You see.  Your timing has to be perfect or else you’ll miss him.  You have to go past the Mayan lady slanging hummingbird keychains as her daughter, who shares the same ancient features, helps arrange the rest of the miscellaneous merchandise on a blanket before the night falls into a deep dream.  You have to jump over the puddle of water, a gift from the heavens, and land at a certain degree because if you slip, he’ll vanish.  Even if it begins to rain again, you can’t seek shelter.

 

Keep moving past the aggressive salesman who heckles you. “We have what you eh-look’n for, guera.  I give you good deal. You espeak espanish?”  He fumbles his tongue with broken English.  Then, after you get past the aggressive salesman who tried to hustle you for overpriced earrings, pick up the pace just a tad, so you speed walk around Spiderman who attempts to bombard pictures with you in exchange for tips.

 

Don’t stop to dance to La Son de la Negra, like you normally would.  Now is not the time.  Go past the elderly gentleman shaking his red cup filled with pesos or the middle-aged man riding a bicycle selling out-of-date Mexican newspapers or the little boy with a basket filled with coconut water, even though you’re dehydrated from the humid weather.  Be careful not to walk too fast because if you skip a step, you’ll sprint right past him.  You won’t notice him— he’s quiet, unlike the others who shout for your attention even though you purposely avoid eye contact.

 

The Mexican puppets; the silver plata; the embroiled purses; the clown folding balloons into funny animals; the talking parrots; the starfish caught in the fisherman’s net; the yapping chihuahua, go past all that shit.  Yet, not too slow because he’s not on their corner.  He’s not controlled by the local mafiosos.  He’s not looking to harass you or get you loaded off cheap tequila.

 

The winds need to whistle at a certain pitch so the waves hit the shores at the time a mother is buried, like a sandcastle, as her children laugh and snap photos to send back home.  That way, you strut past the family without their interruption.

 

Hold your sneeze because you’re running out of time.  Don’t take the face cream samples offer to you even if the associates give you attitude and mumble insults under their breath when you refused.  That will slow down your pace, and you’ll be late.

 

Be aware of the clouds that guide you in his direction because you need each other.  He’s there waiting for you.  Silently.  Minding his own business.  Under a faded streetlamp with a folded table light enough for his frail arms to carry back to the shack he calls home.  You almost missed him if you had turned left.  Cross the street dodging the taxis that speed but let the kid selling stale churros go before you.

 

He waits for you with his head down threading canvas strings together.  Everything is perfectly lined up, strategically placed, the finer pieces up front to catch the public eye, but what you are searching for is not on display.  So you say, in your broken ass Spanish, “Vendes cuarzos?”  Santiago, the Indian boy with shallow eyes, crooked teeth, and a hand-me-down shirt, nods his gentle nod.  He reaches for a pouch underneath his uneven table, unzips his bag, scuffles through a few items before pulling it out.  He places the colorless quartz and all its history in your palm.

 

“What’s the story behind it?” you ask.  He shares that a boy, younger than him, was begging for work, and in exchange for work would gift the stone. You rub it for good aura, and you hand the Indian boy a hundred pesos.  You see. That was your only chance because it was the last of its kind, and even if there were more, he wouldn’t be waiting for you under the same faded streetlamp, the same busy corner, with the same temperature of the Aztec moon.

 

So, before you begin the journey to find him, make sure you follow these instructions to a T or your paths will never cross.  And if you miss him, your life will remain the same.