Morning

He awoke to people talking outside. What are they doing? he thought. What are they plotting? he quietly opened his window.

They were in the alley. A group of five. Mexicans. There was a pickup truck parked on the side. The men drank beer and threw the empties in the back of the Ford. They spoke in Spanish. The old man couldn’t figure it all out. Maybe they were looking for copper, or aluminium, maybe pvc pipe. They’re looking for something, he said under his breath. Why can’t they speak English? Everybody else does, he raised his blinds just a bit.

The Mexicans were getting drunk. They weaved from trashcan to dumpster down the alleyway. And they were getting loud too. Three of them started singing along to the song on the radio. Loud Mexican voices singing an old Mexican song with violins and guitars. The old man had heard the song before. Thought he’d heard it at a Mexican restaurant by a band of them going from table to table. He wasn’t quite sure though. To him, they all sounded the same.

He listened to their drunken voices. It began to soothe him. The old man pretended he was on a boat at sea and they were the entertainment. He began to hum along. A smile came to his old lined face. Then, they were gone. No more Mexicans, nor radio. No more songs. Just silence. He could hear birds chirping. It was morning.

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