Life is a Trip
“He was sitting on a chair in a native marketplace, dressed in a black suit, black shoes, and a black hat. His mouth was open, pursed into a small “o.” He was appealing, but also had a streak of danger about him.
“Who is he?” I asked a new Guatemalan friend.
“Maximon,” she answered, pronouncing it mah-she-mone.
The second time, it was a hot, humid day, and I was looking for a grocery store to buy a bottle of water. He was in a shop which sold masks and textiles. I looked away and the...n I looked back at him. He was clearly staring at me.
“I see you like him,” said the shopkeeper.
I nodded tentatively.
“Here,” he said, and he handed Maximon and his chair to me. You see, Maximon was less than a foot high, and he was made of wood.
“Would you like to have him?”
I opened my wallet and then hesitated.MoreLess
“Who is he?” I asked a new Guatemalan friend.
“Maximon,” she answered, pronouncing it mah-she-mone.
The second time, it was a hot, humid day, and I was looking for a grocery store to buy a bottle of water. He was in a shop which sold masks and textiles. I looked away and the...n I looked back at him. He was clearly staring at me.
“I see you like him,” said the shopkeeper.
I nodded tentatively.
“Here,” he said, and he handed Maximon and his chair to me. You see, Maximon was less than a foot high, and he was made of wood.
“Would you like to have him?”
I opened my wallet and then hesitated.MoreLess
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