In Common

Rumner paced back and forth across his living room holding the phone gingerly to his ear. These conversations were always conflicting. One part of him wanted to talk with Carlos, to catch up with his oldest friend, to inquire about his children, and to complain about work together. The other part of Rumner couldn’t stand the banality of their lives. How many times could they talk about their useless coworkers? How many times could Rumner listen to Carlos go on about his children and where they went to school? Who cared about the new puppy his family had just gotten! It was difficult for Rumner to listen to the off-hand comments Carlos made about vacations he went on, or the dinners he went out to with his family. Inevitably, every time he called Carlos, their conversation circled back to Nicaragua and, like clockwork, their shared past. Resentment rose up and he couldn’t help but spit out a harsh comment on Carlos’ maldita vida.

Hanging up, Rumner sank into his couch and thought back. Back to when pins and needles ran up his legs no matter how vigorously he shook or massaged them. Only being able to pace back and forth a matter of steps would do that to you. The damp humidity of the cell was oppressive, sucking away hope and replacing it with the stink of sweat and resentment. It reminded him of the crushing heat he had felt trekking through dense jungle, heavy gear on his back, assault rifle slung across his shoulders. What had he done to deserve such brutal treatment from the very government he had risked his life for? No communication with his family, no interaction with the prison officers allowed – let alone the other inmates. And putrid, putrid food. He had been left to wither away. It was worse than being forgotten.

Rumner’s infectious energy and humor had vanished in that cell. There had always been a levity he could bring to the gloomiest of situations: sopping wet, huddling in the mud as the pat, pat, patter of bullets sang in the distance; growling stomach on long, mind numbing treks; even when the groans of the wounded surrounded him. But that was when he had his companion at his side. The steady presence that added brilliance to his sardonic wit and focus to his unbridled vigor.

Rumner tossed his phone aside and sighed deeply as he got up from the couch and went to pour himself a glass of water. Well, that had been an uncomfortable conversation. It always seemed to be like that nowadays. Carlos had his life up in New York and there was an icy rift between them every time they talked. Rumner was always trying to reminisce, bringing up memories of their youthful escapades, their heavy drinking, and stirring up nostalgia for their country. Florida was certainly warm enough for Rumner, but there was something about the manicured lawns and tiled roofs that just seemed off. Rumner missed the heavy clatter of rain on metal roofs and, crazy as it seemed, the ditch-filled roads that required eagle eyes and steady hands to navigate.

Rumner smiled to himself as he thought back to when he taught Carlos how to drive. Controlled recklessness had always been Rumner’s motto, and his skill behind the wheel was a sight to behold. No matter how rickety the vehicle, Rumner worked the clutch with smooth precision as if it was an extension of himself. He had found great joy in sharing his expertise with Carlos. This was back when they were barely men and took great delight in screeching around Managua. Now, both of them were in their fifties and the youthful exhilaration of learning how to drive was a distant memory. Rumner had turned this uncanny skill into a job in the States operating machinery for construction jobs. In other words, he had made a life. A life that seemed unimaginable back in the oppressive solitude of his cell.

That wretched cell. The series of events that led him there could not have been more distant, but still felt as unjust as ever. It was 1985, and Rumner was working as the security guard for the Aguerri family in Managua, working long nights. The supermarkets were empty, the economy stagnant and even the rich were suffering as the embargo crushed the newly established democracy. One night, Marcos Aguerri came asking for a smoke. Rumner, charismatic as ever, sprang into action, offering him a cigarette and charming him with his quick wit. He quickly learned that Aguerri had quit smoking for years, but that he had recently started up again, in part because his business was failing, and his foreign accounts were locked. I want to leave the country he had said, almost helpless. Ever the entrepreneur, Rumner mentioned his friend in the government and to his surprise Aguerri offered twenty thousand dollars in cash for visas out of the country.

Rumner’s friend was Carlos, who worked for the government arranging travel visas for workers to learn trades abroad – whether it was in agriculture, medicine, or manufacturing. The two friends, after returning from war, had grown apart. Carlos had dedicated all his energy towards his job but still struggled to provide for his family day in and day out. My kids need me, he had told Rumner repeatedly in response to proposed escapades.

Carlos had been surprised when Rumner knocked on his front door late that night. Is everything okay? What are you doing here? Carlos muttered softly. Seeing that Rumner looked unhurt and, if anything, jubilant, Carlos’ expression hardened. You’re going to wake everyone up. Are you drunk again?

Rumner excitedly ignored the insult, out of breath. I have an easy twenty thousand American dollars for you. Listen to me, please. Can I come in? And so Rumner had stepped inside and presented his hastily formed proposition. Carlos was hesitant, he didn’t want to risk his job for this. But twenty thousand American dollars was significantly more than he made in a year. How will we make the transaction? I need his passport at the very least. Rumner interrupted, growing increasingly more energetic. That’s already taken care of. Eyes glinting, Rumner revealed a little black book. Upon closer inspection, Carlos saw that tucked inside it was Marcos Aguerri’s passport. All you need to do is get me the visa and I’ll take care of the rest, Rumner had said. How could Carlos say no?

It had been surprisingly simple, with Carlos’ well placed job and Rumner’s courage and ingenuity they made the twenty thousand dollars. Split 60/40, Carlos used the money as a springboard to launch his life in the United States, while Rumner had a different ambition. He loved Nicaragua and had no desire to leave, to abandon everything he knew and loved. Rumner thrived in the utter disorder of Managua; the reckless driving, the disorganized city, the whistling, honking horns, and chaotic markets suited him perfectly. Rumner era Nica hasta el tuétano de sus huesos!! He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, and that had been his downfall. Rumner was arrested for trafficking fake documents ten days after Carlos boarded a plane headed North.

—

The flinch that ran through Rumner’s entire body when they opened the cell door had stayed with him all these years. He had been dozing off in a glum stupor when the clang of metal shook him awake.

“Qué querés hijueputa?” he demanded.

No response was given, and he was roughly grabbed and escorted out. Just like that. No warning, no explanation, the truest symbol of chaos. The next thing he knew, Rumner was blinking outside. The grueling humidity of Managua that usually inundated and weakened his entire body paled in comparison to the desperation of the cell. Yet, as he located himself and staggered across dusty streets, he knew something had changed in him forever. Despite escaping the oppressive solitude of the cell, he remained alone. Struggle and hardship were nothing new to Rumner, but these experiences were always shared, and this time he had been alone. A bitter rage coursed through him. A hatred and resentment gnawed at his stomach more than the three months he had gone without proper food. Managua, the city that had suited him so perfectly now made him sick. The country that he had been so proud of now made him quiver with indignation. Rumner felt that he had been wronged. There was a bitter taste in his mouth now and he couldn’t stay. There was no plane ride, no saved-up money to cushion his arrival, only an arduous journey North. Uncertainty lay ahead, but there was the hope of political asylum waiting for him at the United States border.

Decades later, the incessant itch Rumner felt to go back to Nicaragua was disconcerting. That was what he had just talked to Carlos about. Their impending retirement had been a running theme the last few times they had talked. Going back to their country was something they both wanted. Despite spending over half their lives away from their homeland, Rumner and Carlos were Nicas above all else. Dysfunctional Nicaragua had a special place in their hearts that was impossible to explain to the outside observer. Rumner and Carlos shared the bruised and battered Nicaraguan identity. Together, they understood how their home nation could incite such heartbreak, such yearning, such confliction. This was something they would always share.