I was standing in front of my home in Mexico one Sunday morning with a coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other, enjoying the weather. I turned to see a man standing some fifty feet from me, head bent forward, staring at his feet. His knee was bandaged, his clothes ragged.
I remembered seeing him staggering past my home at different times, drunk or stoned.
For some reason I said “Good morning” in English. He was obviously a Mexican, so I don’t know to this day why I didn’t say it in Spanish.
He looked up and replied, “Good morning. I had an unfortunate accident on a fishing boat a few weeks ago and need to rest more often when walking.”
His response startled me. Not only in English, but apparently educated as well.
He called himself “Johnny Walker” because he liked the spirits with the same name. When he was young he claimed to be a top amateur boxer and basketball player, representing Mexico in California. He met Wilt Chamberlain and had crossed paths with Kim Bassinger in Puerto Nuevo.
He laughed, said good bye and walked down to the village.
A few months had passed and I heard an old boat that was stored on an empty lot a block from my house had burned. Two men died in that fire. I found out later one of them was Johnnie Walker.
I don’t know him and this is probably the only eulogy he received. At least someone remembers you Johnnie and believes you were not always a drunk. Farewell.
