Issue 11
Iron
Allen McGill
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The morning was as bright as Jerry's steps were jubilant. For the first time since his arrival in San Miguel a week earlier he felt able to enjoy himself.
This trip to the post office -- el correo, he reminded himself, determined to learn some Spanish while he was in Mexico -- was no longer a chore.
Humming, he stepped through the entrance and surveyed the rows of mailboxes.
"You sound chipper this morning," Stan, an American ex-pat called. "You've been looking awful."
"Finally got some sleep," Jerry said. "Makes all the difference. I rented the Sanborn house up the hill, sight unseen. But right next door there's what they call a herrerķa. You know what that is?"
"Sure," said Stan. "An iron workshop."
"I hadn't known that," said Jerry, "until he began hammering at five o'clock every morning this week. Finally, I paid him off to take a vacation. He left this morning and won't be back until after I'm gone."
Stan shrugged, somewhat embarrassed. "I'm afraid you got taken, my friend. You should have been warned about him. He's not an ironworker, he's a con man. Spends most of the year in Acapulco, paid for by 'tenants' like you."
~Allen McGill
Originally from NYC, Allen writes, acts and directs theater in Mexico. His work has appeared NY Times, Writer, Newsday, flashquake, Herons Nest, Cenotaph, Temps Libres, and others. Email.
© 2003 by Allen McGill. All Rights Reserved.
© Copyright 2003 by Cayuse Press. All Rights Reserved.