In The Company Of Monsters

Unwelcome Guest

SANTOS, BRAZIL

Miguel Bravas, who was perhaps the friendliest man in Santos, stood behind his makeshift taco stand. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he encouraged sore knees into cooperating. Sitting down would feel so good, but business was better when he stood, and there was his daughter to think of. She should be walking any day now, actually. Children are amazing, but they are also expensive. He stayed on his feet.

Nestled into the southern coast of Brazil, Santos boasted both the world's longest beachfront garden, and the continent's largest shipping port. The exportation of coffee gave rise to the city, and generated immense wealth. This strong history of merchant trade helped Santos develop into a modern, thriving city. It also served as the entry point of the bubonic plague to Latin America, but if you don't lose a few, you're not in the game.

Miguel watched the dock workers loading shipping containers. Forklifts raced back and forth, chipping away at a mountain of crates on pallets. Each crate bound for some other part of the world. He had sold carnitas tacos to the men here for… How long now? Let’s see… eight years? Wow. That's a lot of tacos.

***

Miles away in the nearby jungle, a black Doberman pushed forward through the underbrush. From his collar hung a small bronze tag that read, “Diego”. He’d been lost for days, and the pain of hunger was gnawing at his gut. But worse still was thirst. Lapping at dewy leaves only made the need more intense. Diego was scared and weak. Some whispering, primal part of his dog brain told him the score. Today, you’re going to die. He ignored the whisper, and kept moving. Home was out here somewhere, with his soft bed, his owners and their unlimited bowls of food and water. The thought of water made his stomach clench, and he could almost smell it. 

He stumbled forward again, clambering over a fallen branch. Then he stopped. He could smell it. There was water nearby. Real water. Diego sniffed the air, straining his focus to divine the source of that delicious scent. He turned his head to the right, and knew he’d found his way. He lurched forward, sprinting through the dense foliage, branches swatting his face as he barreled through. Ignoring the stinging pain in his muzzle, he raced through the jungle, hopping over shallow ravines. In minutes, he broke through a row of vegetation, and found what he’d been seeking. Water. Cool, deep, blue water. Homesickness Lagoon, the locals called it. Had he known, Diego might have appreciated the irony.

At the same moment Miguel was having his taco epiphany, Diego was head down, slurping glorious water in mad, sloppy chomps. Nothing had ever tasted this good, not even that lamb shank he’d nabbed when his owners were distracted, making out in the kitchen.

Finally, he slowed. His crazy slurping gave way to more controlled licking. And like that, he felt better. His senses sharpened. His muscles no longer felt like lead. He was still desperately hungry, but he responded to the whisper. Not today.

***

Miguel watched the overhead cranes work their mechanical ballet, lifting and swinging large shipping containers into place. While his wasn’t a glamorous job, it pleased him. Sea salt in the air, honest labor all around, and the workers never failed to rave about his cooking. Making others happy with food is a special pleasure, and it made up for much. He fired up the gas grill and began laying out tortillas.

An incoming transport blared its horn, and he watched the ship slowly glide into place at the docks. His wife Paula had come to him on a ship just like it. A stowaway from the States, she had no money for the passage, but did have something horrible back home to escape from. When the Captain brought her ashore, he wanted her arrested, which surely would have been her fate had Miguel not stepped in.