Blissville: A memoir (Installment 7)


“It’s a concepto among Latin peoples,” Tito tells me. He is trying to explain the mutterings between the guys who huddle together nightly a few doors down. Our little block once was quiet at night. Then one day, seemingly out of nowhere, they appeared with their boasts, guffaws, groans, and rattling beer bottles. It doesn’t help that our bedroom window overlooks the street.

Blissville: A memoir (Installment 5)


The more problems, the better. That’s what Tito says. He claims he loves problems. That was what he did best at his old job in the port, where he had to decide where to dock a given ship, when to unload its cargo, and how to get it all done within the shortest time possible, in time for the next ship and its precious perishables.

Blissville: A memoir” (Installment 3)


In those breathless days when Tito and I were getting to know one another, I dreamed of roses. Dark, luscious and red, partly opened, densely packed, a bouquet overflowing with fragrance. In my fantasy I open the door and see Tito, his arms full of roses, roses, roses, and his radiant face peeking through the crimson blossoms.