THE WHOLE WORLD AND CHILDHOOD
Ever since the raid came for the Chef—even though we all got swept up in the dragnet and ended up with a submachine gun pointed at our heads and a boot crushing our chests against the floor—I suspected, and still suspect, they were going to get him one way or another. His sentence was the minimum for what they managed to find (had they raided on a different day, the sentence would have easily been double digits). However, in my own hierarchy of crimes, he doesn’t fit; he is still innocent. I may not be right, and I don’t have to be, but it’s a necessary scale.
After four years of living here, the things that used to be done in secret or hidden from the eyes of my mother, my partner, or myself, stopped being hidden. They were simply done in the yard. Yes, I’ve seen bricks of marijuana stacked up while I was heading to the bathroom (the bathroom was, and still is, shared, located at the back of the lot). I’ve seen guns. I’ve talked to—and some even worked for my cleaning company before I closed it—guys who were responsible for shootings, threats, or drug-related debt settlements. I knew all the secrets; I saw them because it’s inevitable when you live on the same lot. Even if you don’t participate, you step out to the yard and find a group of guys handling exactly what I mentioned.
What would you do, “good citizen”? Would you call the police, you, the paragon of virtue? Would you report them? Those guys willing to “battle” for you? The Chef, who would answer for you if you hit a rough patch and had nothing to eat, who would lend you money or bring you food without expecting favors in return or rushing you to pay him back? Someone who would invite you to his table for Christmas and New Year’s, even if you don’t like it or don’t want to be a part of it. If you report someone like that while living on his land, let me tell you: you probably no longer have a soul or a reason to justify your existence as a human being, as a species. Though, of course, the System would be delighted with you.
Knowing everything also led the Chef to open up to me, and his wife to open up to my mother. That’s how we learned about the Chef’s childhood (remember that when we moved here, they were both 21 years old with a child). If we look at his life, we see a boy who was probably abused (though he never said it explicitly). But his sister, as a child, was raped by her stepfather, as was his brother. As if that weren’t enough to ruin any future—having to keep living with the rapist—his mother, starting when the Chef was six years old, forced him to stand at traffic lights to beg for coins. He had to come back with money, or the punishment was a beating. Later, at thirteen, when he could no longer get money at the lights so easily, he became “useless” and was kicked out onto the street. What I’ve told you so far is more than enough to manufacture a ruthless killer. Instead, we have a man with the sensibilities I’ve already mentioned.
After living on the street for a while, the State did not take him in; it never even knew he existed until he decided to become a criminal. As if that were something one simply “decides.” Regardless, the only social circle that gave him shelter was some poorly organized, precarious gang. He was a “cook”—of drugs first. And then, who knows out of what curiosity, he wanted to be a Chef. A suffering, helpless child, cooking cocaine, wanting to be a Chef in a restaurant. A situation that is, at the very least, interesting to witness. And even more curious: he actually became a Chef. He managed to graduate. So, there was effort and capability. Of course, all that ended when he decided to pull an “inside job” at the restaurant where he worked (no one suspected him). I don’t judge that action; it feels like an inevitable act. There was no foundation, no control, no chosen path other than his own.
Later, he began butchering whatever field animals crossed his path; that’s how he fed himself and lived for a couple of years. Meanwhile—listen to this, “honest” citizen—according to what he told me, and later confirmed by other testimonies: he cooked for the Gendarmerie (Border Patrol) and was in charge of keeping the business’s books. All of it endorsed by the police, the gendarmes, and a prosecutor. I don’t know if a judge was involved too, so they’re off the hook for now. Of course, I cannot give names.
Who would be the guilty party in this case? The Chef, who struggles to read, or all those with formal education who are part of that criminal ring? If we put the blame on the dark-skinned Chef who looks exactly like what society calls a criminal, there is something seriously wrong with our heads.
Later, when all of that had to stop due to changes in government, prosecutors, and officials—and others were going to take over that part (make no mistake, that dirty State business never stops; don’t be naive)—his path in street-level drug dealing began.