They call me the Mexican Mr. Clean. I smile when I mean it, out of pure happiness: a Buddha smile on a strong and lean Mexican-American man. I am smiling. If you were to see me on the street waiting for the bus, I am the bald guy in the black T-shirt, black Levi’s, and nice, clean, black shoes. I don’t look like I know the exclusive handshakes of the gangs. I look like an undercover cop. But, I am far from that.
I know Phoenix from the east to the west of the Praying Monk better than most. Did I mention I’m smiling? I am recently out of prison, and making up for lost time. Time lost can never be found again, I know. But, in the 15 years my daughter has been alive, I have not been enough of even a part of her life. I was in prison for three years.
Three years in the joint. And if you'd picked up the soap as many times as I have, they'd call you Mr. Clean, too. Still, you've gotta smile, right? Don't you?
Opening: Anon......Continuation: Anon.