The Man on La Esquina

Flora Rodriguez closed her eyes and felt herself start to drift off as she took her last breath. She was too tired and in too much pain to fight it, so she let it happen. At ninety-two, after a lifetime of hard work and struggle, she welcomed the rest.

The sound of the beeping machines and the discomfort of the tubes in her arm started to fade just as her daughter squeezed her hand. Flora tried to open her eyes and tell her only child--the only true love of her life, the only happiness she had--that everything would be ok, but she couldn't. She exhaled the breath in her lungs and floated away.

The knowledge that it was all over––the pain, the struggle, the disappointment, and the exhaustion––was comforting. None of it mattered anymore.

"Flora." She heard someone call her name and suddenly felt confused. Maybe she had just fallen asleep, and a friend had come to visit. She waited for her daughter to tell them she was sleeping, but instead, she heard her name again.

"Flora. You're ok. You're safe."

She opened her eyes and saw a stranger standing there. He stood a few feet away, but she had a hard time seeing his face clearly. She looked around and saw that she was in the same hospital room she had been in for months, but her daughter was gone, and so were the machines and tubes in her arm, as well as the signs on the wall about sanitizing your hands and using protective equipment. The curtain around the bed was also gone, just like the small TV on the opposite wall that was impossible to see without her glasses. No people were walking past in the hallway outside. Even odder, there was no noise, no talking or beeping from any machines or announcements from the loudspeaker.

"Who are you?" she asked, turning back to the man. She felt like she already knew the answer. It was hiding somewhere in the back of her mind. She just couldn't grab hold of it.

The man didn't respond. He just stood there like he was waiting for something.

Flora pushed herself up, prepared for the inevitable pain she usually felt when she straightened her spine. It was just  one of the consequences of spending forty years hunched over a sewing machine. She worked as fast as possible with rare breaks because she got paid only cents per piece finished, and it took a lot of pieces to pay the bills. But, this time, as she pushed herself up against the hospital bed, she felt no pain, not even any discomfort. Instead, her back felt strong, which only added to her confusion.

"Try to remember me, Flora. Everything is ok. You just have to remember," the man said, tearing her away from her thoughts.

"I know you?" she asked. The part of her mind tucked all the way in the back, where memories disappear, screamed at her that she did. All she had to do was let herself remember.

The man nodded and smiled.

Flora stared at his face and tried to remember but couldn't. She remembered playing with the moriviví in her yard in Puerto Rico as a small child, giggling at its magic ability to close its leaves every time she touched it. She recalled when she left Puerto Rico for New York. She was a young wife and mother, and in the beginning, her hands trembled when people spoke to her in English. She was afraid they'd get mad when she couldn't understand them. She relived the hurt, anger, and embarrassment she felt when her husband left her and their five-year-old daughter so he could be with another woman. She also remembered the day her mother died and how she cried, then reached out to her sister to comfort and be comforted, but her sister, full of a lifetime of unexplained jealousy and resentment, turned away. She could also see herself at her daughter's law school graduation, like it was yesterday. Flora never even graduated from high school. And as she clapped, her heart swelling with pride and excitement, her lilac blouse soaked up hundreds of joyful tears.

However, she couldn't remember the man standing by the bed.

"I don't know you. Who are you? What's your name?" she asked, giving up.

"It's ok." The man stepped forward, and Flora felt a quiet, serene energy emanating from him. "You can call me Samuél for now." He pronounced it with a Spanish accent.

"Where's my daughter?" She looked around, feeling uncomfortable. "And, where am I?" She wasn't in the same hospital room as before she closed her eyes. Had she fallen asleep, and they moved her to another room?

"She's nearby and she's ok." Samuél smiled reassuringly. "Flora, let yourself relax and try to remember."

"Remember what?"

"How you got here, who I am, where you are. Just that for now. The rest will come later on."

Flora had no idea what he was talking about and felt herself getting annoyed. Who was Samuél? And why was he acting like he knew her?

She blinked a few times to focus and tried to cut through the fog in her mind.

"You're ok," Samuél said.

His Spanish accent reminded her of her own. She had been so self-conscious about her accent every time she said a word in English while she lived in New York. There were people who had mocked her accent right to her face. And others had insulted her, her heritage, and her culture. It never ceased to amaze her how unchristian and uncaring human beings could be.

"Try to remember who I am," Samuél said.

Flora looked into his big brown eyes, and some of the fog started to lift. His skin was the color of canela, and he had deep wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. He wore a lovely deep blue suit that didn't seem quite right to Flora. He felt familiar, but she couldn't figure out why or how. The memory was right there, just out of reach, and she felt frustrated.

"I don't know you," she snapped, annoyed.

"You do. You just don't remember yet. It takes time." He smiled reassuringly and started humming a tune she recognized immediately.

Her mother had loved that song. It was about two gardenias gifted to a great love. Every time Flora heard her mother singing the song, she'd think about the great love between her mother and father and how sad her mother must be because he had died when Flora was a baby.

Flora could remember her mother humming it as she cooked like it was yesterday. Her mother always snuck a piece of fried plantain and a spoonful of rice to Flora. Then she'd remind her not to let her older sister see it. Her older sister got angry when Flora had something she didn't.

Her mother had hummed the tune and smiled as she held Flora's hand, took her last breath, and made her change.

Samuél stepped forward, dragging Flora away from the memory of her mother's death. He was still humming the tune, and another distant memory started floating around in Flora's head. It was just out of reach. It was about Samuél. Suddenly, she was sure she knew him, his voice. She had heard it before, but where?

"I know you from somewhere," she whispered, trying to grab ahold of the memory.

"You do," he said softly. It's been a long time, but you do."

Flora closed her eyes and was young again, in her early twenties, running down the sidewalk in the freezing cold, trying to get to the train before it got dark. She tried to squeeze between a wall and a group of people and bumped into a man. He gave her a look, contempt all over his face. He mumbled something at her, and then she heard a word she hated, spic. She stared at him for a second, then turned away and kept going. She wanted to say something, to yell and scream at him. How dare he insult and belittle her by using that word? But she didn't. Instead, she ignored it and kept going. It wasn't the first time she had heard that word, and it wouldn't be the last. There was nothing she could do about ignorance and hate in the world.

She was about to turn the corner when she realized the man was behind her, and he was yelling.

"Hey! We apologize in this country. If you don't like it, then go back to where you came from."

A chill crawled up her back, and she felt her legs weaken.

"Sorry," she said, her thick Spanish accent making her more vulnerable and opening her up to more abuse.

She looked around for help and quickly realized the people walking past wouldn't interfere. If she were in her neighborhood, people would help her, but that wouldn't happen here. So, she stood her ground and prepared herself for the barrage of insults the man would inevitably shout at her. She told herself that if he hit her, she would push him and run as fast as she could to get away. She wouldn't yell or scream. It wouldn't make a difference. She'd use that energy to get away because she had to get home to her daughter.

The man stepped forward, and her heart raced, but then he looked past her and stopped. Apprehension and confusion filled his face. He rolled his eyes and walked off without saying another word.

Flora spun around to see what had scared the man and saw a soldier in a U.S. Army field jacket standing there. He was large and strong and had big, brown, troubled eyes and skin the color of canela, but he was filthy and smelled awful.

"Are you ok?" The soldier asked, holding a cup.

Flora pulled her coat tightly around her and nodded.

He smiled, pushed his cup towards her, and Flora reached into her pocket for change.

"Where are you from?" He asked her in Spanish.

"Puerto Rico." She dropped some coins in his cup.

"Me too," he said, then started humming the same tune her mother had always hummed. It brought tears to Flora's eyes as she stood on the cold street corner, shivering.

The soldier smiled and turned away, holding his cup out to the other rush-hour people, trying to make it home for dinner.

Flora opened her eyes and was back in the strange hospital room. She looked up at Samuél and realized he was the soldier who had helped so many years ago.

"I remember you," she told him. "You were homeless."

He smiled. "Yes."

"But..." She let the word hang in the air as she remembered more.

She was rushing down the street again and stopped to reach into her bag. She pulled out two bananas and handed them to Samuél in his Army jacket. Then she gave him a ham and cheese sandwich in a paper bag. She had made two sandwiches that morning, one for her and one for him. It had been two weeks since he stood behind her and scared away the angry white man, and Flora had brought him something to eat every day. She told herself that it was because she couldn't bear to see a fellow Puerto Rican suffering on the streets, especially one who had fought and risked their life for the U.S., but she suspected it had more to do with the tune he always hummed. It made her feel comfortable and safe, a child back in Puerto Rico, her mamá sneaking her bits  of tostones and spoonfuls of rice.

"That tune..." Flora leaned forward in the hospital bed.

"Your mamá loved that song."

"Yes. But how and why..." She looked around again. She was confused.

"You know what they say, Dios sabe lo que hace." Samuél stepped forward.

"God knows what he's doing. Yes, that's true." Flora crossed herself. "But how did you know that tune and how are you here now? After all these years?"

Samuél stared into her eyes, "Flora, hiciste tu cambio."

"My change? What change?" But as the words left her lips, she knew what they meant. She had known the whole time. She had passed over.

She had died.

She wasn't scared or sad, even though she told herself she should be both. Instead, she felt a deep sense of calm that she hadn't felt since she was a very small child, cradled in her mother's arms.

Flora looked at Samuél. "What about my daughter?"

"You were a good and strong person, and she learned that from you. She will be fine."

He held his hand out and helped her off the hospital bed while Flora wondered where her mother was. Why wasn't she there to meet her?

"I've always been there for you. I've guided your way. That's why I'm here now," Samuél responded to her thoughts like he was inside her head. "But you'll see her later."

Flora stopped short. "You've guided me," she said, remembering the last time she saw him on that street corner. She was rushing home again, so she quickly pulled out a wrapped-up roll with queso blanco and handed it to him.

"It's just bread and cheese today." She turned to keep going, but he stopped her.

"Ten cuidado en el tren. Keep your eyes open." He said the words casually, but something in his eyes made them feel urgent and dire.

Sometimes, Flora dozed off on the train or was so involved in her own thinking, going over things she had to do or bills she had to pay, that she'd miss her stop. But that night, the soldier's warning made her extra careful on the train and the stations. She was alert and aware of her surroundings. And she stuck to other people as she entered or exited the trains.

She had just gotten off the train at the station near her house and was walking behind a Dominican woman she had seen around the neighborhood when she saw a man walking toward her. He looked straight at Flora. She saw the emptiness in his eyes and knew what would happen. The cold darkness of fear crawled up her spine. He started to walk faster, straight towards her. She stepped back to get away and grabbed hold of a column. At the last moment, he turned and aimed for the Dominican woman.

Flora yelled at the Dominican woman, shouting at her to look up, but the man was too fast. He slammed into the Dominican woman and pushed her off the train platform. She screamed, and the conductor braked, but it was too late.

Flora found herself standing next to the hospital bed that had imprisoned her for so many months.

"Every life has meaning and purpose," Samuél said, looking at her.

"What about the Dominican woman?"

"She fulfilled her purpose. But you hadn't."

"What purpose or meaning did my life have?" She shook her head. "I never did anything but work a menial job. I wasn't a success. I never amounted to anything. I never did anything that changed anything." Flora felt ashamed as she uttered the words, but they were true, and she had made peace with it a long time ago.

"There's a reason for everything we do. Nothing in life is menial."

Flora thought again of Samuél in his dirty Army jacket. He had saved her life that evening. If he hadn't said those words, she would have been walking around, oblivious, not paying attention to her surroundings. But his warning scared her, and she saw the man with empty eyes in time and was able to step out of his path. The next day, she brought Samuél a piece of cake to thank him, but he was gone. She never saw him again after that.

"You saved my life," she mumbled, trying to understand.

Samuél nodded. “That’s why I was there at that time.”

"But why mine?" She smiled but shook her head. "I'm not important. I never did anything important or contributed to society."

"Every life has meaning and purpose," Samuél repeated. "If you had died that day, you wouldn't have been there for your daughter. She wouldn't have learned from you how to be noble and strong. You were important. And your contribution was as well. Very much so." He leaned towards her like he was going to tell her a secret. "Because of you and your example, your daughter helps a lot of people. That's what we need now. People like her that help others."

Flora remembered the pride on her daughter's face as she showed her the tiny office the city's immigrant affairs department had assigned her.

"She's an immigration lawyer," Flora whispered to herself.

"It's hard to make a change in life, especially when there's so much against you. Your daughter is a friendly face and honest help on a path, that unfortunately, can be filled with hate and resentment. Right?" Samuél reached his hand out.

Flora nodded and placed her hand in his.

"You contributed to your daughter's life, and she contributes to all her client's lives. And all her clients contribute to their family's or friend's lives. And it goes on and on."

Flora stood there staring at Samuél, and she remembered playing joyfully as a child, her husband leaving, her mamá dying, her sister's resentment, running in the cold for the train. The exhilarating pride she felt as she clapped when her daughter walked across her graduation stage.

"Every life has meaning and purpose." Samuél smiled. "Dios sabe lo que hace."

And just like that, everything came rushing back. Her little life had meaning. She had contributed and helped make a change. That was the whole reason she had gone back. And when she was in danger of not fulfilling her destiny because of the man with the empty eyes, Samuél had gone back to help set things right again.

Flora remembered where she was and how she had gotten there. And she remembered Samuél. She remembered who he was.

Samuél wrapped her hand around his arm. "Welcome back, Flora."

Flora looked up at Samuél. "You do know what you’re doing." She smiled joyfully. She was home.