A BLEEDING HEART

It was another day of sitting in the living room of the almost 40-year-old house. The photographs framed on the wall were a testament to the people that she had had the privilege of meeting throughout the years. She scanned the familiar, yet still intriguing, photographs and got lost in the photograph of the face of a young girl with beautiful brown eyes speckled with gold. She had a mischievous, yet shy smile. Anne smiled to herself. “The beginning of everything,” she thought. She grabbed the very top small black note book off of the stack of moleskine notebooks on the shelf. Each notebook bore testament to her travels and the endeavors she had made to make the world a little bit of a better place.

The notebook in her hand was soft with a delicate black ribbon bookmark. Comfortable in her hands, her notebooks had always captured stories that made her smile. They held all sorts of characters who navigated the most intriguing paths, and traversed the most beautiful landscapes, which were only seen by those who ventured through the pages. “A life lived well,” she thought, as she put her pen to paper.

The narrow, dusty streets smelled like spices as she passed by the woman sitting with woven baskets filled with granules of colourful spices and aromas that she was not familiar with. The group from the writers' retreat were on their way to their wrap up dinner. The group was led by Joe who ran the Writers' Retreat vacation clubs in Mexico. He was a charming man whose smile, passion and charisma were infectious. He loved to poke at the writers to get them to think deeply about where they were and how they could use their writing for the greater good, and to help the less fortunate. Abandoned by his father when he was 12, Joe had risen above the poverty of the streets of Mexico where he had spent time as a teenager having to beg to ensure he and his mother had food. Joe was a street-smart kid who did okay for himself, all things considered, telling stories to tourists for generous tips. His creativity and entrepreneurial spirit had caught the eye of Dr. Joseph Charal who had moved to Puerto Vallarta to help the less fortunate. One day, as he had had a close encounter with the law, Dr. Charal had saved him from arrest by an overzealous officer. It was Dr. Charal who had ensured Joe received an education, and inspired him to start writing and publishing his stories, while working to help those less fortunate.

As they walked the makeshift sidewalks of the dusty streets in old town, the curb side was taken up with a woman’s woven baskets of spices, and her begging children who were dressed in ragged clothing. The little girl caught Anne’s eye. She had the most soulful golden eyes Anne had ever seen, and they were full of a mischief and hope. The girl was walking backwards in front of her, hand held out, when Chris who was walking beside her intervened. “Don’t give her a thing. That woman probably bought them to beg for her. They are not her children and they are not poor. Put your purse away.” Shocked at the statement, Anne pulled back a little, and the girl’s eyes looked down. Ignoring Chris, she continued, “Here you go sweetheart. She pulled a $20 bill out of her pocket. It’s American,” she said in an audible whisper. The child’s eyes lit up. She ran back to the woman sitting beside the spices and gave it to her. Anne beckoned to the woman for permission to take the child’s photograph and the women agreed, with her hand held out for a donation. Anne quickly obliged. She could not help but wonder if what Chris had said was true. Anne returned to the group where Chris was still spouting off his theory about the gimmicks of women and children begging. “And if that is so Chris, how poor must both of them be to have to try to sell wares on the street, and to have children begging?” Chris and the others laughed her off and called her naïve. Anne could not help but look back at the woman whose face was battered by the sun, with creases so deep that they stood out against her dark eyes. It was impossible to tell how old she was. Anne held her gaze for a what seemed like too long. She wanted to know more; wanted to ask questions; but was being hurried along and relentlessly teased by the clique in the retreat group. The pit in her stomach grew as she walked past more women and children with their wares on the street. She kept giving her $20 bills to them as she passed by them, apologetically saying they were American currency, not knowing if these children could make use of them. The ladies in the group scoffed at the children shooing them away, and teased Anne, warning her that the children would all be following her home soon.

As they entered into the small restaurant, the mariachi band was playing and the servers’ smiles were infectious as they were led into a back room reserved for their wrap up dinner. The colours were cheerful in the room and the mood a bright contrast to the suffering on the streets outside. Red drapes stood out against yellow plastered walls with candles which caught the light of the tapestry hung on the back wall of the room. Under the tapestry, a tequila bar was being attended to by a teenage boy with a perfect smile. He challenged his guests to a game of balero, a game of skill where the player attempts to land a cup on a stick ornately decorated with colours of the Mexican flag. The hilarity of the patrons trying to land the cup on the stick was intensified by the tequila that they drank. The scene of poverty on the street was clearly forgotten by most. The young man’s tip jar was full of American one-dollar bills. After a few of the group had played, the retreat leader Joe approached, “I will play, but not without a bet. How about you pay for my dinner if I manage it?” The young man smiled nervously. “Yes Senor, I am confident that only those experienced can do this well!” Joe took the balero into his hand. “One, two, three”. He flipped the cup up and it landed squarely on the stick. The colour drained from the young man’s face as he nervously looked at his tip jar. A bead of sweat formed and ran down the boy’s face slowly. Anne watched as she saw the injustice that she thought the boy was about to suffer over a bet that he likely would have won 99% of the time. Joe looked at the table and shrugged open arms towards them. “This boy gets to pay for my dinner then!” Stella looked shocked. “How could he,” she thought. “I will play too! But I will bet you that if you land the cup, and win, I will pay for Joe’s dinner”. “But senorita” the boy started. “I insist that you try,” encouraged Anne. She had watched the young man master the game since they had arrived. The young man took the bolero from Joe as the table silenced to watch him. He was a sport, and had the band play a dramatic count down to the balero toss. “Uno, dos, tres!” The room was silent as the cup landed squarely on the peg. Cheers erupted as Anne paid for Joe’s meal. The young man’s eyes met Anne’s and he did not need to say anything about the gratitude that he so clearly felt. “There goes the bleeding heart again,” quipped Chris. Chris was so full of his own importance as he preached to the table about how lucky the street people were that the generous tourists tipped so well, and gave them a penny of the dollars they’d worked hard for. Anne could not take another moment of his rhetoric. As she was gathering her purse to leave, she interjected, “That is an unfathomable view of the world Chris. Where is your compassion? Imagine if we worked to help them, wrote stories to raise money? Perhaps open a school to help to educate and lift them out of poverty.” Joe looked at Anne and smiled gently as he too got his things together and bid the group goodbye.

Anne was walking down the dirt road which was too desolate for her liking as dusk had just passed. She could smell the faint smell of spices as she passed by where they had been sold earlier in the day. Slowly, and without warning, ahead of her she saw two young men come from the right of a small alley way, and again, 2 more from the left. They formed a line blocking the small dirt street. Anne stiffened up and slowed down her approach. “How am I going to manage this,” she thought. As she got closer, she stopped. “These boys could not be more than 15 years old,” she thought to herself. The tallest of the boys spoke “Give us all of your money and we’ll let you go.” Anne paused and said “Of course, you likely need it more than I do. It’s American.” The boy to the right suddenly shouted “It’s the lady who gave $20 bills to the girls today! She told them that it was American too. As if they didn’t know,” he laughed. “A voice came from behind Anne and said “And again, she gives you more.” “Uncle Joe”, the boy cried out. Joe put a hand on Anne’s shoulder where he felt the tremors of fear rattle through her. “Joe, do you know these boys?” whispered Anne. “Yes, and they know me well,” he said as the boys ran off. Anne and Joe walked together to the hotel. “The boys, they don’t have many choices. What we need is more people who are willing to come and help,” said Joe. In Anne’s frightened state, she thanked Joe, locked the door, and boarded her plane home the next day.

Anne was lost in the boredom of a contract, having settled back into her life at the office. Inspired by Joe, she took her notebook everywhere and kept writing in the hope she could publish a story that would influence change for the less fortunate. “Anne, a package has come for you,” announced her assistant Jack. Anne took the package and removed the brown paper covering. Inside was a new moleskine notebook, the exact same soft, small black notebook that they had been invited to use at the retreat. Curious, Anne opened it to the first page where a note was written. “There is always a bleeding heart in every retreat! All the best, Joe.” “He sent me a notebook to repeat that sentiment,” Anne half laughed recalling Chris’s jeers. She flipped to the page which was bookmarked by the delicate black ribbon. A piece of paper was neatly held in the spine of the pages. Anne took the paper and unfolded it. She gasped as she realized she was holding a cheque for $20,000.00 payable to her. Where the cheque had been folded, a note was written in the most beautiful cursive, “Open your school.” Anne was dumbfounded. The note continued. “Being privileged enough to do so, I do this every year. A writer with a true heart always shows themselves to me as I lead the writer’s groups through the impoverished streets. Those who open their hearts to injustice, are gifted $20,000.00 to do their work to help the less fortunate.” Anne was elated. “What a story to write,” she thought as she packed up her notebooks and left the office to change her life, and the lives of others.