A Brief History of Anachronism

He is the Loch Ness monster and the Yeti and La Chupacabra all rolled up in a pint-sized brown man. He has silenced entire rooms effortlessly and caused panic attacks in many a teenage girl. He is the kidn of character that should become standard, unnoticed, but somehow constantly elicits awe.

He is the whistle man.

If you’re prone to cynicism or factual analysis, the whistle man is like a Central American neighborhood watch mercenary. He patrols the streets of Santa Ana in a bullet-proof vest and sandals, blowing a whistle and brandishing a machete in an attempt to ward off thieves and vagrants. He’s probably an insomniac with a day job, moon-lighting to feed his nasty living indoors habit. In all likelihood, he was never trained in the military, police force, or toddle Tae Kwon Do. Really, there should be nothing special about him.

Yet, we sit here on smelly, flimsy beds in the middle of the night, listening. I’m a chaperone and a role model; I should be far above this. No, I shouldn’t. The whistle man is mythic in every generation and life stage.  We’re having hushed, flippant conversations, waiting for the screech, waiting to sneak another glance at the legend .

Each year handles him differently.  When no one knew who he was or what he did, we panicked. We tried to call nueve-uno-uno, fueled by 90s horror film anxiety. Ghostface would call your house; Salvadorian serial killers would probably just whistle.

When we learned he was a force of good the next year, some tried to engage him. They would pop their heads between the window bars, offering an over-exuberant “HOLA!”. The white of their skin in the dark made them fantasmic, though, and someone almost lost a limb. A strong lecture followed.

Transitions continued. Some ignored him, some whistled back. An overly ambitious group set a trap for him, only to be thwarted by faulty cameras. Now, we lie in wait just to observe. It’s vigil-like, voyeuristic and enchanted. We sit on the edges of beds in the hot, jonesing to see, to hear, to experience the second coming of the tin whistle savior. Thweet.