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20 1 • Outreach Work Living and Sleeping on the Malecón The jukebox in the corner of the colmado (corner shop) blasted out the greatest hits of the 1980s—Air Supply, REO Speedwagon, Journey. In their best campy English, Eli and Núria sang along, the words coming out of their mouths in twisted variations. They didn’t speak English, but they knew all the mangled words to “All Out of Love.” Just seeing them hold the green bottle up to their lips like a microphone—doing a mock duet—was enough to make me almost spit my beer out through my nose. “Bravo! Bravo!” I proclaimed. “Just like I remember it from elementary school.” Eli and Núria laughed. We sat on the high metal bar stools with the green jumbo bottle of Presidente beer between the three of us. The jukebox began playing a Poison song unfamiliar to the two Spaniards. Núria turned conversation to her literacy classes at the drop-in center. Facing the two young women, I could look out across the street to where a bright orange hamburger cart sat. Four blue plastic chairs were arranged on the sidewalk for customers. My thoughts about dinner were interrupted when I saw passing by the food cart a kid, no more than thirteen years old, carrying a large burlap sack swung over the shoulder. He was barefoot and skinny. Not overly skinny—not crack-addict-show-yourribs -and-long-bones skinny—but skinny like he’s going to be a lanky guy when he grows up. Skinny like he had potential. In his mouth he had this ridiculous corn-cob pipe that glowed red embers in the evening, punctuating the night. He reached down to the curb and around the plastic chairs of the hamburger stand to pick up the loose bottles by the neck. Like an expert, he gathered four at a time in one hand. In a practiced move, the sack came off his shoulder and opened to receive the added glass to his Outreach Work 21 collection, returning quickly to position. He was crossing the street, coming toward the colmado. I laid my hand on Eli’s knee. “I think we have a new contact,” I said, jutting out my pursed lips to indicate the figure of the boy coming toward the opened walls of the shop. The kid was going to do a sweep of the shop for empty bottles as well. Some of the patrons indicated to him the green and brown glass accumulated around their chairs. The kid was fast, almost done with the whole room in less than five minutes . He approached the bar and did a final once-over, having to ask customers to reach the bottles, the bar being blocked by the metal stools. As he moved to pick up our empty bottle, I leaned forward and asked, “What’s your name, kid?” He eyed me with distance. “José Alberto.” “What are you doing out so late on a Tuesday, José Alberto?” “Working hard, can’t you see?” he replied, eyes drifting behind the counter where the Presidente ad displayed a digital clock, “Besides, it’s not that late. It’s 9:30.” “Well, so it is. And what time were you thinking of heading home tonight?” “What’s it matter to you? I’m already on my way.” At my obvious faux pas, Eli took over. “So where’s home, little one?” She had a way of smoothing over every situation with the well-learned Dominican sugary way of addressing people—little one, honey, sweetness, my love, dear one. “San Cristóbal.” I offered him some chips, which he accepted, still kind of cagey. “Listen,” I said as he took a chip with a grimy hand, dirt pushed deep under his fingernails. “I don’t think you’re heading to San Cristóbal tonight. Not with those bottles and—” I glanced down “—not without something on your feet.” “Which is OK,” Núria interjected. “We understand there are times when you may not want to go home. You ever heard of Niños del Camino?” And so, between the three of us, we kept José Alberto’s attention, describing what it was we did, how we operated. “I want to show you a game. Put out your hand, like this,” I placed my left hand out as if I were going to shake to greet him. He extended his hand. I grabbed hold, sliding my curled...

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