In the Plaza de Armas in Huancayo, Peru, I saw the old gentleman-beggar, dressed in semi looking textiles, close to rages his cloths were–or so it looked from where I was–(about thirty feet away specifically); mainly in front of the opened door cathedral–opened I believe for the worshipers, but he of course–like a good business man, positions himself well–so the old man positioned himself centerfold like, paced back and forth within this area, in front of the church. Oh I had seen him before here, it wasn’t my first time, but it was the first time I did a double take on him. I visit Huancayo, the most beautiful place in the Andes, that and the whole of the Mantaro Valley: that and White Mountain, which is part of all three: the Andes, Huancayo and Mantaro Valley. I have a home there, a small one for visiting, and although I do not make it up there as often as I’d like, it always numbs me, makes me feel calm, brings my pulse down, and gives me fresh air.
(Based on actual experiences of 1968) (a Chick Evens story)
The church steeple drifts off into the darkness. The trees in the adjacent cemetery, across Jackson Street, can only be seen by the fleeting headlights of cars. The mist whitens the trees. Everyone is at the corner bars, Bram’s or the MountAiry. Chick Evens straightens up, takes out a cigarette, a light drizzle of rain fills the atmosphere, as he walks slowly up Sycamore Street, turns-sees the corner bars.