Mi amigo nuevo, Fred

I met a guy named Fred the other day.


I was sitting in a small park near the Obelisco at the corner of Cerrito y Sarmiento at about 5pm, eating some empanadas that I had just bought.  Fred was weaving and wobbling around on the curb, sometimes almost falling into the traffic, and when he tripped over the small black iron fence around the park, I thought that he surely was going to crack his head open on the tiled walkway.  He was holding a small crumpled plastic grocery bag in his hand, and occasionally sucking in and out of it.

He sat down on the bench right next to me, and I moved over a little to give him more room.

He told me his name was Fred, and that he was from Argentina.  I introduced myself and shook his hand.  I continued to eat my empanadas as I talked to my new friend.

The crumpled up plastic bag was actually three plastic bags, triply-bagged.  There was an opaque-white substance in the innermost bag, and when he exhaled he smelled like burnt rubber.

I asked him what was in his bag, and he offered me some.  I politely declined, and he thought that was really funny.  “Nunca, nunca, eh?  Ha Ha Ha!”  We talked a little about empanadas.  Me gustan las empanadas.

Fred didn’t look too good.  He was wearing cut-off jean shorts (which is kind of rare here in Argentina-- shorts, that is) and each of his knees and elbows were just one complete scab.  Also, he had quite a few scrapes on his hands and chin.

Despite all his wounds, he seemed to be feeling just fine.