Humberto: The Forever Mexican

When I was a little boy, my grandparents had a landscaper named Humberto. Humberto was a beaner whose familia had come over from Mexico in 1978 to escape the oppression of food that caused severe and uncontrollable diarrhea.

Humberto was a burrito of few words. He really didn't understand much english except when the words, "YOU FUCKING PIECE OF MEXICAN SHIT. GET THE FUCK OFF MY LAWN" were spouted to him by neighbors. He wandered off the rez a good bit and had to be reminded that my grandparents yard was free from La Migra.

My cousins and I would always help Humberto with with his English. We would steal things from around the neighborhood and leave it by Humberto to be found by kind men carrying bats and other forms of sticks. After several hundred beatings, Humberto learned how to say, "It wasn't me" and "I sorry". These lessons were priceless.

As I grew into an adolescent, Humberto seemed to never age. He was probably in his 30's when I was 5. Now, at 15, Humberto seemed to appear even younger.

I began to believe that Mexicans possessed a magic that made it possible to defeat the laws of time and aging. Humberto agreed, as he always did, by simply saying "Si". That's all he ever really said except for when he was being beaten for something he didn't do.

On my 18th birthday, some friends of mine and I drove out to my grandparents' house where Humberto lived in the shed. We were hoping to buy some of the plant that Humberto grew behind his shed. When we arrived, Humberto was out front singing with an old guitar. He had fresh bruises all over his face and arms. I can only assume he wandered outside the yard again.

Despite the wounds, he looked to be no older than me. Amazing!

I said, "Humberto" and of course he responded "Si". "Can me and my boys get some of that fire leaf for the weekend"? "Si".

Fucking A!!!

Years later, my grandpa fell ill and we were all called to his home for what was to be his last moments on earth. During the chaos, I walked outside to grab a smoke and saw Humberto pulling weeds from the flowerbed. He looked 18 years old still when he should have been well into his 60's by now. I yelled, "Humberto"! No answer.
I yelled again. Still, no answer.

I noticed a 2x4 laying on the porch left over from repairs that he had been making. I picked it up, walked over to Humberto and politely cracked him in the back of the fucking head with everything that I had.

"WHAT THE FUCK GRINGO", he said.

It was a miracle. Apparently, the force of the board to the back of his head had allowed him to speak perfect English. Well, at least that is what I thought.

After Humberto was able to stop bleeding from the eyes and ears, he sat next to me and asked who I was. I said, "it's me you Mexican piece of shit, don't you recognize me"? "No, I don't and who is Humberto"?

It was clear that I had hit him harder than I thought. I had reset this beaner's brainstem and now he can't remember who he is or let alone, the basic duties of a Mexican. Stealing, reproducing, cutting grass and building things out of wood.

I ran inside to tell my grandma that Humberto had fallen down and hit his head. She told me, "That's not Humberto. That's Pablo". I was like WTF???

She then told me that Humberto died when I was 6 and she hired his cousin, Ramirez. After Ramirez, was Juan-Vidalia and after him was Pablo.

It made me realize a few things.

1. Magic is not real.
2. Mexicans are disposable.

I felt like I had been lied to for years when it was just me assuming that Humberto was immortal. He was far from immortal. It was then that I found out that the first beating he received from one of the neighbors who suspected him of stealing was enough to cause his brain to hemorrhage. He died a few hours after in a ditch behind the house. My grandpa covered him with dirt and later planted tomatoes there. Best fucking tomatoes you will ever eat!

The moral to this story is things aren't always what they seem. What you think is one thing, may just be a long line of dirty Mexicans that look exactly like the other. Down to the fucking bandito mustache that these border-skipping fucks all come factory equipped with.

Adios.