Root, Storm, The Wind- a late (or early) free short story of the month

Root, Storm, The Wind

When I first met Guillermo Francisco Javier Munez, he was lying on his back in his driveway in a misting rain on a September morning, elbow deep in the underside innards of his car door. The car was an old station wagon, made mostly from whatever people packed into the gaping holes left by rust. The rest of it was rust with less bite. The rear bumper was held on by an old brown extension cord, and the tags had expired almost a decade ago. Guillermo himself was in his essence much the same. He was a fattish Mexican man, wearing a medium sized tee shirt and jeans, both of which might never have seen the inside of a washing machine, or even the wash basins that hailed from the same period as his car and his clothes. His unlaced construction boots were spattered with a bizarre collection of off-colored, remaindered paints and what could only have been refried beans. He was by far the most disgusting person I have ever met. I still think of him that way.

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