(Based on an actual event)

by Carol Roper

It’s early on a bright Sunday morning in January. I’m walking my, smallish, white part terrier/Chihuahua dog in Riviera Park. Flags of all nations wave from poles along the front of fenced, manicured gardens.  Technically the park is closed at this hour, but I live nearby and am here daily and know the rear parking lot gate is often unchained before opening for the groundskeepers and let myself in.

The Centro Social, Civico y Culturo Riviera on the Main Boulevard in Ensenada, Mexico has an evocative, glamor of a bygone era The building is a city block long and is an imposing Spanish-colonial style mansion with red terracotta roof, white stucco wall and arched windows and doorways. Inside are huge, historic murals including in the first-floor garden bar, where they claim the Marguerita drink was invented. Originally built in the nineteen thirties as a hotel and casino reportedly popular with Hollywood stars and gangsters, it’s now a historic site and a city showpiece.

There is something calming about being in a place with a history. 

Except for the dog and me, there’s no one here. I crouch to release her and she’s off like a shot leaving me to stroll in peace. The park belongs to the city’s residents and I inspect it as one. Noting a walkway under repair, the statue of Christopher Columbus vandalized again, a missing tile on the stairs. I watch my step lest I take a dive and, at my age, experience, a life altering event.

On the far side of the boulevard, I see a small group of late morning revelers apparently returning to their hotel after all night partying. A man wearing a red cape dances around them like a court jester.  I smile, reminded of my own reckless youth. Now, if I’m awake past ten p.m. it means I have indigestion.

My attention turns to locating my dog. I spot her running along with a food wrapper sticking out of her mouth.

“Drop it,” I shout, knowing she’s already eaten whatever was in it and is just taunting me. At the sound of my voice, she changes direction. I’m going to have to fight her for the wrapper.  I don’t run because, I’m in my eighties, not crazy.

I walk half the park before I see her. Nothing visible in mouth, in a classic dog squat. I’m really hoping she hasn’t consumed that wrapper. She’s already had to have an IV once, after she managed to ingest a mouthful of onions.

When I reach her, I see the wrapper on the ground and am relieved. I pull a plastic bag out of my jean’s pocket, fit it on my hand like a mitten and scoop up the wrapper and then her poop. As I’m dropping both in a waste basket, I feel someone behind me.

I turn to see the guy in the red cape who was across the Boulevard with partiers a minute ago.

How did he get here? Did he fly on his cape which I realize is actually a dirty red blanket?  Maybe the front gate is open? I don’t see anyone else. I regret leaving my pepper spray home.  

He says, “Good morning to me,” in Spanish.

I take a step back and return his greeting in Spanish,

“Buenos Dias.” As soon as he hears me, he replies,

“Ah you speak, English,”

My accent always betrays me. Also, most people anywhere can tell outsiders at a glance. Plus, It takes a certain kind of stupid foreigner to be alone in a closed park.    

“And a little Spanish,” I add, a bit sensitive to criticism that expatriates don’t learn the language of their adopted country.  I scan for any sign of life besides me and this stranger. No traffic or passersby.

I’m on my own.

 My dog takes off again.

The man asks me where I’m from.

“Ciudad de Nueva York,” I answer sizing him up. There is a mischievous quality about him. He’s clearly under the influence of something, I don’t think alcohol. He’s a little hyper, I’m guessing it’s a stimulant. He’s youngish, mid-forties, blonde, blue eyed, weathered but attractive face. Wearing crumpled khaki pants, white dress shirt. A kind of southern preppy style. He has a suit jacket hooked through the handle of a tan attaché case he has that I don’t want to know anything about.  His eyes glitter with merriment and sadness. My attention keeps going to that dirty red blanket, like a red flag.   

He peppers me with questions I answer while keeping watch for my dog and a groundskeeper or any other human, estimating my risk because, he’s high as a kite and I don’t want to agitate him

He tells me, he speaks six languages.

I wonder if he is a university instructor, but don’t ask.

“Do you live in Ensenada?” I hear him ask.

“Yes, for a long time.”  I know he’s leading up to asking for money and why not?  I’m a well-groomed, older woman a foreigner and probably have some to give. He’s making an attempt to engage me because it’s humiliating to ask strangers for money and he still has some self-respect. I don’t pity him because that would mean I feel superior and I don’t. I know what it’s like to need money. I’m a woman. Last hired, first fired. I’ve had my struggles and was lucky to get past them. But neither of us seems comfortable at this point and I think why prolong it?

“How can I help you?”  I ask.  

He looks startled and lowers his eyes. I follow his gaze to his brown, scuffed shoes.

He murmurs a number that sounds to me like, “A Cinco,” But that’s ridiculous. Five pesos? That doesn’t buy a taco or even a bus ride.

I reach for the cross chest purse I wear like a breast plate, unzip and fish around in it for my wallet and take it out. I know that’s a, “no-no,” but I have a gut feeling he’s harmless. He’s not violent or a thief.  Opening it, I see only five-hundred-peso bills, each equivalent, more or less, to twenty U.S. dollars. There’s also one U.S. dollar but that seems like a Scrooge move.  It’s been cold since the holidays that just ended. I should give him enough for a warm bed, a shower a meal. I stop and remind myself it’s not for me to choose how money is used once I give it. I’m not the Melinda Gates Foundation.

I give him 500 pesos. His face shows his surprise. He crumples the bill in his hand as if I might change my mind and begins to shower me with gratitude and compliments.

And I smile and nod and say “de nada,” you’re welcome, while trying to spot my out-of-sight dog. 

And then he’s stops talking.

I turn to my attention to him and he asks me,

“How can I help you?”

I’m momentarily speechless at this unexpected question and feel suddenly vulnerable. Observing his expression I see he is sincere but I hesitate to reveal my secret to a stranger, particularly one wearing a dirty, red blanket as a cape. He waits for my answer. I am honest.

“You already have, you talked to me.”

A smile as pure and beautiful as the child he once was lights his face.

Stepping away, I signal “Goodbye,” and begin walking across a berm toward my dog, who I see digging near a rose bush.

“OHMIGOD, digging!” 

Just then I hear his voice and glancing over my shoulder, see him still standing where I left him.

He shouts at me. “Are you married?”

“Oh, no, no.” Lowering my head, I pick up my pace, grab my dog and swiftly walk out through the now open front gate.

Ⓒ Carol Roper Copyright 2025

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