The Story of a Man

Fifty-Three years. Fifty-Three years young was the man that broke my and my family’s heart on a cool, dismal December morning. I’d gotten the news of his most recent stint at the hospital 2 days prior. My sister texted me from my mother’s phone telling me, “…Franky just spoke to him, he sounds happy…”. I slept well, but with an uneasiness that would persist through the following days. I spent the Sunday working, distracted, rather. I didn’t want to think about it, think about him in that place, cold and alone without a facial expression to embrace; alone in the time of COVID. He was reluctant to go, he felt he wouldn’t leave once admitted, he wasn’t wrong.

My first memory of him was when I was a child, approximately 5 or 6; I was accompanying my grandfather to work one day in the early summer or spring. There was no such thing as child labor laws in their eyes, there were just natural laws. They took us with them to work on my grandfather’s landscaping business, “Jardineros” is what my Mexican compatriots will know it as. We made a business out of lawns, out of hedges, and American’s obsession with a manicured lawn. I was raking leaves under a big oak late on that cool morning. He came up behind me and said, “As visto a tu abuelo, m’ijo? Si lo ves le dices que estoy atras del arbol.” I told him, “okey, tio”. He then proceeded to go behind the tree and pee. I remember continuing to rake leaves, and suddenly I’m in a different place.

My next memory of him was in the house I spent my first 8½ years of life, on 43rd and Central in South Central LA (before the poor attempt at gentrification and social improvement by simply changing the name to South LA). I was standing in the kitchen — a now vintage kitchen, with pink tile counter tops, and worn cabinet doors; overused, cheap vinyl floors that curled at the corners from water damage. He stood there, serving himself a glass of coca cola; cracked an egg, poured it into the glass of coke then drank it. With a face of disgust, but satisfaction, he looked at me, winked, and was off to work. I went to the window and saw them drive off — they were going to “trabajar”. At some point I asked one of the adults what that was for, and remember someone saying they got it from Arnold Schwarzenegger. I took it for what it was. He became a presence, not because he was a relative, but because he was a friend. He treated me like his equal and never a child, nor less than in any way.

He was one of the first individuals older than me that would have real conversations with me, genuine interest in the things I thought about. I had a difficult childhood, but he always made me feel like my voice and opinion mattered, and the older I got the more it mattered; he became one of my most important friends. As I got older his opinion mattered just as much for me as well. I remember introducing him to one of the women I thought would be by my side for the rest of my life; that was one of the proudest moments of my life. By that time he could hardly see, and even less perceive the world around him. But as I walked up to introduce Natalie to him, I stood there eagerly waiting for his approval — waiting for some sort of “no, esta vez te rayaste, m’ijo”, or a simple “me gusta para ti”. He shook her hand, smiled, and said “mucho gusto, m’ija, para servirle” in the most humble tones. He never said “para servirle” without meaning it, ever. Natalie smiled with a perfect sincerity, as she always did. It was a moment I had been waiting for a long time to see.

Years later I took him home, and in a drunken conversation I shared with him how much it hurt to see her go. He sat there — always had a difficult time discussing difficult topics — he told me, “no se preocupe, que el tiempo sana todo”. He always used the formal “usted” with me. No one else ever did, or has since. He was right, time does heal all, but this time he’s the one I need healing from.

The last time I saw him was in a dream. I was being driven home by my dad on an early summer evening. I thought it was a bit peculiar how the sun and the sky were bright in my dream; something that seldom happens. My dad drives up to our childhood home, pulls over on an empty street, and drops me off. I get off the car, and see him there — my Tio Eduardo. He has a leaf blower on his back. They were just finishing cutting the grass of the house, and were in the process of cleaning up. For some reason I always remember him with a leaf blower on. I walk up to him with a smile bigger than my face can make, and greet him. In elation I tell him how much I’ve missed him, and how happy I was to see him. He turns and faces me, west, towards the sun. The light of day shined off his glimmering face — full, happy, and with abundant life. He looked at me, stopped what he was doing, and with a smile he said, “m’ijo, ya me voy, ya estoy cansado”. He was tired, he said. He was done with life. Still dreaming, I broke down. My happiness was shattered. I told him he couldn’t, he can’t go. I could no longer dream. I woke up in a crying panic. I instantly called my mother — it was four in the morning. I asked her how my uncle was, when was the last time she spoke to him. Naturally, she was equally as panicked, she tried to calm me after telling me I was scaring her. He called me later that day. That was one of the last times we spoke.

On Monday, December 28th I saw his passing via Zoom. It was one of the most difficult moments of my life to date. Today I remember him as one of the men that left a lasting influence in my life. He taught me men could be vulnerable, men could be children, and men never are above anyone. He taught me to love, and to appreciate, and most of all he taught me to have fun with life.

His name was Eduardo Rodriguez. To me he was my Tio Guardo. May he rest in peace, and finally find himself free of that painful existence that he suffered through in his last years of life. You’ve hurt us, but only at the expense of your freedom, and for that we forgive you.