As I was driving to the Mexican Consulate on the corner of Ashland Avenue and Adams Street today, I had to stop at the red light on Ashland at 31st Street, under the I-55 Stevenson Expressway.

Suddenly, I had one of those Kung Fu flashbacks–like in the TV show from the 1970s starring David Carradine. I thought, “Grasshopper, what’s wrong with this picture?” Then, I realized that the kung fu florist was missing.

Perhaps you remember him? He was an African American male between 20 and 40. His flexibility betrayed his actual biological age, so I wasn’t sure how old he was. He would stand on the median under I-55 selling flowers, although I don’t remember what kind, I remember that they were red.

You see, he had a bouquet in each hand and would execute his kung fu moves wielding the flowers as if they were weapons. Granted, he was very graceful, but the flowers suffered so much from his movements that I couldn’t tell if they were roses or carnations. However, I always enjoyed watching him perform while I waited at those excruciatingly long red lights. Of course, I never actually saw him sell any flowers! He was tireless, though. He was the epitome of perpetual motion. Today, I finally noticed that he wasn’t there anymore. I really miss him!

Carlos Mojaro was quite a good friend of mine when we were growing up in the Back of the Yards neighborhood. I can’t even remember if Mojaro was his actual last name. The trouble with getting older is that I remember things that never even happened. But I’m quite sure that what I’m about to write now did happen to some extent. Carlos lived two houses away from mine. They lived on the first-floor apartment and Carlos had a little clubhouse in the basement. His father also had a gigantic printing machine in the basement that he was always repairing. Carlos was about a year or two older than me and he had a younger brother Octavio whom we called Tavo. I spent a lot of time at his house because he was so cool.

When Carlos’s father wasn’t repairing his printing machine, he was repairing cars to sell. Once, my father sent me to ask Carlos’s father to borrow one of his cars so my father could go to work. My father had a car that didn’t always start up, so he bought a second used car as a backup. When the second car didn’t start up, my father told me to ask about borrowing their car. Carlos’s father told me to tell my father to ask for the car himself. I had told my father that he should have asked for the car in the first place, but he was too afraid. Finally, my father went and asked to borrow the car. He borrowed the car so often that Carlos’s father told him that since he drove the car so much, he should just buy it. Eventually, my father bought the car.

In the summer, I would go with Carlos and his family for ice cream and then we’d go cruising around Chicago. We usually went out after dark, got ice cream, and then drove around aimlessly for a couple of hours. Well, at first, I thought it was aimless, but then I realized that somehow, we always managed to drive by every strip club in Chicago on every ride. His father seemed to know where every strip club in Chicago was. These clubs featured nude female dancers whose shadowy silhouettes were visible against a white sheet in the front window. Of course, his father acted surprised as if he had inadvertently come across the strip clubs by accident. Carlos’s mother would look at the nude female silhouettes unblinkingly and laugh extremely loud. Somehow, I got the idea that she liked these summer-night cruises just as much as her husband because she never once complained.

Carlos was the most popular boy on the block because he was always so creative and energetic. He put on shows in his clubhouse, held raffles, organized clubs, and was just so much fun to be around. He could make everyone laugh. One day, Carlos announced the formation of a new soccer league, but he called it “fútbol” like our fathers did, which caused everyone to resist the idea of joining the league. But Carlos was so charismatic that he talked everone into joining. We would play for the World Cup, la Copia Mundial. He even showed the trophy that would be awarded to the winning team: It was merely a plastic coffee cup with one handle. He wrote the words “Copia Mundial” on masking tape and taped them onto the coffee cup. This was his mother’s favorite coffee cup, and he didn’t want to ruin it and wanted to be able to return it to her intact just in case she discovered it missing. All the games would be played in his backyard, which was about twenty-five feet by twenty-five feet.

We were so full of questions, but he already had answers ready for all of them. He divided all the boys into teams of two, each representing a Spanish-speaking country. He and his brother Tavo would, of course, be Mexico. He made up posters that he hung around the backyard fence. He made charts with brackets of the team schedules. He was so contagiously into this, that soon, we were all into it, too. That is, until we started playing the games. You see, Carlos and Tavo were the two best players out of everyone in the league. They had actually played in soccer leagues when they had lived in Mexico. When everyone complained that team Mexico was undefeated and would go on to certain victory, Carlos started the tournament again, this time trying to balance the talent on the teams. Carlos and Tavo were now in separate teams, and each was paired with the weakest players in the league. Of course, Carlos and his team Mexico were still undefeated. His teammate was supposed to play goalie and just stay out of Carlos’s way during the game. Carlos would attack and score goals. When the opposing team took a shot at Mexico’s goal, Carlos would push the goalie out of the way and block the shot himself. Eventually, Mexico went undefeated and won la Copia Mundial. Even though we knew we had no chance to win, we enjoyed all the excitement of World Cup action because of Carlos.

Then one day, I went to Carlos’s basement, and I saw his father putting the printing machine into a wooden crate. Carlos and Tavo were packing their treasured belongings from their clubhouse. His mother was packing their clothes into boxes. The whole family was moving back to Mexico.

Every Sunday morning, I listen to 105.1 La Que Buena Spanish radio station because they play the old songs that I remember from when I was growing up.

I always wax nostalgic, as I am wont to do, when I recall my mother playing that Mexican music every Saturday morning. I’m not exactly sure why I keep listening every Sunday because that music always depresses me.

One sunny Sunday morning, I thought to myself, “Let me analyze myself to see why old Mexican music depresses me.” Well, unfortunately, I have a very good memory that doesn’t gloss over the negative aspects of my past.

Suddenly, I remembered that my mother hated to see me sleeping in on a Saturday morning all the way to 8:00 a.m.! She would try to wake me by shaking me and calling me lazy: “¡No seas flojo!” Of course, I didn’t get up, so my mother would play Mexican music on her portable 8-track player full-blast right by head! And why would I have to get up? To help my mother with the housework. But no matter what room I swept, she would sweep it again because I didn’t sweep it just right. Ditto with the mopping.

I think she just hated to see me sleeping comfortably.

My friend Jim and I have always loved exploring Chicago. But he would always research places for us to explore and I would drive us there. No place was too remote or too dangerous for us to visit. In fact, the more people told us we were crazy for visiting one of our announced new destinations, the more determined we were to go there. We once went to an Irish bar in Bridgeport, on Emerald Street of course, because Jim had heard they had a picture of Mayor Richard J. Daley on the wall. I figured this would be a safe trip since Jim is Irish and I could pass for Irish after a few drinks. Finding parking in Bridgeport was an adventure in itself. And then walking from the car to the bar was just as adventurous because the local residents who saw us watched us warily because obviously, we weren’t of the Bridgeport nobility. As we approached the bar, we could hear the music playing and the patrons talking boisterously from the outside. When we opened the front door to walk in, everyone stopped talking and stared at us. Even the picture of Mayor Daley was looking at us! Well, I must admit that we felt uncomfortable for a moment or two, but then we walked up to the bar and ordered two beers. Everyone then resumed talking to each other again. However, we felt uncomfortable because we were continually watched while we drank our beer. We left as soon as we finished drinking it and we felt relieved when we safely passed the self-appointed residents who watched for foreigners, i.e. someone not from Bridgeport. Once we were driving away, we decided never to return to that bar again. We were lucky to escape Bridgeport alive!

I will always remember my house as the house of the ladybugs.

I bought this house in Beverly on August 25, 2003, and moved in immediately. Within days, hundreds of ladybugs moved in with me. My cousin told me that they’re good luck. But I bet the ladybugs would disagree because most of them starved to death.

Every summer, I see ladybugs in my house. Sometimes they’re still alive, but mostly I see them after they die from being burned by light bulbs. I think that they entered my house when I moved in and now they breed somewhere inside my house. I didn’t see very many ladybugs outside this year. In fact, I don’t recall seeing any at all outside.

Each year I see less and less ladybugs in my house. Actually, I don’t mind seeing the ladybugs since I don’t have any pets. However much I like them, I end up flushing them down the toilet.