Sergeant Weasel & Cristina's Tamales

“Sergeant Weasel and Cristina’s Tamales”

By Julian R. Rush, Jr.

Sergeant Joachim (“Joe”) Wietzel was a veteran of wars, foreign and domestic. Desert Storm was still a gritty memory to Sgt. Joe -- he’d lost a leg, but got a purple heart. Arriving home meant weeks of listening to Maria Elena, Joe’s wife, angrily criticize his drink induced rages and emotional distance. After seven months, and a few cursory counseling sessions, Maria skipped talks of a home-front truce, waved her white flag and left for parts unknown taking their daughter, 8-year-old Abigail. Semper fi may shore up corps morale, but it just sounds pretty hollow when used to command uxorial respect. 

Now, four years later, Joe still felt lonely, deserted and angry. After a few beers with pals, he could minutely instruct anyone on how to fix the rotten world: distrust all declarations of love, kick the current Administration out of D.C., and increase Vets’ benefits. Even without the booze, Joe’s attitude was, like his unshaven stubble, scratchy and ugly. Nobody messed with “Sergeant Joe” unless she had to.

Unfortunately, Margarita Concepcion Sanchez had to -- “Sergeant” Wietzel managed the Ramada Rio Trailer Park, in El Paso, where “Rita” lived. It was not so much a park as it was a junkyard for trailers, or for people – all missing something – whether tires, spouses or your last hope.

Rita was fairly spunky, as any illegal immigrant has to be. But, she dreaded the first day of each month when she paid rent to Sgt Joe. From him she got nothing remotely human, not even the racist wisecracks she routinely got from other gringos. It was his eyes she dreaded most – dark, hateful, vacant. Under the silence of Joe’s barbed-wire glare, Rita felt like a rank annoyance to be endured just long enough for him to extract the rent – “Hey, Mujer, that’s $115.00 in nothing smaller than $5 dollar bills.”

Ramada Rio tenants called him “Sgt. Joe” to his face. Out of his hearing, he was “Sgt. Weasel.”  And, with his narrow, scruffy face and baleful features, Joe did look like his whispered namesake – a mean, wiry varmint… always snarling and ready to bite.

On most days, Rita could avoid Joe entirely. She did housekeeping at El Grande Motel and held a part-time job, waitressing at Millie’s Family Pantry. On her scant personal time, she mothered Cristina, her 7-year-old daughter by Jaime, her common law husband who had disappeared into their native Juarez when he lost his custodian job for drunken absences, and when Rita no longer would give him money.

Monday, December 3, marked Rita’s fifth year in the U.S. It was also rent day, -- she was short on cash. And, holidays were coming; Cristina needed a better coat. Dreading to face Joe, all Rita could do was plead for more time, as she had before, paying a dear price – hefty late fees, and worse – Sgt. Weasel’s feral glare.

So, early, with Cristina, Sponge Bob lunch box in hand, Rita tapped at Joe’s trailer. He slowly appeared, grimacing against the light – rumpled, unshaven and gin-stained.

“Good Morning, Sergeant Joe,” Rita stammered. “Holidays are coming; can I pay half-rent now and the rest in 10 days?” Black eyes glinted, stained teeth sneered: “You people just don’t get it, do yah? My boss ain’t no banker, it’s all due today. You got ‘til 10 p.m. tonight or you’ll be looking fer another place. Compren-day?”

Of course ‘Yo comprendo’, Señor Weasel, Rita bitterly but blandly nodded while backing away with Cristina. “Now what?” she fumed. Don’t get paid until the 16^th -- no extra shifts are open. I can’t pay the whole rent and still give Tina any Christmas. Why did I buy that maza and carne for Cristina’s tamales – a holiday treat for school. I need that money!

Joe squinted as the woman and child scuttled off.  He felt nothing for them – all the wetbacks were trouble, they just complicated his life. Still, for a brief instant, as the little girl’s ponytail swayed cleanly in the wind, she looked like…. Ah…Stow that, you idiot!

Rita’s two-mile walk to work felt like ten kilometers. He mused as she hurried, Maybe Millie would advance her on next month’s paychecks. Maybe her friends would buy the tamale fixings from her – that would bring about $17 dollars. No!  She could not disappoint Cristina. Rita had promised to make Christmas tamales for International Day at school.  

She rounded Wyoming Street to see Millie’s busted neon window sign: “…Lu_ch Spec_als…” Luck Speckles? Rita sighed and entered The Family Pantry, greeting Millie cheerfully counting change, and Wills, the young Black kid who was dolefully filling saltshakers.  Rita also took in the breakfast crowd that seemed bigger than usual – more tour busses or servicemen? 

Maybe her “lu_ch” would “spec_al” today – with mucho good tippers.

After her long shift, Wills gave Rita and Tina a ride, in his rusty VW, to Ramada Rio.  Red and blue flashing lights caught her eye – a police car? Rita shivered at bad memories. Not again! Someone got cut up in a fight six weeks ago.  She hustled Cristina toward their small rusted trailer, but now an ambulance lit-up Sarge’s entryway. Medics wheeled Joe’s gurney through a watching crowd. 

Someone asked, “Is he dead?” A sardonic voice called out: “Can’t kill a weasel like Sarge. He just OD-ed hisself on pain pills ‘n hootch.”

What will happen to the rent collection?  Rita wondered. Maybe he’s so sick I’ll get lucky and….  She chided herself for being mean-spirited. As awful as The Weasel was, she refused to be like him. 

A medic asked, “Do any of you know if he has next of kin?” Mumbling erupted, then Rita spoke up -- “I think he has someone in Las Cruces.” The EMT eyed her. “Could you find out and call me?” She rued her comments, but nodded as the ambulance drove Joe away.

Next morning, Rita got permission to enter Joe’s trailer from Kiki, his dreary rental assistant. The woman handed over his key, saying flatly, “Y’all don’t touch nothin’.” 

Rita brooded -- Like I want to touch anything of his…. Entering Joe’s disheveled lair, stale booze and body odor hit her nostrils. Near the telephone, Rita found a scribbled phone number for a Las Cruces Wietzel.

Anxious to flee the Weasel’s doublewide, Rita nearly missed the crudely mounted photographs hanging askew. A woman – worn but pretty, a little girl, shiny hair in a ponytail. A framed Purple Heart and citation for in-combat bravery. A combat buddy picture with a younger, still ugly Weasel clearly in charge. Then a blurry, yet plain enough picture, a battle-field group that nearly stopped Rita’s heart! She recognized the sunburned face of her Gulf War veteran brother, Chuy. Pvt. Jesus Ignacio Sanchez was her half-brother who had been killed by a landmine.

Incredible! Sergeant Weasel and her brave Chuy knew each other. She had heard Chuy’s tales of the foul-mouthed sergeant he’d rescued in a bar fight, and who later saved Chuy’s squad in a Desert Storm firefight that cost the man’s leg. Now the askew Purple Heart plaque made some sense. 

What different men -- Joe mean and wiry; Chuy tough but kind.  Rita had adored Chuy’s visits to Juarez when he had treated Rita and her girl friends to tamales and cokes. She had grieved for months after news of his death.

A nearby car’s back-firing departure broke Rita’s reminiscence. I need to get Cristina to school and call that EMT. At the door, another photo drew her attention -- a formal portrait of Joe with his wife and dark-eyed daughter. His eyes actually showed some humanity as he smiled, touch-ing the woman and little girl. Not the Weasel I know.

When Rita called the EMT with Joe’s family information, he had asked her an odd question: “Do you know anyone who likes this guy?” Hesitating, Rita had said, “I’m not sure. Why?” He had responded, “No one has checked on Mr. Wietzel, or his heart condition. A holiday visit from family might lift his spirits.” Rushing Tina to school, Rita thought, No tenants from Ramada Rio will visit Joe. Even Kiki, Weasel’s assistant, can’t stand him.

As the days blurred into Christmas, Rita made the holiday tamales for Cristina’s classmates, shared with neighbors, and saved some for New Year’s with Cristina. Her holiday tips from the motel and diner had paid all her outstanding rent and bought for Tina’s Christmas coat.  Kiki’s scolding for paying late couldn’t dampen Rita’s good cheer. 

New Year’s Eve found Rita and Cristina eating leftover tamales. Through salsa-smeared lips, Tina asked, “Mama, are we s’posed tuh be nice to people we don’t like?” Surprised, Rita asked, “Why?”

“Sister Mary Angela told us Baby Jesus loves everybody, an’ we’re s’posed tuh like ‘em, too.” Rita responded, “And, what do you think?” Tina squinted: “I don’t like Zach at school ‘cause he teases me. An’ I don’t like Sergeant Joe ‘cause he yells at us. Do I gotta like ‘em?” At a loss, Rita rose quickly to clear the meal -- “During holidays, we are supposed to like everyone.”

At bath-time, Cristina irritated her with more questions. “If we’re s’posed tuh like everyone at holidays, should we take some of our tamales to Sergeant Joe?” “No,” Rita said sharply, then relented. “Honey, he probably couldn’t eat them….He’s sick.” 

“Buuuttt, Momee, you said….” Rita glowered, “That’s enough; let’s get you to bed.” Falling asleep, Rita pondered her daughter’s question. Joe is a weasel, but it wouldn’t hurt to take him some tamales. Besides, I’d like to know the story behind his picture with Chuy.

On New Year’s Day, Rita and Cristina went to Joe’s hospital, taking a plate of saran-wrapped tamales. After a brief tussle with the desk over Rita’s non-family status, a bored duty nurse relented, curious to see what her vile-tempered patient would do with his first visitor.

Rita knocked quietly: “Mr. Wietzel, can we come in?” A groggy voice answered, “Who is it?  Whaddya want!” With her daughter and the tamales, Rita advanced into the lamp-lit room.  Joe lay grizzled, grim and grouchy – dozens of tubes taped to his limbs.

Even in the dim light, his eyes glinted. Rita considered turning tail while she could. Joe rasped, “So… come to gloat, have yah. Go ahead. I don’t need yer sympathy.” Cristina whimpered, as Rita met his gaze. “We didn’t have to come, Senor, but--Tina thought you could use a holiday visit, and a plate of tamales.”

Joe started a comeback, but Rita continued. “I don’t care if you do collect my rent – you’re a bully. We came to show Cristina about manners, and…to ask if you remember Chuy Sanchez. I saw a picture with both of you taken during the Gulf War. He’s my brother.”

The hissing of medical devices punctuated the stillness. Joe sneered, “Yeah, I knew yer brother, but we wuzn’t friends. He was a good brawler; helped me take on some soldiers. I went down; Chuy stopped a knife meant for me. He was in my unit in Kuwait when we got out of a bad spot on patrol and I lost my leg. He had some “salsa” you’d say -- stood up fer me at a military inquiry. I lost track of him while I was laid up. Heard yer ‘hermano’ went all brave, and got splattered by a landmine.“

Her bile rose at the cavalier remark, and Rita snapped, “Well, it’s too bad he saved you. Chuy said you could be a real jackass.  And, you’re scaring my daughter -- we’re leaving!” Angrily, she watched Joe’s face for some reaction. Then he growled, “You Latina women know how to grind your men down, doncha?  But -- thanks fer the holiday visit, Seňorita. It’s been a highlight -- a reeaall pleasure!”

Rita struggled momentarily not to overreact. She saw Cristina’s eyes, clearly scared of Joe, and of the emotions in the room. She began her retreat but turned to say, “I heard that your wife left you because she didn’t like gringos, eh? Or did she grow weary of protecting the little girl from your mean temper?”

As they swept towards the ward’s doorway, Tina tugged at her Mom. They whispered, and Rita turned back to leave the paper plate on Joe’s tray-table. “Cristina wanted you to have these. They’re tamales -- we made for her class. Happy New Year.” Awaiting no response, mother and daughter disappeared down the hall. 

Silent moments later, Joe pulled a battered wallet from a drawer. He looked at a picture – a dark-haired woman, and a girl wearing a shy, snaggle-toothed grin – eight-year-old, Abigail, his daughter. Long dark ponytail, intelligent eyes -- her grin was for the man snapping the picture. Joe had taken it when Abi still smiled for “Daddy.”

Another photo showed his unit, all cleaned up for an R&R trip, just before the bar fight. Two-thirds of the men had not survived Kuwait. He mused, What a coincidence that Chuy’s sister turns up, now.

Joe’s eyes watered; his throat ached. Losing his leg had turned Joe to alcohol and prescription drugs to mellow out.  But, his hangovers and depression made him mean. His wife finally left him because of his ugly moods. Leaving, she had said, “You don’t need me, and you don’t deserve Abi. You scare her to death.”

Fingering the holly-print wrapper on the plate of Christmas tamales, Joe couldn’t hold on anymore. For the first time in months, maybe years, he wept. The tears fell for Abi, for his lost comrades, like Chuy – rough hewn, good troops. And, some tears fell for himself. “Yer a weepy one-legged drunk, yah loser. And, you scared off another little girl,” Joe said aloud to no one in his dim room.

January 2, Monday, Rita went to pay rent to Kiki. As she counted out $115 in small bills, the large woman held up a hand and drawled, “Yer rent’s paid up for three months …Y’all got lucky.” Kiki returned her money to a baffled Rita. 

Her words made no sense!  Kiki handed Rita a faded Alamo Credit Union account book. Rita stammered, “What’s this?  It’s not mine.” Kiki’s bored reply was, “Alls I know is… Joe said to give this to yah. He won’t be back fer a coupla weeks.”

Drifting outside, into the morning glow, Rita sat down on the curb, peering at the weathered book as if it were a foreign object. On pink sticky notes, bearing a VA hospital logo, she read:

“Death benefit and final pay for Pvt. J. M. Sanchez, April 22, 1991. USMC gave me this to hold; couldn’t find any U.S. family. I paid three months rent; transferred savings balance. It’s yours and Cristina’s. JGW (P.S. Happy New Years -- Tell Cristina I liked the tamales.)”

There was an initial deposit of $5,748.71, and a recent withdrawal of $345.00. With eleven years of interest, a balance of $6,802.83 was transferred to “Margarita and Cristina Sanchez, Ramada Rio Trailer Park, El Paso, Texas.”

Stunned, Rita squinted at the pages. Tina broke the silence. “Mom, why are you crying?” Rita didn’t know how to explain to her seven-year-old they now had a nest egg, courtesy of Uncle Chuy, and the Weas…Sergeant Wietzel. It was more money than Rita had ever seen -- enough to get them ahead of creditors, start a savings account for Cristina, and….

Rita sniffled, “Somebody did something really nice for us…gave us money I wasn’t expecting.” The little girl looked up, “Who was it, Mama? Why’d they do it?” 

“Your Uncle Chuy, and Sergeant Joe. I guess it never hurts to be nice to everybody, like you said,” Rita offered.

“So, Momee, we did the right thing? We liked somebody who didn’t like us.” As usual, Tina hit the target squarely. Rita could only nod, pull her daughter up to head-out for school.

Sunlight fell pleasantly on their faces, and Christina chirped excitedly. “Mama! Do you think we should make some more tamales?”

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