Alone at home on a rare, warm Saturday evening, ready to “bring the noise” to Pilsen, I’m interrupted on my way to the cuarto de los discos (room with phonograph records) by my dog’s loud barking. Duke, a German shepherd, is going nuts on the enclosed porch in back. His bark is usually commensurate with any threat, and this is a three-alarm ruckus he’s raising, so I have to dash to see what’s up. Through my porch window I spot a human shape crouched near the exit door to the garage, just visible in twilight some ten yards across the yard. I don’t dare leave; my dog might force his way out and “overreact,” instinct on automatic.
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The squatter doesn’t acknowledge my first panicky shout of “Hey!,” so I decide to hunt for a makeshift weapon. This is, after all, a neighborhood with a gang problem, not Brook Farm. Now I’m the one on automatic–my property violated by whom or what.
He looks ancient somehow, his head a mosaic of dirt and facial hair; the body puny, weakly built. The wild beard tumbles onto a decomposing, terra-cotta-colored woolen coat. It’s hard to miss his overpowering odor and his body-length look of surprise, as if he thinks he has been electrocuted for no apparent reason. The man rubs his belly and shakes his head while talking incessant Spanish.
Relieved and light-headed, I return to the porch to let Duke out. He remains agitated, sniffing compulsively near the garage. Approaching, it hits me, literally: the guy has shit in my backyard! The sick-looking feces reek from a swirl of garbage–coiled wrappers and windblown junk on concrete! The stench is unreal!
