I live in a yellow house on the outskirts of town. No address, no postal code. Ask for me by name and everybody knows where I am. My residence, the fifth shack between an oak tree and the sewer canal, the one with yellow wood planks, the one below a retention wall assaulted by wind-blown plastic bags. That same wind blows against the car tire holding down the zinc planks of my roof.
I have no phone, no refrigerator and just one lightbulb illuminating these four walls. The bare bulb tingles with moths, mosquitoes and other bugs buzzing, ever circling in a harmonic crash against the light. My bed is a stretcher I got from a hospital dump, blood stained. Better than nothing, living in this yellow house. Until the eviction comes.
* * *
I wash my clothes in the lake down below the dirt road. Rinse them, sometimes without soap. The lake is a pool, bathroom, dishwasher, faucet, laundry room. My little lake corner roars with storm water when the winter rains come. Dragging all the city filth.
I retreat to my yellow house. Until the eviction comes.
* * *
I steal electricity from a nearby transformer pole, watch baseball and soap shows on an old black & white TV. I only have few possessions in this yellow house.
This yellow house is made of salvaged zinc and discarded wooden planks. There’s only one room, just one open space. The worn ground makes my floor. My home has no running water, but plenty of dirt rains from the dusty road. I hide under the leaking zinc-roof of my yellow home. Until the eviction comes.
* * *
I fear no thieves nor burglars. I have nothing to offer, nothing. Just my dignity and a few items. I own the shirt on my back roasted by the blazing sun. My skin is wrinkled, dark brown and old, my face weathered by years untold. My body aches, my bones are worn. I retreat to the humble comfort of my yellow home. Until the eviction comes.
* * *
Clouds of mosquitoes grow in every rain puddle. I don’t always have manure to burn as repellent.
The view from my house is staggering, an imposing lakeshore on the other side of a busy dirt road. A half a mile away shiny SUVs fly by like whirlwind-devils. Here, skinny dogs of the neighborhood are watchful and slow. Until the eviction comes.
* * *
I once picked scraps from the street, sold them for coins. My tired bones retreated to the safety of my yellow home. I buried the coins to hide them.
But then I found a job that pays better.
Every morning, I arrive at the Miranda’s house. Shine dress shoes, black, brown. When I arrive every morning, their maid brings them to the door. I never enter their house. Their children’s shoes are easy; they are small, requiring little shoe cream to shine them all. When I finish, the maid sometimes brings a meal in a plastic bowl. And of course, a handful of coins.
The Mirandas have three daughters and a son. He will sometimes watch me through an upstairs window. To him, I’m a ghost. I limp as I leave and make for my house.
I recall last week, I was shining shoes in a corner by their black-iron front door. The boy walked past me in silence as he left the house. I only looked up once.
I make a living. Until the eviction comes.
* * *
I don’t have time for politics. I see truckloads going to rallies waving flags, furious flags of colors. Nothing changes. I live in the safety of my yellow house. Until the eviction comes.
* * *
I don’t pray in churches. I see nature, I see rain, I feel the wind, I feel the warm sun. The sun is my candelabra made of gold. I pray on my bruised knees in the safety of my yellow home. Until the eviction comes.
* * *
Yesterday I lost my left arm up to the shoulder bone. I fell in the rain on the road. At the hospital, they said it must be done.
Arms don’t grow in trees.
Now I shine those shoes holding them between my knees, polishing slowly with the only hand I own.
My stump itches, my stump hurts. But I still have a job, I still have my yellow house. Until the eviction comes.
* * *
I live as if nothing’s wrong. I wear the dust on my clothes, feel the truth sipping from every inch of my bones.
Yesterday, the evictions came. Bulldozers and municipal cops in riot gear brandished brute force. We burned tires and barricaded the dirt road. Still, the tear gas and batons left flattened shacks and uproar. The reason was simple, contractors with deep pockets from abroad liked the view, envisioned condos and hotels. Many families lost their homes, many with nowhere to go. But I don’t care where I go. I’ll just find a new patch of land and open sky. Slowly, I will build again my new, weary, yellow-colored home. Until a new eviction comes.
Carlos Miranda, born in Managua, Nicaragua, creates visually intense art that always gravitates toward symbolism, iconography, iconoclastic imagery, and the surreal. He describes his work as unapologetic and uncompromising with an irreverent dash of humor and sensuality. Currently, he holds a professorship position at Florida A & M University in Tallahassee, Florida.
Photo: Yellow House by Carlos Miranda