The Pahl Paw Patch: Windswept
Nelson Pahl
July 07, 2010
Three months ago, she couldn´t smile; no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn´t smile. In fact, at times her thoughts knew such despair, her self esteem such tatter, that it´s a small wonder she made it to this point.
Martie had been born in Panama City´s Canal Zone. Her mother, American, died two days after Martie´s fourth birthday, on a humanitarian mission to Nicaragua. Her father, Panamanian, raised her until the Panama Invasion, when he, along with 1900 other civilians, was butchered in the El Chorrillo neighborhood streets while American troops hunted for Manuel Noriega. Martie, 15 at the time, went to live with her grandmother in Baltimore.
After high school graduation, Martie left Baltimore for Miami, where she attended Florida International University. She graduated in six years—paid for in part by her father´s small trust, and in part by a job at Target—with a degree in business management.
Within four years, she´d taken an entry-level job at a private community action organization and worked her way into the managing director position. Martie had always wanted to contribute to the world the way her mother had. And she felt really good about her career.
One evening, during a "big brother" function, a colleague introduced Martie to Roco, chiseled handsome, charming, and with a smile to die for. Roco had been down on his luck, and Martie had a soft-spot for those with sad stories.
Roco, Puerto Rican, grew up in Brooklyn. He´d worked as a laborer from age 15 on, primarily in the construction industry. He´d migrated to South Florida for a "fresh start" after serving a ten-month work-release sentence for crashing into and smashing up several storefronts during his third DUI offense.
But in South Florida, Roco had seemingly turned over a new leaf. He didn´t drink. He consumed only natural foods. He biked to work. He practiced Tai Chi to maintain emotional balance and reign in his temper. In fact, his favorite saying became, "Roco no loco no mo," which always made Martie giggle.
With bread bag in hand, Martie leans back on the park bench, closes her eyes, and soaks in the Central American sunshine. A gentle breeze rustles the palm leaves overhead as it also caresses Martie´s cheeks. A dozen pigeons stand at attention, upon the plaza´s brick floor, awaiting her next move.
Martie and Roco married eight months after the introduction and took up residence in a cozy, pastel-colored Miami proper ranch home. Two years later, Tici, their son, arrived. For the next five years, they lived an idyllic, if not modest, life.
Then came the accusations of theft at work. While Martie wouldn´t quit believing in Roco, his clients did, and Roco found himself with little employment. Within a few weeks, Roco was a stay-at-home dad, drinking his days away in front of the TV, getting ornerier by the hour.
At the same time, South Florida´s funding rivers dried up, as the national recession took hold in late-2007 and devastated the region. Martie kept the organization afloat as long as she could, but when Ashcroft Financial—a major underwriter of some 30 years—collapsed in October 2008, she could see the writing on the wall.
By February 2009, the organization no longer existed, nor did Martie´s job.
Then Roco flipped. Alcohol, incessant junk food, a sedentary lifestyle, and unbridled resentment toward his more educated, breadwinning wife pushed him over the edge. One morning, after Martie had forgotten to—or simply refused to—buy pop tarts at the grocery story, while trying to squeeze all she could from her last unemployment check, Roco flew into a tirade. Right there in the kitchen, in front of Tici, he beat Martie so bloody, she´d spend the next seventeen days in the hospital. Tici would spend the two weeks at a friend´s house; Rocco would spend the next two years in a state penitentiary.
The seventeen days discounted, Martie spent fourteen months looking for work. Day after day, with drunken husband pissing and moaning on the couch, Martie would fill out applications online, scan want ads, and drive to interview after interview. She even took a special student loan offer and worked on her master´s degree online at night. All of it to no avail. With 400 to 500 applicants for every job, and with most being cheap, unproven, single 22 and 23-year-olds, there was little chance that a mid-thirties mother finishing her master´s degree would come out on top. Recessions don´t work that way, and Martie knew it.
At the time of the beating, Martie and her family were essentially broke. By the time she came home from her seventeen-day hospital stay and got re-acclimated to her daily routine, she had bills piled to the ceiling, no source of income, and she´d become a single mother.
With her face a mess, no income to speak of, and her self-esteem at an all-time low, she gave in and signed on for a six-month government assistance program.
Less than 90 days later, under mounting debt, under the pressures of being both broke and a single mother, feeling ashamed, feeling worthless, feeling exhausted and perpetually exasperated…
With an emaciated body, salt-white skin, and dark bags hanging beneath her once vibrant eyes…
Martie suffered a nervous break down.
While Tici spent the next three weeks at a friend´s house, Martie resided within a county hospital´s mental care wing, the subject of evaluation after evaluation, the recipient of one pill after another.
But here she sits today, on a park bench, amid the central plaza of Panama City´s Casco Viejo. She´s here during her lunch break; with the financial help of her father´s dearest friend, she now owns and operates a thriving community center in Panama City´s cherished historic district. Tici is off at school, down the road, safe and happy.
Martie tosses another bread crumb. A gentle breeze brushes it across the brick plaza floor. A lone pigeon dances from left to right and right to left, trying to circle the crumb. When he finally has it cornered, he plucks it from the plaza floor, gulps it down, and jibes a little more—in satisfaction, with pride.
Martie can´t help but smile.
Copyright © 2010 Nelson Pahl
Martie had been born in Panama City´s Canal Zone. Her mother, American, died two days after Martie´s fourth birthday, on a humanitarian mission to Nicaragua. Her father, Panamanian, raised her until the Panama Invasion, when he, along with 1900 other civilians, was butchered in the El Chorrillo neighborhood streets while American troops hunted for Manuel Noriega. Martie, 15 at the time, went to live with her grandmother in Baltimore.
After high school graduation, Martie left Baltimore for Miami, where she attended Florida International University. She graduated in six years—paid for in part by her father´s small trust, and in part by a job at Target—with a degree in business management.
Within four years, she´d taken an entry-level job at a private community action organization and worked her way into the managing director position. Martie had always wanted to contribute to the world the way her mother had. And she felt really good about her career.
One evening, during a "big brother" function, a colleague introduced Martie to Roco, chiseled handsome, charming, and with a smile to die for. Roco had been down on his luck, and Martie had a soft-spot for those with sad stories.
Roco, Puerto Rican, grew up in Brooklyn. He´d worked as a laborer from age 15 on, primarily in the construction industry. He´d migrated to South Florida for a "fresh start" after serving a ten-month work-release sentence for crashing into and smashing up several storefronts during his third DUI offense.
But in South Florida, Roco had seemingly turned over a new leaf. He didn´t drink. He consumed only natural foods. He biked to work. He practiced Tai Chi to maintain emotional balance and reign in his temper. In fact, his favorite saying became, "Roco no loco no mo," which always made Martie giggle.
With bread bag in hand, Martie leans back on the park bench, closes her eyes, and soaks in the Central American sunshine. A gentle breeze rustles the palm leaves overhead as it also caresses Martie´s cheeks. A dozen pigeons stand at attention, upon the plaza´s brick floor, awaiting her next move.
Martie and Roco married eight months after the introduction and took up residence in a cozy, pastel-colored Miami proper ranch home. Two years later, Tici, their son, arrived. For the next five years, they lived an idyllic, if not modest, life.
Then came the accusations of theft at work. While Martie wouldn´t quit believing in Roco, his clients did, and Roco found himself with little employment. Within a few weeks, Roco was a stay-at-home dad, drinking his days away in front of the TV, getting ornerier by the hour.
At the same time, South Florida´s funding rivers dried up, as the national recession took hold in late-2007 and devastated the region. Martie kept the organization afloat as long as she could, but when Ashcroft Financial—a major underwriter of some 30 years—collapsed in October 2008, she could see the writing on the wall.
By February 2009, the organization no longer existed, nor did Martie´s job.
Then Roco flipped. Alcohol, incessant junk food, a sedentary lifestyle, and unbridled resentment toward his more educated, breadwinning wife pushed him over the edge. One morning, after Martie had forgotten to—or simply refused to—buy pop tarts at the grocery story, while trying to squeeze all she could from her last unemployment check, Roco flew into a tirade. Right there in the kitchen, in front of Tici, he beat Martie so bloody, she´d spend the next seventeen days in the hospital. Tici would spend the two weeks at a friend´s house; Rocco would spend the next two years in a state penitentiary.
The seventeen days discounted, Martie spent fourteen months looking for work. Day after day, with drunken husband pissing and moaning on the couch, Martie would fill out applications online, scan want ads, and drive to interview after interview. She even took a special student loan offer and worked on her master´s degree online at night. All of it to no avail. With 400 to 500 applicants for every job, and with most being cheap, unproven, single 22 and 23-year-olds, there was little chance that a mid-thirties mother finishing her master´s degree would come out on top. Recessions don´t work that way, and Martie knew it.
At the time of the beating, Martie and her family were essentially broke. By the time she came home from her seventeen-day hospital stay and got re-acclimated to her daily routine, she had bills piled to the ceiling, no source of income, and she´d become a single mother.
With her face a mess, no income to speak of, and her self-esteem at an all-time low, she gave in and signed on for a six-month government assistance program.
Less than 90 days later, under mounting debt, under the pressures of being both broke and a single mother, feeling ashamed, feeling worthless, feeling exhausted and perpetually exasperated…
With an emaciated body, salt-white skin, and dark bags hanging beneath her once vibrant eyes…
Martie suffered a nervous break down.
While Tici spent the next three weeks at a friend´s house, Martie resided within a county hospital´s mental care wing, the subject of evaluation after evaluation, the recipient of one pill after another.
But here she sits today, on a park bench, amid the central plaza of Panama City´s Casco Viejo. She´s here during her lunch break; with the financial help of her father´s dearest friend, she now owns and operates a thriving community center in Panama City´s cherished historic district. Tici is off at school, down the road, safe and happy.
Martie tosses another bread crumb. A gentle breeze brushes it across the brick plaza floor. A lone pigeon dances from left to right and right to left, trying to circle the crumb. When he finally has it cornered, he plucks it from the plaza floor, gulps it down, and jibes a little more—in satisfaction, with pride.
Martie can´t help but smile.
Copyright © 2010 Nelson Pahl
Print
Email
