El Cupolog

Intercambio

Our first night in the jungle, members of the indigenous community stopped by our campsite to welcome us. They played the flute, passed around a bottle of rubbing alcohol (96 percent) and talked about the challenges of living in the Amazon.

The community had a school, but no teachers. A river, but no potable water. And the wild pigs weren’t coming around as often as the used to.

We also learned that less than three decades ago, it was common for boys to get married and start families between the age of 12 and 14. Today, they wait a little longer.

Charka Indigenous Territory in Pilon Lajas Nature Reserve - Amazonia, Bolivia  - © Diego Cupolo 2012

Through the jungle, a mud road to Peru

From La Balsa, the last town in Ecuador, it’s a two-hour ride through the edge of the Amazon to reach the Peruvian border. The road’s unpaved, prone to landslides, and floods often during rain season – now – but Ania and I went anyways.

We flagged down a southbound truck near the bus station, threw our bags in the back, and jumped in front with the old man at the wheel. It was raining and yellow water filled the potholes along the red clay road.

“So, where are you from?” Ania asked the driver.

“Me? I’m from here. I’m from La Balsa.”

“How’s life in La Balsa?”

“Hard.”

“Why’s that?”

“Everything costs more now,” the old man said. “Let me tell you, a liter of cooking oil used to cost eighty cents. Now it’s two dollars. Do you know what kind of impact that has? It’s all Correa’s fault.”

“Correa? The president changed the price of cooking oil?”

“Ever since he got elected, the price of everything’s gone up.”

“But food costs more all over the world,” I said. “Gas prices are up so that means transportation costs are up and we, the consumers, pay the difference.”

“Bullshit! Esto es una mierda!” the old man yelled. His face red as the road that was tossing our bodies around the truck cabin. “We produce five million barrels of oil a day in this country. A barrel of oil costs $100. Tell me, how much is five million multiplied by a hundred?”

“Five hundred million,” Ania said.

“Correcto! Five hundred million dollars a day is what we’re making in Ecuador just from oil. And where the hell is all that money? When will it be spent for the people in the pueblos? We’re the ones that need help.”

“Didn’t Correa put a lot of money in education and health care, though?” Ania asked.

“Some, but who knows if it ever gets there. Por ejemplo, let me give you an example, look at this road we’re driving on, this muddy mess of potholes, es pura mierda! We have landslides and accidents all the time here. Look at those crosses over there.”

He pointed at a cluster of white, painted wood crosses at the edge of the road.

“That was a bus. Sixteen people died when it went rolling down the mountain.”

“Aye! When was that?”

“Two months ago,” the old man said. “But here’s the best part, when Correa got elected he said he’d put aside one million dollars a year to fix this terrible road. But look at it! You see it, right? It’s still dirt. It’s been years now and it’s still dirt! Where are the one million dollars a year going? Not here, obviously. The greedy politicians in Quito are keeping it all.”

“Here in Ecuador,” he continued. “We have more corruption than we have money. That’s the truth and that’s why life is so expensive for the rest of us, those of us without brothers in the government.”

The truck took a quick turn around a rocky bend. Ania pressed my body against the truck’s door and I could see into the green canyon below where a violent river ripped trees from its banks and swallowed them whole in its thick, chocolate milk rapids.

“But Correa is better than your recent presidents, right? Ania asked. “Maybe this road isn’t good, but all the other roads we saw in Ecuador were brand new. Correa is creating some progress in this country isn’t he? ”

“No, son todos chanchos, they’re all pigs and they’re all corrupt. It’s always the same. I’m tired of all these politicians talking about hope and change. They always say that crap and then they screw us. Correa’s just like everyone else.”

“Have you liked any of the presidents you’ve had in Ecuador,” I asked.

“Yes, Aguilera. He was the only good one.”

“Aguilera? When was he in office?”

“In the early eighties. He said the future of Ecuador was in the Amazon and we would use our resources here to pay off our debts. He wanted to industrialize the country. He was going to make us into a profitable nation and raise the standard of living. In the twenty months that he was president he was able to pave the road to Zumba so people in the south and in the amazon could have better access to the rest of the country.”

“Why was he president for only twenty months?” I asked.

“Lo Mataron. They killed him and his entire family. That’s what happens when you really want to change things in Ecuador.”

We reached the Peruvian border, got out of the truck and got our passports stamped. The custom’s officer played with Ania’s golden hat and asked if he could keep it.

She said no.

When we got back to the truck, the old man told us he’d stay in town for a while so we said our goodbyes and crossed a bridge over another brown, violent river and entered Peru.

After so many years of injustice, faith can sometimes feel like a foreign language in Latin America.

La Balsa, Ecuador - © Diego Cupolo 2012

Corruption, Inequality, Religion, Homosexuality: A Dinner Table Discourse

“Do you have corruption in your country?” Alberto asked, his mouth half full of white bread and fresh queso blanco.

“Of course, there’s no place in the world without corruption,” Ania said.

“Okay, but you don’t have corruption like we have it here in Ecuador, right?”

“It’s hard to say, there’s plenty of corruption in the U.S. and Canada, but it’s not as obvious, it’s no so out in the open as the corruption you have here in Ecuador,” I said.

“How so?”

“Here you can walk into a judge’s office fifteen minutes before a trial and put cash in his hand. Where we come from, you can bribe a judge just the same, but in a smoother, under-the-table kind of way, like building him a jacuzzi in his house or giving him a discount at your brother’s car dealership.”

“Okay, we have these under-the-table deals here too, but I was a lawyer for many, many years, I know how our system works,” Alberto said. “The person with more money always wins and the poor one loses no matter who’s guilty and who’s innocent. That’s the kind of justice we have here.”

“And it’s the same in our countries,” I said. “Our jails are full of poor people, minorities and everything but rich businessmen. You’re not the only person we’ve met on this trip that thinks everything is cleaner and less corrupt in rich countries. We’re more similar than you’d expect. Of course, our poverty is less extreme and our middle class is bigger, but who knows how long that will last, the gap between the rich and poor is growing ever year, and if it continues, we’ll start looking just like Ecuador and the rest of Latin America.”

“Ha, you really think that?”

“Sure I do. At least you can say your income inequality is shrinking in Ecuador. We’re doing the opposite up north.”

“Okay, well, if you say our countries are so similar, then what are the main differences you see?”

“The relation between men and women,” Ania responded quickly, without hesitation. “Also, the relation between homosexuals and the general public. You have a lot more transvestites here.”

“En serio?” Alberto said. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, in Quebec we have some, but not like here. Maybe gay men feel they need to hide more in Latin countries.”

“Of course, homosexuality is a sin. They should hide,” Alberto said.

“See, now that’s a big difference. In Quebec, we’re full of homosexuals, gays, lesbians, everything, and it’s fine, not so many people care,” Ania said. “Maybe in the rural areas they care, but in the city where I come from, there are a lot of gays and I have a lot of gay friends. It’s almost fashionable to be gay in Montreal.”

“Well, I was brought up Catholic. This is a Catholic country. It’s written in the bible that homosexuality is wrong and that’s how we see it here in Ecuador. It’s simply morally wrong.”

“But why’s it wrong? I see it as natural. I mean, there’s plenty of animals that are gay. Goats are gay. Elephants are gay. You can find homosexuality in a lot of different species,” Ania said.

“Goats? I never heard that, but we’re not animals, we’re humans, and as Christian humans, homosexuality’s simply a sin,” Alberto said. “I don’t even understand gays. Why would a man go with another man when there are so many women in the world.”

“It’s not really a choice. They’re gay and that’s it,” Ania said. “And I accept it. I don’t lose sleep over it. Why’s it so bad anyways? How does somebody else’s love life affect yours?

“You’re young, you’re traveling, you’re doing whatever you want, I understand you, these moral things don’t matter much to you now. But me, I’m old, I’m a father, I have a family and I have to think about my children. My concern is for my children, their grandchildren, and all my future generations. How can they grow up right in a society where we allow sinners - whether its gays, thieves, murderers or whatever. I want my grandchildren to grow up healthy. I don’t want them to see two men kissing in a park and think it’s normal. It’s not. It’s a sin and we need to wash our society of all sinners.”

“But that’s just another form of racism or prejudice, isn’t it? Sure, it’s written in the bible and plenty of people are saying homosexuality is wrong, but plenty of people also used to say it was okay to enslave blacks. Now, a hundred years later, look at what happened to those people. They look terrible for supporting a thing like slavery. How will people look at us a hundred years from now? Will they think we were wrong to persecute homosexuals?”

“Look at me for example,” Ania continued. “I have red hair. They used to burn people like me because they thought I was evil. I was considered a witch back then, but I’m actually pretty normal, right?”

“Sure, you’re normal and slavery’s wrong, but I’m not prejudice. It’s simply written in the bible, homosexuality is wrong. One man, one woman. That’s the only way. Why do you think we have floods and earthquakes that kill so many innocent people? It’s because we allow sinners to live among us and we are constantly being punished for it and we will continue to be punished for it until we learn to walk the right path.”

“The right path?”

“Yes, and regardless of all that, on a fundamental level, I still can’t understand why men decide to go with other men when there’s so many beautiful women in the world.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” I interrupted, tired of the repetition, tired of the same phrases we’ve heard throughout the entire trip.

“First, let me ask you something: when did you decide to like women?”

“Well, I don’t know. I’ve always liked women. It’s been that way ever since I can remember,” Alberto said.

“And it’s just the same for gays, they’ve always been attracted to men. It’s not a choice. It’s just how they are. They’re like you only a they’re a little different. Different kinds of people are allowed to exist, right?”

“Yes, different people are good, but—”

“Second, I have to point out, Ania, that you’re arguing with a lawyer and lawyers don’t back down, they’re not allowed to,” I said.

The three of us laughed. We needed a laugh.

“Okay, so as a lawyer,” I continued. “With all your experience in court. When has anything written in the bible ever held up as a legitimate argument in front of a judge?”

“But that’s different,” Alberto said. “That’s completely different. One is work and one is religion.”

“Yes, it’s religion. It’s not a way to argue. Ania and I, we’re not Christian. For us the bible is just stories. That’s what it is, right? A book of stories and it doesn’t mean much to us. Saying something’s written in the bible has no value to us, just like it has no value in court.”

“And also, what’s this stuff about floods and earthquakes?” I kept going. I was afraid it’d be like this. Maybe I should’ve stayed our of it.

“Saying homosexual sinners cause floods is just silly. It makes me think about ancient tribes and their volcano gods. If they didn’t please their gods, the volcano would blow and kill them all. So what did they do? They threw people down the volcano as sacrifices. They made goats bleed to death on a special stones on top of pyramids. Sure, that sounded like a great idea back then, but now we know volcanoes blow because that’s what they do. It’s natural, it’s not because of any sins or gods or gays or lesbians.”

“Diego,” Ania elbowed me. “Don’t be so aggressive.”

No one talked for a moment.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s just that most of my good friends are gays and lesbians. The best, smartest people I’ve met in my life are homosexuals and I’m tired of all these silly arguments against them.”

“I understand you,” Alberto said. “I’ve had to represent people like you in court and I understand you now.”

“Just think of what it takes to be a homosexual, especially in a place like Ecuador where it’s less accepted. These people have fight through their entire lives, taking verbal and physical abuse from family members, from strangers, even from television shows and movies. They have to survive and adapt to so many different situations that when they make it to adulthood their bound to be successful at whatever they try to do. I have a lot of respect for gays and lesbians. Sorry, if I offended you by talking about the bible and all.”

“No, it’s okay, sorry if I was aggressive with you, Ania,” Alberto said. He looked tired now. “You know, I started thinking something was wrong with Catholicism when I was forty-four years old.”

La Merced Alta, Ecuador - © Diego Cupolo 2012

Day 23: On Our Separate Ways

Jack and I ate leftover spaghetti for breakfast and drove to Fajardo.

 I had $7 left and the ferry ticket was $2 so I bought Jack a pack of cigarettes with the difference. He would’ve settled for Winstons, but I got him Malboros.

The next boat would leave in an hour so we sat in the car and smoked. 

“Now we’re both officially broke,” I said.

“Yeah, I still gotta find someone to cash that damn check for me,” Jack said.

“So what are you gonna do now? After I leave and all.”

“I don’t know, I’ll probably just head to the house and sit around with them dogs for a while. Not like I got money to do anything. How about you? You got like two weeks left on the island, right?”

“Yeah, just about. I’m probably gonna take it easy for the next few days, you know, get some writing done and upload photos. Probably head to the beach when it’s sunny. No plans, really,” I said.

“What about after this. When you go back. You gonna get a job in New York or something?”

“Maybe a temporary job. I need to leave that place as soon as possible. There’s no reason for me to be there anymore. I’m just waiting for some paperwork and then I’m getting the hell out! I’ll be traveling through South America for the next year or so.”

“I’d like to see South America too. I’ve been living on this island for four years and I never went anywhere else around these parts. Kinda stupid really. I bet the women are really hot down in Venezuela and shit,” Jack said.

“Well, they win a lot of Miss Universe pageants, but what I saw when I was there was a lot of plastic. Those women love implants,” I said.

“You don’t like fake titties?”

“Not my style.”

“Shit, you say that cuz you’re young. Once you start fucking the older chicks you’ll change your mind. Trust me, I’ve been with my share of 45-year-olds and when they lay down their nipples get lost in their armpits. You really gotta dig if you want to find them saggy nipples. But if they’ve got implants, them shits stay right where you can see them, nice and perky,” Jack said.

“Ha, that’s horrible.”

“It’s the truth.”

I opened the door and got out of the car to stretch my legs. It felt good to be in the sun. Jack got out too and we walked to the waterfront. I watched a seagull eat a Burger King wrapper on the rocks below us.

“What are you going to do these next few weeks if you’re broke?” I asked.

“I don’t know. There’s always plenty of work on boats. I’ll probably hop on one of those for a week or two. They pay real good and you don’t have to do shit,” Jack said.

“Those are the kind of jobs I need to get.”

“You know anything about boats?”

“No. Never really sailed or anything.”

“Then you should stick to cameras and journalism or whatever it is you do.”

“Ha. I can barely swim too. But, yeah, I’ll get back into journalism and serious jobs some day. Media is just dead right now. They can’t figure out how to make money from the internet. There’s no jobs. The main reason I went into that field was to get paid to travel and that ain’t happening anytime soon.”

“What about war reporting? Go to Afghanistan and get shot at or something,” Jack said.

“I thought about that. It’d be an experience … to say the least. But I don’t think it’s for me,” I said.

“Hell, I’d love to go over there.”

“To Afghanistan?”

“Hell yeah, I’d shoot me a bunch of them bastards. That shit would be fun.”

“Ha, you say that now.”

“Nah, I’m serious. I’ve been wanting to go over there for a long time.”

“You want to go to war? Not a man of peace I take it?”

“Peace? Peace don’t even exist. It ain’t possible. If the world was at peace everything would boring as shit. I wouldn’t want to live that way.”

I didn’t respond. It was the first time I heard anyone make that statement … “peace would be boring” … I repeated it in my head.

Jack was the complete opposite of the vegan hippie friends I had made in Brooklyn. That’s why I liked Jack. At times, our thoughts seemed worlds apart, but each disagreement only compelled me to bring him closer. I wanted to understand his views and how he reasoned with life.

“By the way, be careful with all that traveling,” Jack said with his eyes staring far out over the waves. “One day you could end up with no house, no car, no job, broke, living out of your backpack, and all alone without any girlfriend to take care of you.”

“Living out of a backpack sounds pretty good to me,” I said. “And I already told you I’m perfectly fine without a woman for now. The last few really turned me sour. It was bad. Really bad. I need to be alone for a while.”

“Do what you want. You just came to the wrong place to not have sex,” Jack said.

The gate opened and people started boarding the ferry to Vieques. We said our goodbyes and I thanked Jack for showing me a good time. I felt bad leaving him without any money, he really changed my experience in Puerto Rico, but there was nothing more I could do. At least he had cigarettes.

I looked at Jack one last time and he seemed tired, almost sick. I waved and he flashed me a peace sign with his hand. 

© Diego Cupolo 2011

Day 20 (Night): Back to Vieques

I had been on the mainland for three days and figured I should go check on the house in Vieques. The thieves keep track of which houses are occupied and which ones are not.

Jack drove me to the dock in Fajardo and I got my ticket. We had two hours before the ferry took off so we headed to the closet bar. I drank a beer while I listened to Jack’s stories about fighting. He loved to fight.

“This punk ass Rican was busting my friends balls one night in San Juan. They started arguing and then he swung at my friend. When I saw that I just attacked the guy. I had him on the ground and was kicking him in the stomach when the cops pulled up. First thing they told me after breaking up the fight was that the guy I beat up was an off-duty police officer. I spent a few weeks in jail for that one,” he said.

“Damn, what was that like?”

“It wasn’t bad, really.”

“Yeah? I figure they’d give a gringo a tough time in a San Juan jail.”

“Nah. I done been in jail before. It’s all about how you carry yourself. You just gotta look like the type of motherfucker you don’t want to mess with,” Jack said.

“What’d you go to jail for?”

“A lot of things.”

“Okay. What’s the longest you’ve ever been in jail.”

“Three and a half years.”

“Shit!”

“Yeah, lost a good deal of my youth because of a stupid bar fight.”

“What happened?”

“Well, it was really was stupid. I got into an argument with a guy over a pool game. I turn around and walk away and he hits me across the back with a pool stick. He used a weapon so my instant reaction was to grab a big beer mug and hit him with it. I smashed it into his head, right behind his ear, and he fell to floor kind of funny. Turns out he had a brain aneurism. He got brain damage and now he’s slow for the rest of his life.”

Jack looked at his beer blankly.

“I had three and a half god damn years to think about that. I feel bad for the guy and I called his wife pretty often, but I always go back to the fact that he hit me first,” he said.

“Damn, that’s some bad luck. What’d you do all that time in jail?” I asked.

“Read, kept to myself, I don’t know. When you first get in jail all the gangs approach you and ask you to be on their side. The Latinos, the blacks, the skinheads, all of them. The skinheads are the most powerful gang in all the jails because they can get whatever they want from the outside. I said no to all of them and they told me ‘good luck’.”

“Did anyone mess with you?”

“On my birthday I got beat up like fifteen times. This black guy hit me with his tray in the cafeteria and next thing I know ten of them are stomping my ass.”

I stopped talking and drank my beer.

“Sorry. I don’t mean to ask so many questions. I just never been to jail and wonder what it’s like,” I said.

“It’s definitely something you could do with out. It’s not really anything you want to experience.”

“Yeah, sounds rough.”

“It’s damn rough, but fuck it. That’s life. People think they’re alive but they’re not. We’re all dead, all of us, we’re already dead and most people don’t even know it,” he said. “Now I just do whatever the fuck I want because none of it matters. If someone wants to fight, I’ll brawl, nothing will stop me.”

“What if you just don’t fight? What if you just walked away?” I asked.

“Walk away? Listen, I look at it like this: If you’re about to fight someone what’s the worse that can happen? You get your ass beat. And getting your ass beat will last a lot less time in people’s memories than being a pussy. If you walk away you’re a pussy and everyone in town is going to say ‘Jack’s a pussy.’ I just can’t live with that.”

“I guess you’ve got a lot of pride.”

“Yeah, you could call it that.”

“I used to fight in middle school. If someone picked on me enough times I would find them in the hallway and demolish them. Really though, I don’t look like it, but people thought I was crazy. They never laid a punch on me while I beat them senselessly. But after that, I decided fighting wasn’t worth it. I just avoid it now unless it’s absolutely necessary. You can talk your way out of most things,” I said.

“Yeah, some people are good with words, but I just start swinging. My father said, ‘never throw the first punch.’ I always thought that was retarded. If you throw the first punch you’re already one step ahead of the other guy.”

“Did you fight a lot in school too?”

“Yeah, but I always got beat up when I was young. I was on the wrestling team and lost every single match my first year. I was all drowning in my self-pity and shit. I was pitiful. But then one day I saw this kinda nerdy guy lose it. Get this. There were these two brothers that would always pick on this nerdy kid at school. One day they pushed him and he fell and broke his arm. The nerd’s arm was in a cast after that and the brother’s kept bullying him. Then one day on the bus, the brothers were sitting behind him, flicking his ears and calling him names and I just watched him turn redder and redder. He was breathing heavy and then he got up and just went apeshit on the brothers. He sent both of them to the hospital for stitches.”

“Wait, how’d he beat up two guys?”

“With his cast! He used that thing like a club. It was brutal. I watched the whole thing. Blood. Everywhere. After that day I realized something very important: it doesn’t matter who you are or what size you are. If you work up enough balls you can take on anyone.”

“Courage. That’s all it takes,” I said.

“Yeah, it’s not muscles, it’s not anything but what inside you.”

“So you were a wrestler too?”

“Yeah, after that I grew a mohawk , dyed it blue and never lost another wrestling match,” he said.

It was almost time for the ferry so we walked to the beach and smoked a joint. I realized the next day was New Year’s Eve and asked Jack what he was doing.

“I got no plans. Come back and we’ll go to San Juan and get some new year’s pussy,” he said.

“Ha, I don’t know about that, maybe you will. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I got on the boat half-drunk and half-high with a camera full of photos from San Juan and the Sugar Mill. I was happy. I realized I’d been lacking good male friends in recent years. Jack reminded me of the friends I used to have. The kind of guys that would send you on your way with a good buzz. The kind of guys that lived like maniacs and were honest about it.

Jack was a good guy. 

© Diego Cupolo 2010

Day 20: Ernesto the Fan Man (Part Three)

He put the “water pump” back in the pile of old fans and scratched his head.

“I have a lot of junk in here don’t I?” he said.

“Maybe, depends on what you do with it. Do you sleep here?”

“No, I have a house further up the mountain.”

“Nice, do you like it here?”

“Es tranquilo. Muy tranquilo.”

Ernesto was starting to loosen up in front of the camera. Just then, his glasses slid down his nose a little and I could see my reflection in his gray-blue, oil spill eyes. I zoomed in and took a close-up of his face.

“Your eyes are very interesting,” I said. “I’ve never seen colors mix like that.”

He didn’t respond and smiled with one side of his face.

It was time to move on and find the sugar mill so I thanked him for the help. I got back in the car and he got back in the chair. I watched him pick up his guitar and waved as we drove down the hill.

© Diego Cupolo 2010

Day 20: Ernesto the Fan Man (Part Two)

We walked in the shack and he started digging through a pile of old electric fans. I kept taking pictures, but he didn’t seem very comfortable with when the camera was pointed at his face. He would always move or look away. I asked if it was okay for me to keep shooting and he encouraged me to go on.

“I spend a lot of time here, you know, fixing things and sometimes I invent things too,” he said and showed me a long metal wand that expanded like a car antenna.

“See this, I made it so I wouldn’t have to bend over every time I dropped a screw.” He walked around and picked up metal objects with a magnet at the end of the wand. Every time a screw stuck to the magnet he said “Ah, ah.”

“Very nice,” I said.

“It’s very useful. I’m too old to bend over all the time.”

He put down the wand and started moving around the pile of old fans again. He picked one up and sat in a barber’s chair in front of a mirror. The floor around the chair was covered in black hair trimmings.

“This is a water pump, but I can’t figure out how to fix it.”

“That’s a water pump? It looks like a fan.”

“Oh no, this is a water pump,” he said while pushing the high speed, medium speed and low speed bottoms.

“Aha … I see that’s a barber’s chair. Are you also a barber?”

“Yes, I am, I just had a customer in this morning,” he said while looking at my hair. “Would you like a haircut?”

“Ha, no, no, I don’t have time right now, but thanks …”

© Diego Cupolo 2010

Let’s Call Him Howard

I met Howard while waiting for a train at the Gates Avenue station last week. He walked over with a big smile and said, “You lo-look int-int-intellegent. You look like an int-intelligent guy.”

I thanked Howard and noticed a ring of dried honey-yellow saliva around his lips.  We got on the train and began a conversation that would last all the way up to Times Square.

He slurred his words and stuttered often, but he made it clear his current goal was to find a girlfriend that would let him move in. Basically, he was tired of paying rent.

“How do you meet girls anyway? Ac-actually, how do you meet people in-in-in scheneral? I’m having a hard time me-meeting people lately,” he said.

“I don’t know really, maybe join a group, you know, like a special interest group or a chess club. A gardening club, even. You’d meet people there. Do you have any hobbies?”

“No, not really. I’ve been doing alotta reading.”

“Well, then maybe a book club?”

“Maybe, I don’t know, the past few weeks I’ve been reading mo-mostly about court cases. Old ones, stuff no one else is probably reading. I like that. Old historical court cases.”

The other passengers on the train kept looking at us. Howard had a loud voice.

“What do you do with your time? Do you work?” I asked.

“Nope, I do nothing. I can’t work. I don’t know what I can do. The doctors put me on too many meds.”

Howard went on to tell me about his experiences in New York City psych wards. He’d been in and out of institutions for the last 30 years.

“Once a doctor gave some kinda medication that turned my face black,” he said moving his palm down over his face. “All of it. Black.”

He claimed he was “all fixed” now, but he still can’t find friends.

“People think I’m a creep,” he said. “I met this one guy last month and we hung out a few times, but now he doesn’t call me back. I guess it’s time to forget that one.”

He became quiet for a few seconds and looked at the train’s linoleum flooring.

“You wanna know my pick up line for women?” he asked with a smile.

“What is it?”

“I go up to girls at a bar and say “you think I’m a fat pig, don’t you?” and they say “Oh, no, not at all.”

“Does it work for you?”

“Nah, they never talk to me that long.”

The train was approaching my stop and I couldn’t leave Howard, in his over-sized glasses and purple-plaid shirt, without asking to take a picture.

He agreed.

I pointed the camera at his face. He smiled one last time and said: “I hate America.”

Oct. 18, 2010 © Diego Cupolo 2010