
"antique CDs" (From what, like the 1990s?)
"wistful melancholy" (It's either an oxymoron or a redundacy. Choose one or the other. Better yet, don't include it at all. It's an abstraction.)

And here's a trivial thing, but I may as well include it. Many of the authors I've read on the topic of fiction writing make the point of choosing your characters names carefully. You've got two of the them heavy on alliteration: "Christopher Crooker" which connotes something sinister and "Blaine Blade" a contrived name if I've ever read one. (Maybe his ma was still under the effect of the post-delivery sedatives when she filled out the birth certif.)

Finally, I do not like Christopher's speech at the retirement party. It seems manipulative, a heavy-handed way of stating the Point of the Story. Trust the reader to glean that notion by herself. (I do like the story's final sentence, though.)

I've just about used up all the computer time I allotted for myself today, but I am very glad that I spent some of it on your story. The other on-line option was to have read "The Brook Kerith," but today you won out over George Moore!

You keeping writin' 'em, I'll keep reading 'em.

Auntie

PS-- Don't forget when you have a chance to check out the aforementioned Borges story.

[108 fountains]

Auntie,

Thanks very much for all the effort you put into these thoughtful and useful comments. You touched upon several points where I also felt there was room for improvement - I was particularly concerned about the speech at the end. I must have reworked it two dozen times and still was dissatisfied with it. I think I need to have some sort of speech in there though; I’ll have to rework it again, maybe cut the length by half and maybe keep it more subtle.

Yes, I was worried about the length of the piece as a whole, and so I used “telling” in places to keep the story from becoming too long. I may just delete some of those passages - perhaps the entire fourth paragraph, and some of the description of the restaurant, the details about the office work and the other employees - in order to have room to show more interaction in other places in the story.

I was also concerned about Senor Gonzalez “sobering up” too quickly at the restaurant as he talks of his family. I’m not sure how I’ll fix that. It felt it out of place to have them discussing family earlier in the conversation, but perhaps that would be better after all; they can get drunk and Senor Gonzalez can slur his words later.

You also brought up a couple of points that I had not considered, such as not advertising where the jokes are, so that is appreciated.

On the point of Senor Gonzalez being ordinary rather than extraordinary, well, that was the whole point of writing the story - to explore the value of an ordinary life. I had hoped to portray the interaction between the two main characters with both humor and sympathy, and how Christopher was seeing his own life reflected in Senor Gonzalez. On the other hand, combining your comment with Hawkman’s comment, I’m thinking I might add a bit of flavor to Senor Gonzalez’s past. If he had some truly extraordinary achievements in the past, that might add some irony to his present bureaucratic existence and make him a more pitiable or at least a more interesting character.

Thanks again for the comments, which will give me plenty to mull over. I really would like one day to try publishing some of my stories (I did publish one, but haven’t really made much effort to approach publishers yet), and so it’s great to have a critiques from people with a practiced eye.

Oh, the “antique CDs” was a reference to the LP phonograph albums that were used before 8-tracks and cassettes (they could refer to the even older 78s, too). I may be showing my age here since CDs themselves are a disappearing technology these days. -- This snippet actually happened to me several years ago. A young woman did come up to tell me about a new coffee shop she had been to where they played old music and had big, black antique CDs on the wall. I remember that was one of the first times I ever felt old.

I downloaded El Sur and will read it tomorrow and hope also to finish The Lyin’ King.

[DATo]

===============================
"You are painting Señor Gonzalez as eidetically as any character I have ever read in literature. The description of the setting was also very vividly painted, as were the other sensory details such as the sights, smells and tastes." - DATo

"The descriptions of the office co-workers are indeed vivid, but not, as a previous comment said "eidetic," which refers to bold but false images, as in a dream or a childhood memory of an imaginary friend." - AuntShecky

eidetic |īˈdetik|
adjective Psychology
relating to or denoting mental images having unusual vividness and detail, as if actually visible.

===============================

Also, I might point out that the Borges story to which you refer, 'El Sur', is about a "man of the cloth", not about a streetcar conductor (if memory serves). The story contains a journey by train if I remember correctly. Is this what you are referring to? I do hasten to admit that there are some striking similarities between El Sur and Senor Gonzalez.

===============================

"My other criticism is about the style of the writing (not your writing in general, but in this particular piece.)Just as the two main characters seem banal, so is the prose used to depict them: literal, linear, and straightforward rather than "literary." That racks up points for consistency, but not necessarily compelling fiction. The primary problem seems to be more focus on telling rather than showing." - AuntShecky

Auntie, you have accused me of this also and despite the extensive explanatory PM you sent me, for which I am grateful, I am still totally confused about what you mean. Could you perhaps rewrite a small portion of 108's story to illustrate the "literary" form to which you refer?

===============================

With reference to my story The Wisdom Of Herr Hoffmann you wrote:
"The story takes a little too much time getting off the ground." - AuntShecky

And yet you suggest that 108 describe the difficulties of becoming settled in Chile; difficulties which have no significant bearing on the story whatsoever, and which would only serve to delay the story from getting off the ground?

"For instance, there is a missed opportunity with the paragraph describing how Christopher settles in at his new assignment. The description gives the impression that the transitional move went about too smoothly and as such seems unrealistic. Even moving across town carries more hassles than we see here. The nuts and bolts of relocating could have been a source of humor, what with the usual ways bureaucracy moves, especially where a language barrier is involved." - AuntShecky

Virtually everything I wrote in Herr Hoffmann was written for calculated effect. Each part of that story served as the foundation for what was to follow. Yes, it took considerable literary real estate to get it all in, and I admit the story was long, but it was all necessary, but I fail to see what bearing, what necessity, would be fulfilled by 108 giving a detailed account of the difficulties involved getting settled in his new digs. Adding any humorous digressions, as you suggest, would perhaps be welcomed in a novel but in a short story they only serve as unnecessary filler material.

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On the other hand I agree with the point you raised regarding the CD issue. I too was confused. I was shortly educated to the use of the term after reading 108's explanation but I still have to side with you on this one. A writer, in my opinion, must take into account how the details of his story will be understood by his readers. The world is not ready for yet another Finnegan's Wake *LOL*

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I was also pleasantly shocked by your reference to Zorba The Greek - my God, you absolutely nailed it! I had not even considered this story while reading Sr Gonzalez, and though I'm sure it was not 108's intention the comparisons are striking.

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AuntShecky's incisive literary scalpel is one of the iconic mainstays of this forum. I, for one, would be distressed to ever find that it has been holstered. Despite times where I find myself confused by your explanations or disagree with your assessments I am most profoundly grateful that you continue to offer them. I assure you that your comments have been of help both to me and, I'm sure, to many who frequent this forum and I never, never dismiss anything you have to say out-of-hand. We may at times have to agree to disagree but I assure you that I consider everything you offer in your critiques most seriously and with gratitude for their availability.

[AuntShecky]

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"You are painting Señor Gonzalez as eidetically as any character I have ever read in literature. The description of the setting was also very vividly painted, as were the other sensory details such as the sights, smells and tastes." - DATo

"The descriptions of the office co-workers are indeed vivid, but not, as a previous comment said "eidetic," which refers to bold but false images, as in a dream or a childhood memory of an imaginary friend." - AuntShecky

eidetic |īˈdetik|
adjective Psychology
relating to or denoting mental images having unusual vividness and detail, as if actually visible.

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I was going by the authority of Webster, not Psychology Today, but I will certainly grant you that
relatively recently the word in question has taken on additional definitions in terms of film criticism, specifically that of movie soundtrack-- "eidetic" and "non-eidetic," referring to music that appears to occur out of nowhere, deliciously spoofed by Mel Brooks in Blazing Saddles in which the Count Basie Orchestra is inexplicably playing "April in Paris" in the middle of the western desert.



The Borges story is driving me crazy. It could be "El Sur," but I must have it confused with something else.
I do know the story is about a streetcar conductor --an ordinary guy --who gets inured in an accident. I'm really sure it takes place in South America, too.




AuntShecky's incisive literary scalpel is one of the iconic mainstays of this forum. I, for one, would be distressed to ever find that it has been holstered. Despite times where I find myself confused by your explanations or disagree with your assessments I am most profoundly grateful that you continue to offer them. I assure you that your comments have been of help both to me and, I'm sure, to many who frequent this forum and I never, never dismiss anything you have to say out-of-hand. We may at times have to agree to disagree but I assure you that I consider everything you offer in your critiques most seriously and with gratitude for their availability.

Thank you very much for saying this, BUT-- (and as occurred to me in Walmart's the other day, it's a BIG BUTT--)
Yours fooly has been WRONG more times than she has been right, ergo every reply comes with a caveat to take any of my comments with an entire container of Morton's salt -- "When it rains, it pours."

[Hawkman]

Actually, Auntie I think you might mean diagetic!

[AuntShecky]

Oh, jaysus. Bad day for your ole auntie.

[Steven Hunley]

Oh, jaysus. Bad day for your ole auntie.

But such a good day for me. I'm behind at the job, rushed, hurried, and come to the conclusion that I need a break.

I search through these pages and find this piece of work. I have no time for this now. I can see from just scanning the contents I need more time for this. It needs more attention for one thing, and for another I recognize good writing when I see it and by golly why doesn't this just peak my interest! It DOES!

Just an impression mind you, but the balance strikes me right off. Dialogue and narrative, foreign and domestic scenes and characters, accompanied by a wealth of sensuous appeal in sights and smells and images.

I'm gushing. Forgive me.