Back to the Finca

“No hay mal que por bien no venga.”

Sharply dressed and smelling like a million dollars, specifically three million dollars in kickbacks received after shutting down a proposal to open a marketplace for local Puerto Rican vendors to sell fruits and vegetables and instead approving a lavish new condo complex on the waterfront, designed by a firm from Texas, built by a company from Florida, and housed by only those who can afford the very best, Jamon Segura stood in his office overlooking the tourist-filled streets of Old San Juan and realized he could eat a horse.

His secretary was out, and he felt more like strolling than scrolling, so out into the sunlit streets he went, past faded murals adorning the walls of old colonial buildings. He bumped past tourists, past abuelas, kept his eyes on his mePhone.

He turned down a street paved with blue cobblestones—made from ballast from the ships of conquistadors!—thinking, Burger Czar would be good, or maybe McRonald’s. Hey, is that new Chuck-Fill-Up open?

At that moment, a remarkably strong gust of wind whooshed down the narrow street, swirled around him like a fist, enveloped him in purple, blue, black, a bruise charged with hot, crackling energy. The wind intensified, hoisting him into the air—

—and then it abruptly slapped him down to the ground.

He anticipated the sharp pain of hitting the bony cobblestones. But, no, the abrupt pain he felt came from hitting dirt. The air suddenly stank of it, not of Old San Juan’s usual car exhaust, fried food, and suntan lotion, but of soil, fauna, flora. What the hell?

And then came the goat.

It walked up casually, because that’s what goats do, and began nibbling on Jamon’s thousand dollar Christian Lajuebon shoes.

“Hold up! Hold up! Goddamned goat!” Jamon tried to kick the goat away but it held on and easily took off the shoe. With its prize in its mouth, it trotted away. Confused, cursing, and struggling to get to his feet, Jamon half-crawled, half-hobbled after the animal.

“Leave my goat alone!” came a voice.

A young woman approached wearing a simple dress, black hair combed in an old-fashioned style. Her face was harsh looking, serious. But Jamon had to confess he found it sexy.

“Hey, pretty lady. What’s your name?”

“Rosa Perfecta.”

“No.”

“Yes. Why 'No’?”

“Nah. It’s a perfect name for a perfect looking lady.”

She winced and smirked at the same time. “Are you lost?”

“Um, kind of. I was going to get a Chuck-Fill-Up, and it was right around the corner, and . . . where is this now?”

“Peñuelas.”

“Pen-what?” His hands immediately searched for his phone, didn’t find it, checked again. He must have dropped it. “Oh no! Not my mePhone!”

“Meee phone?”

“Duh! Yes! Oh my god, here it is.” The phone rested on the ground, almost buried in goat droppings. “Goddammit! My mePhone!” He wiped his hands and tried to open it—but it was dead.

“Fuuuck!”

“What is that, a wallet?”

“It’s a mePhone! A mePhone! Are you deaf? Dammit, where is this place? How did I get here?”

“Peñuelas.”

“Is that—is that in San Juan?”

“We are near Ponce.”

“What?! That’s south. Way south. Did I hit my head on the sidewalk? Maybe I’m knocked out and dreaming on the sidewalk?”

“You are not dreaming. But maybe you are drunk.”

“Yeah, I wish.”

Had he been lifted off the ground by that wind and carried like that freaking girl in The Wizard of Oz? How many miles was that? And he survived? Must be a world record. Damn, he should have gotten it on video. What a TixTox that could’ve been!

“Listen,” he said, “whatever happened, I gotta get back to San Juan. Where can I call for a Ober?”

“Ober?”

“Yeah, duh, like a taxi. Jesus.”

“Taxis are very expensive. You have nice clothes, but they are very tight and the pants are too short, so it must be a hand-me-down. Are you sure you have money to pay for a taxi?”

Jamon checked his pockets. “Fuck! My wallet! My keys! What the hell happened to me?”

At that point the goat returned. Seeming to want Jamon’s other shoe, it snuck up behind Jamon, ramming into the back of his legs.

Jamon fell, hit the back of his head, and, cursing, blacked out.

* * *

Something smelled delicious.

Jamon woke on a small bed, against the wall of a kitchen. Open concept, he thought, but that stove was so old. Were they using wood?!

An old woman puttering around asked him if he was hungry. Before he could say he was starving, she smacked a bowl onto the table in front of him.

“Eat,” she said. “Eat before it gets cold.”

The young woman Jamon met before walked in. “You’re awake,” she said. “Eat.”

“Rosa Perfecta, right?” he asked her. “But what’s your real name?”

“That is my real name. Eat.”

Jamon was about to dive into the food but then said: “Wait a second. Is there eggplant in this? Also, I can’t have dairy.”

“Asopao de verduras,” the older woman said.

He recognized the large chunks of carbs and worried about his keto diet. But his hunger took over. He started spooning and chewing. How long had it been since he’d eaten? His office must be missing him.

He was facing an open window that looked out on dirt and a bunch of chickens. At that moment a beat-up truck straight out of a Depression movie rambled to an abrupt stop—chickens flying.

Jamon shook his head. “What a piece of sh—wait a second, wait a second, it can’t be! What freaking year is this?”

Rosa and her mother looked at each other. “1937,” Rosa said.

“Holy sh—”

This must be a dream, he thought, had to be a dream, and in time, he would wake up. But damn, all the details were so real and the food so delicious. Secretly, he prided himself on his subconscious imagination. If it was a dream, then he would play along and enjoy it for all it was worth until he woke up.

The man who had been driving the truck walked into the house and said, “Who the hell is this?”

“Hello, sir!” Jamon said, not getting up. “My name is Jamon, and I’m here to have sex with your daughter! Ha! Lots of sex! And maybe with her mom, too.”

The man walked over, punched Jamon out of the chair, and he blacked out again.

* * *

Jamon awoke again on the small bed, with a swollen, painful face and bare feet. The older man who had punched him, who said his name was Ercilio, sat there staring at him.

“I have to get to San Juan.”

“You have no money and no car,” Ercilio said. “And no longer any shoes. You are poor and a little touched. As a good Catholic, I cannot let someone like you, someone who is drunk or crazy, wander outside alone. You may stay the night. But if you want to stay more than that, you must work.”

* * *

The next morning, Jamon begrudgingly cracked his eyes open to the sound of screaming roosters. Whatever time it was, it was way too early. He dragged his beaten body out of bed. If this was a dream, it sucked.

Ercilio led the way, trudging through the dew-laden grass. The air was thick with the sweet, earthy scent of freshly cut cane. When they reached the fields, its expanse of green made Jamon even more exhausted. “You gotta be freaking kidding me.”

Other laborers were already there, working with determination carved on their faces. He was handed a heavy machete and a tattered sack and was told to do what the others did.

He set to work with the energy and enthusiasm of a sloth. Each stalk of cane he barely attempted to cut seemed to defy him, taunt him, as if jeering at his desperate need to a StarBanks Vanilla Bean Frappuccino. An evil sun climbed higher, its rays intensifying. He swam in sweat. His hands blistered.

In the distance, a group of workers sang rhythmic folk songs, finding solace and camaraderie in their shared hardship. For Jamon, the hours blended together in an agonizing blur.

The day ended and the next one began the same. Jamon began to wonder if he was not in a dream. He developed several theories. His favorite was that he might be in a simulation invented by an AI who had taken over the world. He liked that just because it was cool. His least favorite was that he had actually time traveled to the past, so far in the past that he could not make any bets on sports games.

On the fourth day, as he yearned for the sweet relief of dusk, a cloud of dust rose on the outskirts of the field, along with the sound of trucks.

Jamon paused—any excuse to pause—to watch as the vehicles drew nearer. A sense of unease seemed to creep through the other laborers. Their muscles tensed, their faces grew worried.

The trucks stopped, and soldiers or cops—Jamon couldn’t tell, for there has never been much difference—disembarked. They wore poofy pants and, despite these, swaggered with a sense of superiority.

One of the police, with a leering grin, walked up to Rosa Perfecta. The cop got all up in her face. “Well, Rosa, how is my beautiful little flower?”

Rosa kept her gaze on the ground in front of her.

“What? No words of defiance?” the man said. “No cutting remarks from my beautiful flower?”

Jamon noted the steely look in this man’s eyes, a dead look, and found that it was somehow familiar.

Before the situation could escalate, a commanding officer barked an order, snapping the men back to their senses. They clambered back into their trucks and rumbled away.

“That guy, the one who talked to you . . . what is his name?”

Rosa's hands trembled as she clutched her machete. “Chief Cerdo Segura.”

“Cerdo Segura!”

Of course! That was why he looked familiar—a face from one of the many on top of his grandmother’s old TV console. And that steely look—it was in his own eyes, a look he would catch in the mirror in his darkest moments.

* * *

That night at dinner, the old man turned to Jamon and said, “You see how we have to work, yes? You see they treat us, yes? You see how they treat our women, yes?”

“I guess.”

“Does it not fill you with anger?”

Jamon didn’t know what to say. “I mean, they’re just doing their jobs though. When you think about it, everything here is great. I mean, you don’t have the Internet or machines to do the cane work, which you really fucking need, but I’ll guess those will be coming soon? Anyways, you got clean water, clean air. What else do you want?”

Ercilio shook his head. “We work under a shadow of oppression that darkens our beloved island. For too long, we have labored in the fields, our sweat nourishing the soil, yet our spirits shackled by colonists and their dog soldiers. Our cries for freedom echo in the wind, unheard by the indifferent rulers. But we shall not be silenced. We will unite, brothers and sisters, against their tyranny, and with courage and determination, we will break the chains that bind us. Together, we will sow the seeds of justice, cultivating a future of equality for generations to come. Viva la libertad!”

Jamon nodded and said, “Yeah, okay, I guess. Um, is there more rice? I really shouldn’t but—”

“This Sunday—Palm Sunday—we will march, peacefully, to let the government know they cannot destroy us. But also to let each other know that we are not alone in our struggle. Will you join us?”

“I guess. I mean, I’m not really down with the protest thing. But what else do I have to do? It’s not like you got Pickleball courts, am I right?”

The night before the march, Jamon stood outside the house, under the moonlit sky, oblivious to the melody of the coquis. Nearby, the goat nibbled on a heel, the last bit of Jamon’s Christian Lajuebon shoes.

Once again, Jamon took out his mePhone, covered in dried goat berries, and tapped to open it, having again forgotten that it was dead. He cursed and put it away. With every new day in this whatever it was, his connection to his real life faded. His phone was his last connection to it, and if he was ever going to ever get back, in reality or virtual reality or just in his head, he felt he had to hold on to this stupid phone.

Not for the first time, he then wondered if, instead of looking at this experience as a crazy illusion, maybe there was a way to profit from it. Maybe he could invent the Internet now—he’d be a trillionaire! But he didn’t know anything about computers and if they even had them in 1937. If only his fucking phone worked.

Lost in his thoughts, he was startled when Rosa Perfecta appeared silently beside him. Her eyes were filled with concern, and her voice trembled as she spoke. “You must be careful tomorrow. The police are cruel and ruthless. You’re a big man. I don’t know if you can fight. But, please, promise me you'll protect my father.”

“Um. Yeah, I work out. I do the kettlebell at least three times, or twice, once a week. You can see it mostly in my core—wait, are you not going?”

“My mother has forbidden me from going—she feels something bad will happen. Promise me you will go and you will protect him.”

Jamon liked Rosa Perfecta. She would have been a 8 or a 6 back home, but she was the only game in town now. This might be a good chance to impress her. “I guess. Okay, yeah, I got his back, no worries.”

He took Rosa’s proximity as a invitation to kiss her. He gave it his best, but she was cold to him, her lips unresponsive. Normally, he wouldn’t care and just keep pushing forward.

“I do not want to kiss you,” she said. “And you smell like goat shit.”

“Yeah, I’m too tired anyway from working the fields, you know, and all that rice got me bloated. Besides there’s that protest thing in the morning. Aight, I’m out,” he said and then went to his cot.

* * *

Jamon dithered and procrastinated all morning. He told the others he would catch up to them. When he finally lumbered into Ponce and toward the plaza, he saw the townsfolk gathered peacefully, without weapons, singing a song he didn’t recognize — “es un jardín florido/de mágico fulgor . . .”

Ercilio stood at the front, singing with all of his might for a hopeful future.

In front of them were officers in, what did they call those puffy pants?—jodhpurs! All of them were armed—with rifles, pistols, and were those Tommy guns like from the old gangster movies?

There at the front of them stood Chief Segura, whose eyes mirrored Jamon’s own.

Just as Jamon stepped into the plaza, he felt a strong wind around him—that strange wind from Old San Juan, swirling toward him with inexplicable energy.

Oh my god! Yes! he thought. It’s back! I’m going home! He had so many of his shows to catch up on NetFilmz, but first he would take the longest shower.

He stood in place waiting for the wind to do its work.

Then he saw: Chief Segura taking aim with his rifle at Ercilio. Why? No one is doing anything!

He had to protect Rosa’s father, no? Because he had kinda sorta promised?

But, wait, he also had to protect the police chief, no? Because if Chief Segura died, he, Jamon, might never be born?

Also, and perhaps most importantly, before he left he had to make sure he took a TixTox video of the moment, to prove that he was here, and he would get so many “freaking” Likes.

The wind’s fingers picked at his heels, tugged at his tattered pants—Maybe I have enough time to do it all, he thought, I can be a hero and I can still get home and I can go viral.

So, as the chief fired, Jamon quickly calculated the best angle, raised his phone, and then he leaped—the strange wind still clawing at him. In that moment three things happened.

One, he remembered once more that his mePhone was dead and could take no photos.

Two, he roughly pushed the Ercilio out of the way and to the ground, resulting in a fractured tibia that bothered the old man until the day he died in January of 1959.

And, three, the chief’s bullet, instead of lodging in Ercilio’s heart, hit Jamon’s mePhone, its shattered remains spinning out of his hands.

Jamon screamed and fell to his knees in anguish over the phone.

Which resulted in Chief Segura’s next bullet finding its new target successfully: Jamon’s heart. Sounds of cries and gunshots echoed like background noise as Jamon slipped into nothingness.

As such, he was not aware of the chief’s last bullet, which had been aimed at Jamon’s head but which instead struck the metal of the fence behind him—and ricocheted lethally into the space between the chief’s very own eyes.

* * *

The sun blazed on the blue cobblestones of Old San Juan. Two men, walking out for lunch, came upon a shattered mePhone lying in the middle of the street.

A bullet was stuck in the middle of its screen.

“This bullet, it’s from a rifle,” said the first man.

“Very old,” said his friend, looking over his shoulder. “How did it get stuck in that phone?”

“Never mind. Toss that away and let’s get lunch at the open air market.”

“Si. Very good idea.”

Note: On March 21, 1937, on a Palm Sunday, a peaceful civilian march took place, organized to commemorate the abolition of slavery in Puerto Rico as well as to protest the U.S. government's imprisonment of Pedro Albizu Campos. The event turned deadly when police shot at the unarmed participants, killing 17 and wounding 200. It is known as the Ponce massacre.