By Richard Mabey Jr.

There was a sadness that was deeply hidden beneath Romero’s smile. It dwelt within his eyes. Although he seemed to be a happy young man, there were invisible tears rolling down his cheeks. It was the Summer of 2012, I was 58 years old. I had just begun my job as a Security Guard in my gated community in Central Florida. My Gatehouse was one of the busier gatehouses of the village.

A person could set his watch by Romero. He would come by my Gatehouse at 7:00 in the morning, on his way to work, and then again at high noon, on his lunch break. Romero worked for one of these big landscaping companies. When the temperature hit a hundred degrees, and higher at times, Romero was out there mowing lawns. I once asked him how many lawns he mowed in a day. He simply replied, “about 20 to 30, Mr. Richard.”

I would often tell Romero to simply call me Richard. He would reply, “okay Mr. Richard.” We went through that routine at least a couple of dozen times. Romero first began stopping by my Gatehouse for a few minutes to talk with me, in the early morning. He would tell me about his Mom, his brother and sister, and the love of his life, his precious girlfriend Maria. 

As time rolled by, our friendship grew, and Romero would stop by and eat his lunch inside my Gatehouse. Romero would tell me that he left Mexico when he was seven years old, with his mom and dad and brother and sister. His dad had passed away several years ago. Romero was a hard-working young man. He once told me his age, he was all of 20 years old. At one point it occurred to me that I wasn’t just old enough to be his father, I was old enough to be his grandfather.

I often told Romero that he and his brother should go out and buy a lawnmower, even if it was an old lawnmower, and start their own little landscaping business. Romero would often reply, “Mr. Richard, I could never do that.” I would reply, with a caring voice, “why not”

I usually brought a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to work for lunch. I would take a bite of my sandwich in the momentary lulls when there were no vehicles passing by my Gatehouse. Romero would have an extravagant meal, by comparison. I would let him use the microwave oven in the Gatehouse to warm up his lunch. Romero would bring in such a variety of Mexican favorites every day, including tortillas, tacos, burritos, flautas, tamales, and a host of other delicious foods. 

Then one day, Romero told me that he felt sorry for me eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich every day. “Mr. Richard, I brought some lunch in for you. You can’t be eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every day.” I thanked Romero and told him that it was very thoughtful of him. Romero simply replied, “Mr. Richard, you like a father to me.” I nearly cried. 

Dozens and dozens of times, I told Romero that he should start his own lawn mowing business. I told him that I would hand out business card for him, to as many people as I could. Romero’s battle cry was, “Mr. Richard, I could never do that.” Again and again, I would reply, “why not?”

I will remember this moment for a long, long time. Romero came to my Gatehouse, driving his old pickup truck. In his truck bed sat an old lawnmower. Romero stopped and happily announced that he had started his own landscaping business. I told him how proud I was of him. 

“I could have never done it without you encouraging me, Mr. Richard. You’re like a father to me,” Romero joyously tole me. Romero’s words touched the fiber and sinew of my heart. 

Romero and his brother worked hard to see their little landscaping business grow. I was all so very proud of Romero. Then one day, my boss stopped by my Gatehouse. He parked his car in the little parking space just a few yards behind my Gatehouse. As he walked toward me, I could tell that he had something heavy on his mind.

Mr. Andrews walked into my Gatehouse, sat down, looked outside the big front window, and then said to me as I stood there operating the gate for vehicles passing by, “Richard, there’s some big changes being made.”

A moment of silence fell between us. “The big wheels are moving everyone around. When you come back on your shift, you’ll report to the Caroline Gate. The details are spelled out in this memo here.” Upon which my boss took out a sheet of paper from his shirt pocket, unfolded it and placed it on my desk. He stood up and walked to the doorway.

“Look Richard, I know you like working this Gatehouse. If it was up to me, I’d keep you here. But the ivy tower’s got this idea of moving everyone around.”

“I understand, no problem,” I replied to Mr. Andrews.

Mr. Andrews walked by me through the doorway, took a few steps toward his car, turned around and said to me, “keep up the good work. See you on your next shift.” I said goodbye to Mr. Andrews, and he continued to walk to his car. It was now an hour before my shift was over. I would have the next three days off, never to return to full time scheduling at the Morse South Gatehouse.

I was never to see Romero again. The Villages is a big place. In spirit, I reflect upon Romero’s words, “Mr. Richard, you like a father to me.” On Father’s Day, in 2013, Romero gave me a prayer card from his church, stating that a Father’s Day prayer was said for me. To this day, I cherish that card.

Richard Mabey Jr. is a freelance writer. He can be reached at richardmabeyjr@hotmail.com. Please put on the subject line: My Life Publications.