El Viejo: Fiction

Omar was a custodian. He worked in a prominent downtown highrise, overnights, from ten to six. With most of the office personnel working from home these days, his workload was light. He emptied a few trash cans, vacuumed the carpets, and sprayed down the glass surfaces. It was solitary work, slow and methodical. No supervision, just as he liked it.

He was quickly approaching thirty and was unsure where the world was going – much less his existence. He had to wear a mask through the twilight hours, though he was the sole occupant in an otherwise bustling corporate suite. Each dawn he completed his tasks, so he could observe the bright orange gem as it rose gracefully over the Superman building. For a moment, it was as if no pandemic ever existed. He always walked to work. Twice a day, he traversed the Point Street Bridge to and from home to an attic apartment nestled in a South Providence triple-decker. Twice a day, he witnessed the city skyline at its best, dusk and dawn. The walkway along the bridge offered one of the finest views statewide.

It was there, one night, that he first saw the old man seated along a solitary bench that hugged the Providence River. He looked vaguely familiar. Omar was sure they had crossed paths before. He thought nothing of it until he walked home at dawn and spotted the same older gentleman seated in the same position. He tried to ignore it, but it haunted him all the way home. He realized he had seen the old man many years ago. If he could only remember where. For the next three days, it played out the same, at dawn and dusk, the same old man, the same clothes, seated in the same position. On the fourth day, Omar couldn’t contain it any longer. He approached the man. He was wearing wrinkled khakis and a red, plaid button-down flannel. Omar took the open spot on the bench beside him and settled in. The man held a regular deck of playing cards face down. Every few seconds, he flipped the top card and immediately sent it sailing into the still waters with a subtle flick of the wrist. A two of clubs. A Jack of spades…

The old man introduced himself in Spanish. It was the same slow, deliberate Dominican Spanish Omar remembered his grandparents spoke, minus the slang, colloquialism, and rapid-fire delivery associated with youth.

“Hello, Omar. It is so good to see you again.”

At that moment, it clicked. “You remember me now, don’t you?”

The scene played in his mind. Omar was seven years old. He forgot to look both ways while crossing the street. Just then, a blue van barreled his way, screeching its brakes, barely stopping. The van stopped only inches from where Omar stood, frozen. He exhaled, inhaled, and paused in the breadth of that breath. A woman screamed, and a crowd gathered. The driver sat, frozen in place. Omar was frozen, and everyone around him was momentarily frozen – except for one old man in Omar’s peripheral view. He turned abruptly – as if let down, disinterested, and walked away.

Another vision flashed in his mind. This time, he was fourteen. Omar’s family lived next door to a drug house. A young woman had overdosed and the medical examiner was there. A crowd formed around the scene. Off to the right, Omar spotted the same old man, except he noticed he hadn’t aged a day. He watched as his wrinkled face faintly formed a smile. The old man then trailed behind the ambulance. He did so with a slow stroll, with no sense of urgency. However, Omar could see he had every intention of catching up.

As if in a flash, Omar awakens from his daydream to find he’s still seated by the Providence River, next to the old man, in the shadow of the Point Street Bridge.

“How have you not changed,” Omar dares to ask in Spanish, “all this time? It was…it was you.”

A realization crossed Omar’s face.

“I think you know.”

The old man said as he flipped another card. A three of diamonds, then a seven of clubs. A five of spades. “That’s fifteen more dead,” he announced solemnly, “since you’ve sat down.”

“All in Providence?”

“Yes.”

“All from COVID?”

He shrugs indifferently. “Mostly.”

“So this is your area,” Omar ventures. “It’s where you work?”

Another nod.

“This pandemic…it keeps you busy, I imagine?” Omar spoke freely. A faint familiarity in his tone. It was as if they were long lost friends now.

“Very busy.” He repeated. He flipped another card and it sailed off.

“So, is it all just random? Is that it? Chance?”

Another slow nod. Omar stands up to shuffle off to work. “Perhaps I’ll see you again.”

“You can count on it,” el Viejo assured him. “Just a matter of time.” •

Richard T. Laliberte is also the author of the Thaumaturge of Providence, available on Amazon.