(*)pic from here
What I remember are dismal data: a house with the blinds always low in the worst area of \u200b\u200bSan Telmo, furniture under the brand names of the ghosts of different ornaments, he prostrated from all eternity in a wheelchair dirty and the tires slashed, without moving the left side of her face, she, with many moles as pots of hair, upper lip loaded the shadow of the hair short and a little voice telling acute insults.
He was my uncle Emilio. She was my Aunt Josephine, which we called The Black or when we entered trust, The Bold Shit. Emilio's uncle was my first real dead. He died and I was not so small as to not go to the wake and then went and she told me years ago that looked so cute. I laughed when he returned from the drawer and was a glimmer of hope.
The first time I have awareness of it, gave me a typewriter, black, huge and red and black reel. I already stole my dad's machine, green, small, that had a lid with a metal button that made it appear the machine, which I always thought that guy's typewriter Emilio was more likely to become subject overwhelming. It was huge, heavy, and the keys were separated by chasms which used to stay inexperienced fingers.
Uncle Emilio was always a ghost in my life but had left a heavy legacy that only when all the players died, I know. Uncle Emilio ranged between violence and tenderness: if he saw a beggar on the street, was put in her bed and did not leave for four days, if a woman smoked, I said bitch. He lived in the house of his mother until she died. Then, changed the sheets on the bed of his mother and lived in it. In his mother.
From there, everything is very confusing. It is not known whether before or after or in the middle of what they'll tell you later, but at some point I found the Black. La Negra was a prostitute in a cabaret of the port. One day, Uncle Emilio is fucked to blows with someone to defend my aunt Negra. The best thing is that he knew, say, a month earlier my uncle Emilio falls in love with my aunt Black and the dispute has been with the pimp, the pimp wanted thousand let it go and gave my uncle Emilio typewriter. Did not reach an agreement.
The pimp had been a boxer and not just shit to blows, but that left him in the hospital. My family wanted to make a complaint but my uncle said no. My family wanted my uncle to do but my aunt rehabilitation niggers would not let him go, because they have picked up all the porters all the time. My family does not reason, my family shows. That was when my uncle Emilio died, crippled from twenty-five years, were to take their things and what they regretted most was that they found the biography four shots of the General San Martín, autographed by him.
(*) pic frome here