Most communities surrounding the base of South Mountain were built around the 1950s, with alleys running behind the homes. So as the early morning sun began to heat the dry Arizona air, Juan had to push through the wooden gate to the alley to take out his trash.
From out of nowhere, a strange man lurched toward him.
“Hey!” Juan reeled back a step, wildly flailing his plastic garbage bag.
The stranger staggered back. He was younger than Juan, in his late 20s or maybe early 30s. It was hard to tell because he was so disheveled. Stained jeans, unkempt hair. He had a sparse tuft of beard and mustache and looked like he hadn't washed in weeks. His jacket seemed too heavy for the warmth of the dawning day. He’s been sleeping back here.
“Hey!” Juan repeated, this time in anger. “What are you doing out here?”
"Que tal, hombre?" To his horror, Juan realized there were several more men nearby. One of the younger ones had asked him, "What's up, man?" in a challenging tone. Juan could barely understand the man's thick accent. They’re not Mexicans.
Juan now noticed the empty tequila bottles and the smell of stale urine. He hesitated. This was a potentially dangerous situation, and he'd be outnumbered if there was any trouble. I can take the trash out later, he thought practically, retreating through the gate back into his yard.
Maria met them at the kitchen door. Her expression turned puzzled, “Why do you still have the trash?”
“It’s nothing." Juan tried to sound dismissive, but his heart raced, and his hands trembled slightly.
Juan’s son picked up on his father’s agitation, “You ok, Dad?” Carlos wore sweatpants and a USMC T-shirt that looked one size too small, probably to show off his newly acquired muscular physique. “What’s going on?”
"It's nothing," Juan repeated, somewhat more forcefully. “There’s just a bunch of guys out in the alley.”
“What?” Maria asked, concern etching her features. She held one of Juan's hands in hers. The other went to his shoulder.
Carlos stood, "What guys, Dad? What are they doing out there?” He looked ready for action.
“Sit down, mijo. Sit down.” Juan waved his son back to the table and took a seat himself. He glanced meaningfully at Maria. She returned to the stove, where she was preparing breakfast.
Carlos was still agitated. “Were they sleeping out there?” He guessed correctly.
Juan nodded, reaching for his coffee.
"We need to call the cops," Carlos said.
“No, it’s ok.” Juan shook his head.
Carlos shook his head. “We need to call them, Dad. This isn’t right.”
“They weren’t hurting anything.” Juan’s coffee had cooled, and he held up his cup for a refill.
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