Grabbity

From essay written October 28, 1992

The boy appeared, just barely tall enough to look over the fence; we were moving into our first house in Belize after having spent three months in an hotel. A glorious grin gleamed in a black-black face, as he shyly handed me a single flower.

His name was Dennis Moguel. He asked if we had any shoes we wanted polished. From that beginning, he became a minor fixture—keeping Bucher’s shoes in better shape than they ever had been, running errands, playing with the children, lending a hand in the house once in a while.

I taught Dennis to paint. He was not pleased at the idea of putting one coat on at a time instead of doing the job as if he were plastering. He was even less pleased at cleaning brushes thoroughly after each session instead of leaving them standing in water (not solvent; water). If I display any patience now, it is because of the discipline of directing Dennis those many years ago.

 

By the time Dennis was in his late teens, he worked for us only sporadically. Sweet-natured as he was, he was not very bright. Bucher resisted my suggestion that he find Dennis a job on one of the tugs. I sent out a call for Dennis whenever I accumulated a bunch of minor tasks around the house.

One day I asked him to replace the bottom hinge on the front picket gate. Those bottom hinges have a very short life. Male dogs have an affinity for them. Very soon, Dennis reappeared at the front door, calling me: “Missus, oh Missus.”

“Pardon, Mum, but those screws have no gravity.”

I asked Dennis to repeat. He couldn’t possibly have said what I thought I heard. He repeated. He had. I never had considered gravity a major characteristic of screws, so I walked down into the yard to make an on-site investigation. My sometime-handyman trailed along happily.

At the gate Dennis proudly displayed the six sturdy screws, which he had burred beyond use. He was right: they had no grabbity.

 

As Dennis approached twenty, he drifted away. He greeted me effusively when we met occasionally on the street. I did not know whether he was working, but he no longer was interested in odd jobs.

A curt radio news report told us that Dennis Moguel, age 21, had been stabbed to death in a dispute among domino players over 13 cents.

 

I haven’t thought about him in a long time. I started writing the grabbity anecdote as an amusing addition to a letter. What was supposed to be a funny story ended as a bittersweet one. After I wrote it, I considered omitting the final paragraph. However, it may be that this little story is the only memorial to Dennis’ life that there ever will be.