Mexican Music

Last night there was a bed frame by the dumpsters. A box springs too. This morning it is gone. Mexicans took them in the early morning hours. I thought I heard music playing around five. Mexican music. Guitars and trumpets blaring at five in the morning from tinny speakers. I could barely hear the bass, or, the tuba. A man singing in Spanish. About some love that he’d lost; she abandoned him. Left him behind for another lover. He cried over and over. Wailing about this great loss. He’d never get her back. Her mind was made up. Once they leave, they never come back.

The metal bed frame was tossed in the back of the truck making a racket. The box springs made a thud. I opened my window and saw two men lifting other debris into the back of the truck. Sifting through garbage. Talking about women. Their women. How they’d shoot them if they caught em with another man. The two laughed and opened beers. The truck went on down the alley slowly. The sun was coming up. The sound of gravel under tires went on for a few minutes. The Mexicans vanished. The music faded out. I started my day.

Sitting at my breakfast table I see the frost on the grass from my back window. The ivy on the red brick is turning brown. Leaves are piled up by the side of the road. Soon the City will collect them. All of them gone and then autumn will become winter.

They say we’ll get a lot of snow this year. Weather men say that every year. They start building the drama around Halloween with talk of a white Thanksgiving. Saying we won’t have much of an Indian summer. Then, inevitably, we have a mild sixty degrees on turkey day. You can’t trust anyone.

It is November. There’s talk of a turkey shortage this year due to labor and bird flu. I go to the store and I see bins and bins and bins of frozen gobblers. They go from twelve to twenty-four pounds. They also have turkey breasts. When I was a kid my mom served a whole turkey. Complete with drumsticks. My dad would smoke it outside on the driveway for hours the night before. As I got older my mother started just serving the breast. Disappointments occur as you get older.

Tomorrow morning I will awake to Mexican music again. I’m sure of it. There’s a metal table and an easy chair out by the garbage tonight. By sun up they will be gone. And I’ll drink my coffee, thinking about November. This November and past Novembers as the pick-up slowly moves down the alley and Mexican music fades out.

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