There’s this guy who sells both alebrijes and woven things on the pedestrian street, Alcala. He’s there every night. In fact, before I knew his name, when referring to him, I’d ask M, “Remember the vendor who was trying to pick up the server in that café we went to that Sunday?” Now he’s Constantino.

Every night, as I am scampering home to be sort of close to my curfew (ten is almost impossible for me), I greet him, exchange a few words of small talk, laugh a bit, and head off. Last night, his maroon colored, button down dress shirt was unbuttoned down to his bellybutton (but still tucked in), so I could so from a distance that he was out of sorts. When we saluted each other and I asked how he was doing, he explained it was all bad, and he announced that he needed another beer.

To his already pickled breath, I said, “You have already had too many.” He said, “You don’t lie.”

(This photo is not of Constantino; it is of a couple of musicians on Alcala, including:

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