"Osman Hermida"
July 15, 1965- Brownsville, TX – Border Lounge – 7:42 P.M.
Tinny country atmosphere wafts out of an old dust-ravaged jukebox. At a corner table, wearing forest green coveralls, slouches Osman Hermida. With his head resting in his hands, he has the look of a man long resigned to an undeserved fate, no dreams, and no hopes other than to numb away the ache of life with a cold pitcher. Paint flakes spot his rough hands, sweat-stained boots, bald head and beard, evidence of a day's hard work. Sitting there, he's hiccupping violently, and at 6'7, 235 lbs, makes the old wooden chair he's in groan each time his body spasms. Carefully taking a sip of black beer in between convulsions, he stares at the wood grain patterns of the table top, becoming lost in painful reverie, hiccupping all the while.
Born in Mexico City, forty-three years ago to the day, Osman's had these hiccups from the moment the doctor slapped him, but his mother used to say he had them even before then. In the record book article, "Longest Case of Hiccups," it's his sad picture you'll see there, the picture taken when he was only twelve, working for the local circus to which his parents sold him in exchange for a horse. Because the hiccups tortured him even in his sleep, he grew up alone, living in a small decrepit tent apart from the others, set up so that lined customers could view him before making their way to see the real freaks, the pinheads and paraplegics. When he wasn't on display or cleaning out cages, he spent most of his time reading and rereading a Spanish translation of Moby Dick, wishing he was Quuequeg harpooning some great beast. The public was not impressed by a hiccupping boy at first, but soon it became an enjoyable local custom to attempt to cure the hiccups through fear. They would scream "Fuego! Fuego!" while he was napping, throw buckets of hot water on him and more than once men pounced into his tent wearing strange homemade masks. While all horribly unnerving, the hiccups continued unabated. Osman adapted to these conditions as humans do, and eventually grew into a very large young man of nineteen. It was then that catastrophe struck. An odious little farmer took it too far, attempting to scare him by threatening his life. Osman stared at the polished knife and something suddenly came out of him. In front of forty or more witnesses and hiccupping every second, he strangled that awful little man in a fit of rage and confusion. Fleeing law and guilt, he headed north along the coast, longing to find the whaling world of Ishmael, but running out of money and energy after crossing the border into Texas. He's remained in Brownsville ever since, living inside the abandoned garage of Lilla, sixty-year-old heiress and former prostitute. Working all these years in a variety of manual labor jobs, he eventually settled into painting houses for the little money he needed. No one's ever asked him too much and those who've sarcastically offered a cure have usually regretted it, learning quick to leave him be.
Back inside the bar, two white men in brown uniforms are talking quietly to the bartender. Osman is grimacing after a particularly painful hiccup and fails to notice the men, their badges or the photograph one of them is holding. He does notice when they both sit down at the table next to him. The bar is empty except for Osman, the bartender and some kid sweeping the floor, yet these two choose to sit right next to Osman. His mental alarm specially designated for authority figures starts to claxon. The pace of his hiccups increases, betraying his nervousness as he shakily brings his glass to his lips. He's just about to swallow when one of the men speaks.
"Hey Osman, still got those dang hiccups I see. Why don't you come with us for a little ride?"
Convulsing, beer sprays from Osman's nose and mouth covering the men with a mist.
Taking off his cowboy hat to wipe it off, the second man asks, "Well now, was that from the hiccup or the question?"
The pace of Osman's hiccups only increases. The first man gets serious.
"See, Osman we know you're an illegal. Hell, everyone in town does, but a new law states that we've got to fill a certain number of deportations each month. So, we're starting off with the easy ones. Now, you can come back in a day or two, and we'll just throw you out again next month real easy and regular like. Okay?"
The two Border agents sigh as they get up and stand on either side of Osman. They put their hands under his arms and start to lift.
He shakes his head and doesn't budge. The agents look at each other and then back down at the back of Osman's bald head. The bigger agent pulls on the back of the wooden chair in an attempt to tip him out, but the chair only groans. Osman doesn't move.
"Up, damn you."
The other man walks around to the front of the table so he can look into Osman's eyes, trying to tell if this is going to get bad or really bad. As he's about to flip the table over, he notices something.
"You're not hiccupping..."
Osman stands up slowly, silent, unmoving and menacing. The jukebox changes songs, the bartender swallows hard.
"Dave, he's not hiccupping!"
To learn more about the next minutes in Osman Hermida's life, head on down to Brownsville, Texas, and ask for directions to the Border Lounge. Rodolfo, the kid who was sweeping cigarette butts off the floor when Osman lost his hiccups, still works there. He's on parole now and can probably tell you what happened next to Osman. You'll need to speak Spanish and you might have to pay him five bucks in advance, but if you tell him you're Osman's distant relative, maybe not.
