The Galpon

By William Castaño-Bedoya

When the human condition is what directly induces the success or failure of a human being's endeavor, whoever does not evolve goes backwards... Likewise, although supposedly frivolous freedom is currently what governs the global market, its results are ultimately the consequence of man's influence. This is the essence of the corporate world, as

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book & Bilias LLC
• Release date: Apr 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798987734919

William Castaño-Bedoya

William es considerado un escritor profundo, humano y vivencial. Mientras, en Los mendigos de la luz de mercurio, desnuda la injusticia social provocada por los excesos de los extremismos, la politización del sufrimiento como herramientas de control político en medio de una de las etapas de más exclusión social en los Estados Unidos; en El Galpón, el autor recrea cómo el conformismo aletargado atenta contra la relatividad del éxito mientras la desconfianza y la excesiva ideologización política se convierte en el trasfondo de una solapada doble moral que torpemente empuja a los protagonistas al manoseo ético. En Flores para María Sucel, el autor reflexiona sobre el viaje por la vida de una familia que trata desesperadamente de mantener el cuerpo y el alma juntos, mientras son destrozados por sus exilios internos. Por su parte, en Los Monólogos de Ludovico, recrea el impacto de la frustración y la impotencia como factores que conforman el absurdo.

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40 years before

1980

Ethan Bordaberry reached his sixties as a member of the company where he worked throughout his life. Ever since his arrival, still very young, he kept his 5'7" height intact; he didn't become fat or skinny, though his hair began to fall out. All his life, his tiny teeth showed a gummy smile. He became a skinny guy with fair skin and a complexion that showed traces of acne. In moments of solitude, he used to bite his tongue as if he were chewing gum.

In the early eighties, when he moved from Houston, Texas, he joined HanssenBox, a small company of international courier services that operated in a facility located on the northwestern side of Miami International Airport and had no more than five employees. Ethan was a young man, barely in his early twenties, but he possessed the magic of being the only one who spoke English. However, he didn't have the slightest idea about logistics. Ethan had recently graduated with a degree in Architecture from Texas A&M University. This was a profession he never practiced because, from the day he arrived at his job, he plunged his life into the company and never got out. Of his career, only a few sketches remained, showing his plans to make arrangements in the new building Adolph bought years later. The sketches were not something extraordinary, either.

Odalys, who he made his new best friend, was a lively, green-eyed female employee who dreamt of the American retirement plan and arrived at the office each morning with the neatest appearance. It was thought that she spent her salary visiting a top-rated beauty salon in an exclusive area of Miami.

No way! I am the one who runs the hairdryer through my hair, and that's it, she said with a marked Cuban accent.

Odalys entered the company just after arriving from Cuba, and over time, she learned English, which led her to be the bilingual voice recorded on the company's switchboard.

Good morning… HanssenBox, how may I help you? she answered for over three decades, in front of her historic and faded photographs, in which she appeared sitting at the same desk since she had been a pretty young lady. The pictures told the story of her life throughout the years.

No one could explain how, in the United States of America and within the HanssenBox universe, a person like Odalys, who spoke and wrote perfect English and Spanish and completed her secondary studies, could have worked for more than thirty years, always performing the same job. With a salary very close to the minimum required by the government. It was also the case for the already-aged drivers, the building caretaker, and the maintenance guy.

Nonsense, boy! HanssenBox is part of me, she stated proudly at every company anniversary celebration.

Odalys became the longest-serving employee of HanssenBox, followed by Don Pablo, a quiet accounting assistant of Nicaraguan origin. He used to prepare the payroll and supplier checks, and, on most Fridays, he would bring his little dog Connie, a Havanese with white fur that everyone wanted to cuddle. Then, there was Carmina, an employee also of Nicaraguan origin, who attended operational matters with business partners in other Spanish-speaking countries and who, as authorized by the owner, carried the intriguing mission of communicating any slip-up that could call into question the actions of important people like Ethan himself. Or Maximiliano, who they just called Max, the controller, in charge of overseeing accounting and financial matters; or Yusnavy, a Cuban who was in charge of the plant operations.

The trust that emerged between Ethan and Odalys through the years made them close like siblings; she kept an eye on him, even more so than Kennie herself, his wife, with whom he had two sons.

I keep an eye on you more than your wife does, she said on many occasions, for many years and reasons. I don't understand how she lets you come to work in such a scruffy manner.

Time witnessed the attempts that Odalys, along with other employees, made so Ethan could improve his appearance at work. Even clothing gifts, belts, ties, shoes, leather briefcases, and executive agendas were given to him for his birthdays in gatherings they made. It wasn't weird to see Odalys feeling second-hand embarrassment for him, especially because she was neat and detail-oriented with her presentation. She was seen tiptoeing into Ethan's office with thick duct tape wrapped around her fingers and the sticky side out. She used it to clean the flakes of dandruff that, just like Christmas frost, were lying on the shoulder pads of Ethan's dark suit he kept hanging on a clothing rack, for use whenever he had a commitment that required a formal look. However, Ethan was not aware of such an act of kindness. He was a careless, carefree, and simple guy, who one day decided that his life in America would depend on the adjusted salary that Adolph assigned him when he was named the manager of HanssenBox, reinforced by some benefits which included payment for a Mazda, health insurance, and the handling of a credit card which, among other minor expenses, covered his meals. Through the years of conformity, Ethan became the grand Atlas that held the world of HanssenBox on his back while, like Acapulco divers, millions of dollars dove into Adolph's bank accounts.

As far as I can see, the only things you seem to take care of are your molars, Odalys reprimanded him as she saw him walk by with a toothbrush while heading to the men's washroom.

Ethan pretended to laugh ironically, Copy and paste, that's my motto, he said brazenly. She did not understand, and he, without hesitating, clarified it:

I copied the same clothes as yesterday and pasted them on today.

Oh boy! One can never be serious with you! she replied indignantly.

That day Ethan had repeated the same outfit from two days ago: a wrinkled white shirt with light blue lines, short sleeves, and a pocket on the heart side, from which hung an old Parker ballpoint pen, model Jotter London Stainless Steel that he'd received as a birthday gift at the office. He wore the same dark blue denim trousers that he had worn two days before, held by a black belt with a chrome buckle, which showed some peeling. Odalys was most indignant about the prominence with which the white fur of Fanfarrón, the name by which Ethan called an annoying and maddening four-year-old Jack Russell Terrier, who he picked up on a rainy afternoon in front of his house and adopted, could be seen.

Fanfarrón is the type to bite the hand of the one who feeds him, he claimed.

≈

The new old building of HanssenBox occupied a block of the western side of the expressway that bordered the airport, an old ship destined for loading and unloading goods. It was characterized as one of the last cargo buildings still standing since the area was now occupied by executive businesses, hotels, shopping centers, and residences that weren't compatible with warehouses. The building was adapted and painted under Ethan's coordination, showcasing his architectural skills perhaps for the only time in his life. After some months, the renovations were done, helped by a humble and solitary undocumented handyman that had arrived in the United States after serving as cannon fodder in El Salvador's bloody war against Farabundo Martí.

The property had ample parking spaces surrounding it. To get to the main entrance, one had to go through a kind of atrium made up of five steps that led to a glass door directing to a small, lonely, and laconic lobby. There, any visitor had to decide whether they should go to the second floor on foot, climbing the thirty-six steps of the staircase attached to the left wall, or use the elevator on the right side of the wall, which led to the same place. When looking at the HanssenBox elevator, it was reminiscent of something from a horror movie. However, across the decades, no one was ever stuck in it or anything like that.

On most occasions, visitors, with an endless need for curiosity, managed to reach the second floor where they were isolated in a sort of waiting room, which all the company officials recognized as a mezzanine. Yet that wasn't correct, in reality, since it was far from an intermediate floor in a two-floor building. The place, between deathly silence and the lighting of some lamps, flickering as if shutting down forever, offered the companionship of a beige, imitation leather sofa and a big plastic plant, overwhelmed with dust and resembling a purple-flowered bougainvillea held by a giant vase that squeaked in its sparkle. Nearby, stuck to the wall, next to the highest step of the staircase, was a double panel door that, far from seeming inviting, was intimidating. It looked old and heavy, it seemed made of iron, but it was actually a tin door painted gray.

Many wondered how HanssenBox, a logistics company, did not have things flowing logically and without signals; but at every previous step before reaching the executive offices, transcendental decisions had to be taken, like sitting on the sofa to watch if anyone passed by and asked where Ethan's office was, or contemplating the fading bougainvillea while time passed before someone came out again to ask the same question. Or, perhaps the most attractive option after waiting several minutes, taking advantage of someone leaving and sneaking out decisively to explore. Only to end at the lonely hallway leading to the conference room again, waiting for someone to wander around, see them with confusion written over their face and crazy for help, daring to ask…. who are you looking for, sir? And that, at the moment of naming Ethan, he would be directed to Odalys's desk, and she would ask him to wait a minute or more for Ethan to attend to him, if he had an appointment.

The image of the white HanssenBox building stood out from the expressway for more than two decades until the hotels and buildings nearby blurred it on the horizon. The majesty of it reigned all over the block, painted in white with blue awnings over the doors. However, the goal of having offices in the executive area ready and available to rent as a profit center of the property itself was left in limbo at that time since, without even being aware while the maintenance employee silently built the modules for months, the business of renting offices was being absorbed by companies who were dedicated exclusively to renting modules for short periods, even for days, at very eye-catching prices. In agreement, the projected part for rent was without customers; some were offered to outside service providers for Ethan's convenience and in their interest to retain.

1989

The four corners that formed the intersection of Aragon and Salcedo streets created a magical environment, despite the omnipresence of the narco. It was the end of the eighties, and for everybody except the Colombians who came in the early morning to the Consulate at 280 Aragon Avenue in the city of Coral Gables, the narco thing went unnoticed. It only was noticed when celebrities were detained, and the Herald made it visible until the next day. Drug trafficking news appeared so frequently in Miami that, on many occasions, they didn't publish it because incidents piled up, and the simple will of journalists influenced the papers to publish them or not. The Cuban thing against Fidel governed the newspaper, making the fight for the news limelight very uneven. Nevertheless, each piece of information about drug trafficking, even if it wasn't published, flowed rapidly into the Colombian community, which, daunted, searched for the shadows so as to not bump into the shrapnel of discrimination that weighed like an anvil or like the conscience of a repentant murderer.

Greetings toward Colombians during those days from many were: Aha, so what? Followed by a gentle pinch with the index finger and thumb, pretending to clean the cocaine they had snorted; those cliché greetings reduced the coffee growers to the ground and submerged them into loneliness, in communal helplessness. But, as derogatory as the comments were, they didn't diminish the magic of Aragon and Salcedo. Instead, they launched it. It was as if the word narco gave the intersection exceptional splendor, making it brighter and more eloquent, livelier.

One morning in nineteen eighty-nine, the atmosphere at the four corners became even more magical when the strobe lights of police cars crossed the street and flashed their beams against the pupils of passersby. The vehement glare emanating from the roof of the vehicles was able to blur the tranquility of those lurking around. The lights stayed in each corner for hours, changing from blue to red and vice-versa. Police officers set up barricades, closing all access toward Aragon from Ponce de León to Le Jeune Road. From a fleet of heavy vehicles, two of them with eighteen wheels each, they lowered cranes to mount film cameras, reflectors, cables on giant rollers, and plastic containers, among other gadgets. The personnel, who came in black Coach buses, flooded the platforms. In minutes, off-white tents were set up and zippered along the street. Silent air conditioning machines were connected to each tent to reduce the heat and humidity. The entire operation resembled the capture of Normandy on D-Day.

As minutes passed, the chaos became a silent routine that caught the eyes of those who crowded behind the barricades. Everyone, without exception, wanted to guess what the situation was about. The guesses grew and grew as if spiked with a pinch of yeast.

Could it be that something happened at the Consulate? someone asked.

Oh yeah! Things are bizarre, someone else said. Last year, the vice-consul was buying cocaine and arrested in Hialeah; how does that seem to you?

No way! The vice-consul? It can't be; what if a shooting breaks out and we're just standing here?

Ah! I don't think so; it must be that some kingpin got arrested, and they will film it.

It might be, because they've also brought down a lot of lights and cameras.

Why aren't they at the consulate, but on the corner, in the bookstore? asked a lady.

For sure, they caught some heavyweight buying books. They also read! someone replied.

The tallest building in the four corners was the 300 Aragon. It was only three stories high and could be seen lined with mirrors from the streets. It was a stark and shocking contrast, as the city's buildings were painted in pastel colors to match its Mediterranean style. At least for its architecture, the Consulate was the pride of Colombians in Miami.

Oliver, a young publicist, observed the revolt from the third floor of the building through his office window. No one noticed his presence, not even the uniformed police officers and the federal agents who were supposed to be in civilian clothes. He observed everything, with no need to pay for a balcony; he did it daily. He knew those blocks like the back of his hand. Furthermore, he and Greta, his young wife, were the ones who provided advertising designs to the Consulate, the chamber of commerce, the Colombian radio station, the money transfer business, translations, photocopies, and document companies. The notary, the one who took the passport photos, the immigration lawyer, and others, who, like him, rented offices throughout Aragon.

Greta, do you want to find out what's going on? Oliver proposed.

Of course, my love, I'm going to call the chamber of commerce or…I can go personally and clear my head out for a bit.

Oliver saw how Greta crossed the street in less than a minute and went into a building facing Salcedo to the side of Miracle Mile. That's where the location of the chamber's office was.

A police car, escorting a late-model Town Car limousine of impeccable style, jet-black with chrome rims, arrived at the four corners. From it descended some strong men, broad in the back but with skinny legs, black glasses that covered them from ear to ear, and looking empowered as themselves. However, they didn't look aggressive, because some were smiling and making comments as they scattered around the limousine. The strong man standing next to the right rear door looked slowly to his left, then the front, and finally to the right, just as owls look around without moving their bodies. He opened the back door of that vehicle, and a character, who Oliver recognized without a doubt as soon as he saw his head peek out of the limousine, ran out rapidly as if trying to escape the stares and entered the bookstore on the southeast corner of that intersection. It was none other than the handsome, honey-eyed, dark, curly-haired detective Ricardo Rico Tubbs from the TV series of the moment, Miami Vice. The crowd that saw him went crazy, overcome with that magic; they felt happy and graced, just as the same observer on the third floor did.

Wow, this is such a cool thing! Oliver yelled, "Now we Colombians will be seen as the meanest of all the bad guys in the universe. They are filming Miami Vice under my own feet, in front of the Consulate, its consuls, and vice-consuls. I can't believe it; this was the only thing we were missing," he said while shaking his head, grabbing his hair, and scratching the sparse beard threatening to populate his chin during those days. The magic of the place kept growing, followed by such a fascination that the only thing missing was a radiance like the aura of some celestial being, emanating from every living being there. Greta returned with no news because no one from the chamber knew about it, and Greta herself told them about the revolt. Oliver told her everything without sparing any details of what he saw, and they stayed there, snooping around without missing any detail.

Look at him, look, look! There he goes. Did you see him, did you? Oliver exclaimed an hour later, tugging on his wife's shirt and pointing non-stop at Ricardo Rico Tubbs when he was walking out of the location.

Yes, yes, yes, how exciting, the same as on television. And where is the other actor? Could it be that he didn't come? Greta asked. Both were possessed by the magic of Salcedo and Aragon streets that inevitably linked everything that happened with the narco thing. Many people applauded when they saw Rico coming out of the bookstore; he smiled at them and waved with his right arm because, with his left arm, he was trying to put on his jacket, but he didn't approach them. Others whistled at him with glee. To stand there and see such an actor walking from such a great series, showing the world such stories of the Colombian drug dealers who brought vice to Miami, just two steps from the Consulate, was truly magical. Rico got into the limousine along with the strong men guarding him and disappeared.

The days went by, and the magic did not cease; it never ceased, nor would it as long as the Consulate was planted there at 280 Aragon. The magic was latent; the same people who arrived didn't know how to perceive the others who were already there. Many good people seemed evil, and evil people seemed good. In and out came some unsuspecting ones who looked wise, and some malicious ones who pretended they couldn't kill a fly. Opportunists who appeared to be entrepreneurs came and went, and real entrepreneurs went unnoticed. Relatives and lawyers of detained prisoners also arrived, who, on an official basis, the vice-consuls visited in the nearby or distant prisons where the drug trafficking prisoners swarmed. People from all over the world who needed to get documents to visit Colombia and witness with their own eyes the realism of yellow butterflies and the taste of coffee in the native land also passed by. The majority of those who passed through were floating visitors who came to the Consulate once, twice, three, or at most four times in their lives. However, those who were always present, no matter how much it rained, thundered, or stormed, were the ones who came by every Friday to eat free pieces of goat cheese, brie, cheddar, hard sheep's cheese, and blue cheese. Others lent themselves to the pairing of selected wines and each cocktail that was offered for various reasons. Generous and laudable reasons like the debut of an author's new novel, celebrating the anniversary of some entity, opening an exhibition of some painter who sought fame because those who already enjoyed it never had their work hung in the Consulate, giving recognition to some prominent merchant, or presenting some local politician, and so on.

On a Monday during those months, the Consulate was a venue for meeting small businesspeople under the auspices of various chambers of commerce that sought to merge to have more muscle in front of the establishment. Oliver attended and met Ethan as a colleague and for his business interests. That meeting was casual and surrounded by good personal chemistry, motivated by enthusiasm and the need to form allies. Oliver found Ethan a pleasant guy with good energy; Ethan certainly thought the same of him. It was easy for