Jorge
Last night I phoned my mother. I was trying to explain to her (a neophyte computer user/technophobe) how to highlight, copy and paste text. Basic. The conversation degenerated into argumentative banter, which degenerated into laughter.
“My friend is here,” Ma said. “He probably thinks we’re crazy.”
“Jorge?” I asked. “Is it Jorge?” I had just been telling E. about my mother and her Mexican landscaper neighbor friend Jorge, with whom she eats dinner every other night. He barely speaks any English; she barely speaks any Spanish. Nevertheless, they’ve struck up an indelible friendship based on flowers and food and memories of Durango. She handed him the receiver and Jorge and I had a go at a conversation, which was difficult for me since my mobile connection was fuzzy and my Spanish is poor.
“Is my mother a good student?” I asked him in my broken Spanish.
“Ay, si, si,” he lied. My mom’s an amazing teacher, but a tough student. She gets frustrated easily, a bad trait I’ve inherited.
“Y como está su español?” The real answer was muy mal, but Jorge said my mom was trying. Mom said she was too. She gave up on the copy/paste computer lesson in exchange for enjoying a Philadelphia evening with her neighbor friend on the porch. I can imagine them there, eating burgers or whatever, feeling the heat and inhaling that fresh lawn smell, with the blink of fireflies outside the seedy bar across from Mom’s house. In my mind, it’s almost close enough to taste.