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Prologue
I Call Him Dadi
Gato 2005
I call him my "Dadi." Of course, he's not my father. I'm fifty-eight, he's fifty-six. Actually I think I am tricking him. I called my real father, mi padre cubano, "Papi." I think this anglo or Greek doesn't know the difference, especially since I call his wife "Mami." I called my own mother "Mami." His wife I give respect because she doesn't believe my shit. He helps me, he cashes my check, he brought me back to life, so I give him respect. But I know how to shit him so he don't get my full respect. Back when I was somebody, when I had rank, I had some girl friends. They called me "Dadi." See what I mean, how I trick him.
But he doesn't always take my shit. Then I have to listen to his bullshit. Then I have to do what he says. Sometimes its like he puts a bullet up my ass. Like he told me I had to move in two days. I had to do my laundry in 10 minutes. Who the fuck is he to wake me up with this news. But I get up, get dressed, wash my face and remember, "play this guy like a string, Gato, like a string.” Thats what Memo said. Back then Memo and I would drink together in the park. I told him this guy gives me change, a dollar or two, if I hold his dogs when he goes in the video store. He'd buy some junk radio or tool I found in the garbage. Five bucks, ten bucks. This was when I was in the rooming house but my check wouldn't last and I would sweet talk and hustle so I could eat, drink, whatever. Then we all got thrown out of that place and I was living in the park. So now he lets me clean his yard for ten bucks, one time twenty. So I think, OK I'll move out in two days, two weeks, what's the difference he says the City will pay the rent at the hotel. Then I'll have the whole check. I'll give my Dadi some shit so he'll give me 100, 200 all at once. Play it up, stretch it out, stretch him out, before I go to the hotel.
Last time I was living on the street was when I was "dead." I always remind Dadi, "Remember when I ran across the street telling you and Mami, 'I'm dead. I'm dead." Then I showed them the letter from Social Security. Let's see I memorized the first line, "We are sorry to learn that JESUS CARDENDAS, the person for who you were receiving Supplemental Security Income payments, died July 30, 2002." My eyes were burning, I read it so many times, the paper was so crumbled, from folding in and out of my back pocket. If the government says so, it must be true. Because I have no ID Social Security says they can't give me a check. I ask Dadi, "Do I look like I'm dead?"
I figured showing this letter to Dadi was good for ten bucks, it was good for two, three, five from almost anyone I show it to. Why you think I ran from inside the park and across the street by the school where Dadi and Mami were. You could never just get money from him, there had to be a reason. He read that letter, Mami read it. I explained it, my payee died. I don't know if they knew about a payee. . He start asking questions like a machine gun, ask one question, ask another, he don't even give me time to answer. "Who was your payee? When did he die? Did you go to social security? You lost your ID? The payee had your ID? Mami she slow him down so I can tell the story before he interrupts with another question. Then he gets political. "That's fucked, they can't do that to you."
But Dadi did something. I don't know exactly what, made some calls to the bank to Social Security. Mami wrote a letter saying she knew me fifteen years. They say I can stay with them till everything is straightend out and I get my back pay.
That was just in time. October the weather was getting bad, real bad, rainy, cold. Mami, she was nice, cooking for me. For an Angla, she know how to cook rice and gandules, real good. But she don't want me there when Dadi's at work. I leave with him in the morning and look for him coming home from the train, or walking Bruno and Domino, their dogs. "I got them," I say, taking the straps. I want to do something useful, but not too much. I ain't picking up no dog shit. But then I might see someone else, I give him back the dogs. "I'll be back in a minute." I don't know how long its been when I get back. I might have drunk a couple of quarts with another Cubano, found a VCR in the alley, sold it for two bucks. First time I showed up bout 9 o'clock, Dadi's he's mad. "You ain't here by eight, you can sleep somewhere else." Okay he let me in once after eight, but I didn't try my luck that time I found out it was almost ten. Mad was one thing. But listening to his shit, I have to be sponsible, give respect, no wonder I'm homeless. Who's he think he is, my Papi?
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