The 92-year-old ex-mayor of a small Mexican town and retired insulation worker has lived there for 48 years. He's a man who knows what he likes.
Plenty of people in housing complexes blend into the background - sometimes for years - and leave without making much of an impression on the place. But usually, there is one person who acts as an unofficial superintendent, taking care of the building and grounds, noticing things, and racking up the seniority. At the old Orpheum Theater building at 2nd and Coal, that friend-to-all character comes with the most unusual of resumes. He is a 92-year-old retired tradesman who makes his own beef jerky. He takes several hours worth of walks per day while wearing impeccable suits. And he prefers his chile raw and his showers cold.
Meet Ubaldo Chacon, known to his friends and fans simply as "Chacon." He grew up in tiny Cocomorachic, Chihuahua, raised by an aunt. His first foray into the United States took him to Magdalena, where he drilled wells on ranches. Then came the move to Albuquerque, where he took up residence at the Orpheum in the early 1970s. We spent an hour with him and a few family members recently, engaged in a freewheeling mostly Spanish conversation. Here's what we learned about life and Downtown in the process:
(1.) On housing, good things come to those who wait.
By Chacon's telling, the Orpheum Building was a total dump when he arrived, late in Nixon's first term. Walking down the hallway involved stepping over a random collection of unconscious drunks, as the building functioned as a kind of unofficial homeless shelter. The owners charged random amounts of rent - sometimes $30 per month, sometimes $25.
But time heals all if you're in the mood to wait. Eventually, new owners kicked out the riff-raff. And more recently, the nonprofit mortgage lender Homewise bought the building, gave it a thorough facelift, and set up a headquarters while keeping the 19 attached apartments.
(2.) Long-distance relationships can work.
Struggling with a long-distance relationship? Chacon has lived alone for his entire stint in Albuquerque, all the while being married to Catalina Chacon, his bride of 70 years who still lives in Mexico (they got married about the same time he served his one term as mayor, though he doesn't recall too much about his political career). "She never wanted to move over here," granddaughter Ana Lozoya reports. The two used to commute back and forth with some frequency, but Chacon seems to be less interested in traveling in his ninth decade. They talk on the phone sometimes nonetheless.
(3.) Stay busy.
Chacon worked at Duke Insulation for a few of his five decades until they made him quit at age 72. But both during and after his working life, he has stayed very busy doing random chores around the apartment complex - on a volunteer basis no less. These days, his agricultural pursuits are basically down to one beloved peach tree in the Homewise parking lot, but he has in past years enjoyed growing chile, tomatoes, onions, and corn on site.
Chacon has been immortalized on this mural, at 2nd and Hazeldine, where he appears in front of the blossoms of his beloved and locally famous peach tree.
(4.) Cars are overrated.
Walk number one starts at 8 or 9 in the morning. He takes Lead or Coal over the tracks, heads north on Broadway, then retraces his steps and visits the Silver Street Market along the way. He'll also take a jaunt down to the Stadium Super Market at Cesar Chavez and Broadway, from which he buys supplies for that homemade beef jerky. After a nap and some lunch, walk number two begins in mid to late afternoon. Just one of these sorties can take two or three hours. Once in a while, he'll joyride the Rail Runner up to Santa Fe for lunch and a quick trip back. But he has never owned a car - and not for lack of money either. "I had a chance to buy one but I didn't want to," he said. "I like to walk."
(5.) Dress for success.
If you're getting the impression that Chacon is a man who knows what he likes and prefers to stick to that, then you won't be surprised to learn that disposition extends to his clothes. He likes to dress up, with cologne applied, even if the day's mission is one of his epic walks. He's got four suits, supplemented with accessories often delivered by the family visiting from Chihuahua.
(6.) Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name.
For many years, he had this routine: The A & P Bar on Saturday, then El Madrid Lounge on Sunday. "I lived there," he said. Besides checking in with his buddies, he enjoyed drinking Budweiser and relieving unsuspecting fellow pool players of their money at stakes that sometimes hit $20 per game. Both bars have long since closed, but friends still pick him up every Sunday for a few hours of dancing at a joint in the North Valley. (You can actually see footage a few minutes into this documentary made about him a couple of years back.)
(7.) Mononyms are not just for celebrities.
"Your friends - how do they address you?" granddaughter Ana Lozoya asked. "Chacon. Just Chacon," he replied. The same goes for mere acquaintances, from people around the building to regulars along his route who recognize the familiar, 92-year-old snappily dressed man ambling down the street for another one of his constitutionals. Some of these people don't even speak Spanish, and so aren't able to do much more than say hello. But they still know him as Chacon. And now, dear reader, so do you.
From left, granddaughter Ana Lozoya, great-grandson Gustavo Lozoya, Ubaldo Chacon, great-granddaughter Gabriela Lynnae, and daughter Nery Chacon.