During one of my many travels of this world, I happened upon a small park in the northern most part of Argentina. Mature oak trees lined the grassy square, offering shade to those like me who were drawn to the serenity of the plaza.
In the center stood a large man; I believe the locals called him San Miguel. He wore a bronzed helmet and matching breastplate, with a sword dangling from his side. I approached with caution, as he was quite intimidating, sword and all.
"How are you this fine day?" I asked, standing in his shadow.
The man didn't answer. Perhaps he hadn't heard my feeble salutation, so I stepped in front of his gaze and mustered a stronger voice. "I say again good sir, how are you?"
The bearded man still didn't answer, though his lips quivered and a small tear trickled from his eye.
I almost left, thinking that the fellow had concerns on his mind that I shouldn't make my own. But to see such a large man, strong and noble obviously troubled, pricked at my heart. I removed my felt hat. "Pray tell, my good man, what is the matter? May I be of assistance?"
"I doubt it," he finally said, his voice low and sorrowful.
I bit my lip. There were many potential responses to the gentleman not the least of which might have included some retraction of my curiosity and ended with my dismissal, but I forwent the inclination to leave and took a more assisting tone. "I sense you are saddened, large one, though I can't imagine why. But perhaps I can liven your mood. I am known to be quite jovial."
"It is not joviality that I desire," he said.
"Then do say, what is it that you desire? I shall fetch it for you."
He lowered his gaze that had been directed to the distant horizon where blue skies met green earth. "Do you see this upon my brow?" He bent down so that I could see the top of his helmet. It was soiled with white fecal splotches. "My friend has left me because I am dirty. I do so miss her but have no way of cleaning the mess."
"Lower your head further that I may reach." I removed a white folded handkerchief from my breast pocket and spit in it. With some effort and a little more spit, his helmet glistened in the sunlight.
"Oh, thank you kind sir," he said in a new playful tone. "You offered to help and that you did."
I smiled, replaced my hat and pocketed the handkerchief. A good turn often gratifies the heart.
Several days later I returned to the plaza to visit my new friend. I found him standing in the same station as before with a disposition as dreary as when we first met.
"Oh, dear," I said, hat in hand. "Don't tell me that your top has been soiled once again."
"Yes. And my pigeon friend has left me because of the mess." The man dipped his head down so that I could wipe it with my handkerchief, as I had before. "I do not wish to bother you or solicit your good nature, but I really do miss her."
"Do not give it a second thought," I said, wiping the helmet. "But friend, forgive my prying and do tell, good sir, what is causing such a mess upon your brow, if not your pigeon friend?"
"You are wise to suspect that it is she," he said. "I allow her to mess on my head because I do enjoy her company."
"But surely she could find another place to relieve herself that causes you less grief."
"Perhaps, but I fear asking her. I do not wish her to be angry with me."
"Is she prone to be upset?" I asked.
