Dwelling Purposes and Bottled Spirits(Radrook) For Dwelling Purposes and Bottled Spirits

We had been living at the NY housing projects for about three years, when we received a redetermination document needed to be signed and it wound up in my mother's hands. Now, of the twain, my mother was the one who understood English better. In fact, my father would have her read him the New York Times every day. So he held her understanding of English in very high esteem. As they say, “In the land of the blind a one-eyed man is king.”

Well, her English was certainly better than his, but it was still rather rudimentary, so some nuances escaped her. Therefore, when she came to a part in the recertification document that said that they were renting for dwelling purposes, my mother understood it in a very different way than the writer had intended it. In fact, the writer probably had absolutely no suspicion that what she wrote could ever be understood that way. Anyway, having arrived home from work and having read the document, she began fuming even before my father got home.

I was eight-years-old and still remember it clearly as if it were yesterday:

“What the hell does the harlot mean by saying that we are using this apartment for Dwelling Purposes? What does she think I am, a woman of the night? Wait until Hipolito [my father] gets home so he can confirm this. Then I'll take this to the office to that harlot and see what explanations she has for sending me this garbage." I heard her say as she read the document.

Enters my father home from work looking as if he had New York City on his shoulders, and looking as if he hadn't eaten in a week. Bags under the eyes, mouth partly open, a veritable personification of misery.

"Where is my food?"

"Your food is made. All it needs is to be warmed. But before you eat, there is something I want to show you."

"Can't this wait until after I eat?" he said with a gaunt and tired look on his face.

“No! Because it is very serious. I just want you to confirm that I am interpreting it the right way!"

"But don't you know English?"

"Yes, but I want your confirmation!”

“My confirmation?”

“Didn't you study English just like me in school? Eh Hipolito?"

"Well, yeah I studied."

“Then you should understand what it means. It's just one sentence, that's all. Here read it."

She gave him the document where she had circled the phrase "....for dwelling purposes." and my father just
stared at the page with a blank expression on his face."

“Bueno? Did you read it? Are you reading it in the right place? I circled it for you right here, Brutus!"

"Where?"

“Here! Right here'' she said stabbing at the document with her index finger energetically. ''It bites you, and you still don’t see it!”

He tiredly stared at it again with a blank expression on his face.

"So what do you think, Hipolito?”

"Bueno, I don't see anything..."

"You don't see it? It's right there in front of you. Mas claro no canta un gayo! [More clearly a rooster doesn't crow.]

"Here, let me read it out loud for you. Maybe then it will sink in! For purposes of dwelling!" she uttered in an emotionally-charged voice, her chest heaving with anger. "See it now?"

Once more he stared as if in a stupor, probably a hunger-induced one, and his mind probably semi-paralyzed by the food‘s aroma wafting in from the kitchen. My mother looked at him up and down from head to foot as if evaluating him. Then she uttered in a low, lamenting, pensive tone:

“You know, that's why we are taken advantage of here in the USA. It’s because of people like you who come to this country and don't know basic English. That's why they stomp and insult us, because they think we don't understand!"

“Yes! Yes! Como fue?” [How was it again?”] He tilted the document as if looking at it from different angles would yield its cryptic meaning so obvious to his wife.

“You need eyeglasses Hipolito? Here! Give me that document!” She snatched it from the tips of his work-worn fingers where it had been precariously perched, and proceeded to read it very slowly in order to leave no room for a misinterpretation..

“For purposes of dwelling, chico! For purposes of dwelling!” she repeated as he looked on, struggling to blink away his hunger.

“Esta claro!' [It is clear!] Even the most blinded can easily see that she is calling me a whore!"

"Calling you a whore?” my dad said while frowning in order to effectively convey deep a profound concern and understanding of the issue.

“Hay virgen! Why?" he said while trying to convey as much facial concern as he could despite his nagging hunger.

"I don't know, and I don't care! She probably thinks that because we are low-income, and come from the island, that we have no morals!"

"No morals?"

"Dime una cosa!” [Tell me something] she said looking at him up and down in order to get his full measure once more.

“You seem to be taking this very lightly aren't you? Ah! Because you think that the insult is just against me, right? But she is insulting you too!"

"Insulting me? How is she insulting me?"

"You don't see that by calling me a prostitute she is calling you a chulo?"

"Me? A chulo?"[pimp]

"Yes, you, a chulo, because she is saying you are practically selling your wife for plantain peels! That's exactly what she is saying. That since you can't handle the rent with what you earn, you are using this apartment for that purpose."

By this time all my father seemed to want was to get rid of the subject and dig into his food. He certainly didn’t look enraged. Instead he appeared as if he was cunningly seeking a way to agree in order to appease her so that she would let him eat his dinner.

"Ahhhh bueno, who does she think she is, calling me a chulo!"

"Aha, now you are getting interested huh? You thought it was nothing if it was just me, right?"

"No, I don't think she has the right to say that about you either!"

With this my mom finally went to fetch his dinner and continued the conversation from the kitchen while my father waited expectantly at the dinner-table making sure to agree with whatever else she said so as not to delay her serving it.

"But don't worry!" she continued after placing the dinner-plate on the table in front of him.

“Right now it's too late, and the rental office is closed. But tomorrow, early in the morning, I will get her. Let's see then what explanation that "cuero" [slut] comes up with when I confront her with this trash.

"Si! Si! Muy bien. That sounds reasonable" my dad emotionlessly intoned while sprinkling salt and pepper on his pork-chops and taking a deep swig of Malta Corona.

Well, come morning, my mother, who had spent a sleepless night over the perceived “for dwelling purposes” insult, was a veritable loaded shotgun waiting to go off. In a huff she dressed and then went straight to the project's rental office. After flinging the office door open, and without asking any questions, she swept everything from the property manager's desk to the floor. Then she slapped the offending document on the desk and shouted:

"What the hell do you mean by this? Eh? To be calling me a prostitute?"

"I want you out of my office immediately, or I'll call the police." the property-manager responded as she started dialing, whereupon my mother immediately evacuated the premises for fear of getting arrested..

Three days later, an eviction notice arrived. My father entered the apartment this time far more worried than hungry with the eviction notice in one hand.

“Your food is ready Hipolito!” my mother sing-songed from the dining room while setting up the plates and not looking in his direction.

"What does this note from the office mean?” he said, while ignoring the food.

“A note from the office?” my mother responded, knowing full-well what the note was about, but hoping to stave off the inevitable for just a few minutes longer.

“Si, a note from the office. I opened and read it, and it looks like an eviction notice!" he uttered while handing it to her.

My mother briefly read, it and confirmed his conclusion.

“Si! That’s what it is, an eviction notice. You want gravy with the potatoes, Hipolito?”

"An eviction notice for what?”

“I don’t know. What does it say?”

“It doesn’t say anything. It just says we are supposed to move by October the tenth."

"Bueno, you are right! That's what it says. Do you want gravy with your mashed potatoes?""

"Why? I pay the rent on time? We don't make noise here? Right? The apartment is clean? Isn't it? Do you have any idea why we are being evicted?”

After a long silence, my mother finally responded.

"Remember a few days ago when we received a notice?”

“Yeah, the note that you were angry about. What happened?”

“Well, she didn't like me asking about the “purposes of dwelling” thing.

"So what exactly is it that you did in that office?"

"Well, you know how angry I was that day, right?”

“Yeah, I remember, and?”

“And when you are angry you don’t think straight sometimes.”

“So what happened in the office?”

“Well, I was so angry that when I got there, I swept everything off her desk."

"You did what?"

"You told me to go and tell her that she was insulting us!"

"No! No! No! No! Señorita!" my father responded, while shaking his head, and pacing back and forth. That’s not the way it happened! It was YOU who said that she was insulting us, and I just agreed that you go to the office. But when I agreed, I didn't know you were going to go totally berserk in there!”

“Well what did you expect?”

“What did I expect? I expected you to ask her calmly what she meant by “purposes of dwelling” that's all I expected. I didn't expect this. If I had expected this, I would have told you not to go.”

"OK! OK! It happened and ya! It's done! A lo hecho pecho!"

"It happened and it's done, eh? Just like that, huh? Where are you going to live now? On the street, because they don't pay me enough to rent a regular apartment. Are you going to provide the apartment?"

"In some manner, we will come out of it!"

"In some manner? Esto esta cabron!” he responded, as he stared solemnly through the window into the cold, winter, New York City darkness.

A few days later, my parents decided to go see a spiritist, the man with the bottled spirits. He had been highly recommended by his coworker. Claimed who he would help him with the eviction problem.

Man With the Bottled Spirits

As my parents' eviction date from the apartment approached, they became desperate and went to see this vaunted spiritist who confidently guaranteed that the eviction would be magically canceled if they followed his advice and paid the service-fee that kept him in business.

They had made a special effort to keep the appointment, even braving a snowstorm with high winds and freezing temperatures. We were forced to park several blocks away, and had to walk the rest of the distance to the spiritist's residence. I recall my fathers black straight hair wind-whipping in all directions, and his narrow pug nose as red as a cherry, and my mother's comments about it. In contrast, my mother, resembled who somewhat resembled an Alaskan Eskimo, seemed totally unfazed by wind, cold and snow.

Well, after fighting the frigid wind and snow for approx. three long blocks, we finally reached a dilapidated row-house matching the address he had been given.

"He lives here?" my father said incredulously, as if he had expected a more dignified residence for someone possessing such great powers.

"What did you expect? A palace?" my mom responded.

"No, not a palace but not this!"

Nevertheless, they proceeded reverently inside the apartment-building and knocked on the apartment door. It was either that or accepting the eviction without a fight since a legal appeal had not worked.

In response to their knocking, this high-strung, short, Puerto Rican man whose features and mannerisms resembled those of a weasel, suddenly appeared and invited us in. Well, the first thing that caught my parents' attention in the the tiny, cramped, almost empty living room were the many shelves with labeled bottles all along the walls.

"What are those?" my father asked.

"Ah, those?" he responded in a mysterious voice. "Those are the spirits that I have trapped and will release to do my bidding."

"Si?" my father said, gazing at the bottles opened-mouthed, as if in great awe.

"Si!" the man responded confidently.

Upon noticing one very large purple bottle, and moving closer to inspect it, my father asked him:

"How about this one?"

"Are you willing to pay a hundred-dollars?" the fellow shot back his dark, beady eyes shifting from side to side.

"We don't have that kind of money on hand." my father responded sadly.

"Then you can't benefit from that spirit's service! It is a pity since it is very strong in solving problems. But I have another one in this bottle right here that I can turn lose for you for twenty-five dollars and is almost just as good.”

"Can this other one really get the job done?"

"Yes, of course. A very simple matter. That other expensive one is for really big things anyway. But what you have is a simplicity that these other lesser spirits can easily handle!"

After the required consultation with my mother, who seemed extremely skeptical of the whole matter, and for domestic tranquility’s sake, my father paid the man the twenty-five bucks, tucked the bottle under his arm and we headed back towards the car. That's when the problematic comments began.

“Did you see all those spirits that guy has in those bottles?" my father said reverently.

"The spirits that he wants you to believe he has in those bottles!" my mother replied and the cold wind kicked up snow from a nearby drift as she said it and generously sprayed it on my father's face as if to add insult to injury. He suddenly stopped walking.

“If that’s the way you felt, then why did you agree for me to give him twenty-five dollars just now?” he responded while wiping away the frigid drizzle from his forehead with the palm of his hand.

"No no! I’m just saying for the sake of saying,” my mom responded.

“But what you are saying bothers me!” he uttered as he stopped on the sidewalk in the wind and flailing snow.

“Well we shouldn’t just condemn the man before giving the poor infeliz [poor devil] a chance.” my mother added calmly.

“Why do you call him an infeliz?" my father asked nervously, eyes shifting as if suddenly feeling himself duped.

"Didn't you notice that he hasn’t lain down to die because he lacks an adequate bed to do so on?”

“Well he is poor. That’s true!”

“If he’s as powerful as he claims to be, then why is he so poor? Haven’t you asked yourself that yet, eh, Hipolito?”

“That’s a good point. Maybe we should ask for our money back” my father made as if he was going to turn back.

“You are going to go back and do what?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes! Go back and ask for our money back!”

“Muchacho! Are you crazy?”

“Why am I crazy for asking for my money back?”

“You give that infeliz twenty-five dollars, and you expect him to peacefully give it back? Mira [look] muchacho! You enter that apartment now after he is celebrating having taken those twenty-five dollars from you, and ask for refund, and he is liable to hit you over the head with one of those bottles. Probably with that large, purple, thick bottle he says he has that expensive spirit in. Maybe he has that one there specifically for persons like you who ask for their money back.”

“In other words, what you are telling me is that I am screwed again, right?”

“No, not at all. You have to have faith-chico! You have to have faith. Let’s give it two weeks at least and see what happens.”

“After what you did in that rental office all we can have is faith."

“Don’t start again Hipolito!”

Two weeks, later despite, the use of the supposed bottled-spirit, the eviction notice stood in full force.

“Two weeks of having faith and nada! Nothing.” my father fumed.

“Maybe that spiritist is a charlatan!” my mother said tongue in cheek.

“Charlatan huh!”

“Yeah, you know, those wise little guys who make an extra buck now and then preying on gullible sanganos like us.”

“Well he was very strongly recommended.”

“Strongly recommended by whom? Eh? How do you know who that person who recommended him is? Do you know who he is?”

“A fellow worker,” my father reluctantly responded feeling himself being skillfully maneuvered into a corner of blame as usual.

“Which means absolutely nothing!” My mother began her usual pontification as a wise woman and victim of my father’s bad decisions. Never mind that she had brought everything down on his head.

“Maybe after he took our money,” she continued, "he gave his partner in crime, maybe his brother or cousin, who knows? a good percentage. You know, a commission!”

“In other words, what you are telling me is that I paid that son of a great harlot twenty-five dollars that I earned working like an animal every day killing myself in that factory, with the sweat of my brow, for nothing, right?"

“I told you that time would tell! Didn’t I?”

“I wonder what the SOB will say if I confront him. eh?"

“Sure confront him. After all, you paid that money. Business is a matter of giving and receiving. We gave, but we didn’t receive, and he owes us. If he is an honest man, he knows he owes us and should give us our money back! Call him on the phone!"

Well, after being told over the phone of their dissatisfaction, the spiritist seemed honestly perplexed.

"Strange," the guy said, "that spirit works OK with everyone else. So there must be something powerful in your apartment blocking its way.“

“Blocking the way?” my father responded in awe.

“Yes! Something that needs to be removed before the spirit can get to work unhindered. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I personally go inspect your apartment to see what's going on?"

Awestruck by the otherworldly tone, my father agreed to have him inspect the apartment for bad influences.

“Did you ask him for a refund?” my mothers asked upon his return.

“I told him what happened.”

“And you expected him to offer you the refund himself?”

“He said he’d come over and remove the bad influences that stopped the spirit from working himself.”

“Really?”

“Yes!”

“And you believe him?”

“I think we should give him a chance. I mean, no one gets that reputation without getting results, right?”

An hour later, there was a knock on the door, and the high-strung chap comes in carrying a black briefcase. As soon as he steps in, his eyes widen.

“What is it? What is it?" my father frantically asked as the man walked solemnly looking at thin air as if he had been beholding something dreadfully fascinating.

“Strings!" he mysteriously intoned.

"Strings?" my father responded in a tone of profound awe.

"Yes! Yes! What you people have here are strings."

"Strings?"

"Yes. The apartment is full of strings that prevented the spirit I provided from doing its job properly."

"You see?" my father says to my mother. “Didn't I tell you there was something wrong with this apartment as soon as we moved in? Too many things going bad since we moved here."

"Yes but don't worry! Don't worry!" the man continued. "Everything will now turn out for the best. This is a problem that I can take care of myself with this!" the nervous little man produced a pair of scissors from his trousers' back pocket. Then he began making as if he was cutting strings in mid air. First the living room, then kitchen, then bedroom and bathroom. All were effectively de-stringed according to him. My father followed him during the whole procedure and with an awed expressions on his face. The man would pause, kneel, in order to supposedly reach strings close to the floor. He’d wedge himself into closets, and effusively snip away at corners under the beds. Then as suddenly as he had started, he stopped

"There, that does it!" he declared as he wiped the profuse sweat off his tan, tropical face with a white handkerchief.

"So now the problem is gone, right?"

"Yes, but the strings tend to grow back."

"They grow back?" my father asked with a frown showing deep concern.

"But don't worry. You can use these special scissors. Also, this book will prove helpful in keeping the strings at bay,” he said and suddenly reached into his black briefcase and produced this paperback book with the photo of this black-bearded, Svengali-like man, staring intensely from the cover.

The whole transaction which cost another twenty-five dollars plus the book and scissors brought the total up to thirty five dollars. My father paid him, thanked him for his help, and he was quickly gone.

"You see! There were strings," my father said as my mom stood staring at him in silence.

"So you actually believed all that?" she responded, and then berated him for having fallen for the same trick twice. Three weeks later, at the exact time specified in the notice, we were unceremoniously evicted.

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