Homeless Happy Birthday, El Paso, October 19, 2007
Regino Olivas-Mendoza, 47, hangs around a car wash in central El Paso. He wears a sign that says, “Homeless today, Is my birthday, can you help me?”
I asked him, “What day is it, today?”
He didn’t know, at first, then he said, “Diez y nueve de Octubre, mi cumpleana.”
He’d had a lot to drink, it seemed.
Olivas-Mendoza was born in Parijas, Chihuahua, Mexico. He says he is a piedrero (rock mason) by trade, but works infrequently. He has been on the U.S. side for twenty years.
“I have problems,” he explains, “I can’t pay my rent and I can’t work and I can’t stay sober. I’m just a little happy, sometimes. I drink. Sometimes I’m really sad. It’s a life. I’m missing a lot of it…I know,” his voice trails off.
He shakes his head, smiles, raises his chest, proudly, squints his eyes, lowers his voice. “I don’t do drogas (drugs). ” He wags his finger in disapproval. “Drogas will kill you.”
He smiles wryly, turns, walks to the nearby store to buy beer, turns again, yells over his shoulder, “Come to the car wash any day and visit, I’m here every day…thanks for taking my picture.”
Usually I can talk with someone, after awhile, about the future. Not with Regino. Not today. It seems that that is the thing the booze takes away, the past and the future, just leaves a person on the flat plane of the present, barely.
Sweet, wrecked, happy. Still proud. Hanging around. Another day on the street.
