A Fly on the Wall pt.1

Buzzing around is the only life I know, to be honest.  My favorite is to annoy the quesillo ladies.  Something about their nasally, “quesillo, quesillo, tortillas caliente, quesillo,” attracts me.  I enjoy flying down, low and landing on their salads, tortillas, or any type of food for that matter.  I can drop down, grab a nibble and then fly away.  I think it’s funny how they just swat me away.  All they’re doing is giving me a ride, kind of how they use water in the ocean to fling themselves towards the sand.  All they are really doing is encouraging me to come back and take another ride.

I like my spot.  It has a lot of traffic.  People are always coming and going.  Coming and going.  Some are repeats, they’re guaranteed to be here almost every day.  They come in early and leave, only to come back later.  Others come and stay all day long.  I call them the regulars.  They go to the same spot and touch the same things, day in and day out.  Even my favorite quesillo ladies are here every day.  If they don’t show up, I have to admit, I become nervous.

I would like to say I monitor everything here.  Just a fly on the wall, I believe that’s how the old saying goes.  I can plop down and watch scenes unfold that apparently, others can’t do so well.  I like floating around and getting to know everyone.   The old women that run the food storage place are one of my favorites.  The guy with the papers freaks me out a little bit.  He floats around all day, smiling and touching all of the women.  They don’t seem to enjoy it most of the time.  That’s my opinion, but that’s what I see.  I can only base my judgements on what I see.

Today, Angela is very chatty.  I can tell because her daughter is with a pouty face.  She must have had Maria when she was younger, they appear more like sisters than mother and daughter.  I might as well go over and pick up the latest gossip.  “Siempre, siempre me estas molestando.  Mama, puede darme cinco pesos.  Mama, puede comprarme esa camisa.  Ay dios hija, nunca te paras.”

“Dale, mama, no voy a pedir para nada y va a ver.  No necesito nada de usted.”  She must have asked for something.  The two kind of drift off staring at the people passing by.  It might not be a good idea to stick around.  I might get the receiving end of built up aggression the two have towards one another.  That’s all I need, a broken wing because I’m too caught up in what they’re saying.  Nope, I do not like the idea of dying today.

Across the tables and over the heads of my bestowed quesillo ladies, I find myself at the batido stand.  This is good hunting for spilt sugar and syrup.  The girls are pretty good about cleaning up after a mistake, but I can usually torpedo in for a quick sugar buzz.  I prefer the simple sugars, they are easier to digest.  Pablo, the man with the newspaper, has been lurking around more than usual today.  He keeps trying to take photos with the girls at the stand.  None of them seem very interested.  They all kind of take it to hush him away.  The eldest, of all the sisters, was the most playful with him.  The two younger ones only did enough to get him to scurry away.  As he left they talk about how obnoxious he was.  The eldest, admitted that she enjoys his presence a lot.

I followed him back to his chair.  He had his newspaper open.  People would come to him and ask questions, “A qué hora sale el bus para Rama? ¿Cuanto sería el pasaje para Managua?” He fielded the questions with boredom.  From time to time he would reference a sheet of paper with the times of all the departures on it.  When he was bored, he’d drift from one stand to the next.  He particularly liked the batido place.


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