Asleep in the Grass

Ernie was a very simple man, with a mountain of guilt on his shoulders, which he would never overcome.

He wiped the dish sink dry with a rubber squeegee, flipped the switch on the industrial dishwasher from ON to OFF, and carried the last bag of trash through the back door of the kitchen, to the dumpster in the parking lot. Then he nodded his head, and waved to the manager, who, in turn, closed and locked the large metal door. Behind the dumpster was his bicycle—his most treasured possession. He hid it back there, because he could not afford a lock, and he would always say a prayer that it would still be there when his shift was over. He slowly lifted his 67-year-old leg over the frame, and sat down. The ride home was short, but always some of the most enjoyable minutes of his day. The night air in Key West was usually cool and warm, at the same time. And on most nights, there were stars in the sky—if only a few, there were more than he had seen in prison, the past 48 years.

Ernie was the proud new resident of a small, bug-infested room, in a mildew-ridden crack house. After his release from the St. Thomas Correctional Facility, he had stayed at the YMCA for two months, saving every penny he made at the restaurant, to obtain his new home. He was very proud of his room, which was complete with an army cot, small bookshelf, a lawn chair, and a small table, made out of plastic milk crates and a cardboard box—all of which he had found inside dumpsters in the surrounding alleyways. The only book he owned was his Bible—a gift from the warden upon his departure of St. Thomas.

Every night when he would arrive home he would remove a Styrofoam box from his knapsack, and eat his dinner—edible portions of leftovers from the plates that were slid across the soapy dish sink toward him that evening. He would eat while reading Bible verses. Then, when he was finished, he would wrap his rosary as tightly around his right hand as comfortably possible, and he would lay down to sleep.

When Ernie woke up on Wednesday, October 29th, his day began and followed exactly how it had every day since becoming a free man again. It would not be until he left the restaurant that night that everything would change.

At 6 A.M. he brushed his teeth, combed his white hair with a part down the right side, dressed himself for the day, and grabbed his knapsack and Bible before locking the door behind him. He walked down the steps to the first floor, and onto the front porch. He hid his bicycle off of the left side of the house, behind a bush and several large trash cans. On this morning it was not there. Someone had found and stolen his most treasured possession.

“Ah bien. ¿Qué hace usted?” “Oh well. What do you do?” he said to himself, and started walking up the driveway toward the road.

He would run a little behind schedule on this day, because he walked significantly slower than he rode the bicycle. This would not deter him from accomplishing all of his tasks, though. He just continued down the road, dragging his right foot a bit—the consequence of an injury he endured while defending his cellmate in a fight 35 years previously. He saved his friend’s life, but his Achilles tendon was snapped like a rubber band by the makeshift shank. He had never walked the same since that day. He was proud of his limp. It reminded him of that day, and the friendship he had with Juan.

He arrived at the food bank around 7:10 A.M., which was fifteen minutes later than his usual time. Due to his tardiness, the only food left were a few pieces of toast. Before he took a bite he bowed his head and said, “Gracias Dios para este alimento. Gracias Dios por este día.” 2 “Thank you God for this food. Thank you God for this day.”

He ate slowly and quietly. He liked to be very mindful of every bite, to thank God thoroughly for his blessings. As he chewed, he would think about the wheat, flour, water, sunshine and human labor that all worked together to bring that piece of toast to his mouth.

When he finished, he gathered his Bible and knapsack, and began walking to his second destination of the day. When paced correctly, he could arrive at St. Mary’s with enough time to say his morning rosary and novena before 8:15 Mass. On this day, he walked in late, but was very appreciative to have made it in time for the Gospel—his favorite moment of every morning. Confession immediately followed the celebration of the Eucharist, and he was always the first one in line—usually the only one in line.

Every day he entered the confessional and said the same thing. “Please forgive me, father. I have let my wife down, and for this, I am greatly sorry.” They were the only sentences he had ever been able to put together in English. If ever asked to give a further explanation, he would respond, “No comprendo.” 3

Then he would say his penance at the feet of the Virgin Mary statue, light a candle, and continue on in his day.

He left St. Mary’s around 11 A.M., and he began his walk to the pier. On the way, he stopped at Sam’s, and purchased his lunch—the same lunch every day—an apple. When he got to the pier, he walked to the very end, and slowly sat down, so that his legs dangled off toward the pearly blue water. He took great pleasure in his two hours of ship watching. And just as he ate his breakfast, he would slowly chew each bite of the apple, thinking of the fertile soil, the strong tree roots that supported the trunk, the branches that supported the growing fruit, and everything that God provided to make that meal possible. One by one, he watched the ships come and go. Sometimes it was a cruiseliner; other times it was a fishing boat. No matter what the size or significance of the ship was, he would entertain himself, wondering what it must be like to be the captain. When the two hours were over, he would slowly rise to his feet and continue on his journey.

On the walk from the pier to the cemetery, he would stop at the flower shop on Simonton, and he would purchase one rose, for one dollar. Then he would continue to Olivia Street, where he always entered the graveyard from the southwest corner. When he arrived at the headstone, he knelt down, placed the rose on the weathered marble, and said the same thing, everyday.

“Perdóneme, mi amor. Yo le falla, y para este soy mucho arrepentido.” “Forgive me, my love. I have let you down, and for this, I am greatly sorry.”

Then he would remove a small pair of garden shears from his knapsack, and he would clip the grass around the headstone, so that it was level and short. Once he was done, he would kiss the stone, and rise to his feet, to continue on his way. He never spent much time at the gravesite; it hurt his heart too much.

So he walked up Olivia, to White, and then two blocks to Truman. Slowly but surely he made his way to work on time, and at 4 P.M. his apron was tied, and he stood behind the soapy dish sink, waiting for the dishes and cups and silverware to start sliding toward him.

No one at the restaurant talked to Ernie. Even though a great deal of the staff spoke Spanish, they made no attempts to hold a conversation with him. The extent of their exchanges would come when they made fun of his being 5 foot 4 in height. Also, Ernie could not speak English, but he could understand it when spoken by others. Openly, the others would talk about him. They would make fun of him, and call him a killer, or a psycho, or a jailbird.

When this happened he would close his eyes for a moment and say, “Deme por favor fuerza Dios.” “Please give me strength, God.”

Hour after hour, the dishes would stack up, and the silverware would slosh the medal pans of sanitizer water into the air, and all over him, and without a doubt, he would be covered up to his shoulders and neck in dirty water and half eaten food. He never complained, though. He just washed them all—one by one—until the final rack of glassware emerged from the industrial washer. And this night, October 29th going on the 30th after midnight, was a very special night for Ernie.

He wiped the dish sink dry with a rubber squeegee, flipped the switch on the industrial dishwasher from ON to OFF, and carried the last bag of trash through the back door of the kitchen, to the dumpster in the parking lot. Then he nodded his head, and waved to the manager, who, in turn, closed and locked the large metal door. When Ernie looked behind the dumpster, he remembered that his bicycle was not there. So, on he walked with his limp, ever so surely and slowly, back to the cemetery.

Although Ernie was a free man for just over two months, he had been imprisoned by this date, October 30th, for 48 years. He would remain imprisoned by this date until the day he died. So he did the only thing he thought would make him feel free; he lied down next to his wife—in the cold grass, without a pillow or blanket.

On this night, October 30th, forty-eight years ago, Ernie lied next to his wife in bed. It was just past midnight, when he arose in their small one room apartment. The shipment would be ashore very soon. So he dressed quietly as she slept, and locked the door behind him as he left. He met his business partner and co-smuggler at the pier, just as their ship rolled into harbor.

“Hola,” a man said to him as he walked off of the small boat.

“Hola, senor,” a very young Ernie responded, and then handed him every dollar he had to his name.

The man pointed him to a large bag, fifty pounds in weight, at the portside corner of the boat. Ernie and his friend walked over to the bag, opened it, grabbed a handful of the Cuban coffee beans, and held them just under their noses.

“Muy bien!” Ernie said to his friend.

“Si. Maravilloso!” his friend responded.

They each grabbed an end of the bag, and they carried it through the dark and quiet streets of Key West. When they arrived at his friend’s home, they put the bag inside of the small shed out back, and locked it.

Cuban coffee had become illegal, along with all other forms of Cuban goods, just ten days earlier. On October 19, 1960 the U.S. government posed an embargo on Cuban goods, to counter the new Cuban dictator’s expropriation of American landholdings in Cuba. Coffee was Ernie’s business. It was his way of life. And now that Cuban coffee, in particular, was illegal, he could sell it to his customers, under the table, at an exorbitant price. He and his friend were sure to make a fortune. So they said farewell to one another, and parted ways.

When Ernie arrived home, the door he had locked was wide open.

“Rosa?” he said as he walked in. “Rosa!” he screamed as he rushed to her bloodied body.

She had been savagely murdered. Stabbed and strangled to death. Sobbing, he held her, and cried out, “¿Por qué? ¿Dios, por qué?” “Why? God, why?”

Then the sirens came. The police rushed up the stairs, into his apartment, and without asking even one question, arrested Ernie. In such agony, despair, and feeling of worthlessness, he could not muster the words to defend himself. He just continued to cry as he was dragged away from his wife, and off to jail.

Ernie’s friend and business partner had set him up. While they were at the pier, smuggling the bag of coffee, he had sent an assassin to Ernie’s house, to murder his wife. Then, a few moments after they had hid the bag of coffee beans in the shed, Ernie’s friend called the police, and reported that his friend had just come to his house and confessed to murdering his wife. The testimony held up in court, because the judge was promised 20% of all earnings made from Cuban coffee from that point on.

Ernie went to prison. Rosa went to the graveyard.

Forty-eight years later, Ernie lied alongside of his wife, like he had wished he would have every day for those forty-eight years. As tears welled up in his eyes, he spoke to her.

English Translation:

“My dearest Rosa. My Love. It has been too long since we have lied next to one another. That is all my fault. I can never forgive myself for what happened. I do not expect you or God to, either, but I pray for it every day. I served 48 years in prison, and I would serve it again and again and again, if it meant you would have life. I let you down, my love. I should have never left your side. I should have been a good husband. I should have protected you. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry. I love you. I love you. I love you. I will never leave you again. I will never leave you again. I promise.”

Ernie fell asleep to tears streaming down his face, and images of his young bride in his mind. When he awoke, he returned home. At 6 A.M. he brushed his teeth, combed his white hair with a part down the right side, dressed himself for the day, and grabbed his knapsack and Bible before locking the door behind him. He started his day the same way as the day before. And he continued it the same way, as well. In fact, the only way he changed his day to day routine, was the way he ended it.

Every night, for the rest of his life, Ernie lied down in the grass, alongside his wife, and said the same thing, before closing his eyes, and falling asleep.