The Little Fish

"No vale nada la vida La vida no vale nada. Comienza siempre llorando Y así llorando se acaba. Por eso es que en este mundo La vida no vale nada"

Life is worth nothing Life is without worth. It always begins in crying And, as such, in crying it ends. For this reason in this world Life is worth nothing

~ José Alfredo Jiménez, Caminos de Guanajuato ~

"Que bonito es no hacer nada, y despues de no hacer nada, descansar."

How sweet it is to do nothing, and after doing nothing, to rest.

~ Mexican proverb ~

Chapter 1: How I Got To Where I Am Today

In the late summer of 1980, slowly, reluctantly I arrived at the terminally inescapable conclusion that it would be best to just leave the United States. Acquaintances, relatives and friends who were similarly spooked by Ronald Reagan's snowballing popularity merely mouthed emigration in compulsory and predictable conversation but I was the only one who was really going to do it. Looking back, it seems like such an impulsive and reckless decision for a twenty-two year old to have made. Jinxed with Jimmy

Carter's national malaise, I was indeed prey to the pandemic. Chasing one futile opportunity after another, desperate and credulous, attempting one outlandish scheme or enterprise after another, humiliated in countless failed interviews; I was forced into accepting the risk. This is how it came down.

Joe and Lorin are kicking their fetid tennis shoes on to the sandy southern shore of Lake

Mendota, I am walking up to greet them in James Madison Park. A typical August afternoon, the atom- crunching sun burns in our faces like a blast furnace. Mortalities resulting from hyperthermia are seven times their average this summer in the Midwest; it's the deadliest heat wave in twenty-five years. I'm coated with a viscous film of grease and perspiration, a fish flavored slime. In order not to befoul our shower, the lake's a necessary detour, a preliminary rinse after another sweltering, brain-melting afternoon in front of the two big deep fryers.

Massive thunderheads boil into towering columns to the northwest, making for an eerie spectacle, a hypnotizing display beyond the open water. Rolling cumulonimbus, so much at home over the northern prairie, whirl and rumble toward us menacingly, darkening a hellish purple squall. Karen’s

Bernie is gleefully rolling his back over a decomposing perch. An uneasy feeling overtakes my gut, electrons gathering momentum and grouping for the strike. I feel the hair straightening from my neck.

"How much longer can you stand frying smelt, day in and day out?" Joe asks. “Overtime?”

"Well, let's take you for example," I retort, "your history and economics degrees come in real handy for your job, don't they?" Joseph is painting apartments for a local slumlord. "That’s exactly it!" Lorin is on his side of the argument.

"We're closing the clubs every night, we’re getting too old for these young kittens, don't you feel we’re in a rut? A pathetic one? The world is measureless, immense, and here we are, cloistering our- selves in college bars, surrounding ourselves with sweet and dumb teenagers. You've been overseas and you enjoyed it, John. Just think missed tropical adventure when the temperature is minus twenty degrees here for three weeks in a row.”

Lorin was raised in Teheran and Izmir, the second of three children born to Quaker schoolteachers.

“Mexicans are very generous people and they really know how to have a good time. Latin

American women are some of the most beautiful in the entire world my friend; coffee-colored, gorgeous, very sexy.” Lorin has always provided me with Quakerly advice and gentle yet prodding suggestions. How I’d like the slower pace of life south of the border. How many friends I will make from all over the world.

“What's the matter with you, why don't you want to travel anymore?"

They're trying to talk me into leaving town since I had recently disclosed my only offer at more honorable and lucrative employment. Only a meager percentage of those who finish school in Madison can make a modest living here. Every single fool who drops out or graduates from the University of

Wisconsin wants to linger on indefinitely in Madtown as do all their cousins from Wauwautosa. Our waiters and garbage men have written at least one graduate thesis; some have earned more than one

PhD. We're a highly educated town across all class barriers. Lorin had just been fired by the RTA after his second accident driving their busses.

The position in question is coordinated between UW, the Universidad Autonoma de Mexico

(UNAM), and a clinic in Mexico City that needs one mind and body trained in clinical microbiology,

4 preferably with knowledge of, or Spanish classes in their transcript passed with at least a C. It’s funded

through the NIH so it may not last more than a year. This is, I guess, what I’ve been waiting for. I've been

frying smelt too long, and now after I graduated, for a living it seems. This was not exactly using my

education but I was still managing to have fun.

I’m worried about relocating to Mexico City after what I’ve just read about it. Lorin is trying to talk me into going because two months ago he was in Guatemala helping to rebuild a village destroyed by an earthquake. He spent a week in the Mexican capital on the return trip and now feels like an expert on the subject. Lorin can speak Farsi dynamically; his animated Turkish astonishes the UW students who were born and raised in Turkey. Lorin’s Spanish is also well-polished. Women are reliably attracted to him. But he keeps wrecking bloody buses all over town and is now himself forced into contemplating a final jitney ride right out of town as well. My friend, the blond, blue-eyed beach-boy feels at home just about anywhere in the world - the playboy of the Middle East, the homebuilding hero of Latin America who says, "It's important to get out of the USA. You're lucky to get this opportunity, John; it’s imperative that you accept the challenge, since you have the opportunity now, don't let it pass, man!"

One hundred thousand years ago during the Pleistocene epoch, mighty slabs of ice slowly and painstakingly scoured most of Wisconsin into a featureless plain. After successive intervals, the final episodes scattered an occasional landmark helter-skelter above the bleak, frozen terrain, for example the kettle moraines or the five lakes surrounding Madison, the capital. The last of the mastodons died.

Relative harmony then existed between the countryside and its inhabitants until the advent of the

Europeans. When they got to Wisconsin, they quickly cut down all the trees. After, the clear and abundant northern waters that had produced so much for the indigenous Americans were swiftly clogged and choked with topsoil, agricultural chemicals and manure running off from already the most fertile farmland in the country. An enormous population of gangly pond weeds and blooms of algae are

5 perennially overfed from this runoff, engorged as the nutrients accumulate in the lakes. Coontail, water

celery, Eurasian milfoil, pond weed, all loving and thriving off of the heat and the cow shit. On three of its lakes, the city of Madison combats the problem with a harvesting contraption; an Everglades style flat-boat with a mowing paddlewheel mounted in the stern, a barge for the cut weeds in tow. But most of the vegetation ends up dying and rotting in the depths, consuming essential dissolved oxygen. The faster swimmers, the higher predators who need the most of it; trout, walleye, northern pike, and muskellunge slowly suffocate away, leaving the bottom scavengers, the carp and catfish, to survive the summer crop. Even the perch can’t handle it. This limnological phenomenon is known as eutrophication.

Every ninth grader in our higher-than-average educated state can correctly pronounce and spell that word.

Mendota's exhaling her foulest breath this afternoon, her most eutrophic belch, the weeds putrefying under the August sun, the dog rolling in rancid perch. The Old Man and the Sea, that's his nickname, since he bears a remarkable resemblance to Spencer Tracy. He loves Mendota so much he even wants to smell like it.

"Sure it's a blast right now. I'm having a gas, you're having a riot. Wouldn't you rather leave while you still like this place rather than enduring a new, record-breaking winter? Slowly wasting with pneumonia, still having to work weekends at Goeden's?

Why are my friends always trying to give me advice? Joe prods, nudges and digs. Lorin delivers a sermon. How sorry I'd feel for having squashed an opportunity to work in a foreign country. How I'd miss out on learning about a new culture, their thousands of years of history, unique anthropology, music and food. The pleasant climate, the plentiful beaches, the mountain geography, how it would expand horizons and open my eyes to the poverty, suffering and ironic generosity and beauty of the developing world and its communities. Snorkeling, pre-Columbian ruins, piña coladas on the beach, it

6 would just be one jolly good time after another. Hearing him go on like this does make me feel sheltered, and cowardly.

The wind is picking up, and an occasional hailstone splashes into the lake. In the soup, waist deep, it's impossible not to notice how stocky we're getting, our beer barrel bellies just above the noxious water. Shame, shame, shame...we've all grown abdominal spare tires thanks to the plentiful local bratwurst, budget brau, and the world's sweetest corn. I could stay here just for the food: the vegetable stands of Dane county with their exquisite tomatoes and watermelons; Wisconsin, the vernal cornucopia; fried Lake Superior smelt with malt vinegar and tartar sauce, baked lake trout with wild rice stuffing, and Mrs. Lorraine Goeden's smoked whitefish salad sandwich and cole slaw which I will never be able to exactly duplicate.

I don’t want to leave Madison. If it isn't already, Mexico City soon will be the largest one in the known universe, reaching a crisis level of overpopulation, sanitation, air quality and traffic. Now that I've finished school, I want to continue to enjoy one of the best places in America to live. Ease up a little, set my own pace and take advantage of one of the world's most fun places to be, and my own hometown.

I don’t own many material things, I have no car or need of any such expensive stuff, I’m a happy monk with what little I have. A bicycle is my most expensive and important possession, followed by a walkman. Rent is cheap when you live in shanty town. I’ve got student loans to pay back. I’ve got a routine perfected, a frugal one that my best friends criticize, yet I cherish. Pedaling up to the Verona quarry, chasing the supernatural summer twilight into its northwest conclusion, floating in the clear cool water, listening to the songbirds and watching the lightning bugs flickering in the dark green birch paradise, what more could I expect or want in my already lucky life? In the last two weeks alone, cute and friendly new girls are coming out of the woods introducing themselves like little Land Nymphs.

Would I ever share dinner with better friends, in whose company I feel so well protected and

7 entertained? To leave now would be insane.

The Old Man, true to his springer spaniel roots, dog-paddles into the horizon in dedicated pursuit of a flock of ducklings, despite the efforts on behalf of the mother who rallies, flying up to attack him. Fluttering her wings, quacking out robust duck profanities with that bravery which only can be ascribed to the ferocious maternal protective instinct, she actually is able to push his nose temporarily underwater. Bernie gives up his aquatic chase with mother duck. I am worried about a collision between the beast and a motorboat since there are so many drunks out of control on Mendota on their speedboats, even with the storm quickly developing. His fortified and enormous skull, inherited from his

St. Bernard side might instead deal the lethal blow to the flimsier of the small craft.

The water is metallic with the squall rolling in, rippled orange, a few different shades of green and blue, and the sky a masterpiece of raging cumulonimbus with its intense chiaroscuro and menacing purple; only one shrinking patch open to the blue in the northern beyond. What an exquisite summer scene. I would much like to stop time in order to savor it without all of these distractions; I wish I could paint in oil and record this scene faithfully for all of time.

"I promise to come and visit. I'll take a month off in the spring and come down, scout’s honor.

You can teach me Spanish," Joe says.

In over our heads, we thrash our way through the tangled weeds and swim in the direction of the plywood platform bolted on to four oil drums. Just then the city tornado warning siren is activated.

"Out of the water!" The lifeguard shouts into his megaphone from the high chair. I splash away another pitiful, gratefully-dead perch that was unlucky enough to have hatched in these doomed oxygen-depleted waters. We pull ourselves on to the floating platform.

The University is offering two thousand bucks in cold cash, or as the Mexicans say, en efectivo, right away if some clown will merely agree to move to Mexico City, that’s all. The assignment involves

8 training students and other personnel in the basics of clinical microbiology, and the mailing of stained

and unstained microscopic slides, teaching and research samples of parasites collected from blood, stool, brain and just about any other organ or body site imaginable to Madison. It’s led by Dr. David

Zeller, M.D., PhD at UW’s School of Medicine.

I am yet in moderate debt. They're holding a carrot in front of this rabbit, cash just for the move, tempting all by itself. Winter is far away, but pending nevertheless and indeed I’m getting sick of that here after the last four years. Ronald Reagan is about to be elected in a landslide maybe in just a few months. My two best friends, heaping straws on the camel’s back are trying hard to push me into this.

Seems like riding a teeter-totter opposite the two of them, stuck up in the air by the sheer weight of their many, convincing arguments. They make sound points, another cold season in front of those deep fryers and I will have to be confined in that famous windowless room at UWH with the padded walls, the laughing-room I believe it is called, subdued by paralyzing doses of phenothiazines. The allegorical dromedary is spineless. I understand quite clearly, however, that all they're really after is a free place to lounge and sponge south of the border during the long, nasty winter and spring. They also can't wait,

I’ve just realized, to make moves on my new girlfriends after I'm gone. How insane to leave now, now that the delectable fruit of Madison had just ripened and is within my humble grasp.

"I promise to come and visit. I'll spend a month and learn Spanish! I'll sign in blood if you want,

I'm not kidding you, John!" Joe insists.

"We're done here man. It's time to get on the road and see the world. You’re about to take the opportunity of a lifetime and flush it right down the commode?"

Thunder vibrates the air and water. The hailstones are starting to inflict welts. We plunge back in to the lake. It's raining and hailing on our heads, we are laughing heartily at our mutual stupidity, tempting a lightning bolt from the impartial gods.

9 "All right, all right, damn it, I give up!," I blurt out, panting, paddling and kicking so as to keep my

bratwurst-stuffed thorax from submerging forever into the murky ooze on the bottom of Mendota, "I'll check it out."

10 Chapter 2: Ingersoll Street

Labor Day comes and goes. An airline ticket shows up in the mail, American Airlines flight 301 from Chicago’s O’Hare to Aeropuerto Internacional Benito Juárez for Sunday, September 11th, along with a set of multicolored mimeographs detailing the climate, clothes, umbrella, and everything else el gringo requires to survive his first year in Mexico City, according to the the University of Wisconsin

Career Placement Service. Each pithy, distressing traveler's tip is an acute reminder of how utterly brainless I am, getting myself trapped into this. A trance comes over me, looking at that ticket. Might it be exchanged for somewhere else? Montego Bay, Managua, San Juan, or Belize might need microbiologists, one might breathe the air in those places.

"Dear Jerk:" the letter should begin, "Since you're such a gullible legionnaire and must be feeling a little uptight about relinquishing your protection under the United States Constitution and Bill of

Rights, we'd like to take this opportunity to offer unsolicited, negative, and frightening insights concerning what you're just about to step in to, hoping it will wrap you just a little bit tighter than you already must be at this point in time..."

Rain. The need for a “sturdy” umbrella. Smog, traffic, contaminated water, diarrhea and other infectious diseases. Overpopulation, corruption. Nothing about restaurants, nightlife, museums, or how far it is to the beach. Can it possibly be as bad as this ominous document forewarns? Lorin poo-poos it, says it’s ridiculous.

Saturday night, my friends come over to see me one last time, alive. A huge lake trout from

Superior is barbecued and the house fills with people, dago-red flowing in a Bacchanalian river. As everyone progressively becomes intoxicated, I become more a center of attention, something that's never left me comfortable. They're eulogizing for Christ's sake, in front of me. It's my own wake! I feel like heading off to the bar to get away from the constant reminders of my impending move, but these

11 are the best folks I know.

Supper in our house is always fun, no matter who is doing the cooking. The last dinner for me is

no exception. 215 N Ingersoll is just another of William Kozak's dilapidated college-town shanties, kept

in one piece with duct tape, and little twigs old Bill gathers in the yard to cram into the stripped screw-

holes in the rotting front door as a way of reattaching the bolt lock. He'd much rather keep a barstool at

The Caribou warm than get us a new door, the indolent thief. It's hard to comprehend that tomorrow I

will be on the other side of a national border, two thousand miles away from that crumbling piece of

wood.

Tommy is the youngest one in the crowd, he'll be moving into my room tomorrow. He just got back from a summer job with the Minnesota Highway Department; one of his responsibilities was informing people that their pets had been run over and killed.

"Bartleby the scrivener never had it quite that bad," I remark, doubting if anyone had read any

Melville lately. Tom's brother Jerry works at the UW Primate Center this summer, keeping record of how many times nineteen very angry male rhesus monkeys, who are exposed to various levels of polychlorinated biphenyl, masturbate during Jerry’s eight hour shift. He’s sitting across from me, getting a last glimpse, trying to imagine what I will look like behind bars in a foreign country.

"Probably not unlike one of your monkeys, Jer."

Kenny is here, our ninety-seven year old next door neighbor and trusted friend who had been a traveling salesman in the Midwest for most of the twentieth century. His wife passed away many years ago; his daughter never came to visit that often and Kenny was always looking for an excuse for drink and conversation. He pours you a twelve-ounce tumbler full of brandy on the rocks every time you come over. Per capita, Wisconsin drinks more brandy than any other state in the union, and Kenny Downs's role in maintaining that tradition should not be considered minor. He loves our dog, saves him chunks of

12 ham, cheese, turkey, and roast beef. Kenny's hacking, chronic cough heard through open windows from

next door is enough to start the Spaniel's tail a-wagging. Tonight Kenny tells us stories of his childhood in southern Indiana; the marauding Archer brother’s gang and the hanging of Sam Archer in 1886 in the town of Shoals in Martin County that Kenny claims he witnessed personally.

“But you were only three years old when that happened.”

“I remember it! Clearly I do!”

He stole his wife away from her parents when she was sixteen, had to elope and hide out because of her dad looking to fill his pants with buckshot. Kenny Downs is the kindest neighbor you could ever ask for, an authentic American archive. I will miss him and even our other neighbor Maggie.

She couldn't make it tonight, although we did invite her. She'll phone for a taxi about once a week or so, only to hide behind her closed curtains when they come honking in front. A bewildered cabby is perpetually knocking on our door wondering where the hell she is. Can we tell them her whole history in a few minutes time? That she spends hour after hour pouring a waste paper can full of water over her porch in hopes to wash away imaginary demons? Fill it up, drag it to the porch, open the door and then swoosh!, Fill it up, drag it to the porch...swoosh! The old woman prunes her trees almost to the trunk and regularly deposits dog excrement (not belonging to the Old Man) on the hood of Joe's Datsun.

There's a tight-rope we all have to walk in this life. Like a lot of other people in Madtown, Maggie fell off a long time ago. As far as I'm concerned, we're all headed to meet her down there, safety net or not, sooner than we think.

No, I am not completely sane either. I’m going to miss this town so much. Karen, Julia, Leslie, and the new babes I just met last week. The Caribou on East Johnson, the Amble Inn on Williamson, the

Crystal Corner, all perpetually pulsing with the eternally renewable resource of repressed, raw teenage sexuality. People are unpretentious and so genuinely friendly here. Gone will be the classical, elegant

13 and simple architecture of Wisconsin, the forsaken Gothic landscape of the American prairie, the grain

elevators, railroad tracks, cornfields and quarries. And the University, the new crop of faces every fall, the influx of sheer human flesh and energy. For what in exchange I am uncertain.

A toast is offered, to expatriation and free lodging south of the border. They're clearly more excited than I am about it at this point.

Karen is the Northland personified, a gifted and masterful kindergarten teacher, baker and gardener, drinking warmed beer on a sub-zero afternoon in Lambeau Stadium she cheers on the Green

Bay Packers in a way that can only be genetically inherited. To me her china blue eyes and bright flaxen hair will be forever as much of a part of the local geography as is Picnic Point, the state capitol between the frozen lakes, or the Caribou.

The Caribou! No college kids ever went to The 'Bou except us. The long and narrow saloon was always filled with retired or fired cops, ice-fishermen, old folks who had spent their whole life on East

Johnson, who celebrated everything from their weddings to the first communion of their grandchildren in front of the dead and stuffed Caribou's head. The East Side Volunteer Fire Department, not sober enough to extinguish even a match, Buddha the bartender and his uncle Fat John the grocer with arguably the best locally made bratwurst available. Such a nursing home I'd never see the likes of again.

The Old Man! What would he do without me? Who would take him for a morning run or drive him to the river? When would he ever get to sniff out Parfrey's Glen again? Karen had found him abandoned but the Old Man took a special liking to me since I live outdoors as much as possible.

Through thick and thin, canoeing, hiking, duck-hunting, cross-country skiing, and winter camping, he always maintained the extraordinary enthusiasm of a true born dog.

Karen, Lorin, Geoff, Julia, Joe, Leslie and I stay up drinking well into the morning, they're trying to calm me down. "We'll all be gone by January," Karen says, breaking a silence. "Joe in New York, Leslie

14 in Boston, Lorin in Nashville."

"You're the first one blazing the trail John, and you're going the farthest away; but it’s only 2,693

miles by the shortest land route." A professor once wrote on a term paper that Joe had "a firm grasp of

the obvious."

"Way to go man! You're really doing it! It's going to be so beat down there for you!"

"You've got to find something else to read besides Kerouac, Lorin - you're beginning to sound

like him," I reply, not intending to offend him as much as I just did.

Karen and I are washing dishes, pots and pans after everyone leaves, passes out cold on the furniture, or properly goes to bed. We have a type of relationship so common in this burg, both of us realizing that our futures are inevitably bound to be separate but good friends prone to a little passion once in a while, trying not to be possessive or jealous. Holding her close after making love, it's the first time we've seen each other cry. There is no city remotely like Madison anywhere else in the real world, no woman like her anywhere. I can't believe I'm leaving. We huddle tightly all morning with The Old

Man. How can I be really leaving, maybe forever?

At O'Hare the next afternoon, there's time enough for a barber to shave off the stubble and shear my head. They insinuated the necessity of a haircut in the latest correspondence. Hippies not welcome.

“Be careful down there,” says my dad, who doesn’t think this is a good idea. “Watch your back, son.” My mother cautions me again, her microbiologist son, not to drink the water.

When it's time to get on the plane, Joe tries to cheer me up, reiterating his vacation plans for the next year, making fun of my asinine new hair style and bare face. "Come on John, say something!

Hey, have a great time, live it up!"

Screw-you, I am thinking. He's the one who got me into this mess. I stare at him in anger and

15 remain silent in resentment.

Flying south over Corpus Christi Bay and Padre Island, I switch off the light to get a better look at

the lightning flashes below, in the deepening darkness along the Gulf coast. I can't get enough alcohol to

drink on this flight, nor see much of anything out the window except occasional sparks of illumination from the electrical storm diffusing into the cloud cover. The rainy season is surging over the northern tropics. The airplane is bobbing up and down, pulling my throat through the seat of my pants. My eyes are burning, my body aches. We stayed up the whole night. Time to set the seat back, surrender to the inevitable slumber. But just as I am collapsing securely and fully into the in the arms of Morpheus, the sudden shock of the wheels impacting the runway, an awkward landing, jars me into a state of startled semi-consciousness.

16 3: Twenty Seven Hundred Miles South

There he is, the guy who's supposed to be waiting for me, holding a sign I might immediately

recognize, which I do, in spite of a troublesome bout of blurred double-vision and an excruciating headache. "Braxton Hicks," an extraordinarily tall young man in a dark blue blazer proclaims while vigorously pumping my hand, "Welcome to Mexico! Bienvenido!"

"John Strauss," I reply, trying to shock myself out of a cold stupor and keep from falling asleep by shaking my head, like I’ve got some kind of tick.

"You're from Chicago?" the giant bends down to holler.

"Madison, Wisconsin." He shakes his head, never heard of it. Most people in the world haven't.

"It might not really exist," I say, but it's so noisy walking through the corridor he just smiles and nods, pretending he understands. The din of a hundred conversations amplifies into an ambiguous communal roar. Hyperactive expedition directors shrieking in the five major languages of tourism and the general pandemonium surrounding the baggage claim eventually bring me to. It's deafening in here.

Warmed with human sweat, Aeropuerto Internacionál Benito Juárez is in a fracas tonight.

"Sunday is the busiest evening for this airport," says Hicks.

"Do we have time to get something to drink?"

"I brought some coca-cola in the van." That's not exactly what I have in mind. I hate sodas in general, I disclose.

"Is there a bar nearby? Maybe we could have a beer while we're waiting?" I intended that something settle my stomach after swallowing that gram of aspirin.

"Yes, but it's past customs and you can't get back to the baggage claim, then." Hicks winces as he gives me a good looking over, head to toe, from a clear fifteen inches above.

17 My gear, finally. I sold the Raleigh, so the last of my belongings fit inside a large backpack which a customs official is now thoroughly disassembling. The skeptical civil servant stands behind her raised dais, the burly, doubting uniformed woman scrutinizes my passport photo and face, back and forth. I can't blame her, I certainly look different without all that hair and beard. After an uncomfortable period of doubt, she stamps me and waves Hicks though. Time to change my dollars to pesos where I can get the best exchange rate, Hicks instructs. I’m not flying down with too much cash, I’m afraid.

The giant leads the way outside through the double doors, across the roundabout, and past a hungry pack of taxistas loitering around, whistling to get our attention, "Güero - ¿A dónde vas?"

Shallow puddles on the asphalt, billboards: Dámela facilmente says Kodak. Give it to me easily.

The joke does not escape either one of us as he quickly tests my Spanish. Schoolbuses painted in pastel colors, Volkswagens, Datsuns, decades old Chevrolet Impalas and Bel Airs, there are so many of them it makes me smile and feel as if back in the sixties of my childhood. The weather tonight is a welcome change from the late summer steam of home; the temperature here is perfect, the air light with altitude.

It doesn't even feel the slightest bit humid although it had certainly rained buckets before my arrival.

Hicks unlocks and slides open the panel door of a blue Volkswagen combi so I can throw my pack on the back seat and climb in the front. After paying the cashier in the booth, cruising through three green stop- lights in Colonia Jamaica alive with heavy pedestrian traffic, my guide floors the pedal to accelerate up to the ramp on to the Presidente Miguel Alemán. So many Volkswagens. Because they make them here, I am told, and that the bug is the lowest priced automobile in town.

Benito Juárez, an orphan from rural Oaxaca who tended his uncle's sheep as a child, was the first and only pureblooded Indio to be elected president of Mexico. History ranks Juárez as the Mexican

Abraham Lincoln, or vice versa, as contemporaries if you want to see it from this side of the border. Both men were self-educated and worked their way from meager beginnings through law school to win civil

18 wars at great national cost. Juarez died during his fourth term as president in 1872, leaving behind a nation in shambles, destitution and chaos.

Miguel Alemán, president from 1946 to 1952, is known for bringing intellectuals and lawyers into government to replace military dictators, for reorganizing the Partido Revolucionario Institucional, and creating an economic miracle industrializing the capital. This created an opportunity for corruption, engrained in Mexican government since colonial days, to blossom well into the twentieth century.

Kickback-heaven, this very expressway an example as Hicks relates. Miguel Alemán, aka Michael German.

Hicks is a public relations man, a liaison for various interests coordinating work in Mexico City. He went to

Texas A&M and looks pretty collegiate, a frat brother type of guy with a degree in communications. He's lived in the city for eleven years, is married to a local señora and drives like an Italian race car driver, just like the rest of them. Silent reminder to myself: Do not get behind the wheel here.

"Let's get down to business for a few minutes, John," he says, shifting into neutral and braking abruptly as has the Chevy impala in front of us. "If you don’t mind, I have helpful advice for the first time visitor to Mexico City, if you’d like some sound advice?"

“Certainly.”

I'd get seriously ill if I ate anything from the vendors on the street or in the hole in the wall taquerias like the ones we saw on the way to the Miguel Alemán, he says.

"Vegetables or fruit that grow near or on the ground need to soak in a bowl of water containing an iodine tablet for at least twenty minutes. Lettuce, cabbage, radishes. Raw carrots are O.K. as long as they're peeled, likewise onions. A single strawberry could prove slowly lethal.

“I've known a lot of people who've gotten very sick eating strawberries, and they look so darned good! If you can't do without a fresh salad, you can purchase one hundred iodine tablets for about a dollar, here's what they look like..." He starts fumbling around the glove compartment when, again,

19 hastily, he has to disengage the clutch and slam on the brakes and come to a screeching halt to avoid hitting a bus that is now sudddently blocking two lanes of traffic. He restarts the stalled combi.

Hicks delivers all of this very effectively to the newcomers I suppose. Milk and cheese are on his list of trouble, again, proving occasionally fatal. The only harmless drinking water is bottled under the label Tehuacán, preferably carbonated as a quality check against being filled from the tap and recapped.

As an afterthought, I might contract antibiotic resistant gonorrhea, my liason discloses, if I take advantage of the soiled doves on the street corners near the downtown hotels.

"I know all about VD or sexually transmitted diseases," I say enthusiastically.

"Oh, really?" he asks, revolted.

"Not from personal experience."

"Roomates?"

"Microbiology."

"Which is?"

"What brought me here." This serves only to deepen Hick's grimace. I could tell him all about pathogens if he wanted. Dairy could easily be contaminated here, I knew that much, cheese has a particularly bad reputation. Listeria, Brucella, Salmonella, Shigella, virulent E. coli, and these were just the bacteria! I know them like disreputable friends.

The least bit of marijuana could land me in the reclusorio for the rest of my life, by the way. What did that leave? Illicit sex, ice-cream, weed, a tossed salad never again. A Wisconsinite far from home would normally miss cheese and milk but I won't. Our conversation takes a turn for the worse when Hicks lets me know that he had just "mailed" a recent arrival back to the states in a "box" because the luckless chap had the nerve to croak, thanks to fulminating hepatitis! The onomatopoeic fulminating hepatitis. I can well imagine my own beloved liver foaming into that unmistakable vile yellow broth. That would be a

20 sober departure, miserable, not quick nor painless. Who is this Satan, mailing the deceased in boxes?

Hideous are the many masks of death waiting for the fools who were snookered into coming down here.

Hotel Prim, like the street that is in truth more of an alley, Géneral Prim on which it resides, is named after a hero of the Revolution. The Prim, built in the tourist boom of 1962, is a twelve story grid of tinted glass alternating with aquamarine vinyl panels, faded and dirty orange polyester curtains behind each window. It dominates a lonely, dark block. The proprietor is Rusty, a red headed American lad who had gained control of the Prim after marrying a local señorita. When in Mexico, get thee married apparently. Her extended family lives in the hotel, he also discloses. Rusty gets me registered, locking up my passport and assuring that four nights and breakfasts have been covered by UW, enough time presumably to help me find an apartement. I am escorted to a room on the sixth floor and am wished much luck in becoming acclimated. The view, somewhat less than breathtaking, is of a brake repair garage below, Frenas, in a seamy, cottage-industrial section of Colonia Nápoles. How positively charming and picaresque; no doubt affordable and completely consistent with the style, taste, and mission of the

University of Wisconsin. At least there's a restaurant and full bar downstairs, they would have at least made sure of that.

After a shower, I'm curious to check out what there is to get excited about in central Mexico City.

The miracle of aspirin has taken the edge from my headache, and a beer, surprisingly chilled and delivered by room service, has finally settled my stomach. Acetyl salicylate and a Negra Modelo; such a saving combination. The guide book seems accurate enough; establishments do stay open late, even on a

Sunday night. I ordinarily dressed like a Santa Monica Pier panhandler in Madison, but it wouldn't hurt to class it up it seems from what I’ve seen so far on the streets, so I unpack my best interview clothes.

Off the bat, Mexico D.F. doesn't seem to be the hell-hole that many folks back home made it out to be. Armed with a ridiculously detailed street map and 500 Spanish Verbs needing to be quickly

21 recommitted to memory, I venture into the darkness in search of Paseo de La Reforma, one of the great boulevards of the capital. A couple of blocks away on Prim, a blind man tends a cast iron charcoal grill set up on a sidewalk corner under the steeetlight. He's barbecuing strips of what look like sweetbreads above the coals, and, despite not being able to see well, he is doing an admitrable job of grilling them. A group of men stands close by, engaged in conversation, devouring whatever it is, wrapped in corn tortillas. Tripe, maybe, or some kind of organ meat I guess. Sizzling away, a hearty campground pong diffuses up and down General Prim. Here's a newsstand with Excelsior, Uno Más Uno, most major and polite European and North American magazines, Mexican Playboys with everything except for the nipples; it’s the Vatican-approved version I guess, and hundreds of lottery tickets hanging about. The guy inside is squeezing oranges in an old lever press, the likes of which I haven't seen since I was a kid in the

Chicago Randolph Street station. Five pesos for a glass of juice, almost a quarter. He's also making a shake out of a kind of fruit I don't recognize, in a copper Waring blender. Looks delicious, but milk, milk, no milk! At least they pasteurized their beer. On a night like this in Madison there would be a thousand bugs hovering around places like this, especially with food out in the open. Gnats, mosquitos, flying ants and flying cockroaches, biting midges and no-see-ums. Remarkably, there is nary a flea as far as I can tell.

Could it be the altitude? Life without insects at a constant seventy degrees Fahrenheit sounds like a deal so far.

Around the corner, taking a right on Constantinopla, the path becomes dark and quiet for a few blocks with not much more than dreary cinder block and stucco warehouses behind locked iron gates. It is strange to realize that I could walk this far without running into a lake, Mendota to be specific,

Mendota's cattails swaying languidly in a torpid summer breeze. I can hear its water. The familiar rubbery scent of algae, rotting fish and The Old Man is all but recreated in my imagination. Something local is ruining my concentration, however.

22 It's the aroma of charbroiled steak and onions rising up sweet and thick, imparting a hint of chiles

to the cool night air. Where's it coming from? I follow it across Atenas to the only light on the gloomy block. So these are the open air holes in the wall that Hicks cautioned against. There's a crowd inside and the joint is animated with loud conversation, smoke and electric guitars playing cumbia coming from a

Zenith radio that has survived the 1960s. Flames leap and strips of bistec sizzle on a long grill. A large sliding glass door refrigerator is stocked full with cold quarts of beer. Negra Modelo, Bohemia. The food smells and looks great but what about Hicks's stern admonition? Should I eat in here if I expect to have living gut afterwards? What would it feel like to go back in a coffin, vermin puncturing my intestines, encysting in my liver, aorta, brain and lungs? "Hey guys! Guess what? I'm back early! Way ridiculously early dudes! I was mailed back in a box!" Then I'd be reduced to a few fixed and stained microscopic slides that a bunch of smarty-pants pathology residents would snicker over in GI conference. It's not good knowing what you're up against, this is how I am supposed to make a living here, looking for parasites. But these tacos can't be that bad, they’re well cooked it seems and the tortillas the Indian woman just brought out of the recessed back room are steaming hot. I watch, mesmerized, as her associate grinds corn in a mortar using a round stone, just as her ancestors must have have done for at least a couple thousand years. Celia Cruz, La Rumba Reina, the Rumba Queen belts it out from the Zenith.

What would it be like, struggling with a closed coffin lid? Trying to force it open to scream, "It was only one taco for Christ's sake!" The thin strips of beef sear noisily on the grill and a dark skinned Toltec in a white shirt and blue apron flips them over artfully, effortlessly, with a carving knife and fork after a few quick chops.

"¿Qué quería, joven?" he asks, seemingly amused by the conflict evident in my grimace. Next to the bistec, he throws a large bunching of green onions on the fire, basting them with butter and lime juice from a paintbrush. His concoction is giving off a heavenly steam. I thought of that poor son of a gun

23 who had died while his liver was churning into a mad fulminating spume. What variety of protozoans

could be hiding in those onions?

"Cuatro tacos, por favor señor, con las cebollas verdes," I order. I want the whole works with a

cold one.

"Cebollitas," he corrects, giggling at my awkward usage. Little onions here, not green onions. It will take me a while to get these things straight. The tacos are really tasty, the avocados with Kraft

Catalina dressing and limes are a surprise, and the salsas bite. But the barbecued cebollitas washed down with a chilled Bohemia are life-transforming. Utterly delicious. The tortillas; so moist, earthy and fresh,

I’ve never had tortillas so ethereal as these. The silent woman who had just ground the maize in the back room watches me suspiciously, like an azteca of the ancient capital. She's marveling at me and my bottomless appetite, the geeky yanqui imbasór. The cook asks where I'm coming from.

"Chicago," I reply, after swallowing a tangy mouthful, disabused of any attempt to explain what or where Wisconsin is. He pantomimes sweeping the Clark Street garage with machine-gun fire, à la St.

Valentine's Day Massacre, a formality mandatory all over the globe, as I found out in Europe, when greeting someone from the Windy City. Gangster movies are the rage of the world I guess.

"Bienvenido, Al Capone."

"Gracias. Los tacos son muy sabrosos."

"Se sabe," Eduardo replies, he knows how good they are. My mouth and lips are on fire, my stomach is purring like a jaguaro. Taquerias such as this one on Constantinopla will forever be enshrined in my restaurant hall of fame. Not at all impressive in appearance, the hell-bent and snobbish atmosphere freak might misjudge them as shabby - yet they are visited with a distinct culinary gift. The electricity flickers momentarily, mostly off, but that doesn't stop Eduardo from pouring another Bohemia.

A cold beer seems to be merely a single corner away here in Latin America, not any farther, just like

24 home. This little joint doesn't even have a sign, I’m not sure what it’s called, but they're practically giving away the food and drinks considering what little they are charging. Alright, I like this capital, already. My pennies are going farther than I imagined.

When I reach Paseo de la Reforma two blocks to the north; the broad, tree-lined boulevard named after the exuberance of the revolution, I’ve broken out of a darker age, a tunnel, and emerge abruptly into the civilization of enlightenment. Awestruck, bounded by the sheer splendor, I savor the richly detailed canvas at my threshold. The Paseo was developed by the Habsburg emperor Maximilian in the later half of the nineteenth century to connect his castle in Chapultepec Park with the political and economic city center or Zócalo as it is properly known. Decades later, Porfirio Díaz, who manifested the popular francophilia of the affluent early twentieth century Mexican, improved upon the Paseo, planting poplars and cottonwoods, commissioning statues, modeling the avenue after the Parisian Champs-

Elysees. Forced into emperorship, a position he never requested nor desired, Maximiliano invested more time in gardening than in defending a monarchy in a country that didn't want one. He was shot by

Juárez's firing squad and Díaz was chased out of the country to die in France. Both had contributed marvelously to the Paseo de la Reforma.

To the far reaches of the avenue I see the winged Angel of Victory, El Ángel de la

Independencia on top of her column of marble, illuminated by spotlights, in the middle of the roundabout, the glorieta where spokes of traffic gracefully merge in and out, taillights swerving in broad arcs. Impressive in height, lighting and splendor, the gilded Angel is indeed a spectacle commemorating

Mexico's independence from Spain, a national monument comparable to those anywhere in the civilized world. Many of the buildings facing Reforma are of a nineteenth century French design, some with

Mansard roofs; the Champs Elysees indeed. Nice job, Porfirio. As does its Parisian counterpart, the Paseo becomes a living organism, develops a personality of its own; open, broad, lawned and palmed, dignified,

25 a tidy river of the well-dressed and respectable. A city of perhaps as many as twenty million inhabitants doesn’t feel that crowded, strangely. The mile walk towards the Angel feels fine, to be in the cool rain washed air, out of the cramping airliner, wandering about the little gardens, amazed and easily distracted by the flowers and the newness of this capital.

Mercedes Benz, Volkswagens, Renaults, Chevrolet taxis and one in a hundred others, a vintage

American classic from the sixties whirl around the glorietas. A statue of Christopher Columbus. Avenida de Los Insurgentes, Avenue of the Insurrectionists; that would sound so good in Madison. Hotels, El

Presidente, The Continental, elegant residencias. Farther along, a statue of Cuauhtémoc, the last Aztec leader not to have succumbed to smallpox, the dauntless warrior who fought the conquistadors to an anguished death.

The Indios sitting on wool blankets on every block are peddling chicle, candy, pumpkin and sunflower seeds athwart their many children. Indians in name, they are the ancient mesoamericans in reality. I can see how the Spanish mistook them for Asians. Such exotic and colorful homespun fabrics they wear. A world apart, detached it seems from the congested urban concrete and tangled, noisy traffic of Mexico City. Their silence seems born from worn patience, a different consciousness an entire ocean apart from the Caucasian. What a tired, conquered looking people.

The American Embassy across the street is a frightful and unseemly edifice cordoned by a steep iron bar fence and guardhouse, so out of character on the relaxed and classy Paseo, emanting power behind paranoia. Best pass it up quickly. More restaurants, hotels, bars and Anderson's. Anderson’s?

Climb a flight of steep stairs and the aroma brings you farther. The waitstaff are wearing different hats: bowlers; Stetsons; berets and derbies, every one of them. The menu clearly states that if one brings a cap the meseros would like to wear, then dinner is yours, free of charge. Three ancient musicians are playing an autoharp, a guitar and cello on a small stage. Celestial. Smells so good in here, I’m watching

26 plates of prawns and scallops go passing by and outside the windows, the Ángel de la Independencia,

ignited and glowing.

Hicks is going to pick me up at seven tomorrow morning in order to orient me to the city and the

job. It's nearly eleven. I should logically be in bed at the hotel.

After two Margaritas, a serving of Islas Marias, a piquant sauteed scallop dish, and polite conversation with two friendly and mildly inebriated sorority sisters from Texas waiting for U.T. to begin its fall semester, partying in Mexico City on their way back to Austin from the beaches, I am out wandering the Zona Rosa, the tourist section, on the way back to the Prim. That was an expensive meal, but one has to live well quickly if fulminating hepatitis is a probability.

Back in the room after a long and refreshingly cool walk, I pore over the street map that I purchased downstairs that unfolds to around twenty five square feet. I guess it has to be to get everything in this sprawling capital included, legibly. In the twenty-first century, Mexico City would become the largest in the world, with a population approaching twenty million. What in the hell was it that compelled me to come down here, again? I fall asleep in confusion.

In the morning, over coffee in the Prim’s restaurant, I finish reading a grizzly blurb about Aztec ritualistic human sacrifice to the hummingbird warrior-god, to whom one of the major pyramids nearby is dedicated. This is in one of the more sophisticated guide books I’ve purchased. The many waiters here in the Prim, one for every customer it seems, likely are the descendents of such high priests or victims, I’m thinking. They're serving chunks of some kind of pink fruit I don’t immediately recognize, with two lime

27 halves on the side. An engineer from Dallas tells me it's papaya, and that there is so much in Mexico that

they feed it to their pigs.

“Lucky pigs,” I remark after tasting a sample. There’s a spread of pineapple, cantaloupe, mango, finger-sized sweet bananas. So much fruit, as if they grew on trees. I have never tasted a mango before, I realize, delighted by the quizzical combination of novel terpenoids and aldehydes.

Despite his name tag that says “Hector,” and maroon jacket, I imagine my chest about to be split open on a big bloody rock by my waiter who, pointing a fifteen inch sharpened blade, makes me wonder if I am a brave enough warrior, proud to be sacrificed to Huitzilopochtli. For a fourteenth century

Mesoamerican this is one of life's highest honors. I am flattered, but just before my aorta is crudely dissected, who should stroll in to come to my rescue but none other than Braxton Hicks, dressed conservatively and tastefully in a grey business suit. What I want to know is where does this guy, pushing seven feet, find clothes that fit him in this town?

First on the agenda is to procure working papers from the gobierno downtown. We drive east on

Reforma past the shady Alameda Park into the Zócalo, the ancient Aztec center, a population-intensive, colonial neighborhood with fine examples of elaborate Spanish architecture, the brilliant blue azulejos of the cornices and hanging ferns on every rincón. I daydream stretching in a hammock in one of these lush old courtyards right now, amidst the potted palms and tropical flora, idling the morning away, reading the Times cover to cover, drinking Bohemias and then falling asleep so to enjoy the national traditional siesta. We're driving over the hallowed and shining island state of Tenochtitlán where archaeologists are yet unearthing the once lost Temple of the Sun.

Hicks offers diarrhea medicine if needed. He’s surprised I decline and despite my indiscretions of the night, I feel extremely fine and well nourished. We’ve finally arrived at the governmental office where we spend most of the morning waiting for my paperwork to be processed. An administrative

28 assistant, funcionnaire, some kind of an official wearing enough make-up and eye shadow for Halloween, smeared all over her face in wide swaths, finally calls me up to the front and asks me for my mother's maiden name.

"Ferrara." I spelled it aloud. Now, my official Mexican name becomes John Nicolas Strauss-

Ferrara, since the Spanish system of two surnames, paternal followed by maternal was the only way to go on a legal document. I’ve always wanted a hyphenated name.

Hicks senses my annoyance at the long waiting times.

“This might have taken less than an hour in Madison." I say.

“You just have to be a little more patient here," he advises, "it takes longer to accomplish minor details than what you're normally accustomed to." Three photos are taken, and I sign five documents.

Four forms need to be completed and my passport is stamped six times by two officials. We are finally then able to take the drive to the UNAM, the University.

Traffic is such that it takes an hour and a half for us to get to Coyoacán on theTlalpan, but that's fine - it gives me a chance to look things over and read more about the history of the city. At first Los

Angeles comes to mind, the low-lying, white and grey stucco all around, earthquake precautions in practice. There's also the smog, just as in L.A. Driving would take some nerve here. Good thing I don't have a car. Braxton is whipping around the glorietas in attack formation with admirable courage and skill.

The spokes all join at the hub, and the hub is the glorieta, a giant wheel of danger - it's each man for himself. Slow down and you'll be crushed, swallowed and spit out in a heap of a wreck, but just go with the flow and do it fast, skillful, blow kisses onto your rosary hanging from the rear view mirror and pray to Our Lady of the Ruptured Spleen. If you can drive here, you could drive in Sicily, even. Being a pedestrian is even worse, evidently. We see a corpse of a young woman on the sidewalk and this shocks me.

29 "What's going on?" Not one of the pedestrians seems to be paying much attention to her.

"Hit and run." Braxton answers. "You might see at least one a day."

At the National University, a comfortable setting with its Diego Rivera mural and jacaranda trees,

I am introduced to a woman working for Doctor Navarro. Teresa Romero Calderdón greets me with a disarming smile, handshake and a "Bienvenido a Mexico, Señor Estrauss." She then produces a key from her desk drawer and unlocks another, handing over a fat envelope, the two thousand dollars they promised. She warns me to guard it carefully. The wad of thousand peso bills is staple-gunned together so resolutely it's going to take a screwdriver and pliers to pry them apart. Are there that many thieves in this country that they have to put your paycheck together with a staple gun? She asks me to meet

Navarro the following morning at eight o'clock in a clinic near the Tacubaya subway station for my first day of work. I sign two documents and she gives me a map showing a path from the station to Clinica

Zapata.

“I suppose I should deposit this in a bank, can you recommend one, Braxton?”

“No. I wouldn’t deposit any money in the Mexican banks. You never know what might happen with them. Just keep it on you securely at all times for now, you can buy traveler's checks, or get a Swiss

Bank account, or a safe, I know where you can get a good one.”

The older section of Coyoacán, coyote-home in Nahua, in ancient times made up the southern shore of Lake Texcoco. Many of the homes and business establishments are built of stone on narrow cobblestone streets in this quaint little colonia. There are a few taverns with some college types hanging out inside and I suggest, "Hey, let's have lunch? For Christ's sake, don't you ever eat?"

"I'm sorry John, I’m on a tight schedule this week and we've got to find you an apartment next.

I’m running out of time because of the traffic. Besides, it’s too early for lunch here, most people eat later, around two at the earliest. I brought a peanut butter and jelly sandwich if you want half?" I did. The flats

30 we visited in the afternoon near the University, in the Zocalo and Zona Rosa had all just been rented by

the time we were able to speak with the landlords, which was a shame since they were all inexpensive,

safe and clean.

“There's one more apartment I could show you in Lomas de Chapultepec," Braxton says, “but it’s

rather expensive, I’m afraid. However, it might be best to locate near your place of employment, let's go and check it out because you might appreciate that it's just one metro stop from the clinic where you’ll be working. That will save you considerable time commuting."

One hour later, still hungry after a half sandwich, after having been stalled in a traffic jam for fifty minutes on the periférico (complete with the obligatory stalled ambulance, its siren flashing and shrieking in vain), we enter stately Colonia Lomas de Chapultepec, the Beverly Hills of Mexico D.F. which indeed is extraordinarily Californian. The afternoon clouds of the tropical wet season begin to condense into a homogenous blue darkness, true to their diurnal schedule. Braxton recommends that I buy an umbrella for the duration of the wet season. Men look so silly, so helpless with umbrellas. I refuse. I’m from

Wisconsin and have never as an adult used an umbrella. The grand palms and well manicured gardens and boulevards of Lomas de Chapultepec are impressive. This is where the aristocracy and the wealthier internationals live, in a world apart from the rest of the country from what I have just seen.

Braxton introduces me to the Phillips, a retired British couple who are renting the apartment that is connected to their lavish house by a common foyer. They employ two live-in maids. A casserole waits on the dinner table, broadcasting the earthy aroma of chicken, corn and chiles. Looks fabulous, mouth- watering. I cross my fingers, hoping they’ll invite us to sit down with them to eat. Mrs. Phillips had just undergone back surgery and seems in considerable pain. She can do nothing but lie immobilized on a couch. Phillips, a man completely lacking any hair as far as the eye can see, except for eyebrows and eyelashes, takes me aside to explain that the last tenant, working at the British embassy, had to skip

31 town because he got a local girl pregnant and her father was going to have him killed unless he married

her.

“If I move in, what if her father’s hit man suffers a case of mistaken identity and comes in some

night to blow me away in my sleep?” I ask.

“No, no, of course that will not happen,” Phillips reassures me in all British seriousness.

The apartment, a mother-in-law’s quarters, is deluxe – it has a view of their beautifully landscaped pool which I was told was off limits to tenants, enough kitchen space on its own and use of their servants for laundry, but not meals, for the equivalent of around six hundred dollars a month, quite an expensive rent for Mexico City. The maids seem like good enough cooks though, why not at least dinner? Sorry, no dinner. Not tonight, not ever. No lunch or breakfast either. Not part of the deal. This is so un-Mexican it seems. Hicks keeps telling me how hard it would be to get to work from any of the other apartments currently available and after having been tangled in the evening snarl on the periférico, I am lucky to be one brief subway ride away from the job I suppose. He’s getting tired of carting me around.

It's pouring rain now, big tropical raindrops, a deluge out the window, the gutters are overflowing all around the Spanish mansion. I guess it’s here or the Prim, forever.

Phillips made his fortune leasing Chevrolets at the airport. His son took over the business; he also lives with his wife and son in the complex and is summoned to meet me, the possible renter. Phillips the elder enthusiastically ogles my fat roll of thousand peso notes with the same devout eyes of Sister Juana

Inés de la Cruz who peers out from every single one of them.

"Whenever you please you may move in." Mrs. Phillips says feebly, but politely from her sickbed.

32 4: Clinica Zapata

Each year, a few hundred thousand Mexicans die before reaching their first birthday. This statistic is modest compared with similar data coming out of selected African and Asian nations, but conditions could be better here. According to the World Health Organization, around sixty-thousand infants in Mexico succumb to amoebic dysentery caused for the most part by a unicellular protozoan,

Entamoeba histolytica. Salmonella, Shigella, Campylobacter, Escherichia coli, Vibrio cholera or a menagerie of other tropical vermin kill the others; their assault on the delicate neonatal intestine is so devastating these poor kids simply dehydrate. Sepsis, metabolic acidosis, electrolyte imbalance, disseminated intravascular coagulation; this is our vernacular. The mission is very simple, to share my training and help transport specimens. Amoebae are a little tricky to classify and I have been deemed a talented morphologist. Most of our time will be spent looking through microscopes.

It’s us against them; that’s what I’ve been taught. There are ways to save lives but once amoebas have set up house inside the gut, that isn’t enough for them. They like to eat their way into systemic circulation, and move to the liver, or the ventricles of the brain, wherever they please, threatening our lives. I hate these fucking little varmints and any little job I can do to quash them is reason enough beyond any other I suppose to be here.

The most effective antiprotozoan medication available for our use is metronidazole, marketed under the trade name Flagyl. In itself it is a recognized carcinogen which often produces considerable discomfort and nausea. How trivial, to cram all the facts and pictures into one’s head before Friday practicals. But all my education turns around, stops in its tracks and slaps me in the face this morning.

This was not taught in school; standing casually next to a girl of nine or ten years old who is squirming and crying in cramping pain and embarrassment, trying to pass a bowel movement on a newspaper placed on the floor so we can identify what's gotten hold of her. There are no pacifists in this fight, no

33 conscientious objectors.

Only ten percent of waste water is treated in Mexico, D.F. Toilets are a luxury to many in the

countryside. In the barrios and squatter's fields there is no recognizable sanitation. Even in many of the

capital’s colonias the middle of the streets are flowing sewers. Since the Valley of Mexico is a closed volcanic basin and water doesn’t run uphill, the aquifer is contaminated at municipal and agricultural levels. To eat untreated vegetables or fruit that grow in contact with the ground such as lettuce or strawberries, to drink the local tap water is indeed playing Russian roulette with Type A hepatitis at the very least. Hicks was correct concerning dairy, unfortunately, especially unpasteurized milk. If the city had adequate and efficient sewage treatment, the death of at least fifty thousand children a year might be prevented.

An emaciated three week old with an I.V. needle taped into her arm quivers, seizes a little, holding on to life as if by desire alone it seems, next to the prayers of her very young parents murmuring and making the sign of the cross at both sides of her isolette. But at least she's crying, making a little noise while the pipericillin drips in. The less fortunate ones have transcended into the quietness beyond pain, necessitating more serious prayer.

I rode the subway to the first day of my new job, after trying it out the first time the night before.

It was so crowded in the morning that I had a little trouble getting inside and breathing but was pleasantly surprised at how tidy the stations and trains are, squeaky clean, new, sleek and classy. Their marble floors are kept swept, mopped and sparkling around the clock. Three cents will take you anywhere in town and that means hundreds of miles of tracks. The French built the system in the sixties.

Many of the stations have profound historical significance; a few are archeological museums since of course they unearthed a lot of interesting artifacts when the tunnels were excavated. Each has its own pictograph for the illiterates to recognize and the line maps posted in the trains are fun to look at just

34 because of the icons themselves; Chabacano, an apricot, for example. I sat next to an indigena who had a hen tied up by its legs in her lap. But this experience was much better than the average subway ride in

New York City, chicken not withstanding.

“So, Mr. Estrauss, this is your first time in Mexico?" asks the distinguished physician who shows the classic composite of Spanish and indigenous mesoamerican in his lean, brown and moustached face. I can smell the bleach from his pressed white examination coat. He doesn't seem impressed with my resume but I guess that's basically because nothing notable is in it. I’m an ASCP licensed med tech with another degree, a B.S. in microbiology.

"That's correct," I reply.

"Not even one sortie across the Rio Grande in pursuit of tequila, prostitutes, marijuana and God knows what else during a spring-break romp during college?"

O.K., there's a human being inside that physician, I think. He made me laugh but I'm ashamed to admit that no, I hadn't had any such fun as that. Behind his desk is a large photograph of one of the true heroes of the revolution, the renowned peasant leader, agrarian liberator and brilliant guerilla general

Emiliano Zapata bedecked in his handlebar moustache, cartridge belt and massive Morelian sombrero.

“Did that…Hicks idiota scare you with his story about our most recent Norteamericano who died of hepatitis?” Dr. Navarro asks.

“He mentioned it, yes.”

“That pendejo!” he giggles, “he died because he was abusing IV drugs, don’t let that asshole put the wrong ideas in your head about Mexico, O.K., you’re going to be fine under our care and supervision,” he adds, making sure I didn’t have any needle marks on my arms.

The doctor picks up his phone and dials an extension. I can't make out what he's saying.

“Do you know what a chilango is?”

35 “No, I don’t.”

“Well, I am a chilango, and Lázaro here is also a chilango,” he says, pointing to a young man who has just walked in to the office. I learn that this is slang for those who were born and raised in the capital.

Navarro has a manner about him similar to so many physicians I know in the states, a tired, quasi- irritable, impatient deportment that comes from too many phone calls in the middle of the night, reading too much small print and too many babies screaming and pagers buzzing all at once. Navarro asks Lázaro to show me around and for the two of us to stay out of his hair for a couple hours.

Lázaro motions toward Navarro’s doorway; on the other side is a reception line of staff pediatricians, nurses, radiologist, ultrasonographer, two medical students, a resident in infectious disease and twelve trainees in medical technology waiting to introduce themselves. The laboratory is not as crude as I thought it would be but they can use some new equipment, especially microscopes and centrifuges. That was the first question on Zeller’s list to answer. I write down their names in a spiral I brought with, as there is no way I’ll remember everyone the first time around. Lázaro signals for me to follow him as I am becoming aware of how important sign language is in this city. I’ve already learned how to say no using just my right index finger.

With shoulder-length curly dark hair and such a classic Mediterranean face, my colleague could have slipped from a Tintoretto portrait, even with his North American Levis and Indian made grey sweater. His red ‘79 VW bug is parallel parked on a narrow side alley behind the clinica. Built like a linebacker, he squeezes himself inside with considerable difficulty. He turns the ignition and Mick Jagger is singing "a storm is threatening my very life today, if I don't get some shelter oh yeah, I'm gonna fade away.” Lázaro knows all the words and lets me know that this radio station plays nothing but Rolling

Stones around the clock. There was enough the I suppose to sustain the Stones through the day; they had just released “Some Girls” much to our mutual satisfaction.

36 Colonia Tacubaya is a smoky, busy sector with a hundred odors, baskets, colors, shapes and sounds and little stores, and long lines of people waiting for busses to take them from the Colonia to work farther into the center of the city or beyond. Constituyentes is its main artery that is walled off to the south by a six foot tall concrete barrier that runs several kilometers. Lázaro says the wall was built in

1968 so that the unsightly and impoverished barrio of San Juan would be ensconsed from the throngs of internationals and tourists attending the summer Olympics as they were driving along the boulevard toward the Olympic village. Exactly what Mayor Richard J. Daley did in the same year to the Chicago freeways; to hide the slums on the west side from all the delegates massing in what would become the most violent Democratic Convention ever convened, I explain. Shame of severe poverty is universal, I suggest, but not its solutions except for in the most civilized of nations. My colleague agrees. A few klicks west of the clinic, we turn left on to an unpaved, muddy street that is lined for a few kilometers with square, paltry cinder block houses.

Farther into Colonia San Juan, a flea-bitten mongrel walks in a circle with an injured front paw. In the middle of the track, an anemic, dirty pig stares at us and then trots into an open doorway. Three goats block the road farther along. Lázaro beeps the horn and parts them by slowly driving toward them.

We pull into a dusty open plaza where there’s just enough room enough to park. A score of people are in line; adult men wearing baseball caps and women and teenage girls in T-shirts and shorts waiting to fill up plastic gallon milk jugs with water from a hand-operated communal pump. Underneath the spigot is a concrete receptacle about as big as a man's coffin. A burro drinks from the tank as a man operates the lever.

"Welcome to Mexico," Lázaro says. I am so transfixed by the sight of these folks and animals sharing water from the same public resource, it takes me a while to respond. Again, I find myself awestruck. There is nothing in the south side of Chicago or north side of Milwaukee that comes close to

37 this scene.

"This is the fault of the pigs that run this country, who send their money to Switzerland and the

United States and couldn’t give a shit about people living here."

“Sí” is the only thing I can think of saying at this moment. I remove a package of Marlboro

cigarettes from my blazer pocket. Lorin suggested that I bring a couple cartons to distribute the much

sought after American tobacco as gifts. I hand him the pack.

"Norteamericanos?"

"Sí."

"Gracias, Juan. You don't smoke?"

"No, thanks."

"Por qué?" Everybody in Mexico smokes except me I guess.

"Es mal para la salud,” Bad for one's health.

"De veras, I need to quit."

"It requires two good-looking girlfriends Lázaro, each one naked on both sides of you in bed for twelve hours, and I think that might help you with tobacco cessasion." He averts his glance away from the street to look me squarely in the eyes.

"That's absolutely right my friend! How did you know?" he asks with an astonished and delighted grin. Lorrin said that Mexican men usually have a highly sexually charged sense of humor.

“La vida, life is much better in your country, no, tu pais?" It takes some time for me to think this through.

"Perhaps, but I'm worried sick that Ronald Reagan will be elected."

"I am as well, my friend, I think he will start a war in El Salvador."

"Yo también."

38 "Do you feel more comfortable speaking Spanish or English?" he asks in his native tongue.

"Spanish only. I need to learn. Necesito mejorar mis habilidades de hablar y entender tu idioma."

"Muy bien John! But I need to practice my English. Do you like the Rolling Stones?"

"Claro que sí!"

“I have my freedom but I don't have much time. Faith has been broken, tears must be cried.”

Twenty four hours of Stones and Lázaro saving to buy the casette Some Girls. I would never have imagined this.

"What do you think of Volkswagens?"

"I owned a squareback once."

"Un qué?" I try to translate “squareback.” Lázaro smiles in confusion but then understands. They aren’t making those here, just bugs, vans and rabbits.

Bumping over a narrow rim of track where the road is only discernible to my friend, I watch the small huts run up a long hill, the shanties made from cardboard shipping crates and old tires and held together with wire, branches, thatch, rusted scrap tin and adobe, or whatever else these people can scavenge, like weaver birds, nesting resourcefully from the oddest sort of refuse. Lazaro pulls over and we get out of the car to have a better look. Many of the shanties are perched perilously on a rise terminating in a mesa above. Normal, ordinary looking individuals walk along the rim of the path we are on, and bid us a good day, and we watch them wind their way downwards a hundred feet or so into a pit as big as a football field. Beneath us is the largest garbage dump I have ever seen. Little flocks of people are way down in there, picking quickly through the newly disposed refuse. Trucks are coming in and out on the opposite side, and vultures are flying around in filthy black clouds. I can't take my eyes off of the awful spectacle.

"Squatters." Lázaro says. "They come in by the hundreds every day from the provinces. This is

39 nothing. In the far southeastern corner of the city on the highway to Puebla there is a large plain. Every

winter it becomes inhabited by the indigent, the whole plain, forty square kilometers, thousands of

people. When the rain comes months later it floods and the people have to flee back to the countryside

or deeper into the city. These are the people of my country.”

I don't know exactly how to react. This reality is a miserable one. I thought I was a well-traveled

person but I’ve never seen anything like San Juan. Housing made out of cardboard refrigerator crates,

and old automobile tires. Having to line up for water and for fresh scraps in a garbage dump. Speechless, we get back into the car; and a while passes before words can form to what I am thinking.

"Have you been to the Torre Latinoamericano yet, Juan?"

"No."

"Let's go there. You’ll get a view of the city so you’ll have a better perspective on where you are,

Mexico, D.F., La Capital! I know a special taqueria where we can have lunch afterwards."

Lunch will seem undeserved after what I have just been made to witness. Lázaro pulls a U-turn where it becomes wide enough at the bottom of the garbage pit so we can climb up along the switchbacked rim. A couple more kilometers places us at the communal spigot of the destitute hamlet of

San Juan and its main drag that looks like Palm Springs compared to where we had just vistited. From here, he makes a right and we are again on Constituyentes, the six lane boulevard passing the American

School, the National Observatory, and a series of billboards and auto repair garages. In the foothills overlooking the hazy city center to the east we pull over to vendors on the side street selling sliced coconut and pineapple from their carts. Lázaro buys me a large disk of a sliced vegetable with which I am not acquainted. "Jícama." Sprinkled with ground red chile and salt it's another first for me. Tastes like a cross between celery and raw potato. Like everything else I've been cautioned about, I find it interesting and strangely delicious.

40 At one of only two skyscrapers in the entire metropolis, the Latin American tower, we ride the elevator to the observation deck on the fiftieth floor. The building rests on a water bed in case of earthquake, an expensive and elaborate engineering feat of which my guide is very proud. From our vantage point the volcanic basin of the Valley of Mexico can be appreciated in its breadth and length, a background to a spellbinding panorama of the entire city surrounded by mountains silhouetted in blue, brown and black, the peaks as sharp as bull's horns; the receding chains like great dragon's tails.

In ancient times there had been several shallow lakes in the basin. Built on the surface of Lake

Texcoco were the chinampas; the floating agricultural islands and, eventually, the elaborate city state of

Tenochtitlán, the Aztec capital. So pristine was the valley at that time, a Shangri-la of maize fields, waterfowl, wildlife and white towers, it would capture the marvel of the conquistadores so one in their company, Bartolomé de Las Casas, would write that it was more beautiful than any city in Spain, a Venice of the new world. I try to imagine the broad long causeways leading to Tenochtitlán from the mainland over the shimmering, shallow waters of Texcoco, the causeways engineered by the despised, oppressive

Aztecs and erected by their masses of slaves.

To the southeast, the twin cones of Popocatéptl and Iztaccíhuatl, the mythical lovers, rise to almost eighteen thousand feet from the central plateau which is already at seven thousand; their peaks are just visible above the clouds. Looking at them through the telescope, snow-frosted and crowned with a deep purple hue, they make a remarkably ornate and handsome couple, a magnificent and stunning presence. Up until two decades ago this valley was one of the precious earthly delights, the enchanted epicenter of eternal spring. Now it's leading the world in airborne levels of lead, cadmium, carbon monoxide, sulfur dioxide and asbestos. During the rainy season however, at least the atmosphere is rinsed once a day.

"Qué piensas?" asks Lázaro. What do I think?

41 "It's overwhelming, you have much to be proud of, son of Cuauhtémoc."

"Sí," Lázaro nods. "Claro.” After a while pondering the beautiful scene beneath, my friend says

“Let’s get some tacos.”

Progress is slow driving south on gridlocked Insurgentes but eventuially we find parking near a

two story joint “El Jarocho” on the corner of Manzanillo and Tamaulipas, across the street from Sears.

You don’t call it Sears in the D.F. as nobody will know what you are talking about. “Say-Arse,” with the stress on the first sylllable. A Jarocho is slang for someone from the state of Veracruz, as my associate discloses. The taqueria is overflowing with businessmen on their lunch break, which comes a couple hours later than ours in the states. One eats standing at El Jarocho downstairs at the counter for a quick businesman’s lunch, or sitting down unrushed at a table upstairs for soup and more elaborate dishes. The counter on the first floor encloses around twenty different bowls arranged in rows and columns; each one contains a unique preparation and title. I don't recognize anything but it looks and smells pretty good, all of it. Three guys in white shirts scoop the desired contents upon request, roll them inside a freshly cooked corn tortilla and pass them over the counter. And just as in my first taqueria experience, there's the obligatory indigena, mortaring maize in the back room. A bowl labeled rajas, slices of red and green peppers in a spicy cream sauce. Another called barbacoa; roast leg of kid like the "capretto" you might get at an Italian Church for their patron Saint’s festival. A third is made from potatoes, onions and cheese an au gratin papas. I want these. And they prove exceptional, muy sabroso. The Baskin-Robbins of the taqueria world. The tacos and Tamarindos cost little, I pay for lunch. Fantastic, thank you amigo, this joint is going to be another regular hangout.

Returning to Tacubaya, Lázaro guns a short-cut through a handsome colonial neighborhood shaded by old oaks, but the road quickly leads back into the tangle of the smoggy, congested western foothills and Colonia Tacubaya. Lázaro escorts me to into the office of el jefe.

42 "Think you will last a year here? Navarro asks. “The last Norteamericano went back after three

weeks in a box, remember!"

After an adequate time to ponder I respond. "I don't see why not." The doctor draws closer and almost examines the insides of my eyeballs all the way back to the retina like an ophthalmologist, with an expression on his face asking "You're absolutely sure?" I never walked away from a challenge.

The hellish clamor of the seething infants, the dreamlike mumbled prayers of the parents had apparently grown into nothing more than normal background noise for him.

"You can promise me at least a year's commitment?"

43 5: Crema de Cacahuate

September 28, 1980

Dear Karen:

Thanks so much for your skillfully and soulfully penned letters; they’re always a shot of warm brandy. It’s good to know you are well, working hard and having fun and that the Old Man is enjoying all of the waterfowl possible in the beautiful Willamette Valley. Give him a big hug and tell him how much I miss him.

I'm still finding small pieces of confetti in my hair, on my skin and underneath my eyelids from the flabbergasting Independence Day celebration last week in the Zócalo. The president, Jose López

Portillo, appears on the balcony of the National Palace and shouts “Mexicanos!” Everyone cheers like mad. That really cracked me up. The climax comes when he ends his speech with three booming "Viva

Mexicos!" just as legend has the murderous priest Miguel Hidalgo proclaiming when he set off the bloody drive for independence, in Dolores. You’ll be proud that I’ve become a minor scholar of Mexican history by the way. The fireworks display afterwards makes our Fourth of Julys seem tepid; like the Wauwautosa

Cub Scouts setting off a bunch of sparklers for crying out loud! I came close to being mangled by some of the explosives these fools were lighting on the ground, and did honestly witness more than one catastrophe involving a singed finger or eyeball. Nobody warned me that the local custom is to seek out the foreigners and let them have it with fistfuls of tiny confetti, close-in, right up the nostrils or square in the eyeballs. Man alive, did we gringos get retribution for our imperialistic sins over the centuries against the national sovereignty of Mexico last night! Plastic safety glasses are sold in booths all around the

Zócalo, my guess is to prevent permanent physical damage from the peculiar and hostile tradition of the confetti-assault. They do it to each other, as well. What an absolutely insane and annoying tradition.

44 Not much other excitement really, just an occasional trip to the Museum of Anthropology. You would enjoy those digs; an Aztec stone calendar, the jade jaguar and Zapotec bat god masks, it takes days to see it all. The Rivera murals are quite cool, especially the extraordinary one inside the courtyard of the

National Palace that recapitulates pretty much all of Mexico’s nearly biblical history.

To be honest, the city life is getting to me; I am becoming a little depressed. Mind you, I’m not self-pitying, well…all right, let me go off on a rant. Every single afternoon a cold, penetrating rain pours down, at a time by which one can set a watch. 4:20 PM. Men carrying heavy sacks of potatoes or limes, like mules, teenagers riding bicycles with six feet of newspaper balanced above the back wheel, arthritic old women lugging heavy sacks of corn around , these people are such poor beasts of burden.

Downtown, near a major intersection, a prominent billboard shows a blond, blue-eyed woman applying eye-shadow. Could be you, babe. Yet underneath there’s usually a line of a hundred indios, the dark skinned, black haired Native Americans wrapped in their serapes, waiting for the bus. Most of the population is indigenous but all you see in their media is the glorified Aryan woman with light complexion, just like you, sweetheart.

You should see my apartment; you’d be so ashamed of the petty bourgeois playboy I have become. It’s embarrassingly swanky, an honest to God bachelor’s pad of the sixties. But despite its posh, sometimes there's hot water, often times not. Once in a while without warning I'll be in the middle of a cold shower and then get scalded by an unexpected explosion of steam. Hot water heaters are way wrong here. This neighborhood is called Lomas de Chapultepec, "Hills of Chapultepec," named after the colossal park nearby which dates to the Aztecs and their worship of the grasshopper. I work in a noisy, smoky, congested rat-trap of a developing world hovel. You can smell the human excrement in the streets, the tripe broiling on the charcoal grills of Tacubaya, but one subway ride away Lomas de

Chapultepec can easily be mistaken for Wilshire Boulevard.

45 My landlords are reprehensible, can you believe I've grown to appreciate and respect the down- to-earth and reasonable Bill Kozak without waxing mad? As I write, my overlords glut on a fabulous meal prepared lovingly by their servants, but I am never invited to dinner or even for a morsel of leftovers.

They’re choking this country, living like the royalty they think they are. My rent is a fortune by local standards, $600/mo so I’ve decided to look for another place away from all of these rich white people.

I know I am ranting, but it’s therapeutic, please don’t be annoyed like you were with my last screed. Next complaint: the daughter-in-law. The landlord’s son is married to a woman from Dallas;

Connie. She’s quite the scandalous borderline psychotic of Lomas de Chapultepec, from what my buddy across the street tells me. She telephones each weeknight evening, and if I answer, it’s difficult saying goodbye, but she’ll knock on my door if I don’t answer the phone, asking if I’m all right and if there’s anything wrong. The telecommunication system here is pathetic, I’m always getting wrong-number calls, so I use that as a convenient excuse not to answer the telephone until it rings again. She requests advice on how to best raise her seventh-grader who I was asked to tutor three nights a week because he’s screwing up in school. The cardinal error of asking Connie if her husband was involved at any level in the upbringing of their son was a regrettable mistake on my behalf. She starts in on her husband, ultimately confessing that she’s not getting enough attention at home, herself. Please, I’m not old or wise enough to understand what it means when a married woman tells me she isn’t getting enough attention at home.

Could you kindly throw me a bone here? I have such a difficult time figuring things out in this world.

Jesus! Do you think Father O’Toole has the answer?

I find it hard to tutor her kid, Jimmy, when Connie is doing all the talking. He’s seems like a well- behaved and polite enough boy, I feel for him though. I think I’m the only normal adult in his life. And who’s to say I’m all that normal?

A message appears under my door after our phone conversation. “Thank you for your kind words

46 last night. If you ever need someone to have a heart to heart conversation with, if there’s anyone you

ever need to share anything with John, I am always here for you,” Connie writes me. Then, get this, her husband knocks on my door later the same night. He wants to have a talk with me about her. Says that she’s on a few medications, and in the event she should “try any funny business,” (he actually used the word frisky to describe her, horrors!) I am to inform him or his parents if he is away, immediately.

“No worries, pal. I can smell trouble a hundred miles off,” I told him and he thanked me for that.

We have a maid, she is old, heavy set and extremely frog-like; her name is Consuelo. Is she an overbearing moralist? Nosey spy? Constant provider of consistently unsolicited advice? I came home last

Friday evening toting two quarts of beer, she sees me walking up the drive and gave me a public scolding in front of our neighbor, Laszlo. Mr. Phillips did not want me bringing alcohol into the house. Consuelo says beer isn't good for my health. Laszlo told me I should have told her to go jump in a fucking lake. He swears at her and the Phillips in Hungarian.

“British asswipes,” he calls them. Laszlo says the Hungarians don’t like anyone. “We hate the

Germans the most, the Czechs a little less, and we sure despise the British though, those haughty boobs!”

What about Americans? I asked.

“Eh,” you’re too far away, but yes, we don’t like Americans either!” You’d like Laszo; he cracks me up. Did you know that the word asswipe first appears in print in Bellow’s “The Life and Adventures of

Augie March?” That’s something I learned in UW lit, honestly.

Consuelo is pushing hard on me; she’s both a servant and a boss. I ask her courteously and politely not to iron my blue jeans. She irons them anyway, creating a permanent pleat in the front, and my underwear too, with Catholic intensity. She makes sure I don't sleep late on the weekends and searches through my personal belongings when I'm at work. I caught her once looking through my desk drawer. I let old man Phillips know about it but he said I should never be worried that she’d steal

47 anything. I told him that I wasn’t worried about my stuff, just that my privacy had been compromised.

Here’s how to say asswipe in Hungarian: “Segglyuk!”

Oh yeah, my job. A two kilometer ride delivers me into a much poorer Mexico. I cram in to the

modern French subway car and ride one stop, from Observatiorio to Tacubaya. Get out with the herd, go

upstairs, amble three blocks to the right and then it begins as soon as I open the glass door, the

interminable wail of all the sick kids, the pile of diapers waiting to be processed, my students all tugging

me in different directions to look at one hundred gram stains per day, trichromes, bacterial colonies on

enteric agar, ending with my eyes aching from their inferior microscopes and the smog. The smog is so

bad here. My students are sharp and friendly though and I’ve made one friend, a guy at work named

Lázaro. Lazarus. I wonder for which biblical Lazarus he was named? He is not sure either. We have a mule-headed woman in requisitions who is a constant source of frustration and needless bureaucracy.

Trying to get simple things done here can take forever. You have no idea how backward this country is.

Did I mention that the driving is terrifying? Pathological in the city, a little safer in the countryside. I see a corpse, a victim of hit and run, dead on the sidewalk at least one every week.

Pedestrians pass by unfazed, as if it's expected. Yesterday I read an article in the American Herald Tribune about a local bus driver who ran an old man down and then discovered the poor fellow was still breathing. The driver then returned to the wheel and rolled over him a few times back and forth to make sure he was dead in order that the bus company not be sued! It's easier that way when the victim can't testify I guess, Interrupting the lynching of the driver that ensued, the police showed up and saved him from imminent death at the hands of the mob! Check out the enclosed clipping that I am sending so you know I am not making this shit up.

I want to do some traveling, see the countryside. In a bus of course! Next weekend I'm headed to the Pacific, primarily because it’s always raining in the late afternoons, just when I'm getting off work. If

48 it’s not too late after work, I ride the metro to the Zona Rosa or Garibaldi square to have dinner and a

beer; maybe if I’m lucky a conversation. Tourists are all over the place. But mostly I just come back to the

bachelor’s pad with a crossword, the New York Times, New Yorker or Esquire, almost anything just so I can keep up with what’s going on in the states and forget for a while how much I miss home. I’ve written more letters in one week than one lifetime, I think. People who have nary received a Christmas card from me in years are suddenly, and surprisingly I suppose, hearing from me. Thanks for reading the litany of complaints and taking this belly-aching seriously. I miss you and love you.

I’m not meeting many single women, honestly. If one does go on a date, a chaperone will accompany you at all times, a surviving custom from the Spanish epoch I guess when all the eligible females were locked behind the iron rejas. I met a fellow from Minneapolis who has been seeing a local girl, but even if they just want to walk to the corner to get an ice cream, he's got to ask her old man for permission. They’ve had minimal physical contact he’s disclosed, and Ed came down with such a bad case of blue-balls last Sunday he had to see a physician. His doctor suggested that he take up masturbation until marriage! For me, it’s going to be the monastery, but it will be Trappist so I can make you some good Mexican beer. Anyway, it's late, I'm raving, having gone berserk over ridiculous topics and I don't want you to think that I've really fallen over (even though I'm close to) the edge. Please keep writing.

Hope you are well and having fun. Can you send me a few boxes of Ritz crackers? And my favorite kind of peanut butter? The peanut butter sucks here. Crema de Cacahuate. You’re an angel. Love, John.

49 6: The Sea Nymph

Much to communal delight, the October winds blow the rain into the lower tropics, the smog is swiped clean out of town and the curtains are opened so that the massive twin volcanos can be fully appreciated. I'd almost forgotten blue sky. My attention is stolen by the glacier fields of the mythical lovers, whom I can admire with binoculars from my friend’s fifth floor rooftop apartment. A few

Octubrefiesta celebrations have recently erupted in Coyoacán, the Zocalo and Chapultepec, with the mandatory beer, bratwurst, and chicken-dance, just like home. There are more Germans here than I could have ever imagined.

This evening’s colors are cobalt and hot pink finger-painted into the cumulus and cirrus, the frozen vapor swirling purple and orange on the snows of Popocatépetl and Iztaccíhuatl across the immense Valle de Mexico. The legendary Smoking Mountain and White Woman, now so clearly visible, soar more than seventeen thousand feet above sea level, ten thousand feet above the dry lakebed of the capital, making a hypnotizing canvas for these new, crystalline evenings; Venus setting brilliantly after the sun.

The Náhua myth regarding their origin is somewhat of a Romeo and Juliet story but there are as many cosmogonies of the twin volcanos as are the tribes who have settled in their shadows. According to the Náhua; Izta, Empress of the Aztecs fell in love with Popoca, a captain from a different tribe. The

Emperor promised Popoca marriage to his daughter but he must bring him the head of an enemy chief first. But a warrior who despised Popoca sent a false message to the Emperor, saying that his army had won the war and Popoca was killed in battle. After Izta heard the news, she could not stop crying, she refused to go out and then quit eating. A few days later, Izta perished from a broken heart. During the preparations for her funeral Popoca and his warriors returned victorious with the requested spoils of war.

But the Emperor had to tell him that his rival had announced his death, and crushed with the news, Izta

50 had passed to the afterworld. Popoca was very sad. He took her body and walked a long ways. Arriving at the mountains, he ordered his warriors to build a funeral table where he placed Izta. Popoca kneeled down to watch over her and there he died of his own sadness as well. The Gods were moved so that the bodies of the lovers were transformed into great volcanoes. The tallest, Popocatépetl, often emits smoke, showing that he is still watching over Iztaccíhuatl who sleeps by his side.

I suffered the bus ride to Acapulco last month on the ill-starred Flecha Roja, the Red Arrow; a ten hour trip on a difficult stretch of bumpy, mountain blacktop that switchbacks over the hump of the Sierra

Madre Del Sur. Bouncing around like a jumping bean, banging my head on the luggage rack, I was repeatedly tugged by abrupt accelerations or decelerations into nearly indecent intimacy with a woman sitting in the aisle seat, who managed to remain remarkably cheerful about the whole nerve-shattering campaign. We shared a few swigs from a pint of Herradura I brought on board, and she told me that the cold weather in Wisconsin would certainly kill her.

Campesinos boarded at each major crossroad, lugging impossibly heavy sacks of limes, squash and potatoes. The Flecha Roja is Catholic mass over the speed limit. The driver had arranged an elaborate shrine to the Virgin of Guadalupe in the front of the bus just above the dashboard, featuring statuette, flowers, fetishes, silver hands and legs, other bizarre indulgences and a black light show to the tune of the Allman Brothers’ “Tied to the Whipping Post”, and B.B. King’s “Nobody Loves Me But My Mother (and she could be jivin' too),” blasting from a portable cassette player. Said driver, passing the slower traffic around the blind mountain curves, nearly precipitating numerous head-on collisions, was whipping that greasy old coach around the high Sierra at such a high rate of speed, I thought a blood-burning disaster was guaranteed. No wonder so many people die in flames on these defective old carriages, I am so very glad to be alive. Next time I will fly.

Acapulco smelled like gangrene coming off the bus in the muggy morning before the sun had

51 come up, the lepers, amputees and beggars lurking about, like surreal apparitions. An old man sitting on the curb, vomiting rum into his handkerchief. Cardboard shanties running up the hillside and unrestrained development metastasizing into the mountains; countless condominiums, these are the postcards of Acapulco I bring back. Even worse; boatloads of gringos and that’s not a euphemism. All of them the color of glazed ham; in the clubs and on the beach; behaving poorly for the most part, inebriated, loud, complaining about the slow service rudely everywhere they go. Where do they get all these obnoxious Americans? No wonder they hate us.

Back in the capital, enjoying a Bohemia after work at Anderson’s, I catch the Monday night football game on the big screen in which so far the Bears are in the process of humiliating the

Buccaneers. Mexicans love the NFL I have discovered. “Pinche Pittsburgh!” is a phrase I’ve heard frequently this season, “Damn Pittsburgh!”

But there’s a mild distraction in the form of a Toltec enchantress sitting at the table across the aisle in the company of another pretty girl wearing classic librarian’s glasses. She’s making brief but frequent eye contact and smiled at me once. My word, what a lovely, dark creature she is, in her perfectly fitting flight attendant uniform.

Bob Thomas kicks three field goals, one of them at forty-four yards. Mike Phipps completes two rushes and Chicago defeats Tampa Bay 23-0. The flight attendant and her friend seem happy about the outcome. This is a good sign, Bears fans maybe. Should I wander over and spark a conversation?

Introduce myself? Buy them a round of drinks? As I decide upon the later, as I’m feeling a little shy, I watch as they receive their change from the waiter and ready to depart. She looks at me again before

52 they walk to the door. Damn. Goodbye forever, beautiful Aztec princess.

As I am feeling sorry for myself and my inability to act quickly in situations like these, I notice an article they left behind. What’s that, just under their table? No one sees me strolling over and casually scooping it up while nobody notices on my way to the restroom. Back at my table, I take a discrete glance. It’s a Mexican passport for crying out loud. Nereida Barreras-Resendez, born October 14, 1955.

Her birthday is 15 weeks earlier than mine. Hmm, sweet pea, what a gorgeous photo, such a mischievous simean with those large interested brown eyes and toothy smile. She has traveled considerably; the U.S.,

Canada, Venezuela, Cuba, Guatemala and Peru. I will wait for her to return.

Forty-five minutes later I order another Bohemia. I do not see Ms. Barreras, so I return to

Chapultepec long before closing time.

Early the next afternoon I am excused early from work so as to return the passport in person to the itinerant Nereid before her evening flight departs. I called her last night to arrange a meeting, having found a listing in Phillips’ enormous municipal phone directory, a lucky guess based upon the combination of her uncommon surnames and first initial. She lives in Coyoacán, so I connect to the Indios

Verdes – Universidad line at Insurgentes. She offered to meet halfway or come to the clinic but I am trying to be a good caballero. Besides, I like Coyoacán, it’s a very leafy, tranquil and stately respite from the center of the city anyhow.

She’s almost my height I nlote, greeting me in the lobby of her apartment building, thanking me profusely, prettier than ever in her blue jeans and black T-shirt.

“I would have left the passport with the Maitre d’ at Anderson’s but I wanted to make sure that I hand delivered it to you instead, just to make sure you received it.”

“No, no, pasaportes are stolen so often, and they can bring so much money here John, I’m relieved you didn’t leave it with those guys at Anderson’s! You can’t trust many people in the city

53 nowadays. Thank you so very much! I would have been grounded tonight without it, and I am scheduled

to fly to Denver this evening.” I could have easily left the passport with the Maitre d’ at Anderson’s without a worry. But of course I wanted to meet her in person.

“I’m not sure how I could have left it behind in the restaurant, I thought I had it in my purse after cashing traveler’s checks. I apologize and thank you so much for your trouble. Please, come inside, have a cup of coffee and meet mi compañera de casa.”

Nereida smiles, motions and leads me through the corridor and inside a small apartment where I am introduced to her roommate, Julieta, whom I recognize from Anderson’s.

“Mucho gusto, Juan.”

“Igualmente, Julieta.” The apartment is partitioned into a small kitchen, bathroom and one sparsely furnished living space, enough for a single sofa, bed, roll-top desk and bookcase. Their main room opens through a sliding glass door to a sunny communal patio where three potted Chinese fan palms and two ferns surround a chaise lounge and lawn chairs. I am told to sit on the futon sofa,

Nereida’s make-shift bed as she explains. The rich chocolate explosion of fresh, dark, strong coffee is broadcast clearly friom the kitchen and tweaks my prefrontal cortex. Espresso Mexicano, with sugar by the heaping spoonful. Thank you, Julieta.

These are the first Mexican women I have met who aren’t living with their parents behind the rejas, I gather, although am not sure I should share that observation with them off the bat. But I am soon interrogated in a very friendly way. Where I live. My last name. Am I’m married? I’m happy to answer in the negative. Her bottom is absolutely perfect in those tight jeans. I lose my concentration following the curves of Nereida’s thighs.

"I should give you a reward," she says, looking into her fabric billfold that she picked up from the coffee table.

54 "Of course not," I reply, "I cannot accept money, just your friendship and perhaps a few Spanish lessons instead. I ran after you to find you but I couldn't in the crowd on the street.” This was somewhat of a lie. I refuse the cash she offers a second time.

"I had it out of my purse to cash traveler's checks and did not realize I had dropped my passport.

I’m not usually so absent minded."

“I wanted to say hello at the restaurant, but you were on your way out before I could overcome my shyness.“ I never thought of myself of shy but it sounds like better excuse than fearfulness and insecurity.

“De dónde vienes? Where do you come from?" Julieta asks. She is built like an Olympic gymnast.

"E.U." I fess up.

"Dónde?"

"Wisconsin."

"Ah, eso no conozco. What do you think of our capital?"

"I like it very, very much, muchíssima!"

"Que padre!" Nereida says, smiling. At first I thought this was in reference to a priest or perhaps my father but they explain it’s a euphemism for "cool." I was taught at the clinic to say “genial.”

"Dígame, tell me, are you one of the Nereids, the sea-nymph daughters of Nereus, protector of sailors and the shipwrecked?" The smaller one smiles widely, seeming surprised.

"Sí John, how did you know?" I only knew because I borrowed Edith Hamilton’s Mythology:

Timeless Tales of Gods and Heroes from the elder Phillips to get some basic research done on this cute little mamacita last night. He was up late and impressed with my requests although did comment that my breath smelled of alcohol and inquired again about my drinking habits.

A poster of Augusto Sandino is tacked on their wall, the icon of the recent Nicaraguan revolution.

55 Julieta is a dancer for the world famous Ballet Folklórico, Nereida explains, and they both love music and

dancing. The Sea Nymph works for Mexicana on the International circuit and helps support her mom and siblings who live nearby. She flies to Chicago at least two or three times a month, I learn; she knows it fairly well, including most of the major pieces in its Art Institute. She especially likes the Picassos and the

French Impressionists. She is crazy about the Chicago Bears and has been to two games in Soldier Field already this season. Small world.

"Where did you learn how to speak Spanish so well?"

"Muchissimas Gracias. I had a very good teacher in high school. Cuatro años."

“Café Mexicano.” Julieta says, appearing with three more little cups of espresso on a ceramic serving tray.

“Delicioso,” I reply, which it is, with a spoonful of sugar since it’s so strong.

"And what do you do? Are you extranjero, studying at the National University?"the gymnast wants to know.

"No, I'm working at Clinica Zapata currently, through a program funded through our Univefrsity and the National Institutes of Health.“

“Que padre!”

"Clinica Zapata? Do you know Enrique Navarro?"

“Of course. El es mi jefe.” This seems to have impressed them.

“We know Enrique,” Julieta says, which is remarkable in a city of this size. “Very well.”

“How so?”

“He is a personal benefactor of the Ballet, and we have performed a charity show for the benefit of the Clinic.”

Julieta finds a card inside a pigeonhole of the roll top and gives it to me, a guest pass to an

56 upcoming local performance of the Ballet.

“Muchisimas gracias!”

“May I bring you?” I ask the nymph. Maybe this is too much, too soon, but Nereida replies in the affirmative. Maybe she is just being polite.

She must telephone her superiors at B. Juárez to explain she now can now legally fly out of the country. I get the sense that Nereida’s in a bit of a rush to prepare for her early evening flight, so I tell them I should return to the Clinic. This is another innocuous lie, since I am done for the day. Nereida is interested in graduate schools in the United States. Perhaps she can discuss this with me sometime soon?

She writes her phone number and address on a slip of legal pad, forgetting I already had it.

“I don’t know too many people here,” I tell them, “so I am hoping we can be friends and you can help me better my Spanish speaking abilities. Thank you for the coffee and conversation. Here is my telephone and address.”

"Of course! If there's anything you need, any help we can offer please do not hesitate to call. I’ll be back after the weekend. Julieta will be home. I will call you once I have returned to the capital, John.”

“Maybe I can cook dinner for the two of you, do you like Italian food?”

“Yes! We will look forward to that. Thank you again so much, you are a gentleman, señor

Estrauss.”

A magnificent stroke of luck, I muse; the happenstance of meeting two single, chatty, flirty communists. Interesting and lovely, just what the doctor ordered. So I hum to myself on the bus ride to the Miguel Ángel de Quevedo metro station, and on the twenty kilometers of underground past División

Del Norte and Niños Héroes to switch lines at Insurgentes, and the subsequent eight stops to

Observatorio. Mexicans do not find this odd, since often I will not only hear a young person humming an internal tune, and often also singing the words. And they’re usually love songs.

57 The pesero brings me home, where the foothills define the western margin of the old lakebed.

From the upstairs window, Consuelo sees me walking up the street and decides to confront me at the gate, probably because I am toting two cold caguamas in a plastic sack. The poodles, who have never liked me, yap and yelp their little heads off.

"How many cervezas have you taken this week, Juan?” One doesn’t drink a beer; one takes a beer in Mexico.

“Look at me, Consuelo,” I begin. I was working hard, searching through those diapers all day long doing nasty, smelly, thankless, low-paying work. I, more than anyone, deserve my daily beer, I tell her in polished and emphatic Spanish. “Déjame en paz, por favor, mujer.” Nobody in Wisocnsin is going to give you a hard time for drinking a beer, for crying out loud, it’s encouraged as a matter of fact.

“Fine by me if you want to live in such bad health.”

The telephone in my apartment frequently rings, but the calls are rarely intended for me because wrong numbers are connected at an alarming rate, day and night in this city. Or else it’s Connie wanting to ramble on, free-associating in her exaggerated, theatrically sing-songy and goofy Texan English. So, I have learned to disconnect the telephone if I want any sleep. But just as I am getting ready to do so tonight, Nereida rings from the airport, where her flight has been delayed. I was hoping it would be her and that was the only reason I answered on the first attempt.

“I’m so glad you called.” There was a bit of a silence.

“I am so happy to have met you, John, and I’m sorry we could not have spent more time talking, discúlpeme.” She’s calling to invite me to her birthday party, at a larger house in Coyoacán; she says to

58 bring along whomever I wish. That would be Lázaro, and Ed from Minnesota, my two only friends so far

and counting, besides these two new communistas.

“It’s so unlike me to be that careless with my passport, but by chance, maybe we were meant to meet in this manner, do you suppose?”

Wow. The sweet sound of her voice shunts the blood rapidly away from my brain and I feel suddenly stupid.

“I believe in magic,” I tell her. “We shall be good friends from this day onward I hope, ojalá.”

“I agree. And Chicago Bear fans.” This was taking things a little far for me but I acquiesce.

“Of course. Thank you. I anxiously await your fiesta.” I wasn’t technically a Bear’s fan but I would be in the near future as part of the deal.

I try to fall asleep after saying adios, pretending she is lying next to me, and thinking of the Dark

Woman and the Smoking Man. She lights my fire, that's for sure. Too many synapses firing to feel drowsy now, so my mind wanders to Ed Blueballs, my friend from Minnesota, how he might like these two girls.

His game is exporting banana and coconut paste to the states in a pilot project for a dubious sounding start-up. Sounds suspiciously like CIA to me since he goes to Salvador now and then and doesn’t talk much about it when he gets back. There’s no way I’ll introduce a CIA spook to my two Sandinista friends, so I scrap the idea of inviting Ed. Even though he took me on the Flecha Roja to Toluca last Saturday, on

Highway 15, a city so high up in the Sierra it’s freezing cold at night and one needs a down jacket to keep warm. The lowlander runs out of breath walking around at eight thousand, seven hundred and fifty feet.

There’s not much but pure stands of tall pine, and above, alpine tundra at timberline. Ed says he’s seen it snow a few times in Toluca. We ate lunch in a crowded café with a wood fire going, keeping the patrons toasty and comfortable. Ed toured me around a market in the city center where among the ceramics and artwork, one purchases handsome, sturdy, blankets woven in the region. The wool is of an extremely

59 high and soft quality because of the altitude and cold climate. They're a simple and tasteful charcoal-gray

with no design or pattern, small white tassels at the ends, large enough to cover a queen-size bed. Soft and warm, they’re elegant, attractive and well-crafted. There were only a few tourists around, not many.

The blankets were selling for about eight to ten dollars each at the current exchange rate if you bargain well, considerably less if one buys more. There were hundreds of them around, so I bought a few of the best with the idea to give them away at the holidays.

“You’re pretty good at haggling, Strauss, how did you pick up that so fast?” Ed probed.

“I’m half Italian, Ed, it may be genetic.”

“I like how you kept telling that old woman, ‘Well, I’m not sure about that price, I’ll think about it and may return.’ That was smart. And it worked. Where did you learn that trick, John?”

Judge me as cheap and ungenerous, the rich American, bargaining down and low-balling the poor

Mexican peasant. Trust me, if you don’t bargain with them, they’ll be upset. They’ll think you the fool.

They want and expect you to haggle.

Thinking about Nereida, sleep seems far away so letting my mind wander, an idea takes form, a smoke cloud assumes shape. A typical University of Wisconsin student, living in the dorms or better, in the poorly heated student slums, might pay up fifty dollars for one of the high-altitude wool blankets from Toluca. They would be perfect for the long and hard Wisconsin winter and spring; the envy of all recent converts to that which is politically correct.

How best to market them? Organic, earthy, aesthetic and toasty-warm, made in Toluca, in the state and country of México. Target the students paying out of state tuition, the most affluent of the children who feel the guiltiest about their parent’s massive accumulation of wealth back in Connecticut, or Winnetka. Target those who feel badly about how America has beat-up on everyone in Latin America over the centuries. Organic Mexican wool. Here’s a way to help people south of the border. Channel the

60 guilt. Natural wool from high in the snowy mountains of developing-world Mexico. No cheap mass- produced industrial product, but artistry lovingly spun and dyed, an heirloom you can be proud of owning. Helping indigenous peoples in Latin America. Guilt, imperialism, rich American kids, poor, hardworking Indians and homespun natural wool. Not just ordinary wool but organic wool. No, you shouldn’t say “third-world” kids because there is only one world. This is what a wise old Indian woman told me, only one world, there isn’t a second or third. “Developing world,” dear students, that’s correct.

Wool is lana, and also slang for currency in México D.F. Wool equals money therefore; it should be intuitive. Natural, organic wool to help develop the indigenous peoples of the world, students. Why would you buy K-Mart when you can help this hard-working indigena, kid? Here’s a picture of the woman that weaves these blankets, by hand. Yes, she made yours. She lives in a city where it snows, high in the mountains of central Mexico. Fifty dollars plus Wisconsin state sales tax, yes we take credit cards. The student union at UW shall surely surge with new aspiring tycoons, heeding the call from the wantonly entrepreneurial and supply-sided Ronald Wilson Reagan.

How would the logistics work? I’d have to find a willing partner in Madison. Nereida flies to

Chicago regularly. Might she want to partner in the import-export trade? She could easily slip a few of them across customs without tariff, but how many could she bring at once? Who could meet her at the airport? Premature, I think, I’m getting way ahead of the game, scheming like this. I don’t know her at all yet, and it would be preposterous to make the offer without waiting an appropriate and respectable amount of time to ensure that we do indeed, become steady friends or at least business partners. As such, I will be patient, and test the water slowly and cautiously.

Sea Nymphs come to the rescue of shipwrecked sailors, not as Sirens but as daughters of the Sea

God Nereus. I imagine running my fingers through her jet black hair, and tasting the white teeth and dark lips of the Nereid.

61 7: Compañeras de Casa

“So, Meester Estrauss, let us hear more about your smoking-cessation therapy,” Navarro

requests upon my arrival to work; the first item of the morning’s meeting.

“Dejar de fumar?”

“Yes, what you told Lázaro about your remedy. Have you tried getting a patent for it?”

Everyone snickers, even the young girls. Naked in bed with two lovers in lieu of smoking

cigarettes. It’s a mistake to share information like this with anyone in Mexico because they soon tell

everyone else your dirty little joke.

“You have made a significant preliminary finding. Perhaps you should submit a proposal for

funding of a case-controlled study?” I think I am beginning to fit in, at Clinica Zapata. I had been warned of the many pitfalls of life in Mexico, and also of their surprisingly outrageous sense of humor.

Clinical microscopy is not unlike bird watching, I explain to my twelve charges. Many kinds of fowl look alike to most folks at first. Every city slicker knows the difference between a pigeon and a seagull, and anyone from age four can recognize the robin. Are they able, however, to spot the differences between the bobwhite and the bobolink? Divine the booby from the bushtits and the buntings? Know cockatiel from cockatoo, flycatcher apart from finch? We are birdwatchers not for amusement but for the infirm. By trade we must be as proficient as can be for those who suffer the worst of the dirty birds.

Welcome to our world: leukocyte; erythrocyte; thrombocyte. Rod, coccus and protozoan with some worm eggs on the side. Taking turns at the scope, I teach them how to distinguish thrasher from wagtail, woodpecker from nuthatch, the pewee and the pipit from the loon and the lovebird. A careful examination of tail feathers, beak, crown and nape will aide in recognition. Godwit, gnatcatcher, seed- eater, woodcock and yellowthroat, it’s all about pattern recognition. They laugh when I show them my

National Geographic Guide to North American birds, but it helps drive the point home. Speciating the

62 treacherous from the benign is our ultimate mission.

Zeller had a new Olympus microscope flown in, a double-headed binocular with an adaptor for the electrical system and even more considerately for general use upon my suggestion; a surge protector.

A fluorescence microscope will hopefully be forthcoming. Navarro is pleased; amazed by the view offered by the best teaching tool and workhorse available in its price range, he treats it like a brand new car that only a few should drive. I show them the stage lock, which will prevent any tragedies from occurring, and tell the students not to be afraid of it. The primary objective this week is to help them identify amoebas that cause dysentery, and contrast them with the less insidious protozoa and artifacts with similar morphology; specifically to differentiate Entameba histolytica from its close relatives E. coli and E. nana. I teach them how to calibrate the micrometer so they can accurately measure the diameters of these dirty little birds, an important consideration for the thoroughly scrupulous birdwatcher. Where there are many harmless relatives, however, one can often find predatory kin, this is the trick. Someday soon they will take these skills into the recesses of the city, or into the provinces when they return to their families, and hopefully pass their knowledge to a younger generation.

“Do you think that’s a cyst or a trophozoite, Paco? How many nuclei do you count? What’s the nuclear morphology? Do you see the ingested red blood cell? Keep looking around...”

Paco moves the slide from field to field and thinks for a while, squinting. “I think’s it’s histolytica.”

“Very good, bien hecho. I do too. Let’s save this one and make some more slides from the same little girl, can we? What is her name? We should send the rest to Madison, thank you. All right, who is next? Step right up and have a gander.” The new scope is a marvel to them, especially considering the antiquated equipment they’ve been working with. This is becoming fun, teaching. Zeller is happy with us, exploiting the treasures we are finding, validating the cutting-edge molecular techniques of pathogen

63 identification he has developed using the samples we send. He will owe me one someday; he already told me I was doing a good job.

Viewed in the scale of the miniscule, fecal matter becomes a morbidly spellbinding art museum.

Elegantly detailed fruit and vegetable artifacts, corkscrew-shaped muscle fibers of meat and other extraordinary structures in miniature, so brilliantly stained by the trichrome, it all mesmerizes my students. I could look through a scope all day, and I practically do.

“You’ll be able to tell a top sirloin from a pork-chop soon,” I tell them.

“Bruto!” Liliana protests.

“It’s all about practice and experience. The more you see, the more you’ll feel comfortable. You just need to keep looking at hundreds of slides, and we’ll compare notes.” Monkeys could be trained to do this kind of work I suppose, but I don’t share the thought with them.

I’m trying my best to provide quality training in clinical laboratory microbiology and hematology; what I am getting in return is learning how to swear like a real chilango. Useful words and sayings like my students are teaching me, if used suitably, will raise serious doubt as to how much of a tourist or gringo or both one really is. My favorite examples, so far:

“A poca madre.” Translated verbatim: “at little mother(ing)” or ill-bred in other words. I love this one. As in, “Ronald Reagan es a poca madre!” A variation is “tu no tienes madre,” or you don’t have a mother, making you a heartless bastard. You have to do something completely wrong to hear this one.

“A toda madre.” At all mother(ing). If someone tells you “estamos a toda madre,” it means you’re a new sibling, you share a mother; congratulations, you’ve just made a permanent friend.

“Puta madre!” Whore-mother. A righteous one to invoke when Terry Bradshaw completes an unlikely pass against your team. Or when you discover that you’ve just lost your passport.

“Me vale madre” means ‘I could care less,’ or ‘no biggie.’ Interesting that it means “my mother

64 loves (or valules) me,” at least that’s as much as I can make of it.

“Desmadre.” That which is dis-mothered, this is as close of a translation as I can muster. Aborted.

Useful in characterizing traffic jams on the periférico, or any other appropriate chaos, catastrophe or mess and is often used in conjunction with “totál.” Do you see a theme, a common thread emerging here? The mother at epicenter?

After having bragged about his residency in Internal Medicine and Infectious Diseases at Stanford

University, I asked Navarro why he returned to Mexico when he could have made a fortune in the states.

He said it was because his capiatl is un desmadre total, una tonteria! They need my help, that’s why!”

“Tonteria.” Ship of fools.

“Ojete.” Eyelet as the dictionary translates, but strongly means asshole, so you have to be careful using this one. Lázaro translated it casually when he introduced me to the term in relation to Ronald

Reagan, but one should avoid its use in polite company. I found that out the hard way. Thanks Láz!

“Huevón.” Lazy, useless person. Literally “eggster,” or more accurately “ballster.” Huevos or eggs are of course well-known slang for testicles in Mexico and one must also be cautious in asking for them in the market. “Are there eggs?” Is the appropriate question and never “Do you have huevos?” If that’s what you’re asking, you’re likely to get the following response from a man: “Si, tengo dos grandotas.” Yes I do.

Two big ones. From a woman, who knows how you will be accursed.

“Chingón.” Fucker exactly speaking, but in an extremely complimentary way. “Eric Clapton is great, but Jimmy Hendricks, el es chingón!

“Verga.” Animal penis, but also applying to all primates.

“Panocha.” An oven for baking long, narrow loaves of bread. I’ll leave the meaning of that one to your imagination.

“Mamón.” One doesn’t need to be a Latin scholar to figure this might mean “sucker,” which it

65 does.

“Mamar” means to suck in the way we use, but also to bullshit or lie.

The elderly ladies in the lab swear regularly, and so do Lázaro, Navarro and most of the students.

I also happened to spy one of the technologists, Socorro, purchasing a big marijuana bud from the guy who sells them from his lawn chair down the street from the clinic. She told me it was for her arthritis and headaches since I was curious about it.

The end of the week never comes too soon, and this Friday evening I hop an unusual combination of trains and walking routes, so as to arrive at Nereida’s birthday party at an appropriately late time. Lázaro bailed on me at the last minute since he got sick from eating something, he said. This is ironic but perhaps fitting for a fellow microbiologist. Luckily I have had nary a sniffle since arriving in country. I learned to come to social gatherings never at the time of invitation in Mexico, for you’ll be the first one who does, and your hosts will likely be still dressing. Waiting at least ninety minutes to two hours before the appointed time is the national norm I have learned by mistake. My timing is inaccrfutaely accurate; the party is already overflowing from inside of the sprawling hacienda in

Coyoacán.

After cordial introductions are made to Nereida’s mother and her two younger sisters who also thank me for returning the passport, Julieta escorts me to a spread on two long tables containing roasted corn on the cob, and my favorites: the famous chocolate-containing mole poblano invented by a nun in a convent in Puebla and mole verde, made from ground pumpkin seeds and fried green tomatillos.

Guacamole, roasted chicken and plenty of rum and beer to drink. Puerto Rican rum seems to be a favorite in Mexico. “From my country, mi pais,” I say, trying to make a little joke.

66 “No mames,” a stranger replies, “Don’t suck.” He offers me a cigarette, laughing. If you don’t gracefully accept the gift of a cigarette in this town, I’m afraid you’re being a Boor. So I had taken to pretend to smoke tobacco, just to be polite.

There must be at least one hundred people in attendance, and such pretty girls everywhere. I am drinking a piña colada made with fresh coconuts and pineapple in a blender, no mixes here, but the real thing itself. As I am hypnotized by the sounds and and taste of the tropical fruit and rum puree, a slender fellow with a goatee strolls into the courtyard with a joint lit up that’s as big as a cigar. He passes it to me of all the people he could have chosen, and I thank him. It’s rolled expertly. What a long while it’s been since I had even thought of smoking marijuana. I am surprised, not unpleasantly, to taste the burning flower. The man with goatee walks away, so I take a few more hits, thank you, muchissimas gracias. The custom here, I’ve heard, is to pass the reefer, but not like we do in the states. Everyone smokes as much as they want until they’re satisfied instead, before handing it over to another, who does the same until they are satisfied. With spleefs as big as this, everyone cops a good buzz, even Julieta’s and Nereida’s mothers I notice subsequently. Quickly overwhelmed with what I supposed might have been mediocre

Mexican schwag, I realize all too late I’m tr1shed beyond social acceptance and close to a vaso-vagal reaction; such a stretch since I’ve been this stoned. But it feels pretty wonderful, as it always did.

Meandering to the other side of the patio, I admire an old Chinese fan palm potted in a huge ceramic next to the bar. Container horticulture is the way to go in the D.F., I realize. The architecture seems so new and exotic now that I am so buzzed. Or is the weed helping me to finally take close notice? Is this baroque? Medieval? A strong Spanish influence certainly, the residences across the street that I can see through the portico, feeling so far away from home. But the temperature and humidity is perfect, and this is far from home in a wonderful new way, among these strange and fascinating orchids and bromeliads. Comfortable outdoor socialization would be impossible this time of year in Madison. And as

67 such, I realize for once that I’m not missing home too much anymore, not feeling sorry for myself anymore. While waiting for the barman to get around to my latest request, I am introduced to a cluster of schoolteachers working at the American school, the Colegio Americano in Colonia Observatorio.

One of them, Ricardo, in a black blazer, blue dress shirt, khakis and Gravati loafers, is a high- school chum of both Nereida and Julieta, I learn. He’s a devoted fan, and scnholar of delta blues he tells me after I disclose where I’m from. He proves quite knowledgeable indeed concerning American music, from Gershwin to Muddy Waters, but our conversation slowly twists into the history of the Maya salt trade and eventually comes around to a contemporary theme; the communal fear and loathing of Ronald

Reagan threading its way through the developing and developed world.

Everyone seems to get pleasantly drunk at Mexican parties, this is expected I suppose and it’s rude not to be. As such, Ricardo shares some secrets about his personal life, and how his common-law wife, with whom he shares a son, has just kicked him out for good and he is back with his mother way out in Satélite. He works not only at the Colegio Americano, but also at the National University where he teaches music and art appreciation. He also moonlights as an instructor in a cooking school. Busy man with a long commute.

"Do you know anyone that needs a roommate, Juan?" he asks. After thinking about it a lilttle, I concede that as a matter of fact, I do. I've been looking for a way to improve my Spanish and make a deeper connection to this country. I will vet him with the girls before I decide, however. Ricardo seems like an intelligent and interesting fellow; my rent is expensive after all, the apartment has a spare private bedroom and bath, and a guy like him might easily split the tab for beer it seems, from the way he has been drinking. He also has an automobile. I might see more of Nereida and Julieta by sharing the apartment with one of their friends, and he’d be gone most of the time working at his other jobs anyway.

I notice he has a following of sorts, these schoolmarms, in more need of male attention I surmise than

68 the pinch on their derrieres they were getting every morning in the subway. Maybe this is why he was jettisoned at home, I surmise.

I solicit, and receive a good report card on him independently from my two hosts. Nereida says

that Ricardo is one of her closest and most trusted of all friends, and how marvelous it would be for us to

be together if I should decide to accept his offer. Julieta offers a thumbs up as well.

Hecho, done. You can move in anytime, amigo.

When I get a moment alone with Nereida in the kitchen, since she has been mobbed all night, I

give her the birthday present, a small ceramic creamer painted with mermaids, in the bright white and

blues of Puebla, and a bottle of imported Italian wine, for which she thanks me.

“Feliz cumpleaños guapa, how are things, Nereida, que onda?”

“Good, John. I’m tired, I’m broke, I’m drunk, but I’m happy to see you, and to be with all of my friends and family.”

“You’re broke?”

“I don’t even want to talk about it. How are you getting along, John? You’re looking nice all

dressed up!”

"I'm really stoned, pedo!” I say, pedo means fart, but it’s especially applicable to having

smoked too much marijuana, or having had too much to drink, or both.

Nereida laughs. “Good!”

“Oiga,” I beg her, “Listen, I wrote you a little love letter. I mean, it’s not little, it’s a very long one.

Here it is.” I produced an envelope sealed with wax. Don’t read it now. Save it for your flight, Sunday.”

She is headed to Montreal. She seems surprised but not unpleased.

“A love letter?”

“Si.”

69 “De veras? Really? I shall look forward to reading it.” Just another crazy gringo, she is probably thinking.

An elderly gentleman dressed in a vest and bow tie walks into the kitchen, one of Nereida’s professors from the University explained as we are introduced. We chat a little small talk but Julieta breezes in, takes me by the arm and says, “Vengas, baila, come and dance, John.”

I’ve always liked cumbia, the traditional African-Colombian wedding dance music so popular all

around the Caribbean and played commonly by electric bands such as these at affairs like this one. It

induces movement by itself, an exotic, tropical and warm melodies usually in a minor key. Although I’m

not as graceful as the professional dancer, my new friend Julieta, I relax and go with the flow. There’s at least fifty people on the floor in the darkness, dancing together. Song after sweet song without break, live music and talented musicians. Wow, I realize, so stoned and a little drunk, I am actually having fun down here.

“Nereida likes you, John.”

“I like her so much as well,” I say, “muchíssima.”

“I do too. But what do you think about me?” she asks, “if I may ask?” a twinkle of light in her eye with a bold smile below. I do not hesitate to answer.

“You two are the coolest and nicest women I’ve met since I’ve been here. Tu eres muy genial,

Julieta,” I speak these words directly into her left ear so she can hear above the music.

“Tu crees? De veras?” So we dance onwards into the morning, until we are sweating, and almost physically spent. I notice Nereida watching from her bevy of admirers, smiling and waving.

“Do you know what it means, poliamor, John?” Julieta asks. “Que quiere decir la palabra.”

I’m not exactly sure of the meaning of this word but can make a decent guess. So I say “Sí,” anyway, thinking I should look it up later. Julieta smiles and turns her back, swinging her hips with the

70 rhythm of the merengue and backing herself into contact. I reach out to take her hands in mine and silently thank the victorious Chicago Bears for bringing us all together.

It's probably at least three now, and the crowd is slowly dissipating. At the gate, Nereida and

Juliet touch their cheeks to both of mine and my new roomate’s, as do the French in their style of cordiality. I'm on the way home with Ricardo, inside his red Volkswagen caribe, his rabbit, it was that easy sealing the deal. He’s even got a half month’s rent for me, in cash, en efectivo.

Driving through the more obscure of the cobblestone avenues of Coyoacán, the coyote’s home, still profoundly under the influence of stron cannabis, the sheer age of this capital comes alive in a moment of catharsis. We coast through the spider's web of narrow streets in trafficless grace, each with its elaborately embellished colonial facades, ironwork and blue azulejos, just as in the south of Spain, all amidst the ubiquitous, happy and luxuriant bougainvillea. Maybe some of the inhabitants of Colonia

Coyoacán are able to trace their ancestry to the time of the Aztec-Tépanec war in the early fifteenth century, Ricardo conjectures.

"You should make love with Nereida, she likes you, Juanito.”

“Really, de veras?”

“De veras! In time I will tell you some important things you should know about her. Nothing bad, just information you should know before.”

“Before? Before what?”

“Before she breaks your heart, as she has many who have fallen before you.” This makes me a little skeptical, but more intrigued. He’s not willing to say any more about this subject for now and will make me wait to find out more.

Ricardo knows the shortcuts and pilots his new caribe admirably and easily, and at such a high rate of speed; Mario Andretti with the added benefit of Mozart’s Don Giovanni turned up to almost full

71 volume on his above-average and thoughtfully composed automobile stereo system.

“Nice speakers and calidad of sound,” I remark. “Perfecto.” We talk about his love for Mozart’s operas during the long ride to Chapultepec; the Mexican history behind it, astronomy and physics, Darwin and the other great geniuses of the sciences and arts. I am impressed with his knowledge and ability to converse intelligently about apparently anything from microbiology to the origins of mankind in Africa to the origins of matter itself, this Ricardo seems a sort of Renaissance man. Gaping out the open window, intoxicated from that extraordinary marijuana, at every roundabout, I’m awestruck by the lavish fauna and Baroque fountains. In his last letter, Lorin struck an interesting chord. He wrote that I had complained excessively, but slowly and surely my eyes would be opened.

72 8: Ricky River Country

Tuesday November 4, 1980, the sun is setting on the presidential election north of the border but we seem so far away from it, getting stoned with Ricardo's schoolteacher friends in Pete and Dana’s rooftop patio apartment overlooking El Jarocho, our favorite taqueria. We're watching "Los Locos

Addams," a dubbed version of the famous television show "The Addams Family," presented with even the theme sung in Spanish.

Bulletin: the screen shows a worried, well-dressed middle-aged man in eyeglasses, sitting at a desk with his hands folded on the desk in front of him, conveying what I can’t believe is the news that

Jimmy Carter has just thrown in the towel. It’s only 9:01 PM on the East Coast, he has to be kidding. The polls in the West haven’t closed, why is Carter giving up so early? Can my comprehension of Spanish be that mistaken, or had I completely lost touch with the political circus in the USA? I translate for the

Norteamericanos, two coaches from Massachusetts who are elated to learn of the early landslide victory.

They’re boasting about having voted for Reagan. Pete, Dana, Ricardo and I are dumbstruck, numbed, maimed. Ronald and Nancy Reagan; already victorious. They might as well not even count my absentee ballot. Goodbye states, hola Mexico. So glad to be here, after having just received this news.

Movie star and public relations man Reagan successfully auditioned his way into the most portentous responsibility this side of hell. General Electric and Twenty Mule Team Borax recast the 40's

Roosevelt New Deal Socialist Reagan as corporate-friendly, iron-willed cold warrior and patriot for the privileged. Most Mexicans I know are afraid he will help fill many shallow graves in El Salvador and pave the way for another invasion of Nicaragua by the U.S. Marine Corps. Uncle Sam wears not the avuncular top hat with which we are familiar, but south of our border he is a bully; fully mistrusted and despised.

We have, after all, made martyrs out of many of the Latin American heroes, directly or indirectly.

Sandino, Madero, Guevara, Allende, Rivera y Damas. The list continues in real time with the recent

73 killings of schoolteachers, union organizers, journalists and clergy. No wonder their distrust of us runs so deep.

My mind wanders through the scenes of Reagan’s victory party in Beverly Hills, Just watch that lil’

Nancy gal go, and then back to Los Locos Addams. One set of movie monsters changed back to another. If there's any good time to be out of the United States this is it.

My social life has improved exponentially since Ricardo moved in. But old man and Lady Phillips were thoroughly galled that I let such a feral aborigine slip through the cracks, into their cultivated and highly coveted estate in Lomas de Chapultepec.

“You allowed him to move his possessions here, without asking for our permission?” The misses began.

They’re good enough to rent his Chevys, but not good enough to board, apparently.

“Listen young man, contrary to what you believe, Mexico is not a natural extension of the United

States, so you should discard the naïve notion that everyone is equal here. You Americans can be hypocritical, don’t you think?” he asks, stressing the words equal and American with extra derisiveness.

“Your Ricardo, whom incidentally I know from the Colegio Americano, does not fit into the fabric of Lomas de Chapultepec. My neighbors won’t stand for this.” Ricky is one of Jimmy’s teachers, the littlest

Phillips attending the American school. Small world, here in the city of twenty megapeople.

"Considering what you're charging for rent, I jumped at the opportunity to split the expense; after all it's quite dear for Mexico City, please correct me if I am mistaken. I could also use the Spanish emersion.”

"There's plenty opportunity for language lessons in the city," Mrs. Phillips pouts. She seems a tiff more than her usually bland form of upset today.

"I knew you wouldn't be able to afford it on your salary," Maurice reminds me, a third time.

74 I had broken the penurious covenant of Phillips, the last descendant of the lost tribe of

Guernsey, a clade of gangly colonialists.

“The nerve of that American!” I overheard him muttering as I returned to my quarters.

Apparently the only Mexicans authorized to enter Casa Phillips are their employees. The night before, shy young criada Maria knocked on the door to summon me into the old man's study. He closed the door and motioned for me to sit down in an easy chair surrounded by a cloud of his freshly exhaled prune- flavored pipe tobacco.

"Consuelo informs me that you bring a considerable amount of libations into this house, young man," Phillips said behind a smirk, obviously annoyed.

This may be correct by his standards. I pleaded nolo contendere and feigned interest in an antique map of the English Channel hanging on the wall behind his oaken desk, featuring Guernsey Island in the center. It smells like onions in here, water-damaged books, aged leather upholstery, and years of pipe smoking.

"She heard women laughing in your apartment at night. What has been going on in your quarters, John, and what kind of company are you bringing into our house if I may ask? And I will ask."

Ricky cooked dinner for us Saturday night. Julieta, Nereida and I watched carefully, asking questions and learning how to execute each painstaking step of concocting the traditional mole verde.

The kitchen ended in a complete mess, un desmadre totál, every pan and dish crusted with the impossible schmutz of baked-on tomatillo and ground pumpkin seeds. We were drinking rum and wine and yes, there was laughter and mirth. I didn’t know what to tell the old man. I had no idea that he would go into anaphylaxis over the two well-mannered and urbane young ladies who have become my favorite new friends. That spying worm Consuelo.

“Something’s wrong when women are laughing at a dinner party?” I ask. "Phillips, we're paying

75 you over six hundred dollars every month for an apartment that sometimes has warm water, sometimes

not. You’re complaining if we have friends over for Saturday supper?"

"I'll be God-damned if that kind of behaviour goes on in my house!"

"What kind of behavior are you talking about?"

"You know very well Mr. Strauss. I'm giving you one warning. Good evening."

Ricardo Ríos-Campos - “Ricky River-Country”- we call him that since his name is translated into

English as such. Watery Wetlands is another nickname we’ve developed. Good fishing. Lots of ducks. Just like Wisconsin. “Pato,” his Friends baptized him, the duck, precisely because of the way his mouth and lips are shaped. In turn, he has christened me “puto,” which translates as ‘cherub’ in the dictionary. I’ll leave the rest of the connotations to your imagination. Ricky Pato has been a godsend to all of his friends, the suddenly tight group woven from his new and old ones, helping us through the innumerable

Mexican bureaucracies, driving us around in his rabbit to not only where we need to go, but also to what he feels we need to see in his city and environs.

A housemate who is a talented chef is an additional and unforeseen benefit. Guacamole with vine ripened tomatoes, always with fresh cilantro. Scrambled egg and chorizo sandwiches on white bread toast with mayonnaise. Roasted chicken with home-made mole poblano, no cans or jars for Ricky, he buys directly from the markets. He drinks enough beer to be elected honorary citizen of Milwaukee

County. I’m enjoying learning the colorful Spanish of the street as well as the company of the rotating harem of European girlfriends he has assembled, who attend the National University on their generous government stipends. What sheer luck, the mere act of being born Swiss or Swedish.

76 I’m getting to be good friends with this salt and peppered Mexican devil, who had salvaged cassettes, cowboy boots, an impressive Italian wardrobe, Nikon F-3 and automobile from a broken common-law marriage. My knowledge of Mexican history, churches, architecture and ability to speak and understand Spanish has grown exponentially thanks to his friendship, and his many chums and contacts.

His dad was the son of a Basque who came to the new world from Spain to escape Franco's bombings. His mother is a descendent of the ancient Olmecs from the jungles of Veracruz province, the oldest known civilization in the country. In this way Ricardo becomes the microcosmic Latin American, the very marriage of Spanish and Native American peoples which personifies his unique culture. Last night over beers he bragged that when thirteen, his father caught him unfastening a schoolmate's bra in his bedroom and resolutely slapped him to the floor, hollering out a terse "NO!" Ricky’s replete with boastful little confessions like these, all themed around his premature sexual prowess. How he once helped host a Cuban women's volleyball team at the University and ended up making love to a young black athlete who kept him captive in bed at her hotel and forced him into repetitive, painful, violent intercourse until he could no longer endure sex and his penis was ravaged useless for months. It’s hard to tell if he’s bullshitting or relating interesting and vivid memoirs, but it makes for entertaining Spanish lessons at the least. He sure fancies the schoolmarms; intimate with at least two of them as far I can tell, on separate occasions, sending me out for fabricated errands with his caribe so he can make love to them while I am gone, or occasionally during the middle of the workday on lunch break - confirming the worst suspicions of Consuelo and Company.

You all have Nancy Reagan to deal with up there, and you can just say no, but I say yes to the many drugs she abhors. American womanhood is taking a dangerous turn to the right yet I pursue love with a pot-smoking communist and am rapidly the helpless victim of a Sea Nymph’s many charms, her ship-wrecked sailor. I feel the sexual tension heating up between us, interrupted only by her flying

77 schedule. She’s out of town most of the time so in the meantime I write love letters. In doing so, I detailed a business proposal regarding the possibility of Nereida’s willilngness to fly a few Toluca blankets to Chicago, just to see how things might play out. Surprised that she eagerly accepted, as her mom or sisters are always needing extra cash, she managed to compact and stuff ten of the best queen-sized

Toluca blankets I procured and not too much else into her carry-on bag. Taking an extra piece of luggage aboard might raise suspicion.

Tommy met her at O’Hare, as I was able to enlist him as partner. He’s almost finished with an

MBA and is interested in the prospect of making some pocket change, so he signed up as an official vendor at the Union, like so many other apprentice entrepreneurs inspired by our new, Republican, supply-side president. Fingers crossed, we’ll see how it goes. Nereida and I lit candles to Omobonus from

Padua, patron saint of businessmen and cloth workers inside the Metropolitan Cathedral of the

Assumption of Mary, before her flight, where we made out a little bit in the pew, since we were pretty much alone. We left, holding hands.

Over guacamole and the scrambled egg and chorizo sandwiches that he has found to be my favorites, Ricky asks me if I am falling in love with her.

“Maybe.”

“There is no maybe if you’re truly in love. But be careful with your own heart, John.”

“Why?”

“Nereida asked me to share something about her and Julieta with you, as she is afraid it might come as somewhat of a shock, un choc, if you don’t have a prior clue.”

“Go on.”

“She will also tell you before she makes love with you. That’s going to be soon I can tell, because she is an honest woman and has shared that she holds a special affection for you, putito.

78 “OK.”

“Nereida prefers the company of women to men, do you know what I mean? She much prefers their compañia, not that she hasn’t on a few occasions had a love affair with a man.”

“I understand. I understand well. Entiendo bien.”

“She’s only had a few boyfriends, novios, in her life, including me, whose heart she broke many years ago, muchos años pasados.”

“Aw, sorry amigo, that had to be tough.” We sit eating, slowly, in a silence that is broken when he admits that he had asked her at that time to marry.

“Well Riqui, my cousin Dierdre, who has told me that she is a lesbian, thinks that most women are bisexual, deep down inside. Perhaps they’re not, I’m no expert, and maybe she’s biased. But if

Madison is a fair sample of the rest of the world, which maybe it isn’t, then I know there are many women who are sexually interested in other women, or are at least curious about having a physical experience with another woman. Don’t you think it’s the same here?”

“No.”

“Well, maybe it is, but you’re just not asking in the right way, or is there a strong social taboo against it that prevents people being open about it?

“Yes Juan, this is a very Catholic country you have to remember.”

“To be totally honest with you Ricardo, sincero, I suspected something is going on between the two of them, and it really doesn’t faze me in the least.”

“I became jealous, Juan, tan celoso. I didn’t want to share her with Julieta or any of her other girlfriends or boyfriends. She believes in polyamorous relationships, but that proved to be too emotionally difficult for me. I wanted Nereida to be my wife, and mine only. I became depresionado when she told me her honest lifestyle and desires that she could no longer ignore or suppress. I took an

79 overdose of sleeping pills and almost drank myself to death, I ended up in a coma, in the hospital.”

“I’m sorry, friend.” He looked up from his plate. “But as was written by someone, I’m not sure

whom, that if you want something very, very badly, then let it go free,” I say.

“She will break your heart in two.”

“Perhaps she will. Bring it on then, I adore her. I’m not a jealous lover.” Ricky studies me as if this comment has lessened my manhood in his judgment.

“Do you know the Alfred Lord Tennyson poem, ‘Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?”

“Of course, porsupuesto, Juan.”

”I love her. I might lose her, I might die of heartbreak from that,” I admit. What Ricardo had just told me only made me want her more than ever, and Julieta, there was tension building between all of us, I feel, as well.

Learning of this, I had better cut my drinking in half. And swim and run and work out at the gym at the American school. I need to get in better shape if I’m going to be Don Juan. Is it morally wrong to want many lovers, of opposite or the same gender? Both? Since I was brought up in a God-fearing, tight- knit, Roman Catholic working class neighborhood, my immediate and resolute conclusion is that, hell no, it’s not wrong, fuck those idiot priests. Life is short and we deserve all the tender loving care we can muster in this dangerous and cruel world; female and male.

Alcohol cessation will have to wait until tomorrow. We’re out of beer and still thirsty. Ricardo taught me a good trick - how to buy booze after legal closing hours within the city limits. By law, the liquor stores must close in the early evening, but if one raps a peso coin periodically and patiently over their closed metal sliding door, waiting a good five minutes or so, a few select merchants will open up gingerly for a quick and illegal sale of a caguama or two. The penalties are potentially severe for this kind

80 of mischief so it takes a considerable amount of rapping and waiting. But I’ve never seen it fail.

Mexican Communists believe that everyone can, and should privately own the latest and most technologically advanced stereo system and automobiles as well as waterfront property in the Caribbean.

This is possible in a Marxist state, they assure. Ricardo is not unlike Nereida and Julieta in this assumption.

Ricky and his brother took part in the student-labor coalition that amassed in the Plaza of the

Three Cultures during the doomed protests before the 1968 Olympic Games were to take place in the capital. The Army opened up on the demonstrators with helicopter gunships from above, and tanks and automatic fire from across the square. Nobody is sure how many people were killed, estimates go as high as five hundred. To this day the Mexican government has refused to release the remains or accurate autopsy reports on the victims. Ricky and relation escaped genocide by ducking beneath a parked car and waiting until the shooting was over. The nefarious incident known as the “Tlatelolco Massacre” occurred

October the second, in a large square linking Aztec ruins with a sixteenth century colonial Spanish church and modern apartment complexes, hence the three cultures. Tlatelolco; the very site on which the Aztecs ultimately were vanquished.

"What were you protesting?" I ask as we drive through Chapultepec.

"At that time many colonias lacked running water, sewers, garbage disposal, electricity, paved streets. The government was spending billions on the Olympics instead. The trade unionists and students from the Politecnico objected. They organized. And many paid the highest price for doing so."

Mexico is not the best country in which to be born if you take naturally to dissent. The government has borne a long and brutal history of reckoning with opposition and outspoken journalists.

The Federales or the Autonomous National Judicial Police as they are officially known, patrol the countryside in jackal-packs. These thugs shake down and intimidate the poorest and most defenseless of

81 the populace. Common and poor Mexicans are manacled in oppression; one doesn’t need to be a genius to perceive this after spending a few weeks in country. Ricardo was blacklisted by his government in the early 1970's; prohibited from leaving Mexico because of his political activities. Now that he’s working for the Americans, he thinks he might be able to finally get a passport. It takes some doing if you’re some poor blacklisted schmuck without political connections.

In the meantime, Ricky is the ambassador of good will, warming us to his country and family and conglomerate of friends with full hospitality. I’ve met his brothers, his son Alejandro, and his mother, also an exemplary cook and interesting, well-informed person. On the weekends, packed with cassettes,

(Chopin, Koko Taylor, Gershwin, John Mayall, Victor Jara and Beethoven piano sonatas) Ricky drives us far from the city, to visit relics in the countryside; sixteenth century Spanish monasteries, and to the temples of Teotihuacán erected well before the advent of the nomadic Aztecs into the Valley of Mexico. The mummies of Guanajuato, San Miguel in the mountains, the latest archaeologic digs; museums and markets, Ricardo should have been a tour guide, we remind him. There’s way too many of them in

Mexico he explains, and they’re all rip-off artists according to his better judgment.

Besides teaching seventh grade science, Ricky’s best buddy from the Colegio Americano; Charlie, plays hockey for a local amateur team. If you've never seen hoqui sobre hielo, “hockey over ice,” played in Mexico, you're in for quite a treat; the Keystone Cops with Tourette’s syndrome. The cussing and insults hurled at one another’s mother in such games is exaggerated but of course reminiscent of home.

The ice is choppy, like what Admiral Bird had to deal with. No Zambonis here. Charlie, from Hudson

Massachusetts is known as huesos in the D.F., “Bones.” His wife Betsy was a disk jockey before becoming an elementary school teacher. They were living on the beach near Puerto Vallarta on almost nothing before deciding to work in the capital. Now, both were sure sorry they left Bucerias behind but I had become good friends with them in a shot amount of time.

82 The first of the month was an extraordinary national festival known well outside of Mexico as

"Día de Los Muertos," Day of the Dead," derived from All Saints Day in the Roman Catholic tradition. The colonias, especially the more destitute, exploded with flowers; storefront windows and markets decorated with candy skulls, confections and breads featuring the macabre, lighthearted and sarcastic motifs of the departed. Skeleton musicians playing instruments in an orchestra, bony pigs and cats, a full wedding party of the departed; priest and bridesmaids included. Death comes welcome to many in weary

Mexico, I gather, and it is received well, so contrary to our culture of denial. No vale nada la vida. Ricardo and I accompanied Nereida's family to whitewash her father's gravestone at the cemetery in San Angelo.

Nereida left him a bouquet of marigolds. That evening, her mother set a four-part warm dinner on the table and left it all night long for her departed husband, parents, aunt and uncle.

Hanging out with Charlie and Betsy and some of the faculty from the Colegio Americano, I am made aware of a conspiracy of American women that came to Mexico City seeking wealthy Mexican men for marriage. Some of them admit it outright the first time you meet. They’re always telling me how polite they are, Mexican bachelors. I take that as meaning how impolite we are as American men in comparison, and I can see where they’re coming from since the Mexican guys treat them like absolute queens. These girls are here on a husband-hunting expedition, to net a rich and polite Mexican husband from a family with good teeth, traceable Spanish heritage and a boatload of servants. That certainly wasn’t Ricardo though, he gets by on his animal magnetism and culinary skills alone I suppose.

I am quickly learning that any half-witted gringo can be king or queen in Mexico; hire inexpensive servants and live high off the tax-sheltered hog. Ronald and Nancy Reagan and all of their cronies; I don’t like Americans anymore and I shun most of them except for a precious few.

83 9: In Which It Is Suggested That We Get the Hell out of Lomas de Chapultepec

Nereida phones at work and asks if I can meet for lunch at Sanborns, the Macys of Mexico D.F.

She’s home, finally. I walk to the subway and meet her in the Insurgentes plaza so we can indulge in a well-worn city tradition, the world-famous suisas, the bland and hearty “Swiss” enchiladas upon which the lily-livered traveler could subsist without suffering turista. Nereida is dressed in a grey muslin blouse and black skirt, looking like a billion pesos, according to the current exchange rate. We have something to celebrate as she flew back from Chicago with $166.67 as my share of the arrangement.

“Wow, maybe this will work. Should we should bring him another ten, the next time?”

“Si, como no, my sisters can use a few more things.”

“Thank you, Nereida, when do you go back to Chicago?”

“I am not sure.”

One hundred and sixty odd bucks don’t seem like much but in the D.F. it’s a small fortune. It could buy three days at the beach, but for Nereida’s sister Selena it meant new, imported running shoes that Nereida shows me.

“Nike Magnums. Sweet.”

“How do you feel about the election in your pais?”

“It sucks. Mierda.”

“De veras! How could that have possibly happened?”

“Norteamericanos are insane.”

“Our countries have at least one thing in common.”

“We are more so, I believe.”

“In many ways, yes.” She looks into my eyes and smiles.

“Speaking of extranjeros, may I please hear your imitations again? I’m feeling silly and need to laugh.”

84 The girls are amused by my rendering of Charlie’s Massachusetts accent, Connie’s Texan drawl, and a strong Irish and Scottish brogue, all in Spanish and English. But Nereida’s favorite is my imitation of our friend from the Netherlands. Theo speaks Spanish and English, but with an extremely thick Dutch accent, and worse, is teaching English to Mexican businessmen.

With all the phlegm I can muster: “Oy doghcht vit moy doghchter." I talked with my doctor. Theo is a bit of a hypochondriac. His students will undoubtedly complete his course speaking an incomprehensible and guttural Rotterdam gibberish that will largely be unrecognizable in the states or

U.K. as proper English. Nereida thinks it’s hilarious. She has a wide sense of humor; it will be important to keep her laughing.

The plates are whisked away and we are finishing coffee. Nereida takes my left one in her right, I rotate her palm upwards and we hold hands, sitting across the table.

“Have you ever read any of the writings of Anaïs Nin?”

I had, indeed. “Pretty spicy, pica, que no?”

“Si! Tell me, dígame, John, how do you feel… what are your thoughts about Mexican women?”

Many thoughts come to mind.

“Sobreprotegidas en la mayor parte.” Overprotected.

“Yes, in most households very much so. Anything else?” I look up, from our hands into her eyes.

“They’re beautiful.”

“You like them?”

“Muchíssima, of course, who in their right mind doesn’t?” She studies me so seriously, pretty

Nereida.

“I do too,” she says, “muchíssima. And I mean I love them, literally, in bed with me, naked.”

“I know, Ricky told me.”

85 “I asked him to, just to save the time if you object to how I have decided to live my life. I’m telling you now because I really like you, tu me gustas mucho, and I don’t want you, Juanito, to be hurt, or angry as another has been when I confessed la realidad, my true identity and heart. If this is a problem, at least now you know better than later.”

Repositioning, I hold both her hands tightly and keep my gaze fixed deeply into her eyes.

“Thank you for being honest with me. To be sincere, I am not hurt or angry in the least.

“De veras, Juanito?”

“To the contrary, I’m fascinated.”

She lets go, and retightens her grip on both my hands.

“If you love someone,” I say, “set them free.”

“Don’t get me wrong John, my Don Juan, I like certain men too, but I’m extremely selective. I hate macho types.” She lets go of my hands to open her purse.

“I’ll get this,” I say.

“No, it’s on me,” she replies, “let’s celebrate the beginning of an open relationship, Señor

Estrauss, my import-export business partner, let me pay.”

“Thanks señorita, I’ll leave the tip.” She asks for our check.

“I’m very discriminating about the men I let into my heart,” Nereida says. “It doesn’t happen often.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Machismo is a turn-off, I detest macho-acting men. I don’t like the pushy and controlling or jealous ones, the way my father treated my mother, I won’t put up with those who whistle at us or grope us, or those who are always trying to give us advice, what we should do to change to be more beautiful.”

“I understand completely.”

86 “Most of the young men in this city are still little boys, my friend. They live unemployed with their mothers who do all their cooking and cleaning and laundry, it’s sick. Then they get married and expect the same from their wives. It’s the women and only the women who hold this country together, and keep it from collapsing into an abyss of alcoholism and laziness!”

“Sounds very Italian,” I add, “although Ricardo is an exception, que no?

“He is, certainly, and you’re absolutely correct to say he’s the exception. I was so impressed with your amigo, Tomás as well. All of his friends were so polite to me. They cook, they wash dishes, clean house; they treat women as equals, and the girls are so hot! Rubias, I want all of them!” Blonds; German,

Polish and Scandinavian blonds, they are ubiquitous throughout Wisconsin and Nereida picked up quickly on that.

“Madison does have its share of babes. Do you want me to set it up for you, next time? Who did you think was the cutest?”

“Sí! All of them, todas! You must think I am such a little slut, don’t you?”

“No. Just call me Sancho.”

"I'm glad you feel that way, you're amazing Juan. Sancho – Ja! But I am about those women. "

"Thank you, mi cariñosa."

“Are you sexually interested in men?” she asks.

“Not particularly,” I reply. “Although I am good judge of male looks, I think.”

“It doesn’t matter, as long as you’re true to yourself. Madison pleases me very much; maybe I will make an application to attend the university there. There’s such good marijuana they grow there, hijo,”

Nereida says. And as a second thought, "I've not made love with a true blond woman, but tengo ganas, one of my goals.

“You could study Dairy Science at that Univesity,” I add to her amusement.

87 Tommy, Jerry and the regulars treated Nereida as a visiting princess I gathered; I had requested they do so. She was showed around, fed, driven from and to O’Hare without delay or hesitation.

“I like Madison too, but the winters are long and horrible. It doesn’t warm up until May and the cold winds begin to blow in October.”

“But it’s such a wonderful town, so accepting of people of all types and religions and sexual preferences, from all over the world.”

“Well, pretty much.”

“I don’t get along with most Mexican men, Juanito, Ricardo is the only one anymore, really, and I love him dearly. But I like boys like you; small, funny, independent, soulful, willing to accept me for the brash bisexual brujita I am, and who will not want to lock me up in the cage of monogamy. You are genial, señor, estamos a toda madre.”

“I don’t believe that everyone is born to live a lifetime in a monogamous relationship, amor.

Monogamy works well for many but not all people I know. I won’t attempt to control you; I want you to enjoy sexual and personal freedom. I am not a moralista, by any standard.” Moralista and serio, these were words with negative connotations in the D.F.

“I will always be honest with you John, and let you know what is on my mind and in my heart and what my actions are. I want you to feel freedom in turn. You should sleep with Julieta when I’m out of town, or when I’m here for that matter, she thinks you’re very cute, you know?” My heart soars like the condor.

“I’d like to watch you make love with her and then join in.”

“De veras?” I ask.

“Sí”

“You are in a relationship with her?” I didn’t need to ask.

88 “Yes, we’re very close friends, as close as sisters, but not monogamous. Pillowcase lovers, in reality. When I was a precocious twelve year old Juanito, I started becoming aware of how turned on I was, enamorada with a woman’s naked body, the woman’s touch and voice.”

“Same here, Nereida.”

“I kept it a secret at that time, although I had begun experimenting with a schoolmate.”

“I see. I didn’t keep a secret, or conduct any experiments with schoolmates, unfortunately.” This made me feel as if life had suddenly passed me by.

“She eventually felt overwhelming guilt and confessed. She was punished; her parents placed her in a Catholic school and prohibited her from seeing me. But we had a very passionate first affair.”

“Please continue.”

“I kept the secret for many years, until I understood that I was not being true to myself. I feel cleaner and happier with myself now that I am comfortable knowing who I really am.“ Nereida’s mother was made aware and had come to an acceptance, although difficultly, she says.

“You are beautiful,” I say, “inside and out.” Nereida smiles, she knows she is.

“And you are my handsome güerito,” her little whitey, she calls me. Güero is an appropriate and generic term for each and every “white” person in the D.F. It is my name on a daily basis to those who don’t know it, as it applied legitimately to any light skinned human male and of course for females: güera.

“I find you very attractive, and good company. And such a good cook”

“Same here, sister.”

“We will make love soon I hope, I want that very much, but we’re going to have to take it slowly at first, I’m not ready today, but someday soon, very soon, when everything is just right, because I want our first time to be perfect. We will both know when it’s the correct moment. Can you be patient with me?”

89 “I promise to be a gentleman, un caballero.” Nereida is going to make me wait for sex, and I will.

“I am much anticipating the moment. It’s been so long since I have been with a man. Julieta and I, we can get ourselves worked up to a frenzy with our toys and tongues and fingers, but…there comes a time at the end of all of that, after we have aroused each other, that we have both been craving a good

man to finish us off lately.”

“Well spoken,” is all I could think of. Is this a dream I am wandering into? If so, Morpheus, please

do not let me awaken.

“A man we can train.”

“Train?”

Yes, we will train you in our ways and how you will win our respect. We need a man, a man just like you; little, cute, funny and obediente.”

“Obedient?”

This is my lucky day, I guess. Although obedience training sounds more for the canine.

“Mi bonita, I have to get back to work. When will I see you next?”

“Can I accompany you to the Ballet some Saturday night I am in town? You must see Julieta on stage.”

“Si como no.”

There she is, Maria at the door. I have learned the precise nature of her four-syllabic knock, which reminds us of the brown-shirts coming to visit, the Stazi to ask a few questions, Señor Estrauss,

Señor Phillips wants to see me. Venga. Oh-oh, what now?

90 "How much do you know about your…your Ricardo?"

What has he done this time? I wonder. “Enough to trust him completely, why?” I answer,

confidently. A moment of silence elapses.

"Consuelo and I recognized the stench of marijuana in the entrance way this afternoon after your friend came home for lunch in the company of a young lady, or should I say girl, or perchance even tart. Listen here son, I'm not blaming you because I know you possess the God-given sense to have nothing to do with...that...but just you realize that I'll be God damned if anyone comes in to this house lit up on marijuana!" Maurice shouts the word “mareechhkwanna” with a more lively sing-song and guttural phlegmy inflection of the jota than the Mexicans can come close to.

"The next time this happens, I'll inform law enforcement."

"You needn't worry," I say, "we'll be relocating." This is true, Ricardo found a vacant cabaña in the mountains west of the city that is offered for $90 per month in rent. He drove me so I could check it out last weekend. A rent reduction, more than six-fold.

Maurice has a peculiar way of reddening and holding his breath. I know what to do when I see the signs of a stroke, though, un golpe. I thought he would be glad to get rid of us.

"I knew you wouldn't be able to afford the apartment on your salary," he reminds me, time number four, shaking his head.

"We'll be vacating the premises Sunday."

"You understand that I'll need to keep your security deposit as payment for the next month's rent." Since there’s nothing close to a Tenant Union in Mexico City, I suppose I understand.

Later in the evening, Ricardo returns.

"You and Deb got stoned on your lunch break, didn't you?" He has the look of a guilty child, like one of a set of hand-carved "Mexican devils" I had just purchased during the day of the dead

91 celebrations.

"Sí."

"Pendejo told me all about it."

"I know."

"He's going to call the police."

"Sí."

“Well then, we need to get the fuck out of here before we both end up in the slammer!”

"Sí."

Ricardo had just introduced me to a Mexico I would have never known otherwise, notably the idyllic and pastoral mountain villages west of the city, off of Highway 15 which goes to Toluca and beyond; a hidden treasure of the motherland not accessible to the ordinary tourist. Through a colleague at Colegio Americano, Ricky found the charming little cottage; a cabaña that is part of a bucolic gated compound in the cold alpine village (altitude 9,294 ft.) of San Lorenzo de Acopilco; one half an hour’s ride by private automobile, an hour by public transportation from the western edge of the capital. The exit from Highway 15 winds and climbs for ten kilometers of two-lane, up a lush green valley planted with tall blue agave in the mist of the majestic Ponderosa pine uplands. It ends at the top of the mountain where a stone chapel of St. Lawrence sits overlooking most of the northern edge of the Valle de Mexico.

Secluded in a green, peaceful compound, our rustic tile-roofed white stucco cabin has two bedrooms, a kitchen, bathroom, hot water heater and shower. Ninety dollars rent includes firewood for an iron stove as it gets chilly when the sun goes down and does snow on occasion way up here. The views are of mountainsides thick with pine, swans in the courtyard; pigs, goats, sheep and dogs wandering freely

92 around the enclave. Crisp blue skies, cold mornings and sunny afternoons; it's hard to imagine a climate like this in the tropics. I‘ll need a Toluca blanket to keep warm at night way up here where the partial pressure of oxygen is perceptively lacking.

Across from the village road, the meager cottages in our little hamlet are squeezed together tightly, some heaped on top of one another but comfortably as in the Anasazi’s Mesa Verde, clustered in a bordered compound defined by the landlord’s largest and sleekest dwelling at the center with its modern picture windows and unique architectural design. All around laundry hangs, geraniums bloom, stray dogs wander in the empty road, and always in the early week mornings, school girls in their blue uniforms and clean white stockings waiting for the trucks to give them a ride down valley. A hog enclosed in a wooden cage near the bus stop snorts discontentedly. The agave is grand, and seems to me like oddly upturned, green octopi. High above the city, above the smog, the newcomer might needs to catch their breath with every tenth step at this considerable altitude. But no one needs to hurry in San Lorenzo de Acopilco, time floats in the ethereal lightheadedness of timberline. The cry of a peacock, the braying of a mule, the huffing of a bull; this is a Mexico closer to the Silver Age than to the twentieth century, completed with an active pulquería.

Thursday evening, I help Jimmy Phillips with math homework for the last time before we move out of the apartment. He’s having trouble concentrating.

“O.K., now, as I said before, let’s divide each side of the equation by this denominator, so we can eliminate it from the side where X lives. Do you see how that works? That’s how we get to X equals four times Y over three?”

“What is that? He asks instead, distracted by the mess on one of the escritorios. He walks over and picks up, my God, a big bulging cola of marijuana that Ricardo carelessly left out in the open.

Somehow I missed noticing that before Jimmy came a knocking. Shit.

93 “That’s a special spice for one of Ricardo’s moles,” I said sternly. “Leave it alone.”

“I know what this is!” Jimmy declares. He waves it around, holding it by the stem, dancing. “I know what this is, I know what this is,” he sings. “Na-na-na-na NA!” He stomps, delighted with himself and what he’s just found.

“Give that back to me, Jimmy!” I chase after the little bastard.

“Na-na-na-na-na,” he mocks, singing, before darting out of the apartment with our gigantic cola.

94 10: Saint Lawrence of Not Exactly Arabia

Throughout my evening hikes to the grocer, an entourage of anywhere from five to fifteen curious children typically followed me up the long and steep hill to the chapel, a considerable workout above nine thousand feet. They’ve never been so close to a real gringo before, I guess. But when I ask them polite and friendly questions in better than tourist Spanish, it deflates the alien a bit and takes the bite out of the zombie. Eventually, however, they would lose interest in me altogether.

Early weekday mornings Ricardo drives me to work on his way to the Colegio, when he’s not at a sleep-over with girlfriend of the week in the city. Otherwise I cram into the peseros or ride the bus to the

Observatorio Metro station, their last outpost on the northwestern edge of town. I sit on the right side of the coach, next to a window if I can because at dawn, descending two thousand feet on Highway 15, a spectacular view of the sunrise plays out; flaming crimson stripes erupting over the snows of the Smoking

Man and his Lady, and Venus sparkling above them in the eastern air high above the lights of the city. I wait for Quetzalcoátl himself to appear out of these exotic vapors and vivid colors. In the evening on the way up into the mountains, the immeasurable sprawl of lights recede farther and farther below, spreading out all the way across the flats to the edge of the blue and black ridges of their eastern limit. It isn't the whole city but only a fraction, giving me only a hint of the sheer enormity of the entire megalopolis, a vast and rumbling ocean of light.

Since relocating, we have become enormously popular with our friends, who treat the cabin as asylum from the metropolis. Even the Reagan-worshipping hockey hulks come to San Lorenzo to let their hair hang down. Michael from Oslo, Theo from Rotterdam and gorgeous Suzi from Zurich come for a visit

95 today. This morning we set off on a hike where the village blacktop tapers off a few hundred feet above

San Lorenzo’s square, and a mountain path begins through the pine and pink fireweed. The trail follows the east side of a cirque carved by Ice-age glaciers, where a cool wind blows from the alpine tundra and a spring runs cold and clear through the wildflowers.

“To you tink it’s safe to trink?” Theo asks.

“Hell no, amigo. Ever heard of Giardia lamblia? I guess they don’t have that in Holland.” I bore them with a lecture on pathogenic zoonotic protozoans. Suzi eats strawberries, she admits, and hasn’t become ill, yet.

“Russian-roulette, Suzi, I’d be careful.” I offer to give her a tour of the clinic. Microbiologists, most folks believe, perform absolutely repulsive work and they’re largely correct.

Two miles or so through the solitude brings us to a small settlement that is reminiscent of a set for a Western movie. At first I am wary to venture into it, thinking that I have stumbled upon a civilization previously lost to rest of the western world. Nothing more than a rickety log cabin with a tin roof, surrounded by a short stone wall. Five chickens cluck in the open coop behind, breeds I’ve never seen.

When we turn beyond a thicket to follow the path I notice a woman tending a small charcoal grill, a

Japanese hibachi, under the boughs of a lone Mexican pine. She speaks a language to a young girl beside her that seems indigenous, I assume this is her daughter, but they converse with us in Spanish. They’re out here in the middle of nowhere, selling tacos with fresh tortillas to those who wander in the woods, and they tell us there are many hungry hikers that come through on a beautiful Saturday afternoon, like this one. These are the people that inhabited the continent before Columbus let the cat out of the bag, the conquered ones. They treat us as if we were any other regular customers and the mother acts as if it were perfectly normal that four strange güeros should appear, miles from their homes.

The tortillas are thick, oily and warm. Whatever she is grilling is a little tough but tastes good. It’s

96 better many times not to ask what sort of flesh one is offered. We order more tacos and Tamarindo

Jarritos for less than a dollar for each of us. I ask where she gets ice way up here, and for the name of this little settlement. Santa Rita de something or other, a very Indian sounding name. It’s only a few settlements strung along the path, chickens, goats and pigs, enveloped by the tall pines and the smoke from her grill. No matter how far off the beaten track you get in Mexico, there may be tacos waiting for you at the end of the line.

I am enjoying San Lorenzo. The air is clear, and there’s hardly any traffic on the road. The forests, far from the honking city, are lovely. Forty five dollars, nada mas, spent on monthly rent means that we may dine out every night, bargain and trade in the marketplace, and accumulate a museum of crafts. No wonder so many gringos retire here. But the altitude is a killer, it knocks me out. It’s cold at night and you never know when the shower is going to surprise you with a blast of scalding steam. That fucking hot water heater sounds like a 747 getting ready for takeoff when it reaches its stride. The way it violently vibrates, rocks back and forth and hisses, I’m afraid it’s going to blow shrapnel all over the place someday.

This week, earnings from sales of the Toluca blankets exceeded that from my salary at work.

Nereida is a shrewd businessperson. She was able on her own to sell some in New York, Montreal and

Denver. Because her English and French are flawless, Mexicana keeps her primarily on the North

American circuit. River Country lets me borrow his caribe to drive to Toluca, closer to San Lorenzo than it is to central Mexico City, where I can bargain my little fisteras off, make a wholesale purchase, and deliver the goods to the flight attendant at the appropriate times. She’s been honest, and so has Tommy,

I know cause I’ve been keeping good books. I grew up with Italian grandparents who thought everyone was out to cheat each other, friends and relatives included. Tommy and Jerry, Midwesterners to the core, have been true and they’ve kept up their end of the bargain. Tommy’s taken a shine to Nerieda I realize;

97 in his last letter he asked if she’s my girlfriend.

So, why should I work?

“Que bonito es, no hacer nada, y despeus de no hacer nada, descansar,” says the handsome blue and white glazed ceramic ashtray from Puebla I bought last week. How sweet it is to do nothing, and after doing nothing, to rest. Indeed, this is the national philosophy of Mexico it seems; it all makes perfect sense to me.

Could I fall back upon teaching English, like Theo, and kiss the eight-to-five goodbye? At least every single businessman from the D.F. wouldn’t sound like Peter Stuyvesant on their first trip to the states. But that’s crazy, why did I come down here in the first place? They’d hate me at the clinic. “Don’t quit your day job,” I hear Uncle Akvavit telling me, as he often did when I assured him I could make a living from music.

Late Saturday afternoon, I dress in my best ropes and fasten the seat belt in the caribe, next to

River-Country, on our way to pick up Nereida so we can get to the Bellas Artes in time to see Julieta on stage at the Ballet Folklórico. This ensemble was founded in 1952 by Amalia Hernández, starting with eight dancers. Now Julieta was performing with forty-nine other artistas, Country explains as we drive down into the bowl of the city.

“Nereida, you look stunning this evening.” She usually has simple and elegant taste in clothes; but tonight is a little more creative, dressed in the traditional outfit for a male in Veracruz; white shirt, white pants and red necktie slipped through a silver clasp. The only thing missing is the sombrero, I tell her. I sit next to her, at the Palacio de Las Bellas Artes, holding hands, Ricardo on her other side. Nereida gives me a soft kiss on my right earlobe and I follow suit, tasting her lips for a few seconds.

98 “Tortolitos,” Country says, lovebirds, “nag eet aff!” I had taught Ricardo how to discipline his

gringo middle school students with the omnipotent “Knock it off!”

Nereida explains the three types of Ballet we will watch this evening, the Danza, the Mestizo, and

Regionales. Ricardo, Julieta and Nereida are all Mestizos. I wasn’t mixed with anything, except trouble; I feel so white here. The regional dances represent the north of the country: Nuevo Leon, Veracruz for the east, Nayarit in the southwest, and five other regions spanning the Yucatan, Central, and Southern

Mexico. As she continued, Nereida was politely interrupted by a gentleman sitting to my left, who overheard a smidgen of English between us.

“Goot evenink,” the gentleman says, “Excussse me, but I learnt English now and like practice with norteamericanos eef OK?”

“Good evening,” I reply. “You’re doing really well! How’s it coming? It’s really a difficult language, chingada, no?

“Si!” he says, grinning, but he is proud of himself so I let him run with it.

“What have you been learning, so far?” I asked, speaking slowly. He’s excited to let this one out:

“Eshticks und eshtones may break my bones, but chghwords chghwheel never chghoort me!” He says this with a fearful guttural juddering, as if he’s trying to produce a sputum sample.

“Dat goot?”

“Who is your English teacher, if I may ask?”

“Chghees name ees Theo Dijkstra, chghe vrom Holland.” Theo Dijkstra, Theo of the dyke. I thought so. I smile. Deek-shtra. Is there a spittoon nearby?

“You’re going to have the thickest Dutch accent of any English-speaking Mexican man in the capital,” I say. “But that will probably be OK, do you travel to Holland?”

“No. U.S.A.”

99 “Well, here, please listen carefully: We say sticks, not shticks like they do in Rotterdam. Sticks and stones, stones, not shtones, may break my bones, but names will never hurt me. No G before a vowel, or J sound like Spanish in English. Soft H, aspirated a little, not as much as they do in the

Netherlands or Mexico.”

“Can you tell aghchain, slouw?” I repeat the saying for him, slowly and at an increased volume so the annoyed woman sitting in front turns her head and stares me down.

“Ess-teecks and ess-tones…” I felt Nereida jiggling my side with her elbow, in giggling vibrations.

I was about to clarify that every time he heard a “Sh” sound from Theo with an S-impure, that he should assume that a pure S is there. But this would get complicated with English words beginning with

Sch.” Fuck it, I thought. I don’t care if every Mexican businessman flies out of here sounding like Alfred

Heineken.

“Do you teach English, you are norteamericano?”

“Sí, I could,” I replied, “I’ll give you my card after the show.”

The lights dim to total darkness and the curtain opens.

100 11: El Reclusorio Oriente

Julieta appears in three of the nine dances of the evening. In the first, she is a mestiza in a baile from Guerero, a Pacific coastal state south of the capital. It begins with Congo drums beating and eight

Africans in ankle-chains swaying, raising and lowering their hands in unison. Twelve whites materialize from backstage, they open the the ankle chains with keys and split the group of slaves to their sides, separating the men from the women. The women furl European dresses toward their men but six of them encircle the African women instead. Enter Julieta and her mestizo companions, dressed in white pants and shirts, topped in palm-weave hats; their feet in sandals. I’m no Einstein but this sexual allegory is not cloaked, to say the least. The number erupts into a rumba climax booming from the strings of the orchestra, and the all players waxing and waning in a big, breathing mass. Ricardo leans behind Nereida to help me interpret what we have just seen.

"This represents the melting pot of Guerrero,” he whispers. I already figured that one out, so I just nod.

The next number comes from the northern frontera. Accordion players and guitarists in cowboy- hats serenade a squad of silver-studded charros who waltz with their partners to a polka, paying homage to the influence of German and Polish immigration into the state of Nuevo León.

Julieta performs in the following danza; she’s one of the many Huastecas of San Luis Potosí, wearing multicolored ponchos and woven yarn headpieces. The length of the hair ribbons determines a woman's marital status; long meaning single, short; married as Nereida informs.

“It’s important to know the difference at times,” I say.

“Sí,” she says.

After intermission, we watch an indigenous conch dance, and the jarabe of the proud, sombrero- flaunting charros of Jalisco, the original hat dance. During the last performance, Julieta stomps her way to

101 the outer ring of dancers in white shirt and guayabera pants, sporting the traditional red waist sash and

straw hat of Veracruz. The violin, xylophone and harp players let loose a bamba, and a huapango ending in a flamenco fanfare. The center of attention is the monarch who, during the finale, pulls up the sides of her wide pleated green skirt to spread the wings of the nationally iconic butterfly.

The applause and gritos are deafening. Julieta looks amazing in that outfit. I am impressed with the sheer energy and warmth of the perormance.

We say goodbye to the businessman, I leave him a card from Clinica Zapata and Nereida takes us backstage to the dressing rooms.

"You are amazing, Julieta!" I say, “Geniál”

After she has changed into a Fleetwood Mac T-shirt and blue jeans, we go out for drinks in the

Zocalo. Listening to their conversation of remembrances, trying to comprehend as much as I can, I hear story after story of a populace menaced by its government. Their stories of intimidation are frightening and spellbinding. I run out of anything meaningful to say except to offer condolences.

Ricardo, always a generous chauffeur, offers to motor us southbound to Coyoacán. He’s looking at a night in Acopilco without me, as he has his latest amor Nancy from the colegio staying up late, grading term papers and enjoying the pastoral tranquility of San Lorenzo as a deserving respite from the city.

Shoes are always removed at the doorstep, a Japanese-like house rule at Casa Girlfriends’ front entrance. Inside their apartment I wait on the futon as Nereida finds her favorite radio station on the stereo, a different one from Julieta’s favorite. Nereida has a fancy for West African music; she introduced me to the Senegalese Youssou N’Dour and Orchestra Baobab as well as a few Malian artists that I now like. She suprises us in a University of Wisconsin T-shirt and matching gym shorts from her last trip to

Madison. It’s a “Fuck ‘em Bucky (Badger)” T-shirt.

102 Ha, my alma mater red. She does look sparkling in that outfit, illicit, the splendid curvature of her

bottom filling out those shorts tightly. Cold water is brought from the refrigerator. We have brushed our

teeth and washed our faces.

The Sea Nymph lights a few candles, turns off the lamp on the roll top, and opens the sliding glass

door a little ways.

“Are you cómodo, comfortable, mi italianito?”

“Muy.”

Julieta turns off the lights in the bathroom and kitchen. Sneaking behind me, she runs her hand along the back of my neck. Pleased more than startled, I turn and smile.

“That was an incredible show,” I say. “Thank you for the ticket.”

"I'm contented that you finally came to see the performance."

“Wait until you see the next show, la danza de los viejitos.” The dance of the little old people.

Julieta rolls a joint; lights and passes it to me, the guest, to have the first sample. Not wanting to be shitfaced like a fool, I take a single hit and pass to Nereida.

The girls sit smoking until the joint is almost consumed; I’m getting higher from just being in the smoke cloud, listening to the sweet harmonies and treble electric guitar, saxophone and Wolof of

Orchestra Baobab. Wolof seems to have been certainly influenced by Spanish in a way that makes it nearly comprehensible to us. All we can understand of one of their songs is that it’s about young soldiers. A cool breeze enters through the open door, the curtains swaying slowly. Muy suave.

“Have you ever been taken advantage of by two women, simultanesouly?” Nereida asks.

“Brujitas?” Little sorceresses.

Julieta smiles widely, looking at me, her lungs full of smoke.

103 “Can’t take advantage of the willing, los despuestos,” I reply, as she exhales the last of the

Oaxacan sinsemilla and extinguishes the roach in the mosaic ashtray. Julieta drinks a 12 ounce tumbler of ice water in continuouis gulps and then motions for me to move to the center of the sofa, placing the tumbler on the stand and settling on my right side. I put my arms around both of them, leaning back on the cushion, kissing their necks, one after the other, feeling their hair sweep on my nose while they share a long open mouthed kiss, their hands on my legs, moving them upwards.

"What a lucky little monkey I am. I am so glad I met you two, you don't know ," I say, trying to convince myself that this is real.

“Shine on me sunshine, walk with me world, it's a skippidy-doo-da-day,” I sing Donna Fargo’s

1972 hit to them as I run my fingers gently up their spines, moving them slowly to the nape of their necks, massaging underneath their occipital lobes, and back to their coccyges and then lightly underneath their panties, kissing their cheeks and ears as they continue making out. The girls take breaks from each other’s lips to kiss me, one after the other. Nereida’s mouth tastes like the sweet corn she had just snacked on, and toothpaste.

“Was I cultivating any friends? A social life?” Joe asked in his last correspondence. Joseph, if you only knew. I’ve never taken part in a threesome that I remember.

But then, their telephone rings. And it continues to ring and ring and ring, to impolite and startling repetition. So loud, that damn old phone. We ignore, and it eventually stops.

“Probably a wrong number,” Nereida says, “I hope.”

Resuming, I kiss them behind their ears, trying to reestablish the fantastic rhythm we had going before the phone knocked us off balance, caressing their backs, up and down. But something has been lost. Julieta unbuttons my shirt, starting at the collar. She does so slowly, placing kisses on the tip of my nose and lips between each one, and pulling the sleeves free, she slides her hands under my T-shirt.

104 “That feels nice,” I whisper, as she runs her hands over my chest, and I feel Nereida’s tongue inside my left ear; her hands tugging around my waist and moving downwards along my legs.

Just as I turn to give her a long and wet kiss, their goddamn telephone starts ringing again. This time it doesn’t stop. Relentless.

“Pull the cord from the socket, should we?”

“I hope everyone is alright,” Nereida says, worried. She answers.

“Bueno?”

Julieta turns my head so she can give me a kiss straight on.

“Ay, dios!” Nereida shrieks, and signals to lower the volume on the stereo. “Yes, I can hear you.

What happened?” Her eyes dart around the room as she processes what is being told to her. This takes a minute.

“We’ll be there as soon as possible.” She hangs up, the color drained from her face.

“Que pasó?”

“Ricardo has been arrested.”

“For what?” I ask, immediately fearing Jimmy Phillips had ratted on us and Ricardo had taken the fall for the large cola that he filched.

“Stealing Yazmin’s automobile.” Yazmin is Ricardo’s common-law wife. She signed a firma stating he had stolen the caribe. According to Ricky, they had been sharing the monthly payments by written agreement, he had been using perhaps more than his allotted time. Yazmin is a jealous, unforgiving woman, the two of my friends relate; politically connected as well, very highly so. One had to be to get someone behind bars so quickly under such ambiguous circumstances. Taxi drivers circulate with lists of license plate numbers of stolen vehicles in Mexico City, and they are rewarded handsomely for their diligence. A taxista likely reported him on his way home from dropping us off, Julieta suggests.

105 “He’s being held in the delegación,” Nereida says, “We have to go and try to help him, he’s been beaten by the police, severely. He said they hit him with a rubber hose.”

I button my shirt and tuck it back into my slacks.

“Which delegación? Julieta asks.

“Miguel Hidalgo.”

“We must go there, vámonos.”

The traffic is thin at this early hour and we reach the delegación in fifteen minutes since Nereida was speeding like I’ve never seen her do. Inside, they keep us waiting for a good long Mexican while, sitting on metal folding chairs in silence since there is nothing we can do to keep a conversation going.

After several requests, a detective agrees to speak with Nereida, at last. Julieta and I hold back and let her do all the talking. She pulls out her Mexicana identification and tries pulling rank on the guy, a short fat man with a moustache. He can’t be bribed by all the cash we have on hand. Besides, Ricardo had been charged with auto theft, he had given a confession and had already been processed and is in transport to the penitentiary, the Reclusorio Oriente, way out on the southeastern edge of the valley.

“We should tell Luz, in person. I don't want to phone her, she’s on a party line. I know it’s late, but we must go to her now, it’s very important.”

This is the first time I have seen Nereida cry. I hug her, tasting her salty tears.

“I’m here for the three of you,” I say. “Just let me know what must be done.”

On the way to Luz’s apartment in a very northern crook and wedge of the Valle in Satélite,

Nereida asks how much cash I have saved. Around five hundred dollars left from my incentive, in San

Lorenzo and as much in recent proceeds. Julieta has less than half of that. Under Napoleonic code, it takes a boatload of money to get out of trouble down; guilt until one proves their innocence, the exact

106 opposite of our supposedly ideal system of justice in the states. And one pays dearly for bearing the

burden of proving one's innocence in Mexico.

“It’s going to take much more,” Nereida says. “We have to help him someway.”

After many minutes without conversation inside the humming beetle, I break the silence, “I have an idea of how we might raise some considerable cash for him, in a very short period of time.” Nereida reaches over and squeezes my hand, her eyes steady on the curving highway ahead.

107 12: San Pedro de Oaxaca

We wake Luz in Satelite; after the initial shock of our untimely visit has subsided, she doesn’t seem all that surprised with the news, shaking her head and cursing Yazmin liberally. She makes us coffee at four-thirty in the morning as the roosters are starting to crow, roasting the beans in a skillet she shakes over the electric burner. Nancy is likely fretting about Ricardo, or is feeling stood-up and since there was no phone at the cabin in Acopilco we think it best to head to San Lorenzo as our next stop. After the coffee has had a chance to clear our heads, plans are made to meet with extended family and friends

Monday so we can formulate a strategy and hopefully muster a retainer for an attorney. I fill the car with gas at the Satélite Pemex and we point ourselves south for the long drive toward Highway 15. There was no hope of picking up where we left off; Nereida looks so worried and stressed and Julieta is extraordinarily quiet. I don’t want to push it. There will be another night, I hope, where we can quench the flames ignited in Coyoacán, inside the coyote’s den. Shit, Ricardo!

I find Nancy fallen asleep in Ricky’s room next to one of my paperbacks, the light still on; I startle her and when she has fully regained her senses I tell her what happened to her date. Nancy seems gobsmacked, I suggest she attend our get together Monday so we can begin to act in numbers. Nereida promised her mother she would drive her to mass in the morning; Julieta also had Sunday commitments with family, so the girls want to head back to the city. They offer Nancy a ride.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out for us, this time,” Nereida apologizes. She’s flying off Monday, and I won’t see her for another week at least.

“Come for dinner Wednesday night.” Julieta says. “I will make tamales.”

I look longingly at my girlfriends, Nereida tries to give me a smile, looking so exhausted and sad, as the sun rises slowly on San Lorenzo.

“Sure.”

108 We kiss a little; first Julieta, then Nereida. Nancy tries not to notice the excessive canoodling that is carried to a deeper completion than what may be customarily appropriate for casual friends.

“I will miss you, Nereida. Call me when you get back.”

“I promise, thank you for helping Rico, Juanito. You know he thinks the world of you. Stay by his side, please.”

Ricky introduced me to a friend McPherson; a big, burly, half-Mexican, half-Texan bloke who goes by the nickname of Saint Peter, San Pedro. This is because McPherson has a full beard, sholder length flowing golden locks and he always wears a white robe and sandals. He lives in an open grass hut off the beach in Oaxaca but makes regular trips to the capital, lugging a few kilos on each trip from Puerto

Escondido, moving the perfectly manicured Oaxacan sinsemilla, a seedless and potent variety of sativa that we have been enjoying so much of lately in the capital. Cultivated attentively in a dry climate on a hilltop in the Sierrra Madre del Sur, the sinsie could make you lose yourself, make your heart pound, and give you a bad case of the heebie-jeebies if you were a newcomer or a lightweight. Lose yourself and find

God. My arithmetic criteria for five-star marijuana are based on the duration and intensity of clinically significant tachycardia and paranoia. The price is ridiculously low, less than five dollars an ounce, and no more than the equivalent of four sawbacks for a plastic bread loaf bag stuffed to the gills with those big, beautiful, sticky blue buds.

I had purchased one of McPherson’s kilos, and split it to deal to my expat friends from the states,

Canada, Australia and Northern Europe, charging them an exorbitant price, ten to fifteen dollars a gram

109 depending on the consumption rate and fear level of my customers. A risk tax, I explain. All these güeros are too scared to go out purchasing on their own, which is easily enough accomplished just by walking down the street in colonias like Observatorio, by or casually asking any regular old taxista. Maybe their

Spanish isn’t that workable, perhaps they are afraid of getting busted, most of the chilangos I know advise that one should never pay more than a five dollar bribe to absolve oneself of any sort of cannabis related legal troubles, so I’m not sure why they live in fear of making the purchase. The marketing edge I hold over ubiquitous competition; however, is due to the fact that what one buys on the street is often the compressed cheap and inferior schwag; hemp suitable for making rope but not enjoyable smoking, it is nowhere near the quality and flavor of the immensely superior seedless from Puerto Escondido. “One- hit pot,”as it would sell in Madison. The street weed in the D.F. did indeed have hemp fibers, a sure sign of poor horticulture.

On the way up to San Lorenzo, the sun rising, I proposed a tentative plan for helping Ricardo with his new legal challenges, suggesting that Nereida fly a few ounces of sinsie with her on the next trip to

Chicago, later this month. In my last letter to Tommy, I hinted at the possibility of expanding our lucrative export import enterprise to include manageable amounts of cannabis. The sinsemilla could fetch as much as $200 per ounce up north or more when the supply runs thin. I salvaged a broken vacuum sealer from the clinic lab last week, and bought a screwdriver set (destornilladores) and needle-nose pliers (pinzas) from Sears. I got inside of the machine and quickly found where the short was. Able to replace the faulty wiring, I helped myself to all of its accessories on the shelf, and experimented with sealing a few big flowers, to discover if my friends could detect their reek when in my pocket. Suzy has a particularly keen sense of smell and love affair with marijuana. She could detect nary a smidgen of a whiff. I thought it therefore wise to seal the entire kilo, in units ranging from one to ten grams. A dusty triple beam scale from Clinica Zapata was also appropriated which wasn’t being used, I cleaned and calibrated it to a tenth

110 of a gram. A background in medical technology comes in handy for many an assorted and illicit errand.

My mother’s grandparents were Sicilian merchants; part of the petite bourgeoisie of the

Northern Coast of the island. I feel their genes overexpressed by my busy RNA polymerases. Making

money is easy in Mexico. If you’re clever and can manage moderate risk, the possibilities are limitless.

Enough could be earned from the weed just among my friends in Mexico City, so there was no push on

Nereida, she is righteously wary about being caught, but the proceeds could be all be contributed to

Ricky’s legal defense. Ordinarily she passes through customs at O’Hare without ever having to open her

carry-on, she says, a safe distance from the beagles downstairs. Security is fairly lax for flight attendants.

Did the vacuum sealing ensure the beagles wouldn’t smell it, anyway? Throw a bag of mole poblano in there and the dogs might be misled. Poblano looks too much like black tar heroin though. Coffee beans from Café y Arte in Veracruz might throw off the potential threat of the little pooches at O’Hare. More cheap merchandise to sell, Veracruz coffee, produced in a co-opperative. I wonder how many ounces of sinsie and coffee she might be able to fold inside the Toluca blankets?

In clinic Monday, I spend the first half of the morning scrutinizing a fecal sample from a four year old boy about whom Navarro is particularly worried; poring over his wet, iodine and trichrome preps.

Nada. The students can’t come up with anything as well. Nor anything relevant growing on the blood plates, MacConkey’s or Hektoen enteric.

“We can’t find anything,” jefe, I report. Navarro seems puzzled. He’s in charge of treating the child, who was first seen Saturday night with classical symptoms of dysentery, especially severe diarrhea.

No bugs, so far. He is going downhill fast though and his latest vitals don’t look good.

111 “Maybe it’s brucellosis,” Navarro suggests. Brucella takes a long passage to grow in culture.

“Did you think those are petechiae on his ankles?” I ask. Navarro raises his glance from the chart.

“And he looked sort of bruised to me, on one leg,” I added. “Do you have a complete blood count?”

"Sort of bruised, or bruised?" he asks, curtly. “Which leg?” Doctors hate "sort-of" and "kind-of," I should have remembered. And right or left, always. Navarro looks in the chart for a CBC that was never ordered.

Thirty minutes later, I take a look at a stained peripheral blood smear I made from a fingerstick blood sample collected from the ashen, nauseous little boy, Delfin, not a happy camper by anyone’s standards. Under the Olympus it takes me fifteen seconds to know what’s going on.

“Dr. Navarro, check it out, there’s at least ninety-percent blasts here and an elevated WBC.”

He takes off his glasses and peers in the scope. “Hardly a single neutrophil,” I say as he’s moving the stage from one field to the next, “and low platelets.”

Acute lymphoblastic leukemia, we surmise. Navarro calls for a hematology-pathology consult, asks for consent papers to be signed by his parents, and the resident in training prepares to stabilize him for the trip to UNAM. I show my silent students, one by one, the typical morphology of ALL-L1 lymphoblasts, before preparing to transport several others slides that are being made and coverslipped, to Coyoacán for a preliminary heme-oncology consult.

Lazaro drives me to to the subway with the stained slides, CBC sample and chart. Delfin, the little boy, will be transpotrted by ambulance in the meanwhile, and I will wait for a team of hematologists and pathologists to aspirate and examine a bone marrow sample.

I am invited to to sit at at a ten-headed microscope inside a conference room at UNAM’s oncology unit, to have a look at the Wright-stained and coverslipped aspirate that has just been prepared. It’s a hypercellular marrow, packed with blasts. Our initial supposition is supported, but the

112 chief of the service wants a few cytochemical stains on the residual to make sure the morphological presumption of ALL is correct. These stains take hours to perform, in the mean time Delfin will receive the standard worldwide care before chemotherapy and cytoreduction; allopurinol and intravenous hydration to prevent the accumulation of uric acid from the cell kill that would otherwise shut down his kidneys. They seem like a dedicated and qualified bunch over here at UNAM. Maybe Mexico has always been corrupt, but health care seems to work for the poor here at least. What is our problem, in the states? I bid a fond farewell to the team and leave some business cards behind from the clinic with my number, thinking there might be some moonlighting available here for a decent morphologist.

Upon returning to the clinic with the latest news of our former patient, Navarro motions for me to come into his office. I share the finding that our initial assumption was so far, correct, namely ALL, the most common form of pediatric leukemia. The students are still looking at Delfin’s slides, trying to burn the appearance of those lymphoblasts permananetly into their pickup tubes, always a good exercise in medical technology.

“Tell me where you went to school, again?

I remind him.

“That’s right, I’m sorry, Wisconsin. Good school. Oiga, listen, just between you and me; that kid would have died if I all I had done was to treat him with a broad spectrum for an infection.”

“Maybe,” I said, trying to be polite.

“He still might die, but at least now he’s got a better fighting chance.”

“I certainly hope so,” I said.

“Well, what have you got to say for yourself?” Navarro asks.

“Just part of a routine day for a med tech anywhere in the world I guess, nothing special.” I notice

Navarro’s eyes welling up. He wipes away a tear. I’ve never seen him like this.

113 “I fucked up. I slacked and hadn’t bothered with ordering a CBC. We had to send those out. I

wasn’t thinking outside the box,” he says in his impressive English, which may be better than my own on

most days.

“I was schooled as a resident and fellow in infectious disease. When you’re trained to be a hammer, everything you see in front of your eyes is a nail. I was not thinking outside of the box and you made the fool of me. I didn’t notice the petechiae.”

“You’re no tonto, Enrique, I never think that. And the few little petechiae he had were not exactly screaming at either one of us. I wasn’t even sure if that’s what they were. Not thinking outside the box happens a lot even in academic medical centers,” I add, “how about the rheumatologists as an example for crying out loud?” They have a bad reputation and it’s always easy to pick on them.

“It happens too much.”

A few moments of silence pass. “You should go back to school to become a physician,” Enrique suggests.

“Maybe, someday,” I reply. I was having too much fun at the moment to think about it, really.

And being a doctor isn’t everything it’s cranked up as, I realized, a long time ago.

“You have the talent,” Navarro says, finally smiling. “Can you kindly come to dinner at my house this evening? I want to introduce you to my wife and children.”

“I would be delighted.”

“Well, thank you Juanito, you do really outstanding work, and I’m glad to have you teaching our students.

“Gracias doctór.”

“I’m going to call Zeller and put in a good word about you. You have potential!”

I didn’t want to have potential. As Charles Schultz’s Linus teaches us, “There is no heavier burden

114 than a great potential.” Instead, I wanted to do nothing, and after doing nothing, to rest.

115 13: She Doth Teach the Torches to Burn Bright

Wednesday morning I organize, catalogue and load slides into the ridges of their plastic containers, trying as best to pack them so they won’t shatter on their way to Madison. We collared some hookworm eggs, a few cases of malaria, and a middle aged man with Chagas disease who was sent to us from the state of Chiapas, his peripheral blood smear displaying the graceful, slender and slowly lethal

Trypanasoma cruzi, a parasite transmitted by the Reduviidae kissing bugs, all within the week. We made more than a hundred slides, as many as we could, from the blood of the man with Chagas since you don’t see trypanosomes every day. This will much be appreciated at U.W. but may be nightmarish in terms of the paperwork as we are also shipping refrigerated whole blood this time, loaded with parasites, a first for us. This shit is for real, I am thinking on the subway headed to the airport, everything they taught me in school whose existence I once foolishly doubted.

It does take FedEx most of the morning to accept the parcel, their questions are redundant and biohazard forms are numerous. But as we had followed the instructions for the international shipping of contaminated human biological materials, the papers were eventually stamped. Returning from Benito

Juarez and a standing businessman’s lunch atTaqueria Tacuba, I leave the air freight receipts for Kiki at the front desk.

“Excuse me, señor Estrauss, there’s a woman who just came looking for you, she’s in the waiting room.” Kiki seems a little perturbed. I look at the clock. If it were Julieta, then she’s half an hour early, very uncharacteristic. Is it Nereida home early, surprising me? I peer into the waiting room and shit-on- rye, it’s Connie Phillips. I scrutinize the others, wondering if there are plain-clothed federales tagging along.

“Hello Connie,” I say suspiciously. “What brings you here?”

“Well, Hell-lo John!” she shouts in her giddy and saccharine infused North Texan, so people a

116 block away can hear. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, you and the family?”

“Oh, please, don’t get me started on them.” She sighs theatrically.

“I won’t.” I do feel sorry for her, having to live under the big noses of those tyrants. Everyone in the waiting room bothers to notice us. “Let’s go outside,” I suggest. As we head for the exit, Lázaro passes and flashes a quizzical glance, something like, “This big old crazy güera is your girlfriend?”

Outside and beyond earshot I ask, “What can I do for you, Connie?” Instead of responding, she just looks goofy and smiles. She’s a good six inches taller than I am.

“I just wanted to thank you.” The way she says this, it sounds like I just gave her ten thousand bucks.

“For what?”

“You know, you silly goose, don’t be coy.”

“I really don’t.” She produces a typewritten note from inside of her purse and hands it to me.

“The smokes, how did you know?”

I open a folded, typewritten, lined sheet of three-ring notebook paper. “November 20, 1980,

Dear Connie:” it begins. “I just wanted you to have this. Maybe it will help you with all you’re (sic) troubles and what your (sic) going through right now. Have a good day and get real high. Love, John.“ It looks like the handwritten word John was corrected from something else.

The note was signed in blue ballpoint pen ink, and had a happy face drawn below. Her little smart ass of a brat son did this, Jimmy. He gave her the cola, our High Times centerfold. The little bastard also needs an English tutor.

“Connie, I am not the author of this note, nor is this my handwriting.” She looks disappointed.

“Someone is playing a trick on us.”

117 “Who could that possibly be?” she asks.

“Jimmy?”

“Do you think he is capable of that? I certainly don’t. We don’t even have a typewriter. But John, how are you, really, how are you?”

“Connie, I’m swamped today and have loads of things to get done, we’ve been very busy here as

you can tell by the many folks we have sitting in our waiting room right now.“ I am lying. I’m about to call it quits for the day.

“Well, all right. I understand. Why don’t you give me your number though, we should get together and have a drink and a puff sometime,” she suggests, trying an illicit looking smile. “If there’s anyone you need to talk to about anything…anything, just ask, please.”

“We don’t have telephone service in Cuajimalpa,” I tell her, not wanting to reveal we were in San

Lorenzo, far above. This is true. I didn’t mention that our landlord does, however, let us use a communal telephone.

“Thank you for that pot John, that was very kind of you, you little devil. I didn’t know you knew that I smoked. It was awesome, where did you get it?”

“I didn’t give you any pot!”

“What’s your address?”

“Connie, I don’t even honestly know.” This is true. I get all my mail at the clinic.

“How could you not know your address?”

I am about to respond that it’s because we’re in San Lorenzo de Acopilco, and nobody really has an address since the postman knows everyone, and everyone’s business, but I don’t want her to know even this much.

“Do you still have my number?”

118 “Yes.”

“Here it is, just in case.” She gives me a business card. “Connie Phillips, Clairvoyant,” it is written in a flowery font, above the violets, pansies and phone number. Clairvoyant, my ass.

Julieta, walking briskly around the corner, almost runs into us. We touch cheeks, she’s wearing bright red lipstick, has her hair pulled back tightly in a bun and a thin wisp of eye shadow.

“Please meet my fiancée Julieta, Connie!” The women exchange minor pleasantries.

“I didn’t know you were…engaged. My word, that was fast!” Connie seems flummoxed.

“Thanks, I’ll see you, good luck Mrs. Phillips.”

“Here John, this is for you. Please call me Connie and please do call me,” she asks, holding a standard number ten white envelope for me to accept. It has flowers and happy faces drawn on the front side.

“Thank you, we’re late for an appointment with our florist and must be running along. Good seeing you again, goodbye Connie, and good luck with your new business.” I take Julieta’s arm and escort her toward the front entrance of the clinic.

“Who is she?” Julieta asks about the big güera. I slide the envelope into my back pocket.

“Nutty former landlord’s daughter-in-law, la nuera. Long story, I’ll tell you about it on the way to

Satélite, because it will take that long to fill in the details.” We’re bringing the equivalent of almost fifteen hundred bucks to Luz, to kick-start Ricardo’s lawyer. One pays dearly for justice here, and this is the first necessary step. Five hundred comes from Nereida, I gave another five, the remainder was raised from

Julieta and our international group of friends. This may not seem like a lot of American cash but is a shitload of money in Mexico.

“Come inside, I’ll introduce you to the whole crew. You look beautiful, by the way.”

“Thank you, Juanito.”

119 When we step into the lab, they’re all eyeballing me now, Lázaro with a smile on his face, and most of my students. Out with one, in with another.

“This is my fiancée, Julieta, everyone.” I introduce her and show what we’ve been looking at under the scope lately. She’s very impressed with the microscope.

A “Juuuu-liiiii!” comes booming from Navarro’s office.

“Enrique!” Small town, this city of at least fifteen million.

“How do you know one another?” Navarro inquires.

“I was going to ask you the same,” I reply. But I already knew that Julieta and her crew had performed in charity events for Clinica Zapata. “Lucky coincidence,” is all I can think of saying.

Julieta spends twenty minutes chatting with the boss and we can then make our exit; Julie driving

Nereida’s beetle to Satelite so we can hand-deliver the cash. There’s a long traffic jam on the periférico but this gives me time to further expose the saga of Connie and Jimmy, and time for us to mess around a little and smear lipstick on my face. She gives me a towlette to wipe it away.

“You’re coming home with me tonight, right caballero?”

“OK.” I say, “I love your tamales.”

“Thank you for introducing me as your fiancée, John,” she smiles. Julieta is plain and beautiful, with her almond, Asian eyes and dark framed librarian eyeglasses. “But remind me again, when did you propose, and did I say yes? I must have been really wasted,” she laughs. “Pedo.”

Luz invites us for leftover chicken and rice soup, but Julieta tells her there are plans that can’t be broken and we can’t stay long. Luz frowns, so Julieta hesitates and reads the entire letter from Ricardo to his mom that came in today’s mail since Luz is having problems with macular degeneration lately. Skilfully penned like those of a bygone era, it makes us sad to hear his loving and carefully crafted prose about how much he misses us all. Luz looks me over, then Julieta, who has been a friend of Ricardo since their

120 first year of high school together. She’s a tough, strong, cussing, unapologetic mama bear who hates the

USA, but has changed her mind about it thanks to some of her son’s friends, especially those who have come to Ricardo’s rescue.

”Thank you so much, Julieta, Juanito, Nereida and all of your friends, all of our friends, I mean to say,” Luz says as we are leaving. “Ricardo and I cannot go further without your help.” She gives me a hug.

This is uncustomary in Mexico, but she knows enough about my culture to do so.

“Remember, this is a loan, not a gift. Ricardo will repay all of you in return.”

“I have no worries, Luz,” I say, “let’s just focus on springing him from the trap for right now.“

“Thank you, Juanito.”

We’ve made plans to take Luz to see her son next weekend, before Nereida returns from a long stretch on her ramped-up holiday schedule. Frigid winds hit Canada and the northernmost of the US early this year, bringing another round of record low temperatures to norteamerica, and numerous tourists to visit cost-effective Mexico. This kind of weather has increased demand for our blankets sertendipitously, so I am enjoying their terrible winter come too early in late fall, from thousands of miles safely south. The sinsemilla trade is coming along swimmingly as Ben Franklin might say, burgeoning here and abroad. My pockets are getting fat, Ricky has a lawyer and Julieta and I are looking forward to the telephone call

Nereida promised us this evening, from Miami, and afterwards who knows what else.

“Tell me your life story, Julieta Hernandez-Moreno, the dark Moorish one,” I beseech her, on the ride back to Coyoacán. I like hearing oral autobiographies and she’s an eager talker. Julieta had a totally normal growing up, she says. Huge and loving family, five brothers, three sisters, aunts, uncles, grandparents and great grandparents. One of her sisters passed in an automobile accident. Julieta is the perennial jock; she loves to swim, run, play soccer, hike up the volcanos, backpack and camp and of course dance in any way or form. By confession she is the world’s most orthodox health-food fanatic.

121 They’re all over the place here, organic aficionados and stores, and I’m OK with that, I tell her. Good eating is sound biochemistry and better health, after all. I can tell we are going to be good friends for this reason alone, I mention.

Back in Coyoacán, after Tehuacanes and Julieta’s homemade tamales, filled with a pulled pork and fruit chutney, I quit my boring yet passionate spiel about how dangerous trypanosomes can be, and begine to look deeply into her eyes.

“I know what really turns a woman on,” I say.

“What?” she asks, doubtful of my boast, and somewhat sickened by stories from the clinic.

“This.” I unbutton my sleeves, roll and tuck them, and carry dishes to the sink. I find a steel wool pad and dish soap, so I start to the task of cleaning up.

“No!”

“Sí.”

“OK,” she says, giving up fairly easily. “While you’re washing the dishes, I’m going to make you an elixir, for your personal health.”

“Un elíxir?”

“Sí.”

“My health is fine.”

I watch her measure two cups from a bottle of dark vinegar, mixing with a cup of honey, stirring it vigorously with a teaspoon, adding in a liberal amount of an unlabeled beige spice.

“Here,” she says, parting it into a couple of whisky glasses, “drink this.”

“Apple-cider vinegar? I ask, reading the “Sidra” on the bottle’s label.

“Sí.”

“What is this for?”

122 “It will make you stronger and más viril. It will cleanse the toxins from your blood and is good for the kidneys of the male and female body, bueno para la salud.”

“Really?”

“De veras!”

“Well, OK.” I down it all at once just to be a good sport. Ay, it’s awful. I pucker and consider spitting up in the toilet. I could have asked her for the peer-reviewed data supporting her claims, but I thought better and nipped that in the bud.

“Your kidneys will be cleansed and you will feel the difference. It will make your urine lighter and more clear. I’m going to change my clothes, here’s a towel for the dishes, thanks for cleaning the pans!”

The concoction seems to have had no ill effect on her.

“It seems you hang upon the cheek of night like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear,” I announce as she turns away toward the bath.

“Qué?”

About to repeat the line but without warning, a cloud of gas suddenly expands in my gut, massive as in the void between galaxies; a bulge appears in my belly. On the verge of urgent parturition, I beg,

“Can I open the sliding door?” Jesus Christ and John the Baptist, she made us a purgative.

“Weird as it sounds, I’ve always enjoyed the challenge of a tough skillet to scour, with its impossibly baked-on crud,” I confess. This is half true and a half joke but Julieta takes it seriously.

“Good!” she declares. Please wash your hands first before the pan, now I’m afraid of the germs you may be carrying from working with that contaminated mierda. When you are finished, come and sit with me on the futon. It takes a long hard scrubbing to get her pans clean. I brush my fingernails, and dry the wine glasses.

“First on our meeting’s agenda this evening, Juanito, is that you must pay for the sins of your

123 imperialista invaders, for the atrocities that your yanqui imbasor ancestors committed, who occupied and defiled our motherland, me entiendes, do you understand?” Julieta is laughing out loud, absorbing my confusion.

“Sí, señorita!” I reply, running with the joke, but a little apprehensive nevertheless.

“You’re going to get a little spanking then, la tunda.”

Julieta then breezes about the room, lighting candles, humming, turning off the lamps, she pulls

José Iturbi out of his sleeve and places piano concerto number twenty-three on the turntable. Muy suave.

Wolfgang seems popular beyond my circle of friends in this country. I was born on his two-hundredth birthday, and my dad, another Amadeus lover, wanted to name me after the young composer. Julieta is a also a devoted John Lennon fan, as is just about every other Mexican. There is a high likelihood that she will play late Beatles or Lennon on the phonograph after Iturbi is finished with Mozart’s most melancholy and moodiest of concertos.

She leaves to go into the closet, and then into the bathroom again. Women all over the globe it seems pledge to a secret sect dedicated to spending considerable amounts of time locked inside a bathroom, time of which little will ever be returned to the males; and we wait in patience I suppose for them to accomplish whatever it takes them so long to do. The female ritual of “getting ready” has been sworn to absolute secrecy and seems passed unswervingly from each mother to her daughter. While I am waiting I notice they have just about every single novella and set of short stories Anaïs Nin ever published in the third row of their bookshelf. I pull Delta of Venus and begin to read, “There was a Hungarian

Adventurer who had astonishing beauty, infallible charm, grace, the power of a trained actor, culture, the knowledge of many tongues…”

When Julie does finally emerge, I see in the flickering candlelight that she is wearing nothing but one of Nereida’s blue Mexicana Airlines jackets, complete with name tag, stripes and silver wings. It’s

124 unbuttoned and almost reveals her breasts. No more lipstick and her hair is down. Unclothed from the waist downward, she is holding the handle of an “Illinois” leather strop in her right hand.

“Please remain seated, ladies and gentlemen, until the captain has turned off the fasten your seat belts sign.”

“Wow,” I say. “Am I in for a shave?”

“No, but can I get you anything before takeoff?”

“I liked it when you started to undress me last time. I really enjoyed that.”

“Lie still,” she commands. I like being bossed around during lovemaking, I make sure she knows.

“It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear. Arise fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief,” I recite. I had bothered memorizing to see if Julieta recognizes herself from a few centuries ago. I want to impress her, and she knows where I am going with this. She pushes me back on to the futon, and, with her mouth, pulls my belt strap loose from its loop.

“The brightness of your cheek would shame those stars, as daylight doth a lamp; your eyes in heaven, would through the airy region stream so bright, that birds would sing and think it were not night.” Julieta knows enough English to understand.

“I love Shakespeare,” she says.

“Me too,” I say, as she unfastens and unzips my jeans, using her teeth. “That really flips my switch.”

Did Bill Shakespeare ever have this much fun during his fifty-two years on this planet? I wonder, as my trousers are pulled off with athletic determination. She gets up, removes the flight uniform, fits the sleeves above the hanger, walks it into the closet and then turns to face me. Juli (Hoo-lee) or Julie as she now likes me to call her, has a body that can kill, and I don’t mean that figuratively.

125 “Lie still.” I obey.

After she takes my underwear down to my ankles, she realizes the clinically significant effect she has had in modulating my blood pressure and overall vascular physiology.

“My God!” she exclaims, looking at me with a little bit of trepidation, a little fascination.

“What?”

“You’re so…big. My God!”

“You think so?”

“Sí, don’t you?”

“How would I know?”

“Believe me, caballero, you are.”

This may be true in Mexico, I explain, but I fit nicely into the bell curve of penis size, I knew, since

I had read Masters and Johnson, David Reuben MD, and just about anything else I could get my hands on back in those long days and nights of involuntary celibacy. I was knowledgeable enough about medicine to know that I’m not an outlier, I tell her.

“Mexican men must have really little ones, huh?”

“From what I’ve seen, they mostly do. Like this,” she says, making a gesture with her thumb and index figure wide enough to accommodate the diameter of an average sized red delicious apple.

“Que lastima,” I remark, what a pity, I guess, “except for women that like little ones.”

She marvels at what she’s done to change my anatomy so. “Just be careful with that chingalote,

Jesucristo, you could hurt someone with that...”

“Never seemed to impress anyone else, really.” I said. This is true, at least so far.

“There’s only one way a man ends up becoming that large,” she declares.

“And what’s that?”

126 “You played with yourself, every day, three times a day, maybe more? Ever since you were twelve years old, you masturbated yourself, around the clock you must have.” I laugh. Did she have me

on this one? I had to think about it.

“You are a voracious little masturbating monkey, always. That’s the only way you can end up with

a thing that big!” I am in stitches. Julieta starts laughing too. “Just take it easy inside of me at first, OK?”

“I will. And size has nothing to do with how many times someone masturbates!” I assert. “It’s genetically determined.”

She lifts and tugs the T-shirt over my head, and we are both naked. “My turn now,” I say, “you lie still.”

“Some historians think that the surname Shakespeare was a derogatory term for a masturbator,”

I add, translating. “Guillermo Sacude-lanza.” This makes her smile. I am the OCD individual that, before attempting the novel or difficult, will typically spend a long while researching, reading, and boning up on a subject, whether it’s buying a canoe, betting on blackjack or backgammon, or as mundane as preparing soil properly for a vegetable garden. No difference, I approach lovemaking in the same way.

“I read about this technique in the Karma Sutra, let me try it out on you to see if it works, or if itr’s just all bullshit,” I say, doubtful.

“OK.”

I tuck a pillow underneath her bottom and push her legs apart. The movement is to be of palms lightly caressing upwards from just inside her knees, up to her thighs, stopping just short of the delta of her Venus, teasing and tickling her a little, and repeating that, drawn to how warm and soft the skin on her thigh feels, according to the folks at KS. I follow the same path with my tongue. And finding the inside of her labia, my middle finger, deeper inside of her, gently curls upwards, slowly, in search of the elusive “G-spot” that I previously surmised was a figment of someone’s imagination, likely a man’s

127 imagination. I start licking her, above my hand, feeling her clitoris harden at the tip of my tongue. Maybe this does work, I think, her breathing quickening, taking in more air. So I work inside of her gently with my finger, and more aggressively with my tongue, licking her more forcefully, and setting a rhythm to the pitch and sway of her bottom.

“Relax,” I tell her, “I can keep this up for a while.”

She tastes like the ocean spray; and I quicken and strengthen the pace of stroking and kissing her until she arches, grabs me by the back of my neck, and climaxes. Sitting up, I watch as the milk chocolate of her neck and the top of her chest blend into a strawberry colored milkshake flush.

“I like the way your skin tastes,” I say, kissing her dark nipples and lips. She grabs me by my hard on, but before she can pull me inside of her, I ask, “Can you be on top for a while?”

“Cowgirl?” she asks, “ranchera?”

“Sí, that way, I can last much longer. It’s been a while,” I say.

“For me too, with a man at least,” she says. I don’t want to come too quickly. We roll over, and I offer to wear the condom I had brought.

“I’m protected,” she says, as she straddles and mounts me, guiding and pulling me slowly inside of her, and then pressing her full weight down.

“Ay.”

“Am I hurting you?” I ask, as she slides downwards, with an unmistakable expression of discomfort on her face.

“A little,” she says, “but it’s a good pain. Let’s go slowly for a while.”

But soon, she is thrusting more powerfully on top of me, faster, the energy surging, we’re both breaking into a sweat. As we get more into it, and she starts moaning with her head back, looking at the ceiling, and bucking harder and deeper and faster, she doesn’t realize that she’s been furiously banging

128 my head into the hard plastered wall, rhythmically, with each of her spirited thrusts for a couple of

minutes. Boom, bump, ouch, boom, bump, boom, ouch!”

“Hold on, let me move up a little ways.”

“OK, but you get on top of me now, and finish me off, vámonos.”

“OK.”

We copulate in missionary position, like a couple of lecherous lemurs, two berserk bonobos making love as we’ve just escaped from a year separated in the zoo, sweaty, lewd, fervent, unfettered and determined to charge forwards.

“Let me know when you’re going to come,” I say, “I’m not sure I can hold out for much longer.”

“Come inside of me, I want to feel you come inside of me.”

When she gives me the go-ahead, I explode.

Plunging slower and slower, still inside of her, I kiss her nose and her cheeks, her forehead and lips. We’re both red as jitomates, panting, flush; I stay inside of her, rocking slower until it seems right that we take a little break.

“I’ll bring towels.”

Looking over toward the Nin paperback, I contemplate the complex and marvelous biological phenomenon of vasodilation, the aristocratic manners of the adventurous Hungarian notwithstanding.

After Juli has finished wiping both of us down with the warm terrycloths, she pulls up the sheet, crumples it into the hamper, and goes to the closet to find a clean one. I help her tuck it underneath the futon.

“Thank you,” I say, she smiles, “that’s just what the doctor ordered.”

“We’re not finished yet, ranchero, we’re just taking a short break,” she says, turning me over so she can sit on my butt and give me a back massage. I feel her still dripping a little.

129 “So, how was your first experience with a Mexicana? This is your first sexual experience with us, correct?”

“Yes. If I had to write a review, I would say: dynamic, mighty, powerful, satisfying, cathartic. Ten out of five stars.”

“Better than your rubias in norteamerica?”

“Not having made love with more than one blond in my life, I can’t honestly say. But I don’t see lovemaking as a contest. All I can say is that it was not only the best I’ve had, but it’s also the only sex I have had in a long while, since I was in the states. But if it’s a contest, then you win. Do you know why?”

“My strong nalgas Mexicanas?”

“Yes, your thighs are supple, they’re delightful baby, but what made it so special, such an

exceptional night was that I suspect that you may have enjoyed it also? That turns me on more than

anything. Seeing you getting off makes it so much fun for me. Exponentially. To be totally honest, I’m not

sure I’ve ever pleased a woman that much before.“

“Really?”

We share a long smacker.

“Well, you just did, a little. So, I am better than your American blonds?”

“I can’t speak generally Julie, I’m not that much of a lothario, even though God knows I’ve tried,

but the woman I had a relationship with, in my country, she is very difficult to arouse. It could take as mujch as an hour or longer before she could achieve orgasm, and even then it was difficult for her to reach a full climax.”

“De veras? Pobrecita. Why do so many Mexican men crave them so madly, then?”

“I can’t generalize. I don’t have enough experience. My last lover would just lie there, though, and be very passive during lovemaking, not making hardly a single move. I could never tell if she was

130 enjoying making love with me or not.“

“She probably was not.”

“I guess not. Or wasn’t showing it. You are an active participant and I like being overpowered by a strong woman, it’s never happened to me before. It turned me on so much when I watched you come.

Was it good by you, my friend?”

“I’ll give you my full critique after we’ve finished. So far, so good, you’ve got one advantage over most of the men here and that’s a good beginning. You fill me up and I thought one of my lovers had a big one. But it’s not so much your size as how you move yourself around. It’s more of a dance to me than a contest, as well.”

We agree that the sex we had was surprising, fabulous, exciting and satisfying, yet we were left in want of the one person’s touch, the one with whom we had both fallen in love. How much I wish she were here with us, naked, three dizzy little magnets on the futon top.

“So, how many women have you slept with in your life, Juanito?”

“I don’t know, six or eight, I never kept count.” I had a pretty wild and fun freshman year right after summer vacation, but my love life was never quite as exciting afterwards, I explained. “How about you?”

“Men, maybe as many as you have women, or a few more more. Women, I don’t keep count, maybe ten times as many.” Sixty to eighty? I am envious.

“No more than fifty maybe.”

“I like you very much, amiga.”

“Just know one thing. That Italian-American hardon you brought down from los estados unidos is addressed to Julieta and Nereida, but what about that Swiss girl you’ve been seeing yanqui imbasór?” At this juncture, lying on my stomach, I feel the hard slap of the strop across the left cheek of my rear end.

131 “She’s cute,” Julieta says.

More than playful, the last one really smarted and took me by surprise.

“Ow!” I holler, turning around.

“Sorry. Just helping you redeem your sins, yanqui imbasór. Recuerda 1856!”

“Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death, Gorged with the dearest morsel of the earth, Thus I

enforce thy rotten jaws to open, And, in despite, I'll cram thee with more food!” I’m reaching a little over

the top with the Bard, but I memorized these lines to entertain her and I think it’s paying off if she will

stop with the strop for a while. She is named after a gentler lover, I remind.

“Speaking of what’s in a name, do you have a nickname for your penis, John?”

I had never dreamt of giving my penis a name, I tell her. “No,” I snigger. “Why, do you think it

should have one?”

“Many men name their penises.”

“De veras?” I ask. “Fascinating. Who does this, and what are the names they choose?” I’ve never heard of this as far as I know.

“Sometimes a first name; more often an inanimate object.”

“So, you’re an expert in the subject! Like what?”

“Sí! Like Monstro, Manfredo, Rockstar. I dated a man from Texas who calls his “muchacha.” He would sing that song when playing with himself, ‘Oh girl, I’d be in trouble if you left me now,’ and that other one that goes ‘Just the two of us, we can make it if we try…’”

“That’s sick!” The Chi-Lites, and Bill Withers, Good Lord, I will never be able to hear those songs again without some anonymous Mexican guy’s (smaller) member bobbing into my imagination, from now until eternity. I stop laughing, finally.

“Well, what do you think is a good name for mine, then?” She thinks about this for a good while.

132 “How about…Dominick?”

“Dominick? I have an uncle Dominick for Christ’s sake. He looks just like Groucho Marx. “

“Yes, Dominick, then it is, that’s perfect.”

“OK,” I say, chuckling again. Fucking Dominick.

“To begin our next round of lovemaking, Ranchero y Dominick, I want you to fulfill one of my requests. It’s a fetish I have since you are getting to know me so well.“

“I’ll try, as long as it doesn’t involve severe pain or excrement,” I reply. She laughs.

“I want you to dress in Nereida’s stewardess uniform.”

“What? You’re joking.”

“You heard me, that’s right, I want to see you in her skirt, jacket and high heels.“

“You’re joking!”

“Por favor, Juanito?”

“But, why?” I ask, thoroughly perplexed.

“Seeing a man in a skirt and women’s clothing arouses me so much.”

“De veras?”

“De veras! Please?”

“I don’t know Jewels, I mean…”

“Scottish men in kilts, I saw them once in the city, I go insane with lust, I wanted to follow them back to their hotel rooms.”

“Oh, Jesus, no.”

“The skirt, the hairy masculine legs, such a mixing of the genders, come on Juanito, please? I’ll give you a deep tissue massage and a good blowjob, una felación, afterwards.” Chortling now, I am.

“Vámonos. It will m ake me spo hot to see you in that…”

133 “OK.”

How ridiculous is this? She zips a black skirt so that it’s painfully tight around my waist; it’s

Julieta’s, since I would have busted Nereida’s with my wider girth. Jewels brings the Mexicana jacket from the closet, and her ballet shoes. A Mexicana stewardess’ jacket around my bare chest thatg I can’t possibly fasten, and my hairy legs beneath the hem of the skirt. How attractive.

“Hold on, wait right there and don’t move.” She comes back with a Minolta single lens reflex camera with flash, mounted on a tripod.

“Aw, no! C’mon!”

“Sí!”

“No!” I yell, exasperated. She’s got me on film now.

The telephone rings. This scares me, because I have been so negatively conditioned to the bell from our last experience. I don’t anticipate anything good coming from it as did Pavlov’s dog. But it’s

Nereida calling from Miami. I take the opportunity to step out of the outfit. Julieta tells her that we delivered the first wad of change to Luz, and now that Ricardo’s criminal defense attorney had a decent retainer, el enganche, he now seems suddenly serious about charging ahead, so now we have a timeline.

She tells Nereida that we are taking a break from lovemaking and I have been given a tentative stamp of approval. On probation, she adds. She says something to her I don’t understand; giggling.

“He’s right here with me, amor. Sí, sí, sí …”

I want to talk to her.

“But before I let him talk with you, do you know what he asked me to do tonight, Nereida? John asked me if he could get dressed in your clothes, yes, can you even believe it? He’s wearing your flight uniform right now, as we speak.” I wasn’t.

“Julieta!”

134 “Sí, he took off all of his clothes in front of me like a true pervert and by himself without asking he got dressed in your spare stewardess uniform, amor, sí, la domestica, can you believe he asked me to do that? Oh my God, he made me take such obscene photographs! What bad manners that

norteamericano has shown this evening! Pervertido. I will have to take it to gthe dry cleaners!”

“Juuu-liii-eta!

“And do you know what else he told me? He has named his penis! That’s right,” she laughs,

“Imaginate! Dominick” she blurts,”I know, he is an extremely sick little young man and needs psychological help. Yes, he’s right here.”

“Thanks, Jewels.”

She hands me the phone and says, “She’s really pissed at you now, enojada!”

“Nereida, I’m sorry, Julieta made me do this! She tricked me into dressing in your uniform!” That little Jezebel.

“I’m not gone even three days, and already you’ve caused my dear friend great concern, you’ve dressed in my clothes, have you? Gross, John! Take them to the cleaners please. You have a name for your penis which you’ve shared with my girlfriend, my lover? You are a true pervert! A total pervert! And a cross-dresser too? Pervertido norteamericano!”

“Nereida, this is not fair…Julieta put me up to this, I swear she did, yo juro,” I plea.

“Entonces, well then, when I come back, Señor Estrauss, I’m taking you and Dominick to the beach for a long rest, to help cure your severe mental illness. You can get him dressed up in my bikini bottoms if he wants. He’d especially like the skimpy one, wouldn’t he? Why don’t you ask him since you are always talking with your overgrown penis and calling him by name, you sicko?”

I don’t know what to say to the silence on her end. But then I hear her laughter bubbling and boiling over.

135 “Don’t worry, amor,” she says, “Juli does this to everyone. Has she taken photographs?”

“Everyone?” I inquire. “And who exactly is everyone, if I may ask?”

“Todos. To break them in.”

“I see.” I had been had, like so many men before me. Julieta is delighted with my embarrassment.

“Are you kidding about the beach?”

“No.”

“Good,” I say, “I’d love that. What are you doing tonight?”

“I’m out clubbing with my friend, Osvaldo. He’s from Cuba; very bookish, intellectual, you’d like

him.”

A small penknife of jealousy stabs my heart. “I see.”

“We’re at a disco on Calle Ocho; it’s crazy, you should see it. So John, how did you enjoy making love with my girlfriend, my wife?”

“I did, very much so, but we love you and miss you very, very much, both of us.”

“I miss the both of you, too. I shall look forward to seeing you soon, amor. I have a present for you. Let me say goodbye and give you my love, and thank you for allowing Julieta to have a little fun teasing you. I hope you are not offended by her sense of humor. This is the way we are, en México. We have to laugh a little. Let me talk once again with her.”

“OK, be careful, I can’t wait to see you” I say, passing the handset to Juli. An old dial-phone, the exact model we had in 1964.

Osvaldo. Osvaldo? He takes the wind out of my sails a little. Julieta finishes with Nereida, talking about Ricardo. “Italianito,” she calls me, “pistolerito.” Juli says goodbye, leaving a kiss on the mouthpiece.

“You’re learning about our sense of humor, finally? En México, we love to tease, we are born bromistas, Juanito.”

136 She sees that I am not smiling.

“You’re jealous of Osvaldo, aren’t you?” Julieta wants to know. As much as I was fighting that very feeling, she reads me sensitively and accurately.

“A little, yes.”

“Well then ranchero, you will learn to work though that,” she says, “as I did years ago.”

“I know.”

“Let me give you some advice about my girlfriend, my lover, the all-time love of my life, my wife, really. If she knows she is free and is not under anyone else’s control, she will meander, she will traipse the planet, she will wander the stars and stray from you, from us, but she will always return.”

“How do you know that?”

“Trust her. She has to feel free to stray. She knows how short is life. But Nereida is a very loyal friend and lover. Look, mire, here in Mexico, maybe we don’t make friends instantaneously like you quick norteamericanos. I fear you make many superficial friendships in your country, however. It takes us a long while, so much more time to establish true love or even friendship than en los estados unidos. But when we make friends which is seldom, we never lose them, we hold them in our hearts; forever. Set her free, and she will come and eat out of your hands, she will love you like you’ve never been adored before. But trap her, corner her, make her feel controlled, make her feel you are jealous and she will fly far away from the two of us, I know this to be true.”

“Go with the flow,” say the Buddhists, “or be dragged.” Am I strong enough to share them with the world, whenever they have the hankering? After they’ve grown weary of my company and have become bored with me? God is going to trouble the water.

“Many lesbians kill their partners here, John, out of jealousy. As do heterosexuals. But one does not read about the lesbian love affairs gone sour in the newpapers, nor do we hear of it ever on

137 television. Friends, they only say, in the heat of an argument. But it happens, we can read between the

lines. Jealousy, possessiveness, revenge, these are volatile, dangerous, destructive emotions.”

“Sí”

“Nereida adores you, yanqui. She thinks you are a prince. You are one lucky little monkey,

ranchero, I hope you know.”

“Se sabe,” it is known to itself, as they say here.

“This will cheer you,” she says, going to the closet again, and returning with a dress that Scarlet

O’Hara would be proud of. Broad at its base, ruffled, white, traditionally Veracruz, it may be a wedding gown. It could have been the chiffon that Vivian Leigh wore in “Gone with the Wind.”

“Another one.” She brings stuffing for a brassiere. “Please?”

“Jesus Christ.” There’s no sense arguing, so I put it on to save time. And I let her take pictures.

Out of my fucking mind I’ve gone. I guess I should never attempt to run for public office in the states, now. My brilliant political career; unexpectedly flushed down the drain.

After the second photo shoot, I search about for my clothes but am unable to locate them anywhere in the apartment.

“That made me really hot,” Juli says. “Thanks youj. I will prepare another elixir.”

“Where are my clothes, Jewels? Just wondering.”

“You’re not going to need them until morning,” she says. “Lie down, ranchero.”

“But, really, where are they, did you hide them?”

“You’re not going anywhere until morning, güero. Now, vámonos,” she says, snapping her fingers, “back to business, and don’t think you’re going to fall asleep on me this early in the night.”

I see the strop is in her grip, again.

“Turn over, puto.”

138 14: In Which We Learn How Edifying Is a Stay in Our Penitentiary

Juli kept me awake until around four, in conversation interrupted only by intercourse. Maybe there is something biologically active in her concoction. Apple-cider vinegar and honey, I’ll have to look into that. Jewels is a bit of the curandera I fear, with all of their mysterious and sometimes toxic combinations. She told me about her family, her dad; a high school basketball coach, the one who nurtured and encouraged her to excel in sports. Lucky kid, I said, as my athletically-uninclined dad’s idea of a good time never goes beyond a game of bridge or sheepshead. He bought the stock exchange board game “Acquire” for me when I was a freshman in high school for Christmas. Julie can’t believe there is a board game based on the New York Stock Exchange and this only serves to further her distrust of the naked greed and capitalism of norteamericanos. She loves her dad a lot, she says.

I confessed that although I suffered from performance anxiety, which had plagued me on several previous encounters, she was the first lover I had who helped me get over it, unashamedly telling me what she likes the best; having her hair pulled, her earlobes bitten, a breast examination from behind, followed by having her nipples sucked and caressed, but most unfortunately the best I can do is to put on at least one article of women’s clothing before, during or after the act. She can kiss deeply, passionately, without surfacing for air, a veritable walrus of foreplay. I had forgotten how relaxing just by itself spooning can be. For every action, an equal, and opposite reaction, physics plain and simple; she is

Madame Curie to my Newton.

I fell asleep at last, midsentence, only to be awoken instantaneously by her alarm clock rang it seemed just as I was beginning to doze. Drying off, a towel around my waist, I find Julieta mixing us a

“shake,” I gather, from watermelon, watercress and a few cloves of garlic she is pushing through a strainer.

“Drink up, this is good for the function and health of your bladder and prostate gland,” Julie says,

139 on her way to the shower. It will also prevent infection and contracting the flu, she instructs, and will aid

in improving the duration and strength of my erections. Julieta; the herbalist with a fascination for everything urogenital.

“OK. Ay. I need to buy them a garlic press.

The scent of honey-oatmeal soap fills the rising fog from the shower and I set about looking for my clothes. They’re not in the closet, nor in the hamper. Or anywhere around the bed. Julie turns off the water and eventually emerges from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, holding the blow-dryer.

“Can I please get dressed now, Juli?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Where are my clothes?”

“You don’t want to borrow some of ours?”

“Muy chistoso.” Very funny.

“If you want to get dressed, you’ll have to do me a little favor, first.” What next? I never knew.

“Qué?”

“Brush your teeth. You can use my toothbrush, it’s OK since we were brushing each other’s teeth all night long with our tongues, anyway.” This is true. I obey.

Sitting on a chair holding the blow dryer, she removes the towel, and points between her legs.

“Give me oral sex just like you did last night.”

Sitting on the floor in front of her, I get down to business, as she had requested. This arouses me, and feeling her breathing deepen, and her hands on the nape of my neck, I get hard. She puts the brush and dryer on the dresser. She had been drying and brushing her hair all the while of receving cunnilingus.

“I woke you up early so we could have some time together before I take you to Tacubaya.”

140 “You don’t have to drive me, you’ll be in traffic all morning, and the subway will be faster.”

“Let’s screw then, come on, I’m still horny.”

Walking to the subway after our second morning shower, together, abuzz with the hormonal afterglow of successful and productive lovemaking, the oxytocin levels peaking, I remember how my paternal grandmother would mix apple cider vinegar and honey for the grandchildren when we had the typical coughs and expected winter maladies of Wisconsin, Siberia. On the ride from Acevedo to

Insurgentes, I can’t concentrate on the Herald Trib, instead my attention wanders inward and I remember how Julieta was straddling me, how her breasts felt while she was riding on top. Wisconsin, Siberia seems so far away this morning, watching the palm trees go by on the above ground part of the ride.

In the clinic, Navarro and I unpack boxes containing the fluorescent microscope and accessories this morning, the last gift promised from Zeller. Navarro is amazed, but I look for the manual first, this will take some hard doing to get up and running. I find the business card of the technical consultant in San

Diego. The doctor and I and lift and carry the main body of the beast to the table. Enrique takes one step back.

“Juan, what did you have for breakfast this morning?”

“Sorry, it had a little garlic in it.”

“What was that?”

“Huevos rancheros,”I said, fibbing.

“Who makes huevos rancheros with that much ajo?”

“Julieta and me,” I replied.

“Huevos Rancheros al italiano,” Navarro sighs, shaking his head. But then, a worried look comes

141 across his face as he steps closer, to get a better look into my left eye. Reaching for his opthalmoscope,

he turns on the lamp, and peers into both my eyes, back and forth, three times.

“You have an anisocordia of four millimeters.” A medically significant difference in the diameter of my pupils, he explains.

“I do?”

“That’s more than physiological anisocordia,” he says. “Did you have a TBI? Bump your head badly, get in a fight…clobbered?”

I had a slight concussion. No wonder I had a slight headache this morning; and am having trouble

focusing. Navarro is looking at me with his worried face. His very concerned doctor’s expression. I know

what he’s thinking. I’m a drunk who forgets when he passes out backwards from his chair, and bangs his

noggin on the floor. I decided to come clean with him because I saw a lot of that in Madison.

“I had some head-banging sex with my fiancé last night, literally, Enrique. And she makes me

drink elixirs with many cloves of garlic in them. How’s that for a gringo in his first few months, down

here?”

“Excellent! I was just worried,” Navarro says, “that you might have gotten mugged and didn’t say

anything or report it.”

“No. Some mugging”

“Does she beat on you?”

“In a way, yes, in a very fun way, though.”

“Good,” he says, “I recognized the minute we first met that you needed a good screwing beyond anything else in this world. But I need to keep watch on you, Juanito. Do you feel sick, nauseated?”

“No, not at all.”

“Good. How exactly did you hurt your head?” I told him.

142 “Yes, one needs to wear a bicycle helmet with some of the mujeres here. Well congratulations, you have a Mexican lover. She is going to break your balls as well as your skull, you realize?”

Early Saturday morning Luz and I meet Julie at the Insurgentes station and drive across the valley unimpeded by much traffic, to the southeastern edge of the city. Luz has a sack of fresh fruit and another containing T-shirts, gym shorts and socks. On the way, she tells us more about Ricky and Yazmin, who always had a difficult relationship. Never wed by the church, they were by state since Mexico has strict common marriage laws. I had never met Ricky’s wife, but the stories I hear make her out to be a force to be reckoned with. Jealous, unforgiving, these were words I heard used to describe her on several occasions. Yazmin is a dancer in the ballet as well, Juli says; she unfortunately was responsible for introducing her to Ricardo years ago. Yazmin and Ricky had a son soon afterwards, Ibán, who recently celebrated his second birthday.

The relationship worsened after the birth of their niño, Luz explains. Whatever agreement they had to share payments and use of the caribe, we are unsure of. Yazmin became jealous as Ricky had been dating American women at the Colegio. He was driving the caribe perhaps more than his allotted share, or maybe he didn’t have any share at all in it, so Yazmin signed una firma, the complaint, the signature, literally, stating Ricky had stolen her car. To get something like that to stick in a common-law marriage, you had to know someone. She was connected all right, way high, that’s how Julieta thinks Yazmin ended up at the ballet. She is a mediocre dancer, after all, as I hear from my lover.

Ricky was letting me borrow the caribe long after Yazmin filed the complaint, so I might have been in jail, instead, we are thinking. What a challenge that would have presented. At the end of the day,

143 better Ricky than me. He can speak better Spanish, after all.

Far at the edge of town, near where the squatters are driven out of the dry lakebed during the onset of each new rainy season, only to return during the dry ones, we arrive at the Reclusorio Oriente,

the Eastern Penitentiary. Eastern as in location relative to the city center, not Oriental as in philosophy.

It’s a complex of several one story dormitories spread about a guard house and surrounded by a ten foot

concrete wall that opens through double doors to the public at regularly scheduled times.

Waiting at length to get inside, in line with many others and our ticket stubs in hand, expecting to find an emaciated, black- and blue-eyed pale waif of a friend, we are surprised to see Ricky suntanned, trim, rested and handsome, a dashing Mexican movie star. He’s better looking now and thinner than he was before the arrest, but looking adequately nourished.

“You look great!” I say. Luz and Julie agree. “You’ve lost so much weight!” He is indeed radiant, I am jealous. Maybe I need a few weeks here. Abstinence has its advantages I suppose.

We get the low down. Reclusorio Oriente is indeed a collection of dormitories, just as in a college

in a small Midwestern town. Each dormitory houses one type of criminal only, for example a fraternity

house for the child molesters alone, kept far away from the others. Pickpockets and purse-snatchers

share their own dormitorio, the petty thieves have their own dwellings, as well as the dope-peddlers and violently psychotic offenders. Ricky is kept captive with all of the charged and convicted auto thieves in

cozy and comfortable quarters, and this is the way things have always been at El Reclusorio, or “R.O.” as we now call it.

The car-stealers have a sweet little set up; their accommodations are Spartan but clean, with a common area containing a kitchen sink, stove and refrigerator surrounded by the private sleeping quarters, a little hacienda. Many of the thirty-one inmates in this dormitory are decent cooks Ricardo tells us; they mull around during the late afternoons after they’ve exercised outside in the yard and

144 gardens all morning playing basketball, and while preparing their more than meager communal dinners,

they share with one another the latest techniques and technology designed to artfully rip off a car. It’s

the University of auto-thievery, a monastery of buccaneers. Today’s seminar for visiting guests: “How to jimmy the new Datsun’s door lock and ignition.” They could have it written on a blackboard for crying out loud, like the scuba lesson schedule at the hotel on the beach. And here’s our Ricky, paling around with a bunch of non-violent crooks, for the most part who seem like polite and smart young God-fearing

Christian men. Being with each other, they couldn’t help learning how to be better theives. Learning that not getting caught is the most important consideration.

Ricky shows us a darker side of the RO, however, as, in the grand courtyard where prisoners of all persuasions can mingle during visitation hours. He introduces us to a dentist from El Salvador who tells us a sad story. Eduardo was apprehended with his countrymen in a raid aimed at deporting Central

American refugees. While being held in the delegación for the seventy-two hour maximum allowable period, Eduardo’s visa expired, and the Mexicans charged him with being an illegal alien, just as they did his buddies. Desperate to contact his family, el dentista asks us to smuggle a letter out of the jail, addressed to his wife in San Salvador to make sure it gets properly mailed. I volunteer. We then meet a couple of American guys from Ohio who tell me they were popped years ago while smoking a single joint on their patio. Ken and Christopher. Nice meeting you and good luck. They have been held in the RO since Gerald Ford was president and didn’t know when they’d be set free. Both were medical students at

UNAM before their lives were derailed into this predicament, their train wreck. The war on drugs didn’t affect the Mexicans much I am learning as guys like these.

“How was your Spanish when you were arrested?” I ask, a little worried, myself.

“Fluent,” Chris replies.

“Nixon put a lot of pressure on the government to bust people like us, I guess,” Ken says. “To set

145 an example.”

“That sucks,” is all I can think of saying. Jesus, these guys could be here indefinitely since they

seem to have exhausted all their options.

“Yes, it really does suck.”

The first steps to move Ricardo’s defense forward have been set in motion. Our next objective is

to buy him a trial as one’s defense is always up for sale in Mexico. This will cost him dearly. Spending the morning inside the RO, I fear I should stay out of any kind of trouble, especially that which I have already created. But trouble can be so lucrative. Nereida is moving blankets and sinsemilla in the states; I am dealing right and left throughout the center of the city and beyond and am not worried about any consequences. It took clout to put him away like this, and I didn’t have any enemies that insidious. We’ll get it together for Ricardo. Might I end up here permanently? Like these hapless chaps from Ohio? What patron saint’s protection were they lacking?

“Good luck,” I bid them.

Ricky pulls me aside and asks if I’d made love with Nereida yet.

“Not yet. “

“Why not?”

“Because of you, pendejo, that’s why, ladrón, you thief! We were just about to, but then you got arrested, remember?”

“Oh, that’s right,” he laughs a little, another Mexican devil, one of many locked up here.

“We’re going to the beach next weekend.”

“Where?”

“Oaxaca. Puerto Escondido.”

“Perfecto.”

146 Visiting time is nearly over. I have learned how easy it is to get inside locked Chevrolets, especially 62’-74’ Impalas. Ramón, one of the autio thieves draws me an illustration. Interesting, the many trades one can master. Ricardo gives us bear hugs, the new and much improved Raskolnikov. He doesn’t seem particularly miserable; he’s accomplished an impressive amount of reading, and has awed the auto thieves with his exceptional culinary skills. Pato can even look forward to conjugal visits on the weekends in a separate quarters designed for just that. Conjugal visits, a brilliant idea, even if they are living under the Napoleonic code.

“Ricky, you should invite Yazmin?”

Everyone thinks this is funny, except him.

“By the way, I adore your friends,” I tell him. “It is general knowledge that you have a little dick, my friend, like most of your compatriots. Decepcionante,” I say, diagraming the diameter of an average red delicious apple with my thumb and forefinger. I have made him laugh. I do miss him, at home.

We left, hopeful that Ricky will be found innocent after his trial, which might occur as early as the end of January, nine weeks away, comforted that he appeared healthier and stronger than ever now that he quit smoking and was playing basketball all morning. He will graduate from the RO, a polytechnical institute of sorts with a degree in larceny after a well-deserved rest from the middle school brats. The

Colegio covered his absence by announcing his convalescence from hepatitis. Luz is pleased that he lost so much weight, and had quit drinking of course. We are more worried about the future of these

American kids and Eduardo, el dentista, than we are about Ricardo, who seems to be handling prison like some kind of vacation, like a sort of Thoreau without a rich aunt.

At least we can give Nereida an encouraging report when she returns in two days. We leave Luz at the subway and Julie drives us south on Insurgentes. Shifting into third gear, she places her right hand on my leg.

147 “I spoke with Nereida yesterday evening, and we want to make a proposal.”

“Dígame.”

“Every Wednesday night, you will prepare dinner for us, since you’ve become rich peddling weed,

and we both like your cooking. You’ll shop for the groceries and wine, you’ll cook and wash the dishes.

“Every Wednesday?”

“Sí. And you can sleep over with us. We’re comfortable with a regular routine, aren’t you? So we know what to expect, and exactly when we can look forward to it?” Wednesdays are best because that’s one night when Jewels is not teaching yoga or at rehearsal, and is the time of the week when Nereida is most likely to be home. House rule: at least twenty-four hour advance notice requested in case of emergency cancellation.

“Being inside the reclusorio made me horny as hell, caliente, compañero.” Julie says.

“De veras, por qué?”

“All those good-looking men…cloistered, controlled, exercising all day, locked up and regimented, desperate for the touch of a woman.”

“Maybe you should get a job there?” I suggest.

“I would like that,” she says, “me gustaría! I could punish them well for their crimes. Mmm, men in handcuffs, discipline, castigation, trapped, not able to escape. The thought of it is making me crazy with lust.”

Jewels and I decried that “bible study” should be our code words for making love. Genesis,

Leviticus and Acts also had their own secret meanings. I like this girl; she has a great sense of humor.

“Have you ever been to Cuernavaca, John?

I had not.

“It’s only an hour away and I think you would like it, it’s warmer than the capital, and very

148 interesting and charming. I have to stop at home first, but let’s spend the night there, shall we, have a nice dinner? A little vacation, you and me? In the city of eternal summer?”

I offer to cover hotel and dinner, since she just topped the tank in Nereida’s bug. The sinsemilla business is picking up for the holidays, and the cash is burning a hole in my pocket anyway.

“Let’s go,” I say, reaching over to kiss her cheek.

Nereida flies home Wednesday afternoon, just in time to inititate our new weekly tradition. The

next day is Thanksgiving in the states; I will take the day off to make them a traditional dinner of turkey and oyster stuffing as there’s so much for which one has to be thankful these days.

149 15: Riñones

Cuernavaca proves an oasis of fine colonial architecture, good food, robust tequilas and live music of many genres. Surrounded by lush green foothills climbing towards the mountains, it sits at a lower altitude than the capital. If Mexico City’s climate is eternal spring, Cuernavaca’s is the endless summer then. Peacocks, swans, and tourists wander slowly through the city gardens and into the courtyards of the Silver Age. Picaresque and rustic, I like this town and instantly understand why so many gringo geezers are retired here.

Although I’m happy to see a Mexico full of tourists, the Americans are a pain in the ass. Loud, rude and mostly inebriated; they won’t bother trying to speak a single word of Spanish. I know how to spot the stoners, sure enough however, and can push the sinsemilla on them easily.

“Be careful,” I warn them after making a casual deal, otherwise they’d be sleeping in a big room full of blazers at the Reclusorio Oriente corral.

Cuernavaca is a word that derives from the Náhua “near the woods,” Julie tells me, and not the

“cow’s horn” as I had, in a naïve attempt at etymology, imagined. I suggest we take the long walk to the

Cathedral of the Assumption of Mary so we can light candles and pay homage to Mary the Magdalene, to

San Nicolas, Saint Nicholas; patron saint also of pawnbrokers and thieves, and to Saint Leonard; the patron saint of criminals.

Jewels and I share the same political philosophy, love of good, natural food, music and for that matter, all of the wonderful enlightenments life offers. I adore her, even though she started adding cayenne powder to the “male health” concoction she insists I drink every morning. Even though she made me dress in full length fish-net and a one-piece woman’s swimsuit. She dared me to walk down the hotel hallway dressed in that get up. What the hell, if it makes her hot, I am all for it. Good thing nobody saw.

150 Since she is interested in accents as is her girlfriend, I do my best New Orleans for her entertainment.

“You got to axe me the right questions!” I tell her.

“You like to make fun of the way people talk?”

“No, Juli, I just think drawls and local vernacular no matter where one goes in the world are very dynamic and interesting, don’t you?” She can imitate Caribbean, South, and Central American Spanish accents and I need to learn these basics if I’m going to grow up to be a good comedian. The J sound of the double Ls in Argentina, the dropping of all Ss in the Caribbean idioma. Language is so paradoxically local and now becoming so globally English, we think.

Back in the rainy capital, it’s time for Monday night football as usual, Los Angeles at New Orleans,

November 24, 1980. We’re sitting inside El Jardin near Chapultepec Park, having drinks and looking over the menu with five teachers from the Colegio Americano. Pricey, there sure aren’t too many restaurants this expensive in the city.

After much consternation, one of the Reagan supporters orders riñones, because it’s obviously the cheapest item by far this joint offers. Ha! That fool doesn’t know much Spanish. I think of warning him, but then, naw! Let him get them down, and I’ll tell him what he’s just swallowed, the goon. He doesn’t even ask what they are.

It’s a lopsided game, the Rams kicking and slapping the Saints around from one end of the field to another. I lose interest in it altogether and wish we had sat outside under the canopy, but am better entertained by George Musciolini, eating what he thinks are two cuts of beef, studying the pair of, what are they George? Tournedos? Becoming suspicious, he quizzically cuts inside one of them and makes

151 funny expressions, chewing, mopping the chunks with the gravy to help get them down. As if he’s just swallowed ammonia, or something fishy and nitrogenous.

I almost ask what kind of fish he ordered, but, I wait instead, patiently until he’s cleaned his plate.

After dessert, and during a commercial for Conasupo, the Mexican Seven-Eleven store, I turn to the newcomer.

“So George, how were the kidneys?”

“What?”

“Your kidneys.”

“My kidneys are just fine.”

“No, no, the pig kidneys you just had for dinner. Riñones.

If a picture is worth a thousand words, then the expression on that face, George Musciolini, faccia brutta di Brockton, Mass is a Hieronymous Bosch triptych.

“Why didn’t you tell me before I ate that horrible-tasting shit?”

“You said you knew Spanish, George.” I will make these Reagan-supporters pay for their sins, and my inadequate absentee ballot.

There are no translations in the menu of this high-brow restaurant.

“Urine would be more like it, pig-urine George, but they’re actually a delicacy here.” He drops the napkin on the table, pushes his chair back and stands up, unsteadily, presumably to go retch in the john.

When Mr. Musciolini reappears, looking pale and sweaty, I adopt the best Chicago accent that can be mustered.

”Hey George, I was just kidding about da pig. I ain’t too sure where they get ‘em, to tell the troot, but,” I say, leaning toward to speak softly near his ear, “dey might even be human, or from only God knows where in dis hell-hole. You ever heard of da Chicago stockyards?”

152 He stares at me, dumbstruck.

“I got some advice for you pal. Just don’t tell no Mexican dat you voted for Ronald Reagan, not down here pal, dat would be my advice.” For some reason, I believe a Chicago accent, since I practically grew up “wid it,” would help drive the message home.

Tuesday we started goofing around with direct fluorescent preps, looking for giardia, histolytica, and rarer, more exotic birds, now that we had a more powerful tool in our kit bag. It was a challenge assembling it without a technical representative but there’s always a telephone call when all else fails. I make things work for them, (except their telephone service) and I like that feeling. Their socialized medical system could certainly use more training and supplies, but they care, they really give a damn.

That’s all that really matters at the end of all of this marvelous technology.

And now, Wednesday, it will be a glorious hump day. I try translating this euphemism into

Spanish as a joke for one of my German customers during an early morning sale, with disastrously and mistakenly suggestive results. I bid her adieu in a confused cloud of smoke about my true intentions inside her apartment. But the scavenger hunt begins and I am robustly stoned, off to the markets and delighted to have the day off. Polenta is not hard to find since they have cultivated maize for thousands of years here, and neither is a modestly sized turkey hen which is plucked and cleaned, quickly and neatly, an organica. The girls will enjoy this I hope. Green beans, yams, butter, bolillos for stuffing, celery, sage and finally oysters. Balderas market is immense, unequaled in breadth as a repository of variety and brilliant color in the early morning rays of sunshine. Fish on ice, mango, papaya, orange, carrots, brilliant squash in crates; ducks, piglets, geese and sausages strung about, the herbalists and the brujas with their

153 curious apothecaries, Balderas rewards the wandering poets of the capital. Among the peppers, herbs

and flowers, a harvest of goods and peoples the awed extranjero has never before imagined, the

incongruous shapes and unusual scents of the market whisk the visitor into an alternate universe

altogether.

Like Robert Frost’s visitor who stopped by woods on a snowy evening; however, I have promises to keep, so I hightail it back to Coyoacán lugging pounds of fresh groceries on the subway. The apartment is empty so I blow a few hits of sinsie into the patio, with the radio turned up. Rolling up my sleeves, I wash my hands and eagerly get to work in the kitchen. I love Thanksgiving.

Nereida’s flight will be on time and we are excited to see her. The girls arrive in a bubbly chatter, excited about the aromas I have created cleanly in their kitchen. Nereida gives me a long kiss before she showers and changes clothes.

She brings presents, our Sea Nymph. For Julieta; coral earrings from Florida, arétes, and a provocative new swimsuit. For me it’s a vanity Florida license plate keychain. Dade (County). “Dominick” it says, with the state of Florida looking like the male organ itself, although a flaccid one, hanging sadly downwards. A rubber band has been attached so Dominick can wear his name tag, she explains. A full

Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders’ outfit is produced, presumably for me to wear. It’s pornographic enough just by itself. Nereida shows her new Vince Camuto D’Orsay pumps to our girlfriend, since she knows I can’t get worked up about shoes, and for that matter I can’t understand how anyone else could.

“It smells so good in here, Juanito.”

“Thanks for the cheerleader’s outfit, Nereida.”

“Do you know how long it took me to find that?” She was able to deliver a load of ganja to

Tommy, in Chicago between so many other stops on her accelerated schedule. The boys in Madison are doing well with it as we all are. Thanksgiving indeed.

154 The women talk over tall glasses of Montepulciano, one that I had provided from an assorted case of imports, while I clear the kitchen counter and set the table. The turkey has been in the oven since twelve-thirty. Shoes, boots, belts and even after that, more shoes. Catalogues are procured. Purses.

European branding, no sweatshops mind you, no Indonesian children earning five cents an hour, but quality Italian leather. Jesucristo, how can communist woman talk so much about shoes and purses?

Better to be distracted by basting the turkey and setting water to boil for the polenta, another pot for the yams.

“I love to see a man in command of the kitchen, don’t you, amor?” Nereida asks.

“On his knees,” she replies, “fregando.” Scrubbing.

Their tiny apartment is aglow with the redolence of sage, juicy oyster and golden, dripping poultry. If there’s on thing I can do right, it’s the big Thanksgiving bird. The girls are starving. They watch me go at it from across the counter, holding hands, seeming so happy to finally be together. We had just finished a joint, and emptied two bottles of wine. Julie opens a third.

“Too bad that Ricardo is not here,” I say. I think he would enjoy this. The girls offer to help, but I shoo them away. “I’m in total control,” I tell them, checking the yams and basting the bird again in the oven.

Our heartfelt Thanksgiving dinner turns well in the end, not just edible, but the oyster stuffing and gravy are masterpieces; the green bean casserole has been executed according to the high orthodoxy of white trashdom, right down to the Campbell’s Mushroom Soup I was able to find. Cranberries are lacking, unfortunately; those one cannot see anywhere in Mexico as far as I know.

These muchachas have quite an appetite. Nereida is so petite, how is she able to eat so much?

Flattered, I marvel as they devour their dinner, excuse themselves to the kitchen for seconds, and return again for thirds. Glass after glass of wine is consumed. Finally, they quit talking and just stuff their faces.

155 Maybe it’s the marijuana and not necessarily my culinary talent. At best, the two have mingled.

“Growing girls,” I say, “my word.”

“Muy sabroso Juan, the best Italian meal en México!” Nereida jokes. I’m not aware of many

Italian restaurants in the capital, and the girls are not keen on the historical intricacies of our national holiday which have of course been falsified.

Nereida chatters of her travels; how much she likes Chicago’s Magnificent Mile, how much fun

Miami’s Calle Ocho is, how much there is to do and how fine the shopping is, in both cities, the best. The conversation moves sideways to Osvaldo.

“I must be honest with you,” Nereida tells us, “I slept with him, in my hotel in Miami.” The pen knife pokes between my ribs. Ouch. Why not me yet, I wonder.

“But I finally discovered that night, afterwards, that the son of a whore is married,” she discloses.

Juli frowns.

“I see,” I say, picking up dishes for transport to the sink.

“Mire, look, I promised you and Juli that I will be honest about everything I do, so there’s nothing going on behind your back, as I just have been. I won’t carry on with a married man though. That crosses the line of my ethical boundaries. And certainly not a married man who goes sneaking around on his wife.

If she knew, and approved, or participated, that might be an entirely different and better matter. But a man who is dishonest to his woman will be on my shit-list, for all of eternity. I told him to fuck off, forever.”

She says “shit-list” in perfect English. Nereida is picking up on the slang I was teaching her. “He will never take advantage of me again because he is on the bottom of my shit-list,” she shouts as I am wrapping leftovers for refrigeration in aluminum foil.

“Perfecto. Your English is suberb. So proud of you, Nereida,” I say, having just self-congratulated

156 for having remained so far unmarried. “You go, girl!”

“You rock, Nereida,” says Jewels, like me, selfishly glad to have her back with us. Julieta liked

using American slang in my presence; she was trying it out on our native English speaking friends to my

amusement. I make sure to compliment her as well, as to not leave Juliet ignored. Whatever one has so

must the other.

“I am so pissed off at that little wimp,” the Sea Nymph protests, “there’s only one way I can safely release my anger, in a healthy way.” ‘Wimp’ - another word I taught her.

“I always thought he was such a nerd,” Juli adds, competing with her friend for the English prize.

“Jewels, girls you’ve really been studying your homework!” I shout as I fill the sink with soapy water, ready to wash plates and pans. And when I have finished cleaning up as best as can be done, after five bottles of reds and whites are consumed, Nereida summons Julie who is already lying down on the futon couch, a victim of a fresh turkey’s high tryptophan content, I surmise.

“Tiempo para el cuero de navajas.”

Julieta stirs, sits up, looks at me and says “Oh-oh.”

What is a cuero de navajas? I wonder. But not for long, since Nereida comes out of the bathroom with the Illinois leather strop in her hand.

“Oiga, listen, we hold an initiation ritual that you, nuestra nueva mujer, must pass.” I have become their new woman, they say.

“If you help me release my anger, a single outburst is all it will take, because of that pendejo

Osvaldo and his lies; the lies of men, the sins of all men in general, los pecados del hombre, then I will return to my normal sweet self and I won’t be the frothing bitch that I am right now, ahorita.”

Julieta says, “Just go through with it, and the three of us will be better off, believe me, or else.”

“Go through what?”

157 “El cuero.” The strop.

“Why should I be punished for the indiscretions and lies of that little bastard? That’s not fair.”

“Because I will get away with it here. En Los Estados Unidos, I might have gone to jail.”

“I see.”

“A ritualistic cleansing of sins and purification of the soul and spirit.”

“Náhua?”

“Sí. Solamente una peqeuñita azotaina.”

“What is una azotaina?”

Julie tries explaining in Spanish, pantomiming, and what I’m getting is something that happens with a cowhide.

“You want to skin me?”

“No, no, after the skinning.” I think a while. “The hide. Piel.”

“You mean tanning?”

“Yes!”

“Jesucristo!”

“Exactly, like Jesus you’re punished for the sins of all men. Afterwards, the door to heaven will be eternally open to you. Cielito lindo.”

“That simple, is it?”

“Sí.”

“Please? I promise to take you to the beach and fuck you silly, around the clock, naked, cleansed of the sins of the world, los pecados del mundo, if you will just promise to lead me on a safe path where I can release all of my wrath tonight. It’s so unhealthy to keep it bottled up inside.”

“If you put it that way.”

158 I am commanded to undress and change into the skimpy, blue and white cheerleader’s outfit, skirt and all. And those tall, white go-go boots, dear heavens, they barely fit. How will I ever get them off?

“Obedece! Obey!”

Julieta will have a few amusing new pictures to share with the world; I will be one in many of the photo album she showed me. Jesus, all those poor, humiliated guys.

“Bend over.”

They get behind, Juli pushing me face down on the dinner table which I wiped clean minutes ago.

I’m glad I had bothered.

“Obedece!” Obey!

“Obedezco,” I obey. The strop, now doubled, is firm in Nereida’s grip. Pulling the skirt up to expose my bare buttocks, she begins the tirade of her strange and cruel ritual.

“Tres golpes. The first, la primera, is for the conquest, la conquista, and the appalling way you

European colonialistas have raped our country over the centuries!”

Ow! That really did smart, I let her know. She’s not just playing. What have I gotten myself into? I turn to face her. Nereida’s cheeks and forehead are red with passion. I hadn’t been spanked that hard, even as a kid, ever with a strop, even with Sicilian grandparents, since I can remember. She pushes my head back on the table.

“The second, la segunda, es para Los Niños Héroes, the death of our young heroes at the hands of you murderous yanqui imbasores!”

OUCH! God damn it, this one stings like hell! I turn back at her again, a teardrop swelling in one orbit.

“What in blazes are you doing, girl?”

159 Los Niños Héroes are the children heroes, military cadets who, in 1847, refused to surrender to the invaders, los yanqui imbasores, during the battle of Chapultepec in the Mexican American War. The last survivor, Juan Escutia, leaped from the castle with a Mexican flag draped around him so it would not fall into the hands of the imbasores.

“Nereida!” I ask her to please stop, but she’s laughing.

“Only one more,” she says, “I’m already starting to feel so much better, but God how I want to beat on a man tonight! Thank you for your…obediencia.”

“Bend over,” Julieta says, “one more time, and you‘re a free man, hombre libre.”

“The third, la tercera, is for the pain of childbirth that you men will never comprehend! And for centuries of your lies to your women!”

“Wait, that’s four!” I protest.

The last one injures. It brings another teardrop to my eye. A tear of unreserved pain.

“God!” My ass is spanked red and swollen, I check in the mirror.

“Thank you!” Nereida cries, with a tear in her eye herself. “I am so much relieved of my anger now.” She throws down the strop and surrounds me in her arms.

“Well, I don’t feel better! Do you have an aspirin?” The head-banging is one thing, but now, una azotaina? I make you a nice dinner, you eat like a couple of thieves, I clean your house and I get spanked like a monkey, what in the…” Jewels thinks this is funny.

“I just had to get it out of me, anger is not a healthy emotion, you know? I’m sorry if I hurt you, but now that I have been cleansed of my anger toward men, and you have been purified, this weekend there will be no obstacles to our love.”

“Does he pass?” Julieta asks her lover, the petite and terrible, strop-wielding bruja.

“He passes with an A plus,” Nereida answers. I pull the ridiculous cheerleader outfit over my

160 head and look for my clothes.

“I agree, de acuerdo,” replies Jewels.

“Where are my clothes? Jesucristo and John the Baptist!” I say. Did they ever have it this bad?

“Exactamente cabrón.”

Punished for the sins of my fathers, the sins of Columbus and Cortez, the sins of man, the mere act of sitting down is going to be difficult over the next few days. Unable to find the clothes I was wearing, I lie on my stomach on their futon, covering my burning buns. Nereida sits beside me.

“Juanito, my period is coming on with a vengeance. So tonight we are not going to have such a wild time in bed, but next weekend, en Oaxaca, we will finally make our fiesta de amor, Juan, I promise.“

“It’s quite all right,” I say, “I understand.” The wine and turkey are getting the better of me, we’re all sleepy, drunk and wasted. And my ass is killing me. Julieta had given me a workout over the weekend.

“I’m having bad cramps.” Jewels says as an excuse to roll yet another joint. The girls are synchronized by the mere act of living together, a well-described physiological phenomenon.

“I’m exhausted, so let’s all three of us snuggle tonight together and just kiss, will that be alright,

Juanito?”

They have a queen size futon, big enough, I guess, for all three of us.

“You are now initiated putito, we do this just once to our boyfriends.”

“Your boyfriends? How many do you have?”

“I’m minus one now, and that brings me down to two, including you,” Nereida replies.

“Who is the other guy?” I ask.

“I see a man sometimes in San Francisco,” she says, “he lives in Sausalito.” The pen knife, again.

“Tell me about him.”

“He’s older, an artist and a writer, a fascinating man.”

161 “Vernon?” Julieta asks. Nereida nods.

“And you, Juli?”

“I was dating a professional soccer player,” she says, “but he dumped me. For a rubia.”

“Idiota,” I say.

“Sí. Just out of curiosity Juanito, have you been doing that Swiss woman, Suzy?” Nereida inquires.

I had, once. “She’s nice, cool, but the chemistry isn’t there for me, at least not like with you two.”

“Thank you for being honest. But I think she’s really cute, guapa, this Suzy, she’s got a great ass on her. Do you think she’s into women maybe, a little?”

“I can ask.” Her friends, Michael and Theo, we know are a committed gay couple.

“How many girlfriends do you two have? Many, I bet.”

My question remains unanswered for a few moments.

“Many more than boyfriends, yes. So you are a special little monkey, un changuito suertoso,”

Julieta says.

“Speaking of monkeys, Nereida, John told me that he masturbates constantly, even while at work.”

These chicks! Chiquititas.

“John!” All I can do is laugh. Or cry. Shit, do they love to have their way with me. Mujeres!

“Well, you had better quit and save yourself up for me, this weekend.”

“He started when he was eight, Nereida! He confesses his sins to me, I feel like I am his…cura, his priest!”

“We can play priest and sinner in Puerto Escondido and switch characters, do you like role-playing games, Juanito?”

“Yes, that would be lovely,” I say on my way to the shower.

162 A sweaty, glazed mess from the heat and grease of the kitchen; I need the additional purification and the uninterrupted and stable flow of warm water, such a delightful new experience to have a shower that won’t scald you intermittently.

I dry and turn off the bathroom light. The girls have fallen asleep on the futon facing each other, in their panties, nothing more, arms around each other, both snoring. I watch their backs ebb and flow, the tide of their tired breathing for a long while. How peaceful, those two, my beautiful lovers. I kiss the tiny hairs on their backs.

I have a little room at the edge of the mattress. Covering us with the sheet, I lay on my back, my head on their small pillow and listen to the night time of Coyoacán. A single baby crying in the distance.

Two dogs barking and a radio still on, somewhere faraway in the complex.

That’s how I left them, early Thursday morning, still snoring and snuggling. I found where Juli hid my clothes, very clever. They have a free day and are going shopping with the extra wad of cash that

Nereida brought home from our poartnership, but I had to go back to work. The sinsie proves itself to our mutual benefit. Shoes, purses, skirts and stockings for the most communist girls ever. In reality, knowing

Nereida she would give them away, to her sisters and friends. Everyone is a communist here, I’m starting to believe, in their own way. I had time to make coffee, and, in the quiet of early dawn, leave them a one page love letter.

163 16: Líneas Aéreas Oaxaqueñas

A forty-five minute ride in a vintage Douglas Commercial-Three at eighteen dollars a seat is how

Nereida recommends we go to Puerto Escondido, the Hidden Port, via Líneas Aéreas Oaxaqueñas, the provincial airline of the southern coastal state of Oaxaca. Early Saturday morning the nbecktied and white shirted pilot reads the sports pages of Excelsiór, waiting to be turn the ignition key and be cleared for takeoff from Benito Juarez. It’s been a while since I’ve had a ride on a DC-3, a propeller powered aircraft that first came off the production lines in 1935. This particular DC-3 is a ‘B’ model, a sturdy little beagle with its two Wright R-1820 Cyclone engines; it can land on unpaved and grass runways. Forty five years and counting, they’re still the workhorses of the more rugged and inaccessible corners of Latin

America.

“How long does it take to drive to Puerto?” I ask.

“At least eighteen hours.”

“Puta madre.”

“Es muy dificil, muy montañoso.”

The stewardess shuts and latches the fuselage door, the pilot tugs the curtain shut and, fastening my seat belt, I watch as the first puffs of smoke chug out of the Cyclone I can see outside Nereida’s window. It smells like cigarettes and fuel, sun tan lotion and old spilled cocktails, four decades of safe holiday adventures inside this airplane. As the pilot throttles the engines and begins rolling, I can barely hear what Nereida is saying.

“Ricardo says hello, John.” She had finally been able to visit with him, having driven with Luz yesterday.

“How is he doing?”

“He is sad, becoming impatient, and depressed.”

164 “He’ll be out soon, won‘t he?”

“We can only hope. He misses you very much.”

“I reciprocate,” I say, “Igualmente.”

Our little airplane taxis and waits, the brakes squeaking, in line behind an Aero Mexico DC-7, that one’s nose at the tail of an American Airlines Boeing 727.

“Does he still hate Americans?” I ask.

“Just you and Charlie.”

“Good.”

“Chicle,” Nereida says, handing me a square piece of Mexican gum one buys from the Indian vendors on the curbside. After all, these people introduced the practice of chewing gum, “tziktli,” from the Náhua manikara tree, to the rest of the world.

“It will help your ears adjust to the altitude,” she says, a stewardess by trade, she must feel at home this morning.

As the aircraft gains speed on takeoff, the engines roaring, the wheels leave the runway, and, about to be hurled into the clear blue sky, I start to laugh. This will be some kind of roller coaster ride, I am thinking, smiling. What fun. Orale.

We fly south and then turn west at the volcanos, not having reached their exalted altitude yet, the engines humming and vibrating in resonance. A kiss is shared during which Nereida extrudes her wad of gum into my mouth, a playful grin to follow. I taste the orange juice on her lips. The flight is amazingly smooth; I love these old DC-3s. We look out the window, at the craggy and furrowed desert of Oaxaca beneath our feet; red, uneven, and rocky. The tails of many dragons, intertwined.

“Wouldn’t you love to own one of these DC-3s, Nereida?”

“Yes, we could convert it into a flying party palace, with blankets and beds and pillows, a stereo

165 system, good books and many lesbian rubias.”

Nereida may indeed break my heart, there’s no turning back now.

Fifteen minutes later, we discern a fine hazy line of cobalt colored coastline, the waves breaking white on the sandy shore far below. We descend, bank and getting a better view of the ocean, are awed by its brillilant ultramarine and indigo inks under the tropical sunshine. The pilot swoops the airplane in a wide arc, making for a dazzling show of the Pacific; he then executes a graceful, flawless landing at the small air strip. Everyone claps. It seems so effortless; flight.

Oaxaca, like the commonwealth itself, is a nation comprised in large part by children. I’ve often wondered what the average age is in the capital, guessing maybe it’s around ten to twelve years old.

Nobody knows, or can estimate it accurately. Along the unpaved, dusty road in Puerto, the sole artery of the small fishing village, the mean age here seems much less. Kids everywhere, they follow the güeros in silence with their rapt, curious eyes, fascinated by my whiteness. In front of the hotel, a tough looking woman in a black tank top uses a machete to whack the tops off of plump green coconuts she pulls from inside a bicycle-driven ice cream vendor’s cart. Two straws are thrown in, and the juice inside the nut, sold to us for around a US quarter, is cold and sweet, a perfect remedy for the heat and sun, and the thirst they have engendered.

“I love everything coconut,” I say.

“I do too.”

It’s certainly warm, my heart pounding with the temperature, and the harbor; busy with fishing boats and tourists, frolicking and swimming from one calm side to the other, is an inviting dip.

Inside our suite on the top floor of Hotel Bougainvillea, the patio doors open to a view of the

166 curving port. Hidden from the open water to the north by a set of hills arching westward into the sea, the harbor is bordered by a breakwater on its southern stretch, created by boulders stretching for a quarter mile into the waves, dividing the bay from the open, churning sea beyond. Sea salt and nectars. Banana trees swaying in a gentle sea breeze. Orchidaceae. What is not to love in this peaceful little village?

“Nereida, this is a Gauguin painting of a South Pacific island,” I remark, taking in the view from our patio. The slender handsome natives dressed simply in colorful florid patterns seem so Polynesian to me.

“This is the South Pacific, Juanito. Maybe these people have descended from the ancient

Polynesians, what do you think?”

“Quite possible,” I answer. “This is lovely, perfecto, amor. Muy tranquilo. Thank you so much for dragging me here, kicking and screaming as I did.”

I take her into my arms, wanting to make love, right here, right now.

“Wait,” she says, “Espérate. I want to take you inside of me when we are in the ocean, naked.

Let’s have our first time in the sea, el mar,” she says. “After all, I am the Sea Nymph, remember?”

Before I change into swimsuit and shorts, Nereida closes, latches and locks the patio door, cursing the many thieves of Mexico as she draws the curtains.

“Let me show you something,” she says, searching through the bottom of her Samsonite carryon, producing a sandwich sized baggie containing what at first looks like broken pieces of grey and white chalk.

“Do you know what these are?” I have a good look. Yes, I do. I look at Nereida and smile.

“Ongos.”

“Sí.”

Psilocybin mushrooms. They have been used ritualistically in Oaxaca for centuries and will be

167 again soon I suppose.

“Where did you get them?”

“I bought them in Amecameca, in October; I was saving them in the freezer, for a special occasion.” Amecameca is the last outpost where one sets out to hike up to the volcanos near the capital.

Children sell paper bags filled with the small, dried hallucinogenic mushrooms to the tourists and climbers in the village, a well-known stop on the hippy trail that winds and wanders throughout

Mesoamerica. The Canadians especially like to get demolished. Russians are also generally fond of becoming fucked up beyond all recognition as well on shrooms, I had discovered, in my brief tenure en

México lindo.

“Have you ever eaten them, John?” I had done so on a few occasions, and also peyote, I confess. I converted my body into a mobile pharmacology lab during my freshman year in the dorms at UW, I explain, and so far, there’s not a psychedelic I’ve ever met that I didn’t like, although LSD is a bit much for me these days. Ayahuasca, San Pedro cactus, Hawaiian baby woodrose seeds; in search of novel biological activities within the Kingdoms of Plantae and Fungi, I had sampled one of every psychedelic bark, root, spore, stem, pip or flower known to mankind.

“Did you like the experience?”

“I did and do still. It’s good to trip your brains out once in a while, make scrambled eggs out of them.”

“Well, should we, and then play all afternoon in the ocean?”

“I don’t see why not, Nereida; it sounds like a splendid idea.” I reply. The world splendid makes me think of June and Ward Cleaver, and little Beaver. We’re thousands of miles away from Mayfield, and

485 Mapleton Street, this afternoon in Puerto Escondido, Hidden Port, Oaxaca.

Keeping them down is easier said than done. The ongos probably grew on cow shit, I imagine,

168 and conducting a brief review of all the bovine borne diseases in Latin AmericaI can recall, I stop at

brucellosis, that’s probably what I will contract, but at least I know where the antibiotics are stashed in the clinic.

They taste horrible, the ongos, worse than even the hideous black corn smut fungus that native peoples in Mexico eat which is called huitlacoche. A mouldy, damp taste of rot in the mouth. Wet toilet paper, buried for a month in a landfill; growing green soil fungi. I gag, almost losing them, fighting to keep them from being tossing up. Something about the human body that doesn’t want the toadstools of death inside of you.

“Here, have some coco juice Juanito…” I always come close to puking when trying to swallow these things.

But finally, they’re safely down the hatch, Nereida’s too, and it doesn’t take long to begin to feel their first effects.

“Are you ready for the beach?”

“Let’s wait a few minutes before, we may need to use the bathroom.”

She’s right. The ongos can take everything inside your guts and throw it at the wall at one hundred miles per hour. A religious purging meant to eject the devil from your very being. Since psilocybin also inhibits a key biochemical reaction in producing melanin, I knew enough to share the information with my friend along with gthe offer of sunscreen.

I knew how strongly they come on, los ongos, sneaking up on you until it’s too late and you’re begging the Bat God for forgivance. I knew well and respect their power. The onset is mighty. It doesn’t take long for the alkaloid to circulate, diffusing through our empty stomachs. I wager that ingesting a pharmacological dose of psilocybin is likely beyond the scope of many’s resumé. To faithfully describe the encounter with the Bat God is a challenge to the most skilled writer; how may one define color to the

169 blind? Follow me, good souls, if you’ve never had the experience.

The ongos arise vigorously, convincingly, an army you can’t fight. Surrendering your body to the

Bat God, you become the Boeing 747, your Pratt & Whitneys whistling, revving up, your floor rattles, your sides shake, the brakes still on, ready for takeoff, feeling your head just about to be thrust into the mesosphere. Human body becomes the comet, escaping from the gravitational field. Go with the flow, or be dragged. It’s like learning to downhill ski for the first time. Let go, relax, don't be afraid to fall, otherwise you die a human snowball. Nervous, you feel the trepidation before takeoff, and when the toadstools hit your brain, the bomb hits the beach. You purge guano you never knew you had, guano you’ve been holding inside from 1960, guano you inherited from your ancestors, but then you surge above the clouds and feel the power and ecstasy under the protection of Bat God’s benevolence.

How quickly psilocybin destroys one’s appetite, relegating even the best of all culinary intention to the offensively disgusting. As we pass the outdoor restaurants ringing the harbor, the greasy fried oysters and disagreeable potatoes, the hideous French fries make us gag. Yuck. Trying not to look at, or inhale all that dreadful food. Or look too deeply into the ugly faces of the tourists.

A handful of locals are dispersed along the length of the breakwater, in muscle shirts, shorts and sandals, they chisel away at the mollusks wedged between the shelves of the rock, tossing the mussels and oysters into plastic buckets. We get past it, to the open sea.

It feels so righteous to be walking, holding hands, moving, on the journey, life’s grand journey. An expedition behind a breakwater I’ve never before beheld. I am taken. The voyage of life, I muse, so in control of my own. The toadstools have poisoned and killed me, but I am reborn from my corpse a newer and better boy. I thank Joe and Lorin silently, for having convinced me that this was, indeed, an adventure I should not scrap.

“La travesía!” I declare loudly to no pone else on the strand except for us. But, then, I notice

170 something is grossly wrong.

“You’re turning a deep shade of purple, Nereida,” I say, trying not to be too freaked out by the

color she had just become; that of a cheap burgundy. A startling, radioactive burgundy. “Dark purple,” I

say, touching her so I could taste the alarming color with my fingers. She studies the skin on her right arm

and then looks at me.

“Stop that!” I command, thinking she’s in control of it somehow.

“You are too!” she replies, laughing heartily in feaer. “Oh my God!”

We’re uncertain if it’s our real appearance, or if we’ve blitzed like hallucinating goons, banshees gone hilariously mistaken. We’re a little concerned however, because, won’t someone notice? Isn’t it illegal to be this purple? Nereida becomes such a monkey. A fun, playful, cute little monkey. Her simian is showing full, her totem. I scrutinize the thin black hairs on her forearm, wispy above that eerie skin, her gleaming, Merlot-colored coating of paint.

“Stop it!”

“Stop what!”

“Turning so purple, you little monkey” I say.

“I can’t help it!” she complains.

Far beyond the breakwater the open ocean is mile after mile of unspoiled beach abutting the dry hills at our left flank, it stretches long into a hazy southwestern horizon. Here is the roaring Pacific, in its incomprehensible extent, dumbfounding in its breadth and ever mutable hues. The sea is green, indigo, and cobalt beyond the raucous, rolling waves, heaving and impatient, stirring. The outlandish agave! So strange in the sight of this Midwestern boy’s eyes; towering above us, tangling the hills humorously. The unusual and massive agave, so bizarre and alien, they cause me to erupt in interminable giggling.

“What’s so funny?” Nereida asks.

171 “All of that…cactus.” I can barely pronounce, trying to catch my breath. Nereida smiles.

“Por qué?”

“And the water, look at that tidal pool!” I kick my sandals off and throw my T- shirt on the sand so I can run and splash inside of the pool. The coolness of the water makes me shiver in an adrenaline rush. Frosted numb, the sun burning, fire and ice; in feeling the delicious pain of both, no pain is felt whatsoever. Spotting a sea cucumber, we pick it up and exchange it between our hands, slippery, cold, slimy, green like a wiggling pickle, shrinking, curving and expanding so mechanically. I place it gently back where it belongs, honoring the early nervous system of the echinoderm.

“Pepino del mar?” I ask, testing a literal translation.

“En Inglés, de veras?”

“Yes.”

“We say cohombro. You can eat them, you know?”

We retrieve our sandals, and begin walking a kilometer or so father along the shore to the southwest, holding hands, and reaching a far section of the beach that, except for us, seems completely uninhabited.

“Nereida, I can’t see any evidence that mankind has any presence here, at all. We are the first people that have walked on this part of the earth it seems.” No telephone poles, wires, roads, other folks.

Just the wild surf. Sand, water, waves, the mountains to the north, looming, blue, so different in their aspect than any other mountains I’ve seen.

“Psilocybin must tinker with the part of our brain that senses time of day, do you suppose?”

“Sí,” Nereida replies.

“I have no idea if it’s morning, afternoon, or evening.”

“Well, it’s not nighttime yet, I think.”

172 I honestly couldn’t say for sure, because the sky had been transforming violently in front of my eyes and now becomes the inside of a broken eggshell, an immense cracked eggshell, and all I can see are searchlights and lightning flashes inside the darkening orb inside the huge egg. The egg becomes an eggplant, dark purple and silky, an eggplant with light flashes coming from inside of it, from the bulbs of flash attachments on antique cameras. Photographers from the 1950s are taking pictures of us, from their perch in the sky, inside the shattered eggplant. Black and white, photographers in the suits and shirts and ties and fedoras of the 1950s. Flash. Flash. Poof. So fucking weird.

“Smile! Say Cheese!“ They shout to me slowly, in thick Long Island accents. “Smoy-il!”

And, what is this? I keep hearing a baby cry.

“Where in the hell is that baby?” I ask.

“What baby?”

“There’s a baby crying, nearby, I hear it!” Nereida just laughs and laughs. She can’t stop.

“You are pedo, farted, señor.”

“This is all your fault,” I say, trying desperately to keep my mouth from sliding off my face and falling into the sand. “I’m going to lose my mouth and this will be your fault!” Nereida collapses on her knees while chortling. I imagine going to the emergency room complaining that I can’t find my mouth anywhere. I lost it on the beach.

I think it best not to look at the sky anymore, just to concentrate on walking and looking at what’s in front of me, since I tripped on a rock while watching the 1950s photographers turn from black and white into daguerrotypes. Then they become green frogs, croaking obscenities and insults in perfect,

Mexican-Spanish.

“Mamones! Mamones!” They croaked.

The mere act of ambulation is like some new skill I have just acquired, I’m not sure I am doing it

173 correctly. I am fifteen months old and I can suddenly hear my dad whistling for me, like he used to do.

“Nereida,” I ask, “am I walking funny?”

“Not any funnier that you ordinarily do, no.” She stops and comes in for a little kiss. Even kissing makes us laugh, it seems like such a strange and unnatural act. But unnaturally fun, if we can get over the idea that our lips aren’t dripping bright green shimmering blood.

“How did I become a child again, Nereida? You put a curse on me, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she replies.

“Let’s go for a long hike, un buen senderismo, and find a secluded place so we can get naked, crazy man,” Nereida whispers in my ear.

“Why are you whispering?” I ask.

“So he will not overhear us,” she replies, pointing an accusing finger at a man who I can’t see, and assume is imaginary and due to the mushrooms. Nosy bastard.

We walk farther along the strand. It’s hard to keep still under the effect of the Toadstool

Goddess. Moving is peace, serenity. An effortless stride, we are not pulled or dragged but we are the flow itself, its source and ultimate destination.

“Mire! Serpiente de mar!” Nereida says pointing to a sea snake coughed up by the depths of the ocean, lifeless.

“Whoa!” I say, shivering a little as it is washed once by the surf, rolls on its back and becomes still in the receeding water. It is indeed a yellow-bellied sea-snake, Pelamis platura, almost three feet long. I find a suitable piece of driftwood and roll the serpent over, so we can admire its jet black back, and the bright yellow and orange spots on its belly. What a beautiful beast; so sleek, shiny, and colorful, its brilliant swatch a tell-tale warning of danger and venom to its underwater peers.

“If they sting you, you will die, instantly.” Nereida says.

174 “Could be, but they’re not very aggressive,” I say. What a remarkable sight. “We should be wary when swimming.”

“What do you think it feels like, to be dead?” I ask my girlfriend. I watch her, trying to formulate a response.

“Who knows? Maybe like being very comfortably asleep, I hope,” she replies. “In a fantastic dream.”

“I would live forever if I could,” I tell her, still fixated on the cold sea serpent.

“I would too,” she says, “as long as I feel the way I do today.”

Death is such a cheater. Changes are hard for me, I tell her. If life is about learning how to say goodbye to that which and whom we love the most, then I’m afraid I’ve failed at it, I admit.

“I think I understand why we die,” I tell her. “And it’s not so we can go to heaven.”

“Why, in your mind?”

“It’s so we all don’t get cancer. This is not my original thought. I read it in a Biology textbook and it makes perfect sense.” She asks me for clarification and I try my best to explain what I had read of

Bruce Alberts’ philosophy that death was nature’s way of balancing the equation with the probability of developing cancer, a likelihood that increases exponentially with advancing age. Our discussion enters the realm of sexual reproduction, the most august and magical of our powers.

“Do you want to have children, John?”

I tell her that the day will come when indeed I will. “And you?”

“Yes, I do. Very much.”

Far from any other humans, we are alone in a paradise of pelagic birds, seashells, big boulders and tidal pools, one of which seems an ideal spot for us to find the privacy we seek. Nereida kicks her sandals off, removes her T-shirt, and, in her black bikini, she roasts and darkens, a little coffee bean.

175 Wading in, following in her footsteps, she spots a smooth black rock marbled with snow white swirls.

“Look, what a pretty stone.” She hands it to me, a remarkable find indeed. “How is something

like this created, señor scientista?”

“Amazing. Let’s keep it.”

We kiss for a while. After a pensive moment, I begin in English, a trippy but animated allocution

of oceanic plates, the lithospheres that make up the sea floor, and how they’re pushed under the

continental plates, all along the Pacific coast, from Alaska to Tierra del Fuego. This is a bit beyond my

Spanish skills at the moment. So I switch to English.

“Imagine sheets of rock, floating on top of liquid magma underneath, like bamboo trays floating

in one of those rivers they have in a Sushi restaurant,” I begin. “Am I lecturing?”

“Yes, but, I enjoy it, I love learning about planetary science, go on Juanito.”

Using my fingers bent at a right angle to my hands, together, the right pushing under the left, I try as best I can to show Nereida how the process of subduction occurs. How this creates the heat and pressure that gives birth to the hundreds of erupting volcanoes along the Pacific Rim. The roiling magma,

the oceanic trenches, how rocks might be remodeled and become mottled in the metamorphic process

of melting.

“Is it possible for Italians to speak without using their hands?”

“Of course not, Nereida.”

“Neither for Mexicanos. But what force is pushing these plates under one another?”

“In the middle of the sea is a mid ocean ridge, a wide-open fracture in the floor where liquid magma rises from deeper in the interior of the planet.”

“Sí…”

I place my hands and fingers together, praying. “The magma below the crust of the earth boils

176 and rises through these narrow expanses, Nereida,” I explain, bringing my hands upward, and then

separating them at a wide angle and moving them apart.

“Imagine a treadmill, una cinta de correr, where the front is the ridge, pushing the sea floor

toward you.”

“And…”

“Behind you, the cinta is pushed under another plate, under the continente, and all the heat and pressure building up underneath causes the volcanos to form and erupt.”

“Popo.”

“Maybe Popo, but I’m not sure he’s part of the Pacific situation. Convection currents, just like in your pumpkin soup, Nereida. Así, like this.” I circle my fingers in opposite rotation.

“Maybe, when the rock is molten, boiling up from deep within the earth, and getting crushed and melted again at the subduction zones, perhaps that is part of the process of creating such a remarkable work of art, such as our pet rock here?”

“Yes, yo recuerdo, I remember learning about this in my geology course.”

“Does it take away any of the magic, mystery and wonder of it all, Nereida, mi amor?”

“No, Juanito, it only makes it so much more fascinating and lovely. How interesting is the planet where we live?”

“Dynamic,” I reply. “Look, love, beautiful earthling,” I say, picking up the shell of a calico scallop, a keyhole sand dollar and another pebble that has sloppy dollops of blue and yellow protruding in odd knobs.

“Do you think there is some sort of code, an ancient language of creation engraved in these? Can you read it, are you able to decipher the codes of creation?” I am ragingly buzzed, I realize. My serotonin reuptake a total mess.

177 “Yes, I am an avid reader of the signs, the prophecies of creation, but I don’t always understand what they’re trying to tell us.”

We are quiet for a while, time to share a longer kiss. Another mystery, the powerful electromagnetic force that binds souls as one.

At the end of that: “Do you believe in God, John?”

Another moment of silence.

“I suppose. I’m a cross between pantheist and agnostic, but, to paraphrase Einstein, isn’t God everything in the Universe, so, do we really need the concept of a single God? Shouldn’t the awe and beauty of the Universe be enough?”

“I agree, de acuerdo, totalmente.”

We’ve waxed philisophical, a predictable consequence of the mind-expanding toxin we have just ingested. The toadstool takes you back to the cradle. We are children, rediscovering the world, in total

awe and eager anticipation of all its wonders and love.

“Your father Nereus, your Sea Father, he is one of the Gods I worship. Nereus and Doris, in their silvery sea-cave, they gave rise to fifty of you Nereids, you realize. And also to one of the moons of the planet Neptune.” I think it’s cool that her parents named her for a Sea Nymph. How could a man not love this goddess? I fight the sudden surge of possessiveness I feel.

“Nature as God,” I say . “Your ocean an extraordinary economy of that for example.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The ecosystem, the frugal and unwasteful Pacific.”

“Unwasteful?”

“Yes. Look at it this way. Sunlight hits the water. The first stable organisms to have evolved that emerged from the primordial ocean were blue green algae. They learned on their own a precise

178 eznymatic way to harness and store the energy of the sun. Life is intelligence, my love. This, my friend

was the first crucial step for the evolution of all life. Hundreds of millions of years ago, tiny little animals

arose, plankton. Some could produce their own food, by sunlight, photosynthesis. Others started eating the algae and photosynthetic bacteria. But more complex life must have started in tidal pools, just like

this one, amor, billions of years ago.”

“Can you imagine hundreds of millions of years of time?” Nereida wonders. “A billion years? It’s incomprehensible.”

“Bigger animals suddenly appear in the fossil record, out of nowhere. The Cambrian explosion of marine life, five hundred millions years ago. Trilobites. Echinoderms. Crustaceans. Can you imagine the ocean, then?”

“Yes, I can!” she exclaims, “I am enchanted by the ancient life forms.”

“The perfect economy.”

“What do you mean?”

“The anchovy, the little fish, she feeds on plankton and fry.”

“Fry?”

“Baby fish.”

“I see.”

“The lionfish, he’s bigger, stronger, sharper teeth; he eats the shrimp, camarones, and anchovies.”

“You’re making me hungry! hambriente!” Nereida says.

“And the tuna, atun, the queen of the sea, she eats the lionfish, the skipjacks, the flying fish, the

puffer fish, the triggerfish and the rabbitfish.”

“How do you know all these fishes?”

179 “It’s cold in Wisconsin. In the winter we have much time on our hands in the cold darkness, so we read about warmer places. And fish. We love learning about fish.”

“So, what is the story you are trying to tell, I’m not sure I’m following you, la economía?”

“The big fish eat the little fish. Nothing is wasted here, in your ocean, and also in your own country if you haven’t garnered. No morsel passes unnoticed, or unused. It’s like the dump in San Juan,

Nereida, nothing useful goes to waste in your country. All available energy sources are recycled in a perfectly tight, frugal ecosystem.”

She looks at me with her curious and loving monkey eyes.

“You’re such a good listener,” I say. “And I do go on endlessly.”

“I like that, you’re like a little professor.”

“The marlin eat the mackerel, the marlin eat the tuna…”

“Everyone is hungry in Mexico, sí. And I am a Mexican horn shark, most of the time.”

“It’s a perfect, contained ecosystem, this ocean in your hungry, starving country, Nereida.”

“Your country now too,” she says. This makes me wonder. De veras?

“Who is the biggest fish, then, Juanito, who is the most powerful king, the mother fucker of all the fishes in the ocean?” I was sorry I had shared that expression with her.

“We, we humans are. We are the biggest fish,” Nereida, “I mean look how many skipjack and lionfish we are eating, with the blankets and sinsemilla we are selling. We are the king and the queen of the sea. We, nosotros! We are the biggest fish.

“Perhaps, Juanito, we are, perhaps we are not.”

“We are the most adapted, amor, to life on earth. We are, after all, as Shakespeare wrote, “the paragon of animals.” Looking at each other, our tanned and slender figures, kissing and loving so tenderly and sensitively, I ask her who can doubt it?

180 “Nereida, it’s not the strongest who survive, but those who adapt the most readily to change.

This is what Darwin teaches us.”

“I believe in the teachings of Charles Darwin. Do you also believe in the teachings of Jesucristo,

Juan?”

“I do, sí. And I don’t seee how the two are mutually exclusive.”

“I do as well, but I think the church corrupted his life and message.”

“How so?” I ask.

She follows, saying, “OK, my turn to give the lecture.”

Nereida is interested in the history of Mary Magdalene, the Gnostic scriptures, and their

destruction. My Spanish is good enough to keep up with hers, except when I need to ask her for a

clarification during her detailed explanation of the corruptions of the gospels.

But now, she loses her train of thought during a marvelously intricate revelation she was just

having.

“What was I talking about?”

“Saint Irenaeus, burning the gnostic scriptures.”

“I can’t remember what I was going to tell you,” she says, “so never mind, I will think of it I hope

later.”

She takes me by the hand into a corner of the tidal pool, hidden from broad view of the beach.

This is, after all, the hidden port.

“Venga.”

We find a clearing of sand, about a foot deep in the swaying, tilting water. I conduct a thorough

sweep for any kind of marine nasty I could recognize.

“What are you looking for?” she asks.

181 “Jellyfish, medusas.”

“There won’t be any here, silly.” Nereida looks into my eyes, walks up to me slowly, and places her hands on the waistband of my speedo. In one fell swoop, she pulls it down to my ankles, leaving me standing naked. She pushes me, by the shoulders, into a seated position, and unfastens her top, placing it on a nearby mossy boulder of pumice, next to my speedo. Off come her shorts, she tosses them on top of mine.

“You are a really sexy little monkey,” I tell her, “changa!” She has such a monkey energy.

“Your animal es la changa,” I say, her totem, explaining it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Monkeys are very smart and sexual animals, I mention.

“And, what kind of animal am I?” I ask, admiring the trimmed, rectangular patch of pubic hair above the delta of her Venus. Nereida thinks a little.

“An owl. You remind me of a wise old tecolote.”

“The owl and the monkey.”

Nereida straddles me, her kneecaps on opposite sides, she lowers her full weight downwards, so that I can feel her labia sliding over my erection, under the incoming tide. But the water rushes in too powerfully, it swishes by, and we lose our balance, swept backwards with my hands behind me, helplessly. Getting up, laughing, rinsing the sand from our skin, we resume, standing, beginning with a deep kiss. I kneel, after checking once again for jellyfish, grabbing her by her brown Mexican buttocks to pull her close, so I can lick and kiss her salty, sun warmed delta.

She holds me by the hair on the back of my head, tightening her grip as I let loose on her with my inexplicable and unapologetic fondness for cunnilingus. It must derive from my Italian ancestry, I surmise, thinking of the frescoes of Pompeii. After several minutes, the rhythm of gentle, polite but firm oral genital-lovemaking, I hear little guttural noises rising from her throat, one after another. She takes grip of

182 my hair again and pulls me backwards, forcefully, so I am leaning at a shallow angle, propped up by my

elbows.

“Julieta tells me you like the cowgirl, la vaquera à la mode?”

“Sí, muchísima. Me gusta.”

Nereida kneels and gets on top of me, reaching to find my hardon, and to guide me between her labia, moving it all around around her external genitals. I push myself up a likttle so that I can take her salty nipples into my mouth. Inside of her, watching her move up and down, the Sea Nymph rocks me back and forth slowly, but then accelerates the pace of her thrusts, faster, harder, deeper. I can’t hold out any longer, I tell her, I’m going to explode. Pressing her palms forcefully on the top of my shoulders, she presses me back into the sand. As I reach the culmination of her violent bucking, I watch the skin on her face and neck reddening, her eyes closed, her expression turning toward a blend of pleasure and pain. Digging her fingernails into my shoulders she thrusts over me fiercely. I am hot and cold, stinging from her fingernail divets, burning and freezing, expulsing as if in a seizure, convulsing like a caught fish, a shivering trout, fighting for its life, its own sweet and strange life.

We look at one other, after the rhythm slows, and eventually stops; I’m still inside of her. She gives me a kiss on my forehead. And then we start laughing. Whether it’s curiosity, wonder or an infantile guilelessness, we think what just happened is more than that, funny. We had waited so long for this moment, yet thought it hilarious that it had passed without us taking much notice. It happened so naturally and spontaneously. A single tear fills and drops from Nereida’s left eye. I reach up to swallow it.

All this sodium is making me thirsty.

“Te adoro,” I say. Te quiero. I mean it. We sit next to one another in an embrace. “Was it good for you, amor?” I ask, hoping the answer will be yes.

“Hmmm…entonces…we have only begun our lovemaking today, vaquero, with a little appetizer, a

183 snack. I’ll give you a full report while we’re watching the stars spin around the heavens tonight.“

Swimming naked in the pounding surf of the open ocean like a couple of married dolphins, time disappears. What a pity we spend so much of our lives in the compulsory scheduling of happiness, I whisper in her ear, facing one another in the rolling surf, embracing. And how often the culmination of that effort is unhappiness and disappointment after high expectations, anticipation and overplanning.

Weddings, vacations, birthday celebrations, a first date, often they can make people feel miserable.

“But, when a planned moment of happiness actually transpires in reality…”

“Sí...”

“Thank you so much Nereida, I am so happy to be with you.”

“You are a true Aquarius,” she says.

“How so?”

“You have many interests, too many to focus upon, and you are so easily distracted, which results

in your eclectic preferences.”

“I do love being in the water.

“But you’re the water-bearer, not Pisces.”

“And you are justice, personified, dear Libra with your scales. Perfect balance.”

We stand in awe of the increasing tide, the powerful waves, riptides and undercurrents of the

treacherous Mexican Pacific, a hot sun and cold water. Off in the distance, however, we notice a group of

tourists approaching, tiny as insects in the distance, but definitely strolling in our direction.

Getting dressed seems like a good idea, public nudity is illegal we realize, and we sure aren’t wanting anyone including the federales whom occassionally appear out of nowhere to set any examples as they were apt to do, en Oaxaca. Eating seems reasonable once again, our appetites rebounding. All my talk about lionfish and their taste for crustaceans has put the idea of ceviche in Nereida’s hungry body.

184 On our way to back to the breakwater, Nereida, who is ordarily a quiet woman, begins to talks at a length to which I am not accustomed, buit am nevertheless delighted. Our discussion of how a purported scientist could believe in the Zodiac has led into deeper mythologies we hold. She says that owls are feared in Mexico, especially in the north and in Texas. She shares the myth of la lechuza, the ugly owl woman Goddess.

“People warn that when you’re walking at night and hear the whistle of la lechuza, you should not whistle back. If you do, the lechuza will swoop down and get you! And, if you hear one outside your house, don't open the door. They try to lure small children out of the house, and get them!”

“She was created as a child-obedience mechanism,” I suggest. Nereida laughs.

“Either la lechuza, or la llorona,” I begin, “it’s a dangerous world, Nereida.” La llorona, the wailing woman, is the legendary widow who wanders the arroyos at night, searching for her lost children, weeping and wailing, and scaring the bejesus out of misbehaving kids.

In Aztec lore, Nereida explains, the monkey is connected to the sun, and is guarded by Cochipilli,

Kokopelli; the god of flowers, fun, and fertility.

185 Chapter 17: Rio Calling

“Run!” Nereida shouts behind me, “run away from them! Hurry, they’re after us!”

“What are they?” I scream out, panting, as we race down a switchback trail, hugging the side of a

steep cliff near the beach, sliding, trying to keep our balance in our sandals on the gravel path. Jesus

Christ, now what?

“They’re flying stink bugs! Don’t let them bite you! Or sting you!” My God, I had never heard of

flying stink bugs, but, fatter than the largest bumblebees imaginable, they swirl around our heads

menacingly, noisily, buzzing low and deep. One flies in a figure-eight, and then executes a direct nose

dive aimed at my head. Covering my face, I feel the metallic monster ricochet off the back of my bleeding

left hand.

“Get away from them!” Nereida cries. Terrified, we run faster and faster. “They’re venomous!”

I am then soaking in warm water in the bathtub back in our hotel room; the birds singing and

crickets chirping in the tranquil tropical twilight. Nereida, the naked Sea Nymph, watches over me,

humming a high pitched tune, like a siren. I reach out to take her hand, but, at that moment I feel my

abdomen suddenly cramping. Looking down at my stomach, I watch it swell to the extreme proportions

of a pregnant woman carrying triplets. The pain becomes unbearable, and in a single, painful spasm, I fill

the bathtub with a horrible torrent of fecal matter. The tub overflows with the gallons of grotesque

brown diarrhea I have just so crudely expunged.

“Oh my heavens,” I apologize, so ashamed of myself and what I’ve just done, “I’m so sorry…how

revolting! I’ll clean it up.”

As I struggle to rise from the poopy, vile mess, an invisible force pushes me down, powerfully.

Thrashing, I can’t get up, I start fighting for air and feel like I’m going to die without the oxygen. I awaken from the nightmare sweating, realizing that she’s on top of me, that’s the weight pushing me down. My

186 view as I clear my head is of Nereida’s crotch as she sleeps with her breasts on my belly, her legs spread bestride my shoulders and her head resting on the pillow on top of my right thigh, snoring. We had fallen asleep in the sixty-nine position, Nereida on top, topsy-turvy. I look to the open bathroom door, just to make sure it was, indeed, merely a bad dream. There is no bathtub; just a shower as I correctly surmise.

Those fucking toadstools, messing with your sleep like that. No such thing as flying stink bugs either, I hope. This is not an entirely rude awakening however, I muse; admiring Nereida’s pert and curvy culitos, within easy kissing reach. It’s hard to awaken this girl when she’s sleeping this soundly though.

The events of yesterday’s parade pass the reviewing stand of this morning’s slowly sobering recollection. Strolling back to the harbor, we weighed the relative merits of mythical creatures of our respective cultures: la lechuza, la llorona, and the infamous Hodag of Rhinelander, the dangerous beast of the North Woods to whom Nereida was familiarized during her last stay in America’s Dairyland. We met McPherson at the harbor and had dinner with his girlfriend Caitlin from Fort Worth and then walked to his thatched hut in the jungle after coffee, to complete the purchase of the custom order of six kilos of sinsemilla I had made a down payment upon.

My delivery rounds, on precise weekly schedule, include five of the European embassies on

Reforma and the Marines who protect our own, who are more fond of the fine Oaxacan marijuana than the compressed schwag the DEA leaves them with after one of their numerous and well-publicized busts.

Part of Saint Peter’s vacation package includes the mordida, the little bite, a fifty-dollar bribe it takes to secure safe passage from Puerto Escondido’s airstrip through Benito Juarez’s front door, unmolested while carrying such an enormous quantity of reeking bud. It’s either that or stuff it down one’s pants and hope for the best. A single U.S. Grant is a pittance compared to how much we can make from our transcontinental friends. One hundred dollars, approximately, for six kilos, the price can’t be beaten.

Ricardo and his friends think I am insane, taking such huge risks and charging as much as I do. But they’re

187 local and they know better. The gringo market in Mexico City, as far as I can figure, belongs mostly to me these days.

San Pedro rolled a big spleef and we walked past the breakwater; the four of us settling on a army surplus blanket, lying on our backs, in awe of the Milky Way and the beginnings of the southern hemisphere stars never before beheld in such intricate detail, at least in my eye. This was a spectacular moment of reverence; the Pacific Ocean roaring and rolling and crashing by our feet and not much else beside the lamps of the fishing boats flickering in the distant sea. The taste of color, the feel of words we hold in our fingers, the music composed by the red giants and yellow dwarves shimmering through the dark void of the nighttime sky; this is the essence of psilocybin, a molecule intended by nature perhaps as nothing more than a simple insect repellant. Interrupting normal neurotransmitter activity in the serotonergic synapses of the human brain however, the mighty ongos of Amecameca faithfully reproduce a dreaming state while awake and during sleep; hypervigilance while dreaming. A mere befuddling of the reuptake mechanism interrupting the transit of small molecules like serotonin and dopamine from outside of the synapse to inside is the simplest of physiologic explanation. Reality is an activity of the most august imagination, Wallace Stevens reminds us. Nevertheless, Nereida’s psilocybes were much more potent than those I had experienced in Wisconsin. According to every retiree geezer I had met, maybe everything is better in Mexico, right down to the home grown hallucinogens.

Without stereo, radio, television; just the night and each other, we prolonged our tender lovemaking throughout the dark hours, until exhaustion.

“You men want to crawl back inside of us, to creep back inside the womb, isn’t that so?” I recall

Nereida asking after, watching her slowly come to a boil and fascinated with the inside of her body, I had positioned her on the edge of the bed and executed an impassioned round of oral sex that she seemed to enjoy.

188 “All men want to return to the womb from where you first emerged.”

Maybe this is true.

“You want to come crawling back inside of me, completely enveloped inside of me, so as to recreate the two of us.”

“That sounds about right, Nereida” I said. “Seems like that’s how we were designed and hormonally wired.” She smiled. At the time I didn’t think much about that comment, but this morning, I wonder at her intimation. And what did she mean when she mentioned that the baby I heard crying maybe wasn’t a hallucination, after all? Jewels and her girlfriend assured me they are both using birth control, I suppose I shouldn’t worry.

Scooting her bottom towards me, I begin where we left off in the early morning hours before falling asleep in this way. Soon she stirs, rolls from upside down to right side up, and on her back, giggles a little and looks at me.

“Buenos dias, mi mamóncito.” I am that, precisely.

At the airport, Nereida telephones Julieta. “What’s the matter, que tienes?” she asks. After a while of serious discussion, she passes the

handset over to me.

“So, have you two been having a good time, playing hippie en la playa, while I am working, and

helping to take care of our incarcerated friend whom you seem to have forgotten about?”

“Nobody has forgotten Ricardo. You sound a little upset Julieta.”

“I’m sorry, lo siento. I’ve been working like a mule, I’m infernally horny, and you two better have

189 something left for me if you expect a free ride back from the airport. “

After hanging up, and exchanging concerned glances, we are inexplicably greeted by a mustached man in a light green guayabera.

“Señor Estrauss, Señorita Barreras-Resendez?” Oh-oh.

“Sí,” Nereida responds.

“You are friends of San Pedro?”

“Sí.”

“I am Funcionario Enrique Valdez-Romero, come with me, I’ll get you on the airplane right now, ahorita, pre-boarding, VIP!” He says VIP in practiced English. “Did you enjoy your stay en Puerto?” This must be McPherson’s man at the airport.

“It was splendid,” I say, our carryons bursting with the redolent and delightful flower grown in the charming and picaresque state of Oaxaca. “I will be returning soon, I hope.”

“In that case, may I politely ask for a small favor?” What does he want now?

“Dígame.”

“Could you possibly bring me the newest Donna Summers cassette? The next time you come to

Puerto, you will have it for me? I adore Donna Summers. Here is my card.” That is all?

After a pleasantly short and interesting flight over the desert and mountains that would have taken a full day to navigate by automobile, with the hypnotizing drone of the engines softening we reach the hazy capital, and land toward gthe eastern edge of the sprawling ancient lake bed.

“Tienes quemadura de sol, sunburn,” Julie notices. “I will prepare a salve for you. Áloe.”

In the sparse Sunday afternoon traffic, we are swiftly returned to the cozy apartment in

Coyoacán. And to the customary elixir, premixed and waiting, a twelve ounce tumbler full of it, the vinegar with garlic, honey, and cayenne pepper floating on top.

190 “Toma.” Take this, drink up. Julieta bought a studded dog collar for me, thank you, amiga.

“Take off your clothes, I will treat your sunburn with some fresh áloe. Obedece.”

Monday night football, it’s the first of December and the Broncos are playing the Raiders in

Alameda. Lazaro and I have just enjoyed a swim at the Colegio Americano’s Olympic pool after work. In the locker room, he couldn’t help noticing my red and stropped ass. AZnd fingernail divets in my back.

“Quien te nalgeó?” he asked. Out of excuses, I told him.

“Jesucristo, we pay for it one way or another, don’t we?” Lazaro concluded.

He mentioned that while I was out for lunch my mother phoned the clinic and had left a message, so I decided to call home on the payphone at Anderson’s.

“John, finally! I was so worried about you, where have you been?”

“I went to the beach with a friend.”

“We were worried about your Thanksgiving holiday. We tried calling your apartment so many times. What did you end up doing?”

“Thanksgiving is not a holiday in Mexico, Mom, just in the United States.”

“Did you have to work?”

“Yes, but I had dinner at the American Embassy afterwards” I told her, just to assuage. This was partly true. I went on my rounds Thanksgiving evening, selling quarter ounces of sinsemilla carefully inventoried on a legal pad, to the Marines and the other customers I had cultivated all the way from the

Zona Rosa to the Zócalo. The American Marines didn’t invite me inside to partake in the feast, however.

“Wow; that sounds fantastic. John was invited to the American Embassy for Thanksgiving,

191 everyone, Tony!” Mom is bragging me up at their traditional weeknight football party, where everyone

already sounds toasted.

“When are you coming home for Christmas, dear?”

I hadn’t even thought of it. I may or may not, I explain, disclosing how my roommate and best friend was in jail, and how I had fallen in love.

“Oh, well that is good news. Where is she from?”

“Here.”

“You’ve fallen in love, with a Mexican girl?”

“Yes.” A stretch of silence and static electricity follows. “If I do come home for the holiday, I’m bringing her. Her name is Nereida. We’ve invited her best friend, too.”

“Well, dear, I’m not sure we have the room for them since Uncle Phil and Aunt Lorraine will be

staying in the guest room and the kids will be down in the basement. Maybe we could fly down in the

spring and meet your lady friend then.”

“We’re planning to stay at The Edgewater, the three of us, if we come.” Another long moment of

quiet. “In separate rooms of course, I’ll keep you posted,” I add. “Give my love to everyone.”

“How can you afford the Edgewater? Oh honey, we want you to stay with us, you can have your old room all to yourself, and…”

“Let’s play it by ear for now, don’t worry about me, if I end up staying here, I’ll be well taken care

of. Thanks, Mom. Bye.” Honestly, I wasn’t interested in spending too much of my one week holiday

vacation in the states. I’ve totally lost interest in the place, I realize.

As the Donkeys are losing by a slim margin to the nihilistic and loathsome Raiders, I revisit a daydream I’ve been nurturing for a while. In my fantasy, at the end of my contract with U.W. and the clinic, with the cash flow I’ve been able to maintain from the marijuana trade here and abroad, I hatch a

192 plan for the three of us, me and my two girlfriends. I’m going to get us out of Mexico before the

beginning of the rainy season next June. We’ve been talking about Rio de Janeiro; how much fun it might

be to spend a year there, just to goof around and travel in South America, using Brazil as base. Toluca

blankets are only a distraction now, a ruse, nothing else. The real capital is in the weed trade, peddling the happiness flowers. I get paid in cash by the clinic, so it isn’t difficult laundering the money I am making from selling the sinsie. This could be a career, I think.

Mexico’s not bad for now, but how long the economy will hold is uncertain in the best of minds.

My mission is to get these girls out of their rainy, grimy, polluted capital, so we can play volleyball all day on the beaches and sex it up at night. Dancing to samba and bossa nova, new lovemaking partners every weekend, good food and drink all around. I will buy a typewriter, and pretend I am Ernest Hemingway, mixing tropical cocktails in a blender, with just a short sleeve shirt and tie and nothing else. We will live in a big apartment near the beach, with a porch swing, in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. No hacer nada, all day long. Not to do nothing, y despues, to rest.

The blueprint is simple. Work until the contract expires in the summer. Sell lots of dope and save money, boatloads of money, thousands of dollars. Learn to speak fluent Portuguese. Rip off American

Express to the tune of another fat wad of cash, that’s right, this is also part of the grand scheme. Am I greedy? Perhaps. Do I have moral fiber? Yes, American Express is not an organization that promotes morality or ethics by any standard, they’re raping the developing world. It is going to work? Definitely, I can and will make this work, and we will get the hell out of Mexico City. My customers at the French

Embassy, two girls, confessed a little trick they devised and how easy it is to purloin the fat from

American Express. I’ll share the details down the road, but for now, tucking away loads of earned wages, legitimate or not, for my harem, mi harén, I will just say that after defrauding American Express out of thousands of dollars more, we will escape to the beaches and revel in the lavish orgy of Rio de Janeiro.

193 We have grown wise, and we have grown rich. We are swimming the open ocean, king and queens of the dolphins.

194 18: Whoa Oh Oh

December 8. I would ordinarily spend this Monday evening watching futból americano at

Anderson’s with Lázaro but the news has just come that John Lennon has been shot and killed in New

York City; we have decided to attend the memorial scheduled tonight in Chapultepec Park. I had little idea that Lennon is so revered here. Everyone is shocked and saddened, Lázaro and Enrique are crying and I also can’t contain my tears. We all grew up with these guys. I feel the loss of a brother and a close friend. Julie and Nereida are crushed. How sick we have become, we Americans. How can I explain this to my incomprehending friends?

My lovers are fond of all kinds of music, from the local symphonies and orchestras to the scrappy

Peruvian street musicians who play in the plaza next to the Insurgentes metro station near Reforma; the central crossroads of humanity from all of the Americas. Julie turned me on to a new British pop band,

The Police; we went to see them at the spectacular top of the earthquake-safe Hotel de Mexico last month. Hanging out in Coyoacán after her performance, or at the cabaña in Acopilco; barefoot, we put on cassettes, drink homemade piña coladas, turn up the volume, smoke, dance and make love. I can’t believe the level of energy Julieta sustains at such altitude. Dancing for a living, and then dancing for fun afterwards. She introduced me to the Colombian cumbia, the Cuban rumba, the Nicaraguan merengue,

Puerto Rican pianos; Brazilian guitars and the charangos and quena flutes of the Andes. I wasn’t hearing anything Latin I didn’t enjoy. Ricardo chides me for my love of the traditional Mexican mariachi favorites, which he thinks are generally stupid. Ricky only listens to Chicago and Mississippi blues, in the perfectly condescending fashion of an impeccable North American music snob, denigrating my love for the mariachi. Speak of the devil, the incarcerated Mexican devil; thanks to the generosity of his friends, and the lucrative trade in sinsie, we’ve been able to buy him a trial that is set for late February. All in all, between friends and family, it has taken the equivalent of more than four thousand dollars to arrange.

195 The disadvantages of the Napoleonic Code are obvious to me, and it scares me how much trouble you

can get in to if someone develops a hardon for you. I can stay out of trouble though; I know the right

people who deserve one’s respect and consideration. I can speak Spanish decently. I will stay out of

trouble, Scout’s pledge.

December’s routines: Diapers, poop, parasites and enteric pathogens, direct fluorescence assays with antibodies that Zeller overnights to Clinica Zapata that Lazaro and I deliver by subway from the airport, as it’s the quickest way around with the paltry little chunks of dry ice subliming away.

Rigorous quality control and assurance in the clinical laboratory are my next objectives.

Maintaining a contamination free workspace. Mailing slides to Madison. And all the while making a fortune distributing high grade marijuana to my American, Canadian, Dutch, Norwegian, Swiss, Italian,

British, Irish, French, German, Hungarian, Austrian, Australian and Kiwi friends in off hours. Everyone in the whole world loves the delicious, seedless marijuana from the desert of Oaxaca. McPherson’s sinsie makes the heart pound out of the thorax, it can make you crazy paranoid. Why is everyone looking at me? I often wonder, riding the subway, stoned out of my gourd, CIA agents recording my movements at every stop.

During the first workweek of the month, I used a couple of my allotted and carefully saved vacation days so Jewels could introduce me to the enchanting state of Michoacán. We rented a VW bug and drove over the southern tip of the Sierra Madre Occidental, due west of the D.F through the piney green; over lush high mountain passes to the perfectly manicured colonial capital Morelia. Our ultimate destination was Lake Pátzcuaro with its celebrated butterfly net fishermen. As far as I can tell, Michoacán has the largest and sweetest avocados in the country. Monarch butterflies from all over the continent congregate here, by the millions, in a single valley, an annual pilgrimage. México lindo, indeed. Thank you, Juliet, who doth teach the torches to burn bright. She still seems to hang upon the cheek of night,

196 Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear; Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. We developed a little act

to entertain Nereida. In only underwear and reciting Shakespeare, I wear the dog collar and Jewels, tugging on the leash, makes me perform tricks and beg for treats. She showed me another one of her photo albums. The one with a full length shot of Navarro in the Scarlet O’Hara dress.

“Can I please borrow that photograph, Julie?”

“No!”

“So, you had a thing for Enrique?”

“Yes. Before his fixed marriage.”

Lately, she has taken to perform scientific experiments on me, with her salves and elixirs formulated from some pretty weird shit she buys in the market, substances which I have never previously seen or heard about. Roots, herbs, little tiny flowers, brightly colored and completely mysterious powders she purchases from the quiet old Indian curanderas, with their grey hair in braids. This girl, with her antique Waring blender, is some kind of sorceress trying to concoct a gladiator potion, I suppose. If she doesn’t make me drink them, she rubs them on my chest, feet, or in other sensitive places. There’s just no saying no, Nancy Reagan.

December’s routines, how lucky I am to have them. Feeling an enormous Christmas spirit coming on, I shall become Saint Nicholas himself, and will sweep all the prominent markets, buying all sorts of art and craft; ceramics, paintings, blankets, the merchants and artisans recognize me coming down the narrow lanes of merchandise shouting “güero, que quisieras hoy?” With wads of cash I can’t spend fast enough, I will send box after box to the states, full of presents for relatives and friends who had received nary a card or boo from me in years. Art of a high caliber doesn’t cost all that much here. So, full with the pure love my two most precious aficionadas have bestowed upon me, I am the harbinger of the

Christmas spirit itself, spreading cheer and riches and good will and high-grade marijuana, to all mankind.

197 Look out, here comes Santa Claus, San Nicolás. Ho-Ho! Jo-Jo-Jo!

Nereida made two trips to Chicago this month so far, and Barreras-Estrauss, Ltd. is way ahead of the game on the international front, once again. That vacuum sealer sure comes in handy. Reservations were confirmed for adjoining shore-side rooms at the Edgewater in Madison, the classiest place to stay in the capital overlooking Lake Mendota. The rooms were already paid for. Nereida got us a great deal on a flight to Chicago, so we planned to leave on the twenty-third. Julie will have to return to the capital, but

Nereida and I are off to Isla Mujeres in the Caribbean the day after Christmas, if nothing more than just to thaw out over the New Year. Nereida’s taking the time off to be with just me. But I want to show both of them a fabulous time in Madison and Chicago. There’s snow on the ground in Wisconsin and I want to take them cross-country skiing on the lake and drinking hot chocolate and schanpps and singing carols door to door and all the ridiculous things my perpetually inebriated family does over the yuletide. The girls want to play in the blizzarding flakes, build a snow-man, and snuggle under warm blankets together at the quick end of the dark, cold days. We will order breakfast from room service, and surprise the help when they see how we have spent the night, still naked, together. And we will drink a load of brandy, starting early in the afternoon, that’s what people do up there in the long winters of Madison, Wisconsin, it’s the local custom.

The second weekend of the month, I paid a quick visit to Puerto Escondido, to stock up on a boatload of sinsie that can quickly be traded during the holiday. Among my many cousins and friends in

Wisconsin, the artfully cultivated and perfectly manicured Oaxacan flower tops are ardently anticipated, since the supply my girlfriend delivers seems to disappear quickly. The vacuum-sealed quarter, half and

198 full ounces of the knockout blue bud were already a legend throughout Dane, Milwaukee and Cook Counties. ”Your friends are calling day and night, around the clock, asking when you’ll be home,” Mom wrote in her last letter. “I never realized how many people you know. They can’t wait to see you I guess.”

I bought Donna Summer’s latest two-cassette compilation, “On the Radio;” volumes one and two of her greatest hits, for Funcionario Valdez that I found for sale in Sanborns. On the radio whoa oh oh, On the radio. When I showed up with his tapes after landing at the airstrip Friday evening, he was happy as a little boy on Christmas morning. Exactly what he was waiting for, said Enrique. He pulled out his wallet, but I wouldn’t take money from him. A gift, I said, among friends. Could I do any wrong in Puerto

Escondido, under Funcionario Enrique’s safeguarding, now? Doubtful, since he calls me VIP, I guess, like my friend Saint Peter, nothing is going to happen to us in this sweet and sleepy little nirvana.

This time I got to see where it’s grown. McPherson and I hiked a few miles into the scrub last

Saturday morning, north of the harbor, my heart racing in the dry heat. I had never seen so many marijuana plants growing anywhere, even in the secluded farms and forests of southern Wisconsin.

“McPherson, there must be something like ten thousand plants growing in this field.” Some of them were ready to harvest, others smaller, not yet flowering, and seedlings.

“And they’re all female,” he replied. Every single last one of them.”

“And you are the one to make sure of that?” I ask. They sway and ripple in a gentle breeze rising from the indigo ocean. I’m getting high by just being around them, smelling their ripening flowers and getting their sticky resin stuck to my hands and arms.

“Aren’t you worried about getting busted?”

“Here?”

“Well, yes, I mean so out in the open, so visible from the air and outer space?”

199 “Seeing as the local judge owns the land and operation, Juanito, I don’t foresee any problems in the near future.”

“I see. That easy, huh?”

“Easy as pie.” I got a closer look at the elaborate irrigation system, and piles of bovine manure composting across from the conduit.

“Wow.”

We had ceviche and fried oysters, the Saint of the harbor and his blond Texan sweetheart, whom

I’ve never seen in anything else but bikinis. One didn’t need to wear much more in warm old Puerto.

After a few Bohemias, they went back to the jungle to “have a siesta,” so I rolled a big fat joint in the hotel room, and took it to the beach. I wanted to hike past the breakwater again, cop a buzz and play in the tidal pools. Feel my connection to the origin of all life, and the oceanic trenches rolling, the earth in constant metamorphosis. Enshrine where Nereida and I first made love.

And stoned I did quickly become, playing with the sea urchins and admiring the irridescent

anemones from a safe distance. Body surfing is exhilarating in the dangerous riptides. I was not afraid of the ocean, this terribly powerful breaking ocean, since I now I had become the prince of the dolphins for how I came to love its cold power.

On the walk back to the breakwater to a more populated section of beach, a Colombian friend I had met on the previous visit, living now in Puerto, a young skinny, dark fellow, a runner with shoulder length black hair came trotting up behind me, panting and pointing to a group of surfers, way out in the water on the other side of the waves.

200 “Estan ahogando! Ahogando!” Raul shouted frantically. At the time, I hadn’t learned the meaning of the verb ahogar; to drown. Surfers are drowning, he was trying to tell me. I just smiled, confused by the word, still completely baked, not understanding until he pantomimed what was going down.

They swam her to shore, kicking and holding her steady on her back on the surfboard, her husband and another two men. I grabbed underneath her shoulders and helped pull her up into the sand, keeping her head lower than her chest. I started administering CPR. Feeling for a pulse and looking into her fixed pupils, I knew, however, her life was certainly over. She was already purging, at both ends. No compliance in her chest, her bronchi shut by the harsh salt water. Unreactive. White as a sheet.

“Give me that bottle of water, please,” I asked the gathering crowd of tourists and locals, trying to rinse and clear her mouth.

“Don’t quit, keep it up! Don’t stop!” the Dutch woman kept hollering at me, another fixture of

Puerto. So I spent another futile five minutes of compressions and blowing air into her belly.

“Believe me, I’m sorry, but she’s drowned, her lungs are closed and all I am doing is filling her stomach with air, can’t you see? I’m so sorry. Believe me, I work in a medical job and I know the signs of when someone has been down too long.”

“Don’t quit, keep going! You can’t quit! You can save her life!” That crazy old Dutch witch.

“It’s too late, I’m afraid, I’m so sorry that I can’t help her anymore at this point. I’m so sorry for you, dude.”

The husband tried to make a good show of grief to us, seeming like he had to enact a little drama to prove something to us, I suppose. It didn't matter, now. I didn’t see anything like real tears, though, but realized he was just acquainting himself with the shock of it all. This was their honeymoon.

“How long was she under?” I asked, repositioning the bikini top over her cold, cyanotic chest.

There was little dignity in this scene, but I thought I should help in this way, redressing her. They had

201 been surfing without leashes, taking a risky chance in God’s troubled water. Under a minute, long enough. Shit. The unforgiving, misnamed Pacific. I kept these thoughts to myself, and tried as much compassion as I could muster.

A large group of children ranging in age from preschool up through elementary congregated to circle the corpse of the blond former surfer from San Diego. Silently, they stared at the motionless young woman with their curious, open and intent brown eyes, never averting their meditative glances and I still, became fixated by them, mesmerized, everyone frozen in place with the waves crashing nearby, one after another. The little diorama of ours seemed a vignette of the day of dead; the surfer staring up at the sky with her mouth open and leaking, in the goofily frozen mask of recent demise I had seen so often working in the ED in Madison. These children knew it well, just as they knew their friends. It was their friend although an odd one, yet with complete silence and confidence accepted into their little circle.

They knew it as well as they knew the sea and the sky and the mountains. In Oaxaca it’s a part of the daily landscape. La muerte.

“Close her eyes then!” the bossy Dutch woman suddenly commanded, all afraid to touch her except I.

“I am familiar with the medical and legal systems in Mexico,” I explained, “and by law, when someone dies in this way all the witnesses must remain with the deceased until the coroner releases them, are you understanding me clearly? The coroner is going to need to examine her, so we should not perform any additional manipulations.” Raul had run off to seek help from the harbor officials. So we waited, with the husband James who wasn’t sure how he should be acting now, with the other stunned surfers, and the twelve silent children, immobile, apostolic and saddened, hypnotized wordless by the corpse of the norteamericana.

“Do you speak Spanish?” I asked James.

202 “No, not really.”

“I can help you translate, then. My name is John Strauss. I live and work in Mexico City. Hey man,

I’m really sorry for you.” Especially since this was such a preventable event, I was thinking. Everyone I know surfs with a leash, that was S.O.P. in Puerto I thought. The waves and currents are treacherous near the abrupt shelf. Not like gentle California’s. Let your guard down, and this ocean will swallow you whole.

But this was not the time to judge man’s many follies and foibles.

Twenty-five minutes later, the coroner arrived in a Mexican military jeep driven by a helmeted soldier in fatigues. The coroner, Hector, seemed around my age, a pleasant, polite, clean shaven and well-spoken young man in a white short-sleeve shirt. He felt for a pulse, took a pen light out of his pocket, looked in both her eyes, back and forth and stood up, pronouncing to the gathering, “es vegetál.”

For the next hour, I served as translator between Spanishless widower and Englishless coroner.

The death of a foreigner is a much complicated affair in Mexico. Hector and I made proper polite Mexican introductions, he would be yet another friend I would establish in Puerto, although a bond made under dire circumstances. He disclosed that there’s at least one drowning every month on this beach; sometimes as many as one a week during the high season. When we had reached a break in the dialogue, the polite young coroner pulled me aside and asked if I might kindly bring him Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall,” part two, on my next trip since I told him I was a frequent visitor. An amphibious military vehicle soon arrived with a crew of three soldiers, they placed the bride in a body bag, zipped it closed, fastened her on a gurney, loaded her inside the back door and drove along the beach slowly toward the harbor. The children dispersed, remaining speechless throughout their extraordinarty odyssey of the afternoon.

At his hotel, I helped James with the rest of the paperwork and with a couple of the local federales, who already knew my name before I revealed it. Arrangements were begun to fly his wife’s

203 body to San Diego. Funcionario Enrique had been a godsend, a mensch, during the arduous, bureaucratic ordeal. So many papers to sign and fees to pay. How surreal that was, drinking beers in the lobby, paling around with Enrique and his federales chums, helping the widower connect to California on the lobby phone to make the most difficult call to a mother-in-law imaginable. I left him alone and went into the bar, he needed the privacy for that one. Afterwards, he came back to the bar to ask me to help with the local airport officials in arranging the flights back to the states. Enrique was working for us and I was making more friends in the right places.

Early the next morning, I met James at the airport. They loaded Kristen, packed in a slender pine coffin, into the baggage compartment of the DC-3 like another ordinary piece of luggage, except for the federales making sure she got on, and James and the pilot having to sign another set of documents attesting to that. I had the ten kilos of sinsie securely shrink-wrapped in my carryon. Enrique had us on the plane first, extinguishing one of the Marlboros I brought him, on the tarmac, and expressing his condolences sincerely to the grieved one, who was too stunned to offer any sort of reply.

“Es una mala onda,” a bad wave, literally, the funcionario tells me. I shook his hand, passing three folded thousand peso bills into his steady grip.

“For your trouble,” I said.

“Thank you so much for the cassettes, Juanito,” he said just as I was turning to climb the steps,

“but could you possibly bring Black Sabbath’s “Heaven and Hell” on your next visit? I’ll give you the money for it this time.”

I think opening a small music store might be a wise thing to do in Puerto. But you would have to predict their weird taste in popular music.

On the flight back James sat dazed, staring out the window, not moving. He only spoke twice.

First: “Why did you give that guy money at the airport?” And second: “Your bag reeks of pot.” I offered to

204 help him through making his connecting flight, but he brushed me off after we disembarked, seeming to

want nothing to do with me, the drug smuggler, evermore. I couldn’t blame him. He had enough fish to fry. Offering my final condolence, I skedaddled, no problem, since I needed to get in a cab pronto and get the hell out of B. Juarez, BJ, I took to calling it, before any human or canine sniffed me out and put me in the blazer dormitory at the RO.

I found an old taxista waiting first in the queue, in a white and baby blue sixties model Chevy Bel

Air, and jumped in his cab, asking him how much to San Lorenzo. He made me a good offer. The birthdate on his prominently displayed license on the sunflap indicated he’s almost eighty years old.

As we breeze through Colonia Jamaica, I mention to the driver in my best chilango slang, “Wow, it really smells like marijuana in here, mota,” referring not to my own redolent bag, but unmistakably, recently smoked, inhaled and exhaled weed.

“Oh, I am so sorry señor, my last customer insisted on smoking it on his way to the airport. I’m so sorry, I’ll roll the windows down.”

“It’s no problem, señor Valentino, I’m hip to marijuana, it’s all cool, caballero.“ I see Valentino’s smile in the rear view mirror.

We had a pleasant conversation, discussing his extended family, grandchildren and great grandchildren, his long and hard-working life in the capital, and its last century of history and dramatic change. Before getting on highway 15, though, Valentino suggested we stop on a side street to share a little toke, “un toquecito .”

“Sure,” I agreed. Then, I watched in wonder and amazement as the septuagenarian gentleman pothead of a cab driver rolled a seamless joint, not from the generous sample of sinsie I gave him but from his own stash. What a civilized and genteel home is the oldest continuously inhabited city in the hemisphere. We were both the happiest diplomats of the city, extending an olive branch across the

205 contentious border of our respective nations. I told him about the drowning in Puerto.

"Muy peligroso el pacifico."

"Una mala onda," I said.

“I know where I can get you some good marijuana, very inexpensive too,” Valentino mentioned.

Too polite to confess that I was already beating him at his own game, hands down, I took his business

card as a courtesy. Every other taxista in the capital is dealing the typical, compressed green schwag that everybody could get here if they tried within gthe walls of ghte city. I smoked his weed just to be polite.

What I have is out of their little taxista world, though, Valentino would sure find that out soon and I hope

he could still drive at that point.

206 Chapter 19: Holy Night!

On the frigid gray and darkly bleak morning of December twenty-fourth, the requested six o’clock wake up summons us to seize and outrun the day, and to be on time for the big bash with the relatives in Wisconsin. Jewels, Nereida and I arrived at O’Hare early enough the previous afternoon to check into the Palmer House suite and visit the Art Institute nearby before its closing time. Nereida is familiar with the museum already but it was Julie’s first time and I was delighted that it blew her socks off, especially the French Impressionists and the Pablo Picasso’s. I snapped a photo of Julie standing silently transfixed by Georges Seurat’s “A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte,“ using her reflex camera.

“I love smoking marijuana and visiting art museums,“ she said, finally coming up for air with a full-sized smile on her face. “It’s one of my favorite things to do in the whole world.”

They’re adorable in their new matching white down ski jackets, red mittens and colorful knit scarves and hats. This museum by itself marks Chicago as a world class city. Julie bought almost two hundred dollars-worth of postcards, posters, stationary and books for kin back home. The girls are having fun. I wanted to give them a well-deserved pampering so I treated them to a lavish dinner at The

Italian Village afterwards on Monroe Street in the lower Loop, where we became quickly stuffed and drunk on a gallon of the dry dago red of the house. Freshly baked bread and olive oil, olives, calamari, seafood pasta, salad, cheese, nuts, fruit, tiramisu, espress, it blew my mind watching these muchachas eat.

“I love Chee-ca-go,” Julieta remarked. “Good art and food. Michoacán Avenue.”

“Haha, good one.”

“Me too,” Nereida follows. We’re speaking English and it feels weird. As a Wisconsinite I could never confess it to my relatives, but I was also the aficionado of the windy city. The origin of the

207 euphemism was an insult hurled by many newspapers during the early 1800s, across the country, as well

as the Chicago Tribune itself, at the city’s habit of boasting, especially after having won the World’s Fair.

“It is not about the weather,” I explained.” San Francisco is actually the windiest city in

Norteamerica,” I explain. “And not the city with big shoulders, los hombros grandes,” I pantomime, three sheets to the wind with red wine and negronis.

How do thes chavitas put it away, where do they store all the food? And booze? They’re like a couple of wild animals who can survive indefinite starvation until the hunt is over, the warm red blood flowing from their lips, engorged to exhaustion. We limped back to the hotel, all of us farting, to smoke another joint and watch the “Southern Comfurts” episode of the Dukes of Hazzard, which the girls thought ludicrously amusing, especially involving the manner of the recovery of Cooter’s stolen Dodge

Charger named “General Lee.”

“How about we rename your Volkswagen “Generál Antonio López de Santa Anna, from now on,

Nereida?” Las duquesas peligrissimas, I will now call them until our dying day.

Having had too much to drink, and under the strong spell of the Oaxacan sinsie Nereida had helped us smuggle, we collapsed and passed out on the king size after laughing too hard at the redneck

Dukes of Hazzard, before we could open another bottle of wine or attempt any further monkey business.

The morning of Christmas Eve our first destination is The Original Pancake House north of the river. I check us out, my wad of luggage and presents from Mexico creating a preposterous show for the bellhops who help load it all into the trunk of our black rented Nisan Maxima 810. Chaucer’s cluttered

208 pilgrims, everyone in the lobby stares us down as we parade out, the outlandish and queer trio we are.

My poor mother is going to have a stroke when she sees the three of us.

Belgian waffles, whipped cream, strawberries, French toast, eggs, sausage, bacon, muffins and

grits. I watch my friends in wonder. They are so fit and well proportioned, yet eat like such lionesses, even after the feast we had last night. After I re-express my marvel at their unrelenting appetites,

Nereida explains, “We have to burn a lot of calories just to stay warm up here, Juanito, remember we are not norteamericanos.“ The only time I’ve seen women eat this much, they’ve been with child. Speaking of

which, I can’t remember when Julie had her last period.

“You aren’t…pregnant by any chance, are you?” I finally inquired. A little bit of silence follows.

“I have been practicing birth control,”Julieta declares.

“What if she, or I were?” Nereida asked, fixed upon my eyes; a humorless expression on her face.

“And I assume I would be the dad?”

“Yes. You are the only man we have been having relations with, nowadays, intercourse.”

Another long stretch of silence elapses, I look them both over, carefully, especially their bellies. They break out in laughter. Loud, uncontrollable laughter, their hands on each other’s legs.

“You are silly,” Nereida says. I wouldn’t be drinking and smoking marijuana like we have been

doing excessively if I were carrying our child. No, ranchero, I am sure not pregnant. Not yet, at least.”

“Not yet?” I ask.

“Not yet, ya no.” I have to think about this one.

“We have plans for you and your future, ranchero. We’re not like you norteamericanos who make friends so casually and superficially. When we make a friend, we keep them for life. Ricardo should

be proof, insurance that we don’t leave our loved ones behind. We like you. You know how to cook. And

209 clean and wash pots and pans and toilets and bathrooms. And you listen, obey and follow directions so well. We don’t know as many norteamericanos who are as well-behaved and educated, so we’re going to congratulate your mother tonight, for bringing you up correctly.”

“Well thank you! But let’s all of us just be careful in our lovemaking can we?” I ask, a little fearful, a little touched. “I can use condoms, you know if BC becomes a burden.” I pay the bill and take them for a spin in the brand new Nissan, just out of the factory. This will be fun.

“Let’s roll, ” I say

Hyde Park is worth a quick tour, the University of Chicago and then the University of Illinois, where Dick Daley split the Italian neighborhood in two. I drive them down Grand Avenue to see the old dago part of town. We backtrack and sightsee around The Loop, and merge into the north bound lanes of inner Lake Shore Drive north of the River, enjoying the latest superb achievement of the Japanese automakers. Julie is spellbound by the blanket of snow on frozen Lake Michigan, and the grandeur of the

North Shore, speckled with pedestrians and the colors of Christmas.

“It’s like an ocean,” she marvels, sliding the “Rat Pack’s” Christmas cassette I had bought downtown into the cassette player.

Our suite at the Edgewater overlooks solidly white Lake Mendota and Madison’s modest but charming skyline. Julie’s as far north as she’s ever been in the world, in the snow, hills and evening sky steeped in a spectrum of deepening blues and purples, Venus is sparkling in the western dusk. Our first cocktail has warmed and cheered us.

“This is wonderful!” Nereida says. “Thank you, Juanito!”

210 “Geniál.” according to Julieta.

It’s always a blast traveling with either one of them, let alone both, together. How lucky of a man

am I? I left this town in September fearing the worst. I thought I was going to have a terrible time in

Mexico, or, at best, end up lonely, bored, and battling neurocysticercosis, dysentery and depression.

Madison, one of the most highly rated North American capital cities suddenly seems so sterile, colorless and dreary. Here I am again, strangely, having fallen in love not with the woman of my dreams, but with rather two well-spoken, healthy, appreciative and beautiful creatures of the best dream a man can have; the Sea Nymph and Shakespeare’s Juliet. How lucky am I, the king of good fortune. Soon we will be in

Brazil with a pot of gold and years of our lives still to live.

I’m having trouble recalling how much I missed Madison. Shopping at Kohl’s, I wondered how people survive on food that is so aseptic and inorganic; cardboard. The Mexican marketplaces are full of healthy fresh food; what’s the matter here? The sheer Musak and processed everything makes me cringe.

“So, which one of these delightful señoritas is your girlfriend?” My father, the Knight of Columbus asks as he closes the castle-like front doors behind us.

“I am,” they reply simultaneously. My dad is at first surprised, but then thinks this is a good joke as he shakes hands with them with a confused smile on his face. I could smell the Old Spice he had splashed on. The old brick and wood frame three story house on Topping Road is noisy and toasty, filled with grandmothers, great-uncles, aunts and cousins with all their babies. Old bald men carrying canes and trailing six liters of oxygen on wheels hosed into their nasal cannulas are sharing cigarettes with their ladyfriends. People are yelling and shouting and already quite drunk; I am not surprised. Brandy

211 Alexanders. There is no end to them. A fire going in the fireplace and sub-party in the basement and here

comes Mom.

“John! On my word, you look… so good!” I am always hoping that is true. “You’re so tan and thin,

how much weight have you lost? And in such good shape, finally.” I get a big hug. “Which one of you girls

is responsible for keeping my son in such good health?“

“I am,” they reply simultaneously, pointing to themselves and smiling. My mother’s wide grin

evens out into a flat and somewhat perplexed line.

“I see,” she says, scrutinizing the brown-skinned two of them. “Well, which one of you is Norelco,

then?”

“Nereida, Mom!” I introduce her more precisely to my two girlfriends.

“Well, come, and meet everyone, girls,” she says, whisking them away through the crowd in the living room and into the big, open kitchen. I take their coats and pile of accessories and Dad follows me into the guest bedroom in hall. He looks at me and winces.

“You do look good son, not as…as…”

“As puffy as when I left?” The old man laughs.

“That’s right!”

“I know. I’ve been living on avocados, papaya, pineapple, a little fish, goat, chicken, bread, that’s it. No red meat. Mostly fruit and vegetables, and I don’t eat as much as I did here,” I said, watching Uncle

Akvavit transport a huge glazed ham that Grandma Mary just took out of the oven to the table. “I’m almost a vegetarian.”

“How is it down there, John? So poor, isn’t it?”

“I’ve been really loving it.” Dad winces, again. He’s never been to Mexico.

212 “Really? How come? I don’t answer right away, instead I point to my girlfriends, who are already making friends with my cousins.

“There are many reasons,” I reply. “Dad; it’s a beautiful country with an almost biblical history.

And the people, the poorest most oppressed people, they give you the shirts off their backs, they open their hearts and homes to you, they feed you, they’re very generous and loving kind of folks, very warm.“

“Well, they’re very devoutly Catholic,” he asserts. That’s how Pop judges people, so they were instantly OK in his book.

“Are you serious about…Norelco? Which one of them is your girlfriend, John?”

“Yes Nereida,” I reply. “I’m going to mix myself a drink, do you want something, Dad?”

“OK, let’s have a drink and have a man to man talk before things get too busy tonight.” We return to the kitchen. As I am pouring tonic over vodka in a twelve ounce tumbler, I notice my cousin Deirdre, rising from the sofa and strolling over to introduce herself to my amigas.

“Johnny!”

“Hello Uncle George.”

“How in the hell are you? You look pretty damn swell for a few months down there with all those pepper-bellies.”

“George, I brought two friends from Mexico City with me, they are here tonight,” I say steering his view in their direction. “I want you to show them your best manners, please don’t embarrass me and say anything racist like that.” Uncle George smells like Manhattans. Several of them. That’s his one drink, it is and always with a maraschino cherry was. George, another Knight of Columbus, looks a little taken back. But here comes his son, Mikey, my good buddy, and his wife Chris to the rescue.

“You’re looking super, chief!” I give him a high five and hug his wife. “How much weight have you lost?”

213 “I never knew I was fat or anything! Hey, come with me, I got something for you,” I say, winking at Chris. She knows what.

“We’re so happy you do,” my cousin’s wife says, laughing. My dad has lost interest in the man to man thing, and leaves us, with his fresh highball, headed in the direction of the larger throng. As we make a little small talk, I spy my girls sitting on the big gray sofa, on each side of cousin Deirdre, who seems to be having a good time practicing her Spanish, which she doesn’t really need to use. Surrounded by a bevy of the nosiest of my female relatives, they’re laughing in animated conversation. This is interesting.

Deirdre is such a very pretty lass, with her mischievous grin and beautiful, green eyes. She had maybe one boyfriend as far as I was ever able to tell, many years ago, that didn’t last long. All my friends asked her out, with little luck. Watching her flirt a little with my friends from a safe distance, I smile. Very interesting. I wonder what might be coming down later as everyone becomes fueled by all of this liquor.

I toss down the remainder of the second libation of the night, and set off to find my parka in my old bedroom, now being used as a coat and hat check.

“Mike and I are going to Schmitt’s to get a six pack of Ringnes,” I tell Mom,” do you need anything?” This is my favorite beer, from Norway. Maybe the only thing I miss in Wisconsin that I can’t get south of the border.

“Yes!” My mother, always a list writer, went to the kitchen for pencil and pad. She’s a little tipsy I notice, already.

A few blocks toward University, Mike pulls to the side of the street. I produce the six ounces of sinsie he had preordered from inside my big parka pocket. Sealed into their own neat packages, I bound them in a red Christmas ribbon.

“Hey, thanks dude,” he says smiling, admiring the vacuum sealed packages but not able to smell his flower sealed hermetically inside the plastic.

214 “Let’s call it an even six-hundred and I’ll throw in a little sample of bud I get in Michoacán and another from Acapulco.”

“Acapulco Gold? OK,” he says, seeming somewhat disappointed. Six fresh Ben Franklins, from the mint to the bank to Mikey’s wallet to my clench.

“Thanks.”

“You can’t get me any better of a deal?” I shrugged my shoulders.

“Mikey, dude, it’s a risk tax. I take all kinds of chances with this. And so does my girlfriend, even more. I split this with her because she takes all the risk and I can move it safely just among friends. We could end up in the slammer down there forever. You’re never going to find smoke like this up here, now that your anti-drug Reagans are running this country. And yes, you are getting a great deal.” Well, alright not that great of a deal in reality.

When we return from Schmitt’s package liquor store still open late on Christmas Eve, I like that

Deirdre is still sitting between my girlfriends on the sofa, still surrounded by a mob of aunts and uncles who can’t seem to be getting enough of them as a novelty in Whitefish Bay. They’ve become somewhat of a minor center of attention, although there were so smaller and equally as dramatic centers of attention at this fracas.

Political arguments rage between the Reagan worshippers and Reagan detestors. Uncle Lewis is shouting, spitting and raving and pointing his index finger in my niece’s face, making a menacing gesture out of it. Rambunctious little kids are running around, bouncing off the walls and getting scolded by

Grandma Catherine. Rampant homophobic and racist comments are being made, loudly, under the influence of much alcohol from a random sampling of conversations. Chaos thrives, worsened by the really confused old people calling you by mistaken names and asking about folks who had passed away years ago, as if they were here tonight with us. One hundred relations, close or remote, approach and ask

215 how I can handle working in Mexico. After I tell them how much I am enjoying myself, I listen to a

hundred replies of “But, it’s so poor, isn’t it?” Best to get quickly wasted at these affairs and try not to let

everyone get under your skin. My friends seem to be having a good time, though.

“Well, little Miss Nereida finally told me that she is your girlfriend,” Mom says, relieved. “She’s such a pretty gal.” Mom is making grasshoppers in the blender. She, herself has quite a bouquet of Crème de Menthe radiating from within.

“Are we going to have some brown-skinned grandchildren soon?” she asks, innocuously, but to my annoyance. My parents were already grandparents, but my two older sisters were spending the holidays with their in-laws, this season, which was always better for them.

Nereida comes into the kitchen and gives me a long kiss underneath the mistletoe, as she has been told its significance.

As I open the refrigerator to start on the Ringnes, Deirdre greets me and gives me a hug.

“You look fantastic, John! So tan…and muscular! What happened to you? You must be living right, finally?” Maybe it was the challenge of the alttutide.

“Thank you DeeDee,” I reply, smiling. My mother pulls Nereida away to meet my great grandmothers who were watching “It’s a Wonderfull Life,” in the basement. I lost Jewels in the crowd.

“Your friends are so awesome. I love them! I’m so glad you brought them with you,” my cousin says. I pull her aside, gently tugging her sleeve. I had enough to drink to become painfully honest and to the point.

“They really like you, a lot, I can tell.” Deirdre looks away and smiles. “They’re both bisexual,” I whisper in her ear. “Very bisexual.” My cousin returns her eyes to mine, blushing a little, surprised, but not seeming displeased or revolted about it as she told me her orientation years ago.

“Come on,” I say,” let’s mingle.”

216 “Are you having a good time this evening, Julieta?” I ask, after waiting for her to come out of the bathroom. Instead of answering, since we are quite alone in the hallway, she swoops in for a lingering kiss. All by ourselves we take advantage of a moment until Aunt Vivian rounds the corner and sees us making out, in flagrante delicto.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she apologizes.

“No problem,” I say.

“Is this your lovely girlfriend Johnny?”

“Yes she is,” I say, smiling. “Julieta, please meet my aunt Vivian.”

“Enchanted,” Jewels says.

“Nice to meet you, dear.” I let Vivian go ahead of me in line for the john.

“Your uncle is making everyone drink shots of Alborg Akvavit,” Julie switches to Spanish, laughing, “copa y copa de Akvavit. Have you ever had that?”

“Jesus Christ and John the Baptist, I need to have a talk with that fool.” Tom and his traditional

Akvavit foolishness had created many a fuss, family feud and certainly hangovers all around, andalways at least one good story after parties like this.

After I get my chance at the bathroom, I go find Uncle Tom, and, when he has finished reciting a long diatribe about the demise of the automobile industry in Janesville to a group of people I don’t recognize, I pull him aside and quietly suggest “Please don’t get these girls so drunk, Tom, you’ll live to regret it.”

“Why?” he asks loudly. “You should have a shot, yourself, why are you so...hot and bothered? It’s

Christmas, relax for crying out loud kid!”

All the drunk relatives and such few of us with even an average, acceptible level of mental health.

Unfortunately, Mikey took a bunch of folks behind the woodpile to get smoked. This turns out to be a

217 huge mistake, as they all had too much to imbibe beforehand. Their systems weren’t ready for the mighty

Oaxacan, so much better than anything they could get this time of year in Mailwaukee. This is why I learned to always make it a rule to smoke before drinking, never after. The sinsie or whatever he rolled the doobie with sure pushed my cousins Chris and Cindy and Frank over the edge. Fighting each other to find safe puking space outside, they ended up passed out on couches, beds, or in the case of Frank, half in a hallway, half inside my sister Susie’s old room. They had grappled with the Zapotec bat gods of

Oaxaca, and had been overcome and crushed.

“What happened to your cousins?” Mom asks, barely able to stand without swaying a little, herself.

“Lightweights,” I reply, shrugging my shoulders.

Nereida and Julieta come inside the kitchen, and on opposites sides, put their arms around me.

The way I am whispering in their ears makes Mom a little uncomfortable, so she finds an excuse to tidy up in the living room a little, and replenish snacks.

“Your cousin is really hot,” Nereida says. Julieta smiles.

“You should call her DeeDee, and you should both…”

“Yes…?”

“You should both ask to make love with her together, she may enjoy that, I’m pretty sure and I can spend the night skiing on the lake.”

This surprises my cousin Dave, who had sneaked up on us, eavesdropping. The last cousin left standing, I think.

“Make love with who?” he asks, looking utterly flummoxed and knowing he caught me in a big one.

218 “Whom.” I replied. “Make love with whom since she is the object not the subject.” Young little

Dave is categorically bamboozled.

“Whatever,” he says, giving me a sideways and derisive once over. “And now, you’ve become an

English teacher down there too?”

A little stewed while later, Just as Nereida is giving me a juicy kiss under my ear Aunt Vivian walks into the kitchen. I wish I had a camera, because the look on her face is such an odd mix of guilt and surprise and shock, it might win a photo contest at a Diane Arbus commemorative.

Time for the chicken dance. Der Ententanz. After another shot of Akvavit, the Danish caraway- flavored high octane poison, Julieta gets in to it, and gives Uncle Pete a run for his money. Pete is loving it. When Nereida joins in, Vivian takes the opportunity to approach, not smiling.

“I think you had better get straight and live according to the Lord young man.”

“Oh, don’t worry Aunt Vivian,” I say, clutching her left wrist. “It’s culturally accepted in Mexico to show affection like this between good friends. Even men hold hands in Mexico City, they’ll do that walking down the street, in the open. As a sign of friendship.”

“Well, that’s a little fruity, I think.”

We are in a room full of inebriated adults many of them with more htan ample body mass indices, who are performing the duck dance, or the chicken dance as you like, over and over, on

Christmas Eve, weeks after Oktoberfest has passed. Old men are smoking cigarettes next to all that flowing flammable oxygen, and look at Julieta go. She’s some of the uncles and aunts and (remaining) cousins bopping. Someone is going to have a heart attack.

219 It’s astonishing how much my family can imbibe, especially during the holidays. Looking over all

the empty whiskey, bourbon, rum, vodka, egg nog, margarita and daiquiri mix, all the beer and wine

bottles that were accumulating, and my mother trying to keep up with them all, I decide I should give her

a hand. I found two contractor’s garbage bags in the basement, climbed the stairs and started collecting

the empties. After the third time around for the duck dance, Cousin Mary insisted the music be

changed. Deidre saw me cleaning up and joined in, grabbing an empty bag out of my grip.

“Do me a favor, can you, DeeDee?”

“Sure, what’s that?”

“Drive my friends back to the Edgewater, when they’re ready to go. I’m going to ski back to the

hotel.”

“What? Why?”

“I just feel like having a long ski. I’ve been cramped in airplanes and cars and bars and

restaurants for the last couple of days, I just need the space, and snow. I’ll miss that, this winter, I will,

believe me.”

She looked at me, perhaps knowing what else might be up. Didn’t help that I winked at her.

“OK,” Deirdre says, not looking unhappy about it.

“Don’t worry,” I say, “You can be alone and party with them all morning.“ It was already past

midnight. “I want to ski until the sun rises.”

“You are crazy.”

“I used to suffer from mental illness, dear cousin,” I confess, “but now, I’m enjoying every God

damn minute of it.” This makes her laugh hard. She knew how deranged our family can be, especially when fueled on high octane, holiday ethanol. the akvavit had unearthed and livened an unknown ancestor inside of me.

220 My cross country skis and all associated gear are in the basement, just where I had left them last

May. One could easily ski on Mendota from the west side, skirting the peninsula of Picnic Point all the way to the very front steps of the Edgewater, an adventure of no more than three or four miles. I found the girls and told them Deidre was going to ride them back to the hotel when they were ready to leave, and that I was going on an all-night adventure on the Lake. They could have their privacy, since I didn’t want to be an uncomfortable fourth at the lesbian orgy that was about to occur with my cousin participating. The girls had too much Akvavit too, I could tell, but Deidre seems not to be impaired, and anxious for the morning to unfold.

“I’m worried about you, doing that!” Nereida protests.

“Why?”

“You’ll freeze to death!” Julieta adds, as if she’s scolding a absolute madman.

“You’re forgetting from where I come and the thick blood which results. Look how prepared I am. I’ll wake you in the morning, and we’ll get you in those skis I rented and you’ll see how much fun it is, look, it’s snowing outside now. I can’t miss this“

“We will miss you, Juanito,” Julieta says, the two of them looking a little sad, but not too much, more horny, and rapacious for a Northamerican blond woman, that’s palpable.

“I’ll make up for it tomorrow night,” I say, kissing them both and not caring that we are being watched.

“You should love my cousin silly, you should fuck her upside down and right side up. I think she needs some serious, unwavering female attention, and it certainly would be too weird for me to be around. Besides, I really want to go skiing.” I really did. My inner Roald Amundsen is raging to be set free.

Must have been that Akvavit.

221 Thermal underwear, ski pants, boots, and jacket. My old wooden Finnish skis need a waxing, so I

gave them the green followed by a shorter layer of the blue, for the “kicker.” With gloves and wool hat

and parka, very full of many packets and joints of sinsie, and a full flask of brandy, I bid everyone farewell

until tomorrow. Polar cap, here I come.

“Are you some kind of crazy, Johnny?” Everyone asks, in so many words.

“I don’t get to do this in Mexico, and you know how much I love to ski. Got to take advantage of

it when I can.”

Leaving those behind who shake their heads in disapproval, I set out walking the two blocks

west with my skis balanced on my shoulder, where I can fasten into my bindings beyond the shore, trying

not to slip and fall on the slippery sidewalk.

Listening to Philharmonia Baroque’s rendering of The Water Music on earphones under my

hood, after tucking myself into one of Picnic Point’s many northern coves, well- protected from the wind and enjoying the feeling of being on skis again, I stop to have a smoke. And to watch the snow swirling in circles, and settling around the balsam fir, the red and silver maple, the paper birches and white ash; the lights of the shore far away and twinkling. Robert Frost poems are reciting themselves in the recess of my memorizing mind, and my brain is delightfully full of Handel. Akvavit, smoking marijuana with impunity,

Picnic point; here is the Madison I do miss, very much. But Naval Officer William Edward Parry, wait for me, please, I’m heading to your party, sir, anon.

222 Chapter 20: Home Sweet Home

This is freedom: gliding on the fresh fallen snow: the slippery vanilla ice cream: coconut milk

gelato; keeping my rhythm sweating, pumping, skating, swaying, making hay, making up ridiculous new lyrics to Handel’s Messiah. The sky lightens from a blue ink to a dirty gray, a crescent of faded orange showing in the southeast. I ski all the way to James Madison Park, where this story begins, four months past. The empty, eerie beach, frozen reeds just above the drifts and lifeguard’s chair seem so out of character this morning, taking the full fury of the icy, grit-blasting slap of winds from Siberia and enjoying it as such a novelty. I wanted to erect a shrine here, the very spot where I decided to give in to the idea of going to Mexico. One idea is to trace a deep, giant thumbs-up pattern in the fresh snow that will be visible from an airplane. Happy birthday, Jesus.

Daylight is approaching slowly and within a half an hour the morning is revealed as dim, foggy, and then again flurry. The Edgewater is only a few blocks away; so I figure it’s time to ski up to the balcony door of our suite. I knock forcefully on the glass of the double sliding doors with my de-gloved hand and shout, “Ho-Ho-Ho…Merry Christmas!” No response. So I knock again, three times, with more fury. “This is Santa Claus, come to the window girls! Muchachas, muchachitas, I can’t find a chimney to climb down!”

A terrified looking bald man in a white Edgewater bathrobe opens the curtains and glares at me, not smiling. Whoops! Sorry old chap, wrong room! I thought for sure it was our suite. He closes the curtains abruptly, and I think it’s a good idea to ski up North Carroll and enter the hotel the proper way since I’ve obviously lost my way.

Nereida answers when I call our suite from the lobby. A security guy walks by and checks me out, grimacing at me and my skis and poles getting snow all over the place.

“Feliz navidad, amor. Are you up?”

223 “Yes, we have been awake for a little while, un ratIto, we were worried about you.”

“Poo-poo. No worries, here I am safe and unfrozen. I missed you and Julie last night. Yes, I had a superb skiing adventure. Where is my cousin?”

In the bathroom. That will give me time to dewinterize and change into Sunday clothes.

“Hey, how are you?” Deedee just smiles and flashes me the V, for victory sign.

“Cool. You all get dressed, I’m going to take you to Mount Zion to hear some gospel Christmas music and we can repent our wickedness and depravities,” I say, in my best Mississippi Delta preacher drawl. Mount Zion is what my parents call The Negro Church.

“Right on,” Deedee says. “OK.”

“I’ll be knocking in a few minutes. Don’t take forever like you all always do.”

They do take forever it seems to get dolled up, anyway.

“Let’s take them past Shabazz,” I suggest to my next of kin. My cousin accordingly turns east on

Sherman, driving us in her 1978 Datsun 280Z, Julieta in the front, Nereida and I holding hands in the cramped space that can’t really be called back seats, although this was one of a few 280Zs that claimed they had them.

“Check it out, turistas, Malcolm Shabazz City High School, do you know who he was?” Nereida thinks a little.

“Malcolm X, the civil rights leader?”

“Muy bien, señorita!” Julieta nods a “Sí.” These girls got a good education in the D.F., and so did

Ricardo, so much better than most American kids get, these days.

224 “Was he born here?”

“No,” Deedee answers, “he lived in Milwaukee for a while, as an orphan. The school, this is an alternative high school, it was dedicated to fostering a spirit of international diversity, acceptance and racial harmony.”

“Geniál.” Julieta says, asking us to stop so she can take a photograph. As she and Nereida walk around the front of the building, snapping shots of each other next to the entrance, under the name of

Malcolm Little, aka El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz, I ask my cousin if she had a good time with my lovers. She turns to look at me in the back, and says, “You are some kind of lucky dude, John.”

“I realize that” I tell her.

“When can I come visit Mexico? I might have to move there after what your dad saw last night.”

The girls open the doors and squeeze back in.

“And what was that?”

“We have a little confession to make,” Deede says as we are driving west, to Park Street. After

Dad (Deedee’s mother’s oldest brother) returned from midnight mass with the rest of the throng, he barged into the downstairs bathroom where Deedee and Nereida were topless, making out. They thought they had locked the door.

“Geniál!” I remark. “Was Vivian there, with him?” Vivian is not blood to either Deedee or me.

“No, but she got an earful of it, I’m sure.”

Nereida is mortified. “I’m so sorry,” she says, “I was so drunk and out of my mind after having those copas de Akvavit.”

“Caraway seeds have very potent aphrodisiac properties,” Julieta the herbalist, declares, shaking her head in disapproval.

“I put my arm around her and hug her tight. “No worries, amor, we are who we are, and I love

225 you very much.” Nereida looks so sad, as I have never seen her before. Defeated.

“I will apologize to your father.”

“Don’t you dare!” I reply. “There is nothing to apologize over.”

“It offended him.”

“Too bad,” I say, “que lástima. He’s a big boy.” Well, maybe he isn’t. My sister Lucy calls him a princess sometimes.

“I was not behaving appropriately as a guest of your family. It was not polite. I would not expect you to behave so in my mother’s house.”

“Behaving, schmeehaving…my father was offended when my oldest sister married a Jewish guy, he was more shocked when they had kids and raised them in the Synagogue. And then, her younger sister had my niece out of wedlock. So, forget about it, he’s easily offended.”

“Que quiere decir, wedlock?” I try explaining but Julieta knows the word.

“Extramatrimoniál.”

“Si, extramatrimoniál.”

“Well, muchachitas, we’re about to head into some serious redemption, if you’re feeling guilty. I, for one am not and neither should any of us feel that way. Free love is here to stay,” I declare, lilke the true child of Aquarius that I am.

“Aunt Vivian saw me making out with Julie, after that, she saw me making out with you. I already got the lecture about straightening out my kinks in the eyes of The Lord. One more couple fooling around isn’t going to make or break us now. Keep ‘em confused, is what I say. They are confused and they will be confused, let them live that way, the more confused the better. They’ll have this to talk about until kingdom come.”

“I can’t wait for Christmas dinner, tonight, it’s going to be so very…interesting,” Deedee says.

226 Grandma Catherine is hosting around fifty guests in her big spread in Whitefish Bay, north of

Milwaukee, including our perpetually inebriated parish preist, whom Deedee and I christened “Father

Miles O’Toole.”

“We’ll need to get really stoned, beforehand.”

“No!” Nereida says. “We’ve already done so much harm.”

“Relax, Nereida,” Julieta says. I kiss Nereida’s cheek and neck. She holds me tight.

“You can do no harm, in my book, amorcita.”

The gospel Christmas mass at Mount Zion Baptist cheered them up, my hung over, sad Sea

Nymph, the contrite Capulet and the fallen angel of my straight A, valedictorian Susie creamcheese

American Heartland of a cousin. The music, singing, swaying and clapping, the sheer human warmth and sweat and energy rocked us out of our boots. It was a transforming, uplifting experience. African. The young woman who sang “Noel” with that powerful choir behind her, humming, she had us all in tears.

The girls ate it up, right down to the slices of sweet potato pie after. I was happy to see that there were plenty of white people there, besides Deedee and me. James Madison would have been proud of this city on the prairie, which he never imagined would be named for him; my home town. I hope that my guests are learning that we’re not as bad as we’re made out to be south of the border.

I promised the girls we would make a snowman, so I ask Deedee to drop us at the Nissan, which I had already packed with the customary carrot and lumps of coal. A set of skis and boots had been rented for the girls upon my reservation; they were waxed and Deedee has snowshoes shye’s going to fetch. I unloaded our skis bungeed on top of her Datsun.

The Mexicanas quickly master the art of Nordic skiing, and Julieta takes to it naturally. After a

227 mere half an hour, they are indistinguishable from the experts, well-trained in how to move their poles with opposite skis, how to perform the side step, snowplow and herring bone manuevers. Julieta takes one hundred pictures, and wanted as many of her taken next to the snowman to prove to her friends in the Ballet that she indeed did ski and make a snowman. Another of Julieta drinking brandy from a flask, on skis, after having side-stepped her way up into the woods from the lake. Photos are taken of Nereida next to the snowman. After we had skied and snow-shoed two miles around Picnic Point, over it’s spine, back on the Lake, we toured around the outside of the University of Wisconsin Student Union along the shore. We had become frosted human icicles. Of course more pictures of frozen faces and hair. Julieta must have brought ten rolls with her. Deedee offers to take them caroling with a group from St. John’s

Lutheran Church. I need a shave and hot bath and to sleep it all off for a while at least, before the feral four of us drive to Grandma’s for Christmas dinner and take the pious wrath of our ancestors squarely on our chins. Father O’Toole, too, how wonderful is this? Chris is bringing sinsie brownies for some of

Grandma’s select guests. Grandma Catherine has eaten many herself not knowing what they actually were. My cousins are such potheads. Maybe I should try to poison O’Toole with one?

“That Chris can make brownies like no other,” Grandma told me a few years ago, with a smile on her face. “They have a secret ingredient that really helps you sleep,” she confided, “and helps with my arthritis pain.” Grandma Catherine liked talking medicine with me.

“I wonder what the secret ingredient is, Grandma?” I asked.

“She said the name of it in Latin, and I can’t remember it for the life of me. Whatever it is, it sure works.”

And it’s working on me, now. While the girls are out caroling I will have a few hours of silence to enjoy the best drug of them all; sweet, warm, dreamless sleep.

228 “How was it?” I ask, as I am taking it slow on eastbound I-94, snowy, and icy in spots. I didn’t

anticipate their response, since I thought caroling a supreme act of honkydom. St. John was a maniacal

psychotic. Besides, I can’t carry a tune worth beans.

“It is a beautiful tradition,” Julieta says. “Thank you for including us, Didi.”

“Sí,” Nereida adds, “your amigos, Didi, are tan simpaticos.”

“To tell the truth, I was a little afraid to come to your country at first,” Julieta admits. “Just because of what I have heard and read about Los Estados Unidos. Now I am so glad that I did, it’s not at all the way I imagined or feared it would be.”

“Funny,” I reply, “I’ve had a similar experience, myself, recently, outside of my own country.”

“Se sabe,“ Nereida says, holding my hand, proudly.

“Well, you may change your minds about Norteamerica after what you are about to see, soon,” I

confess.

And indeed, my girlfriends are soon aghast by the brazen show of wealth in unashamedly affluent

Whitefish Bay. Especially after having spent an hour with Kenny Downs on Ingersoll Street in the student

slums, in his humble and meager cottage, drinking the Cognac we brought him and giving him a Toluca

blanket to help keep him warm. He was happy to see us and to have the opportunity to charm the señoritas with his gallant attempts at Spanish.

Whitefish Bay is Milwaukee’s most ostentatious suburb, especially during the height of the holiday season. Some of my grandmother’s neighbors went to extraordinary lengths to impress, and waste energy. It’s incomprehensible to our guests, Whole Santa’s sleighs, lit up like these in people’s front yards. Mortifying.

229 “Bienvenidos a Lomas de Chapultepec,” I say. “Bahía de Las Pescadillas. De Los Bacalaos.”

We’re a half an hour late when we pulled up near Grandma’s sturdy old stone fortress, but I didn’t want to push our luck on the Interstate. My friends aren’t used to winter conditions, I think they were a little petrified to be driving in the snow.

When we are let in, and are noticed, what was a lively conversation a few seconds ago, at the long dinner table, stops dead, and dims to a freaky quiet.

“Hello everyone!” I shout. These are my friends from Mexico City, Nereida and Julieta.”

Silence. A few uncomfortable grins and nods from the many guests.

“Are we too late for the special tradition?” I ask.

“We were waiting for you, Johnny,” says Uncle George. Our coats and gifts are taken and I walk over to the large table. Everyone looks at me and waits.

“Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday dear Jesus, Happy Birthday to

You.” I sing, unashamed. I had been doing this at Grandma Catherine’s since I was five, and everyone, even old O’Toole expected it. My dad looks at me sadly, but at least this had broken the ice a wee bit.

I escort my harem downstairs into the recesses of the long basement, where the younger people congregate. It is ruled that the elders eat upstairs, formally, and the young ones, more informally so downstairs at Grandma’s Christmas dinners.

“Did you bring any weed with you?” Cousin Greg asks, as we are in line for the amazing smorgasbord. Swedish meatballs, kielbasa, smelt, pickled herring, cheese curds and kringle, shrimp cocktail. Bratwurst. Roast beef. Green bean casserole. We came with appetites, we did, after playing in the snow.

“It’s killer,” cousin Mickey tells Greg, “the weed this guy gets in Mexico made me pass out last night, where does it come from again, John?”

230 “Acapulco, Oaxaca and Michoacán.”

“Where is that?”

“Southern Mexico, on the Pacific.

“Sweet.”

“How much are you looking for?”

“How much do you have?”

“Only a few ounces that I haven’t promised to some of my buddies, Greg.” I’m planning to unload the rest of our stash at a breakfast some of my high school alums are hosting for us, tomorrow, and split the loot 50-50 with Nereida, the mule of the operation. The beagles aren’t sniffing the flight crews, yet, at O’Hare.

It’s a comfortable, wide open zone in the basement, where the blazers of the family can get lost in the countless nooks and crannies, and sneak a smoke by the old ringer washer.

We eat like pigs, like cochinitos, as I am often nicknamed in Mexico. Deedee snatches away my friends to introduce them to some of the newcomers. I’m the designated driver this evening, so I think I’ll take it easy, maybe just a few glasses of wine. I head upstairs, to Jones a cocktail, instead.

As I am rummaging around the kitchen, where another table has been set for the guests who come and go willy-nilly, my father approaches, slowly, gravely.

“Son,” he says, facing me, turning my left arm, and stance toward him, “how well do you know this… girl?”

“I know her, very well, Dad.”

“Well,” the old man says, shaking his head, “There’s something I should tell you regarding your…your girlfriend who I hope is not your fiancé, is she, now?”

“I know, Dad. She is a bisexual woman. I already knew that, ever since we started dating.” I wish I

231 had a camera to capture his expression. Surprise, outrage, confusion. Another Arbus opportunity, missed.

Suddenly, we have become the spectacle, as my relatives have a special talent for not so covertly

eavesdropping.

“What makes you think you can live in that kind of…sin, without retribution?”

“Retribution? From whom? And for what?”

“You’re slapping the Lord in his face, son. And shutting him out of your lives. Homosexuality is an

abomination in the eyes of the Lord.” My dad is one of those guys who wears his golden cross, always.

Sometimes Nereida and Julieta wear them too.

“May God, may she strike me down by lightning, then.”

“God will not be mocked.” That was a line he likely picked up from one of his anti-choice buddies.

Speaking of anti-abortion activists, here comes Uncle George, not smiling.

“How about them Packers, guys?” I ask, having waited for just the right moment to spring this

line on them. After losing twenty-seven of their players to injuries this season, Bart Starr and Lynn Dickey

had been defeated in all four of their last games, by the Chicago Bears and Detroit Lions most

embarrassingly, and were now in last place in the NFC Central. God, and the Packers, too, will not be

mocked, not at this gathering. The Packers certainly weren’t going into playoffs, and that had everyone

down.

“It’s an abomination in the eyes of the Lord.”

“I know,” I confess, “what a terrible, losing season.”

“I’m not talking about the Packers. I’m talking about your lifestyle, son.”

“According to Leviticus, and so is eating rock badger, and oysters.” I purposefully stick a toothpick in a smoked oyster and consume it on a saltine, to help make my point.

“Take it easy, and try not to have a stroke, Pop,” I say after I have swallowed my oyster. He takes

232 around a hundred pills a week, and sees doctors regularly, on a recreational basis.

“You’ve brought a couple of real tarts with you, haven’t you?” I didn’t want to get into it with

him, not at Grandma’s. I socked him once and that got me into some trouble. Besides, I always

try to remember Samuel Langhorne Clemens’ “Never argue with a fool, onlookers may not be

able to tell the difference,” at times like this. I exchanged a last glimpse and grabbed the

unopened bottle of Merlot “Merry Christmas, Dad.”

“Merry Christmas, John.” Off to the basement.

After pumpkin pie and whipped cream, I find my grandmother so I can give her the five by seven traditional Zapotec wool rug from Oaxaca, this treasure is an heirloom that might fetch at least five hundred dollars if she wanted to sell it. She didn’t seem all that impressed, after I explained its significance. I found antique ruby earrings for Nereida in Morelia; Julieta got Taxco silver (her favorite), and I was the recipient of a really norteño looking silver buckled leather belt with accompanying blue- plaid checkered ranchero shirt, with the pearl snap cowboy pockets and all the bells and whistles.

“Put them on, now, let’s see you in them.”

“Please!”

The final touch is the white ranchero hat. I am the real thing, now. The chilangos sure like to make fun of the norteños. I look ridiculous, but my cousins and the girls think it’s funny. Photo time, again. The grown-ups aren’t as amused.

As we mill about the living room, my mother advances and holds my right forearm tightly in the grip of both her hands.

“I’m going to pray for you.”

233 “Thank you, I will for you too, Mom.” O’Toole had been artfully dodged in the basement, a few times, when he came a looking for me, but now I am trapped.

“Hello, Father O’Toole.”

The old priest, red in a face tghat showed a large spider angioma, earned from a lifetime of drinking high end imported single malt whisky, peered piously into my eyes and asked, “When are you going to finally straighten yourself out, young man?”

“Father O’Toole, if I want your opinion, I’ll give it to you,” I replied, repeating the famous line of

Samuel Goldwyn’s, one that his friend Moe of The Three Stooges used frequently thereafter.

"Need to get going," I say, turning to my mom, "We should get back to the hotel before the roads get too slippery."

“Why are you only staying a few days? Send your friends home and stay until New Year’s, please?” Having had enough of a dose of winter, we are looking forward to Isla Mujeres and the Yucatan.

I had no interest in staying.

“Thanks, but we have to stick to our plans.”

“We, meaning?”

“We. Nereida and I are spending a few days in the Caribbean and Julietas has to get back to work.

Thanks for everything, Mom.”

“John, I’m afraid you’ve left the Lord behind you, in a dangerous path descending into sin.”

“Please don’t worry about me.”

“You need to return to the Lord and ask for his assistance. And for his forgiveness.”

I look upwards in supplication. “Lord, I ask for your assistance and forgiveness.” OK, next. I gather my harem, it isn’t easy, as they share a long, drawn-out, lingering, teetering Italian family style goodbye with the younger relatives downstairs. And with Deedee who keeps threatening to come with us. She

234 does get a gracious invitation to visit the girls, which I’m reasonably sure she will accept. The goodbyes

offered upstairs, however, were met with a frosty response from the old folks. All I hear is: “Keep the

Lord with you always,” from every one of them.

A few old high school buddies are expecting us for breakfast on East Johnson, waiting to buy me out of all but one last quarter ounce I am saving for our trip home. A small part of my stash will have made a round trip, in and out of country. Stephanie makes bacon and eggs, English muffins and hot chocolate. Thanks to friends and relatives, I am carrying a little over four thousand bucks in my wallet.

And so is Nereida. We’re way ahead of the rat race in the states, and then will soon be southbound, and back under a warm sun, much to the envy of our guests.

Nereida promises to show me the Maya ruins along the turquoise beaches of Quintana Roo; the temples of Tulum, the City of Dawn, and Chitzén Itzá. I am anxious to swim in the Caribbean and to be home, in Mexico.

I love airports. Drifting around the International Terminal at O’Hare, people-watching, smelling the mixed bag of jet fuel, Bloody Marys, coffee and sweet rolls, Nereida and I are delighted with the anticipation of travel; Julieta wishes she had the extra time off. On the return trip, I am the mule carrying the weed. Flying it into Mexico is easy, child’s play. Flying it out is a different story. Who flies weed in to

Mexico? It’s unheard of, coals to Newcastle. I do, because I have better weed than I can get just scrounging and jonsing around, looking for it without the right contacts. I only am carrying as much as we need for our next short holiday.

We see Julieta on to her flight with a couple brisk kisses, and the Sea Nymph and I are soon

235 jetting into the sky ourselves, rising at a steep incline above smoky, brown Chicago below the splintering rays, headed directly into the more hospitable realms of the sun.

“Just out of curiosity, is she bisexual or lesbian?” I asked the girls upon returning to the

Edgewater last night.

“Lesbian. Very lesbian.”

“Interesting, we all pretty much knew.”

“How did it go?”

“She is very pretty,” Nereida said. “We loved nibbling on every part of her.”

“That’s all?” I ask. Julieta seemed ponderous.

“She will need a little more…education I think,” Julieta mentioned. “I will prepare some special

elixirs for her when she comes to visit that will help her better develop her passion. We’ll get her pale

skin a little exposure to Mexican sunshine, and my potions will work their magic on her.”

“I was left…a little unsatisfied,”Nereida added. Julieta agreed. "Wanting more."

Picking up on the cue, I said, “Well mis vaqueras, I’m here for you.”

Reminiscing upon the lovemaking in the Edgewater, I take Nereida’s hand into mine, and she

rests her head on my shoulder while I start the Friday crossword.

Before long, the shadows compress, the atmosphere deepens into a brighter blue and we cross the Tropic of Cancer with its puffy clouds below, the straightening arc of sunshine increasing through the window, warming our skin so we have to increase the air flow to keep cool.

Stuck on Eugene Maleska’s “Polynesian demon,“ I close my eyes and fall asleep, but soon Nereida pokes me awake.

236 “Look Juanito,” she says, pointing out the window as the Boieng 727 of her fleet banks to the left.

The view below is breathtaking; the brilliant emerald jungle, the unblemished white beach and sparkling, sapphire Caribbean. We sit spellbound, holding hands, watching the lazy sailboats below. México Lindo.

We are both happy to be home.

237 Chapter 21: Uncle Akvavit

As February arrives we receive the best of news since the New Year. After thousands of dollars contributed in his defense to pay fees and bribes, Ricky has been found innocent of all charges and will

soon be set free, having spent nearly twelve weeks in the slammer. The Caribe, however, will now belong

to Carmen. Jewels and Nereida plan a party to celebrate his release. Ricky’s coming-out, his debutante

ball is set for Saturday the 21st on the evening of the day he is set to be free. I will once again have a

roommate; this is good, and not so good. The girls allow me to spend nights whenever I want. I’d move in

but that would be uncomfortable in their small space. I was practically living with them as it is, in the city

or up the mountain since they had empathy for my long ride during the workweek. Hopefully we will soon be living in a larger apartment, in Rio de Janeiro.

In the meantime, Zapata is getting their money out of me; extra time has gone in to developing and validating six new direct fluorescence assays for pathogens, and a new influenza assay. Julieta, between performances has invested more of her spare time as my personal physical trainer.

Before the New Year Nereida and I visited Isla Mujeres, the Island of Women, after we took the bus south to visit the ruins. In January we flew to Chiapas, Mexico’s southernmost state, and stayed in San Cristobal de Las Casas, an enchanted Spanish Colonial village. Exotic Chiapas, the farthest into the tropics I’ve been. San Cristobal is an artisan’s village, every neighborhood specializing in a different craft; iron-working, wood carving, carpentry. Little Spanish is spoken. Tzotzil and Tzeltal; the descendants of the Maya speak ancient indigenous Mesoamerican languages. I like the Maya people and their rich sense of humor.

Oakland beat the Philadelphia Eagles at the Super Bowl in New Orleans, and Poland’s United

238 Workers Party Central Committee fired Prime Minister Józef Pińkowski, replacing him with the butt-ugly, pug-faced dictatorial Minister of Defense, General Wojciech Jaruzelski; a genuine faccia brutta. Poland is coming apart at the seams. That just about sums up everything important in the news this month so far, except for Uncle Akvavit, who flew, unsolicited, to Mexico D.F., so he could “rescue” and bring me home.

Although it was wrong, I fixed his wagon in a major way. This is what happened.

On an uneventful Friday afternoon last month, I returned to Clinica Zapata after tacos with

Lázaro to find Uncle Tom waiting for me in the lobby.

“What in the fuck are you doing here?” I asked him, with nary a greeting or bienvenido. “I don’t remember inviting you to visit.”

He explained the mission, my dad’s idea, in detail in the evening’s end at Anderson’s. He simply would not leave unless I came with him.

“You’ll be staying a long time then, Tom.”

“I can legally compel you through the U.S. Embassy , Johnny.”

“So, let me see if I’m getting this straight, Uncle Tom, you’ve come to escort me back to the

United States upon the request of my family? Because there is an error on my Wisconsin state income taxes I reported for 1979?” He showed me a letter from someone claiming to be an attorney, notarized, that compelled me to return immediately to solve the problem. Tom claimed he knows Spanish, but when I asked him questions in my best, most careful Castilian, he couldn’t answer a single one.

I excused myself to the enclosed booth, to place a telephone call. Being better connected these days, I knew exactly what to do. If he were going to invoke thbe embassy, I had him beaten on tghat one.

I don’t want to go into more detail, as this involves folks who may get in trouble in Oaxaca, in Michoacán, in the D.F., and on both sides of the border. But thanks to the cautious maneuvering I’ve been doing, I’ve met the right people; highly connected folks you’d want to know if you were living here. Federales,

239 funcionarios, precinct captains, judges, a few of the spooks and bigwigs at the American Embassy; I pay utmost respect to them all and have shown more than one of them a favor or two. Live and let live but if I scratch your back, you should then scratch mine. There are certain individuals who, collectively or by themselves can either make serious trouble for you, or help get you out of it, quickly. Or both. I learned the law of the ocean. It’s all about whom you know here, in the oldest, most continuously you know what, in the you know where. And I do. Tom and I sit in silence, sipping coffee.

“These gentlemen would like to have a talk with you,” I announce contently, as the captains from the local delegación eventually materialize in uniform, as I had requested. “As I believe you’ve committed at least two crimes according to the Mexican Napoleonic penal code.” Their mere presence makes the bartenders and many of the clientele nervous, I notice.

“You’ll need to learn better Spanish quickly Uncle, I’m afraid.”

The captains politely requested that the gentleman leave voluntarily and discretely in their company, and accompany them to the delegación Miguel Hidalgo. That rings a bell, que no, where Ricky was arraigned? Lest he be taken by force, in handcuffs. Either way works fine for the capitanes. When his colleague has Tom on the way downstairs and is out of sight, I slip a couple of thousand peso bills into

Captain Rafael’s open hand.

“Way to place a bet, you pinche Raider’s fan!” Rafael is a good old boy, he is. I know him pretty well, I had to, and to keep him on my payroll, so I coujld keep doing my thing in the capital. They depart into the night; my uncle; fearful for his future, is now hopefully impressed with the influence I locally wield.

Ah yes, the Delegation of Miguel Hidalgo. To be exact; Don Miguel Gregorio Antonio Ignacio

Hidalgo-Costilla y Gallaga Mandarte Villaseñor, the priest and leader of The Mexican Revolution. Here’s his famous grito, from Dolores Hidalgo:

240 ¡Mexicanos!

¡Vivan los héroes que nos dieron la patria y libertad!

¡Viva Hidalgo!

¡Viva Morelos!

¡Viva Josefa Ortíz de Dominguez!

¡Viva Allende!

¡Viva Galena y los Bravos!

¡Viva Aldama y Matamoros!

¡Viva la Independencia Nacional!

¡Viva México! ¡Viva México! ¡Viva México!

Next Monday back at the clinic, after a peaceful weekend in San Lorenzo, I receive a terse phone call from the American Embassy. Uncle Tom’s being held until deportation. He has asked for me to pick

up the hotel room key from gthe Embassy , so I can get his stuff before they drive him to B. Juarez. The

Mexicans won’t let him out of the embassy until he is driven asay. Shezam, I didn’t realize they had that kind of authority in the delegación.

I know exactly what to do now to teach this clown a valuable life-lesson. His room at the

Intercontinental is an utter mess. Such a spoiled little boy he always was. I toss his toiletries helter-skelter into his shaving kit and open suitcase. Dirty laundry, airline ticket, keys and spare change, bottles of

Pepto Bismol and Seagram’s Vodka. Passport. I should sell it on the black market. Keep him here for a while longer? Help him lose some weight like Ricardo did?

Before I zip the bag, I take several cheap buds of schwag I bought from a cab driver, and crush them between my thumb and fingertips, rubbing their resin inside and outside of the canvas suitcase and garment bag hanging in the closet. As an additional gift, I leave a few naked, flattened but full flower tops

241 in the pockets of the brown trench coat, also hanging in the closet, just by themselves, no baggies or

anything. Might as well smear a few of these buds on the outside, just in case the beagles at O’Hare are

sleeping on the job. That should make for a fun evening for him, when he gets back. I tuck the rest of the newspaper-wrapped pot-roll into an obscure pocket of his, zipping it tight.

At the Embassy, I am not permitted beyond the perimeter, so I leave the suitcase and garment bag with a message written on an American Embassy calling card: Buena suerte, pendejo.

“Good evening Lindsay,” I bid my friend and frequent customer behind the double plate glass window, and a buenas tardes to Carlos and Frank, the marines. See you guys soon! Hasta la vista. They are part of my regular route.

The time comes to celebrate the release of our close and trusted friend, the Mexican devil himself, and to fête Ricardo in a rooftop patio apartment overlooking Insurgentes which will be packed tight with mutual friends. Preparations are planned and fussed over; hors d'œuvres, soups, moles, roasted chicken and turkey, tamales, casseroles, squash; bread, fruit and sweets. And liquor, plenty of that in all its regular local forms.

When Ricky finally shows, he looks sad, and doesn’t seem to want to say much, eat or socialize.

The wind has stalled in his sails and the sparkle in his eye replaced with a flat, dull, distracted gaze. No joking, no kidding, no fun, no swearing; he’s so serious, and so quiet tonight. Not himself.

“What’s the matter,” I ultimately ask. “Que tienes?” What are you holding? Something he often asked me in sadder moments.

I surmise the problem. He is traumatized, like a caged animal. Without having a bite to eat or a single glass of water to drink, he disappears without explanation or excuse.

242 “What happened to Ricardo?” I am asked throughout the evening. Such an excess of food, what a shame, que lástima. Well not really, since my girlfriends and I are putting good use to all of it, and the drinks as well, and will do so with whatever leftovers we can pilfer. Might as well, we agree among the three of us. All the teachers from the Colegio Americano are here, the dancers from the Ballet, Nerieda’s and Julieta’s and Ricardo’s mothers and kin. Yet, we have to try our hardest to make the best we can from his sudden absence. His mother is clearly worried, so I volunteer to search and scour the neighborhood and environs, ask if he’s been seen. This is a bustling, crowded part of the city. Nereida and

Julieta come along, and we split in three directions, making a plan to reconnoiter and regroup, periodically.

Although this proves to be good exercise, for an hour and a half, it proves a futile attempt in the end, to locate our friend. When we return to the fifth floor rooftop, late in the night, most of the guests have dissipated. I stay alongside the girls, and help Betsy and Charlie put the food in the refrigerator and tidy up.

Dishes are washed and dried, and we share a glass of Chardonnay after midnight, the five of us who are left. Just as suddenly as he departed, like an apparition, Ricky appears out of the void, more color in his face and looking a little more lighthearted. Is the sparkle returning? The breeze in his boat picking up?

“Where have you been, Pato?”

“We were so worried about you!”

Pouring himself a big rum and coke, our prophet, our protector and guide smiles, looks at us and says, “Sorry, mis amigos. I had to feel the sounds of the city through the soles of my shoes. Sense the vibrations through my bones and feet. I had to be immersed in the noise of the traffic and the horns honking, and to be walking, free, anywhere I please.”

243 “Well, call your mother, will you, St. Anthony, San Antonio del desierto? She’s worried about you.”

“Are there any leftovers?” he asks, after they have all been stowed away.

244 Chapter 22: In Which the Average Mexican is Terribly Disappointed with the Marksmanship Skills of John W. Hinckley Jr.

Two o’clock Monday afternoon, March 30. Lázaro and I, freshly returned from Taqueria Tacuba,

find quite a spectacle in the waiting room of the clinic. A cluster of patients and employees are gathered

closely around the television, even Navarro and the FedEx delivery driver are watching, animated and smiling. Someone just shot two people, maybe President Reagan, on T Street NW in Washington. The panicked scene of the chaotic shootout outside the Hilton loops over and over, so each time the popping of the pistol is heard, everyone in the waiting room seems infused with a new jolt of optimism for the

future.

Ronnie is not terrifically popular in Mexico, he never has been and never will be. Among many,

one considerable catalyst of the renewed distrust of their neighbors to the north was the assassination of

the Archbishop of El Salvador, Oscar Romero, which transpired to the day, exactly one year and one week ago. He was shot down while elevating the chalice at the end of the Eucharistic rite, celebrating Mass at a chapel inside a hospital. The day before, the Archbishop had called on Salvadoran soldiers as Christians to obey God's higher order and to cease carrying out the government's repression and violations of human rights. The responsibility of the Salvadoran Army for his murder is unquestionable, but in the suspicious minds of many Mexicans, the factual author of this crime was the United States government, Uncle Sam, the sulfurous devil himself who let it happen. Reagan’s starting a new war from Honduras, the most corrupt of all Central American republics. The holocaust begins with the killing of schoolteachers and union leaders in Nicaragua, and spreads to the torturing of farmworkers in El Salvador. Common, ordinary, decent people here hate Ronald Reagan outright. I can’t honestly say I have any love or respect for the man, myself.

Navarro comes from behind and squeezes my left arm affectionately, he’s smiling dreamily, imagining this is a courageous, selfless and passionate political act, and that I, as an American, should be

245 first congratulated. But, as hours of work pass and the afternoon darkens into a smoggy dusk, we learn

more about the botched six shots that the unstable, troubled young John Warnock Hinckley Jr. fired from

his .22 caliber Röhm RG-14 revolver, to impress Jodie Foster, of all possible people. The FBI had young

Ms. Foster in questioning. Reagan’s poor Press Secretary, James Brady, was near death’s door with a

severe brain injury. I don’t condone any kind of violence, I tell Navarro, against anyone. We’re a crazy, out of control nation, I think; an armed circus.

“Taxi Driver! Taxi Driver my ass!” Navarro shouts, pointing an accusing index finger at my nose.

“What is wrong with the United States, Juanito? What is fucking wrong with your country?” He’s upset that Hinckley hadn’t planned well, hadn’t had accomplices, nor had he done an adequate job finishing off the foolishly vulnerable fortieth president of the United States. A perfectly good opportunity, blown. The worst possible news to them; it appeared as if Reagan was going to make it, and take less risk mingling with the public. Not only will he survive, but he’s already able to crack a corny joke. Hinckley is indeed a deranged little pendejo, as Navarro commented.

“You gringos can’t even carry out a successful assassination attempt anymore, can you?

Incompetents!” This comment was hurled in my direction more than once over the next few weeks.

I am trying to keep the United States out of my thinking since it puts me in a bad mood.

A couple of weeks ago Uncle Tom called the clinic asking for me.

“Bueno.”

“Who is this?”

“Who is this?”

“Johnny?”

“Yes?”

“You son of a bitch!” I knew immediately who it was. I didn’t have anything to say.

246 “Do you know how much bullshit you got me into? Hello, are you there?”

“Glad the beagles are still working hard, Tom. I’ll tell your sister-in-law what you think of her, too.

Leave me alone please and don’t call this number again.”

“When you come back, Johnny, you will be in a world of trouble. You’ll get to see the inside of

Cook County Jail. You set me up, didn’t you, you little weasel?“

Cook County Jail, I’m sure he wasn’t there long and I would never be back to chack it out. The

Reclusorio Oriente had spoiled me as far as my expectations for five star prison resorts. Brazil does not have an extradition treaty with the United States, and I think I’m safe for now here, thanks to the friends I have cultivated. One week after wishing Tom good luck, I received a thick letter from my mother addressed to me at the clinic. I haven’t opened it yet.

Trying to get used to living with Ricardo again is like being back in the dorms, although he’s been increasingly absent from the cabaña throughout the workweek. Ricky’s talking about moving back into the city since he doesn’t have the car and has grown weary of public transporatation. When here, he cooks and I clean as usual, our unwritten compact.

“Someday you’ll be discovered, and end up a highfalutin Beverly Hills Mexican gourmet chef and television personality. I will be lucky enough to be your dishwasher.”

Ricky is not pleased when I tell him about our plan to fly out of the country late at the end of the summer, though. He’s worried about his two best friends, I know, who he’s known much longer than he has me. I understand that, his protection. He’s also become increasingly concerned about the quantity of high grade I am keeping in the house and pushing around the city.

“Tu no conoces la palabra responsabilidad.”

I do not understand the word responsibility. His statement was a running joke between us, but this time he means it more than ever.

247 “Responsibility means the ability to respond to one’s environment accordingly, that’s all,” I reply.

“We both have full time jobs, we pay the rent on time so we’re responsible enough, aren’t we?”

There is a hammock and a beach waiting for me in January’s sweet river. A Samba band is playing. Dark, slender, mysterious women, barely clothed are asking me to dance. I will learn how to speak fluent Portuguese and not dance like the victim of a stroke.

Spring and its nested vacations have Nereida clocking a hundred hours back and forth from

Winterland, jetting hordes of college students and old people from Ontario, Quebec and the Northeast to

Mexican resorts in record numbers this season, according to the highly successful and well-managed

Mexicana Airlines a persistently nasty winter that has continued into early spring. Jewels and I keep our

Wednesdays in orthodox celebration of food and flesh, with or more likely without Nereida. The Sea

Nymph has an affair going with an older guy in Toronto, another art gallery owner, she seems to have a thing for those fellows. He’s almost sixty, and is rich, brilliant and charming, she has told us. “Just friends,” she says. We wonder if we are more than just friends to her these days. I realize Tommy has taken a liking to her as well, he’s been asking me so many questions about her lately, I know something’s up in Madison too.

Since Nereida is so often out of the country, Jewels has been inviting me to crash in Coyoacán during most of the workweek, saving me hours of waiting in line to commute back and forth to San

Lorenzo. Over the next few days, we anxiously await the appearance of the morning’s Times Herald at the newsstand near the Metro. Julieta and I are learning more about the genteel upbringing of Mr.

Hinckley. His father, John Warnock Hinckley, Sr., ironically, was a financial supporter of George H.W.

Bush's 1980 presidential primary campaign. Even more unpleasant for this odd bunch of uncomfortable, prickly old WASPs; John’s older brother Scott had a dinner date scheduled at the home of Neil Bush the day after the assassination attempt. In an interview the day after the shooting, Neil's wife Sharon said

248 that Scott was coming to their house as a date of a girlfriend of hers, and that she didn't know his brother

John, but understood "that he was the renegade in the family." Sharon described the Hinckleys as "a very nice family" and mentioned they had "given a lot of money to the Bush campaign.“ Renegade, ha, good choice of words. This opened the causeway for the Mexican Press to erupt with conspiracy theories as it often will do. The Bushes were behind it, of course. I get a good laugh out of that, but Julie takes it seriously, she unfortunately also is easily taken awash with conspiracies.

During the late 1970s and early 1980s, on various anti-depressant and anti-anxiety medications,

John Hinckley Jr. began purchasing weapons, and target-practicing with them. I dramatically rendered the last correspondence he had with Jodie Foster, the one woman he just couldn’t do without, aloud:

“Over the past seven months I've left you dozens of poems, letters and love messages in the faint hope that you could develop an interest in me. Although we talked on the phone a couple of times I never had the nerve to simply approach you and introduce myself.... The reason I'm going ahead with this attempt now is because I cannot wait any longer to impress you. —John Hinckley, Jr.”

What an embarrassing time to be an American.

“He is fixated on Jodie Foster,” I tell her. “In an insane way. The Bushes had nothing to do with it.“ What a way to put a woman on the spot, poor Ms. Foster. Oh well, he has good taste in girlfriends as do I. Jewels is confused and doesn’t like even a single joke about it anymore. He is no Wilkes Booth, our

John Warnock Hinckley, no Lee Harvey Oswald, no Charles Julius Guiteau even; a lunatic and bungler in his own right as well. We were down a notch or two; the whole world’s laughing stock now. Even my usually serious Swedish friends were making jokes of us. But nobody was having more fun with it than

The Gipper. Hell, he loved getting shot, even if it were just a ricocheted bullet. We watch my president, an eager puppy for any kind of publicity, laugh it off, acting the tough, funny cowboy. It’s going to be a long four years in America. Brazil is looking better and better, every day.

249 Trying to digest the events of the last week over coffee, Ricardo and Julie seem puzzled, stupefied.

“It’s just that we are loco. And stupid. I’m sorry.” That’s all I can say.

“How can this be, in the richest country of the world?”

The dry season lingers, the smog worsens with each new day until the mere act of walking to the market through the monoxide inferno puts one’s very health at risk. People wear masks this time of year and that is a sound practice. I’ve started coughing. I can’t see more than two blocks up or down

Insurgentes in the morning, the air pollution has become so thick. Juli’s father has had more than one asthmatic episode resulting in admission to the hospital. This is unacceptable. Yes, Ricardo, I quite well understand the meaning of the word responsabilidad, thank you, and it means getting my girlfriends the hell out of here, for nothing more than their health, well-being and survival. My mission is clear: transport my lovers far away from this toxic mess, to paradise.

The month of April progresses as expected; the routine usual, and Nereida is back in our arms exactly twice. She brings us gifts from afar, carefully ensuring they’re equally apportioned as to price and quantity. This is how these girls operate, and this is how it has to be. What one has, so should the other and this should now be true for the three of us. I had to be careful giving them things, to ensure they balanced out evenly. Otherwise one will certainly feel slighted. We are equals in this relationship, and I had to keep that under consideration at all times. What one has, we all three should equally have.

Communists, good communists we are.

On the first Monday of the new moon, I am peeled away from the stack of direct preps waiting for their turn under the fluorescent scope, and told I have a visitor waiting. The stress hormones

250 immediately respond; I feel the catecholamine surge raising my blood pressure, my heart pounding into

my temples. Who is it, this time? I wonder, my heartneat racing a little faster as I open the door to the waiting room. Who have they sent to get me now?

He is standing with his back turned at the end of the waiting room in a red flannel plaid long sleeve shirt, with backpack slanted at his blueeans that seem somewhat familiar. He’s looking at the old photographs of Emiliano Zapata.

“Are you looking for me, señor?” I ask, bracing myself, ready for anything, or anyone. The mysterious stranger turns around.

“Joe!”

251 Chapter 23: The Right Stuff

“He’s beautiful,” remarks the flight attendant, wide-eyed and whispering to Julie about the new

guest staying in San Lorenzo for a spell. Joseph Eyre Robinson Potter the Third; born and well-heeled as a genteel Northern Virginian, my good friend and former housemate has made good on his promise to visit.

“An Adonis,” Julieta says, unable to conceal a wide smile. With his curly hair, athletic build and scrappy all-American can-do, Joe could charm the birds from the trees and was always the best wingman a geek like me could ever hope for.

“He has a venereal disease,” I disclose in a grave tone. “Es muy serio.” This may or may not be true, but it disappoints them greatly nevertheless; Julie suggests we seek a curandera’s advice at Balderas market. DNA viruses are on the rise; the Herpes superfamily is just now becoming a worldwide public health challenge, I explain in the usual shoptalk that has prompted them to call me “profesór.” The possibility of contracting the “virus del herpes simple” causes the girls to frown. Adding insult to injury, I expose Joe as an utter prude. He’s a missionary position only kind of man, I tell them. Joe once disclosed that he was the unsuspecting recipient of a blowjob, and that completely freaked him out, turned his life upside-down for a good month, I told them. Catholic girl too, which further stupefied him. Still, my girlfriends wanted to jump his bones badly, simultaneously. They had fair warning and I squashed their unchecked lust just in the nick of time.

“I am healthy, completely free of disease,” I remind them. And not as boring in the sack.

“My formulations will help him,” Julie suggests.

Joe boarded the train in Mexicali, just over the border from San Diego, and, like the perfect

White Knight he is, befriended a young single American woman whom immediately sought his protection on her first excursion alone south of the border. Savior and bodyguard, this is our Joseph Joe. He walked

252 all the way to the hotel with her in the D.F., and, from the Zona Rosa, found Clinica Zapata on his own, hiking the considerable distance, happy to be finally free of the confines of the train. Already digging the capital, he’s giving his fresh Spanish an honest workout and has even been brave enough to sample the street chow.

“Be careful what you eat,” I warn. The girls are very impressed but he’s too preoccupied about having been exposed to this worrisome, emerging herpetic pathogen to relax with them quite yet. Joe confided that after having grown unexpectedly cozy with a former high school friend now in Los Angeles, passion progressed past the point of no return, but unfortunately just subsequent to having been informed of her HSV-2 status. It was all too late for him to turn back, and unable to just say no, he plunged forward only to live in dread of what he knew only a smidgen about today. He had already read half of my copy of Tom Wolfe’s “The Right Stuff” trying to get his mind off of it.

What did I think his chances are of contracting full-blown genital Herpes, from just a single exposure?

“I’m not sure what the data are showing amigo, but you probably want to limit your liaisons until you let a few weeks pass.”

“A few weeks?”

“Yes, just to make sure you don’t develop any lesions.”

“Lesions?”

“Open sores.” Joseph looks like he is going to heave. “I’ve seen some young guys at the clinic with this shit, and it doesn’t look like much fun,” I say. “Keep an eye out for crusting, oozing, open red sores.”

I cover a quick review of how DNA viruses replicate their genomes inside our epithelial cells, and what clever mechanisms they’ve evolved to evade our immune system, but the conversation meanders into the polyamorous triangle in which I am currently entangled. How it’s not only possible, but quite

253 probable to be in love with two women who are in also love with each other.

“We’re going to move to Brazil,” I say. “We’ll be living in an apartment in Rio de Janeiro by Labor

Day at the latest.”

Joe thinks I am crazy, he always did. He heard all about us through the grapevine, and our

scandalous Christmas indiscretions. All of this followed by the unexpectedly newsworthy bust of my uncle

and I guess his new girlfriend too, at O’Hare. He blamed it on me. We have now become somewhat of a

minor legend around Lake Michigan, apparently. Joe doesn’t care, this will not impede his future, or more

importantly interfere with his vacation in any manner.

“I’ll come visit you in Brazil, then,” he says. “I’ve been wanting to go there myself.”

“If your ears and genitals haven’t rotted off your body by that time,” I add.

“Hey, that’s not funny.”

“Maybe someone will discover a cure for it, someday. In the rainforest,” I say skeptically.

“Hey John, you don’t have any weed, by chance, do you?” Joseph eventually asks, as we’re washing and drying dinner dishes in Acopilco, drinking Bohemias with Ricky. I put on a big pouty face. He got tired of waiting for me to offer and this is a game I love to play with visitors.

“Oh, just a tiny wee little bit,” I reply, pinching my finger and thumb together, looking apologetic as could be. “Probably not enough to even get you high, sorry.”

“OK...whatever.” Joe looks so disappointed. All the thousands of miles traveled, and, what, no pot? In Mexico? What is this shit? I walk into my bedroom and return with three zip lock deep freezer bags full of almost a kilogram each; Oaxacan sinsemilla, Acapulco gold and a tasty variety I discovered on

254 my own in Michoacán, all of them worthy of their own High Times centerfold.

“Oh my God!” he laughs, inspecting each one carefully, as I hand him a clean water pipe.

“Think this will be enough to get you through spring break?”

“I’ve never seen more well-manicured bud in one place, in one time, ever!” The Virginian declares, after taking in a big whiff of each one. I show him a big rock of hashish.

“Holy…it all smells so good. I’m already stoned. Where did you get this?”

“I have it custom made.” Big smile. Joseph Joe is looking forward to not doing anything, no hacer nada. He brought a tent and seems hell bent on “going camping” somewhere. I had no idea there is such a thing here but Ricardo pulls his expensive Atlas from the bookshelf, opens it on the freshly wiped dining table and shows him the Laguna de Sontecomapan in the state of Veracruz, of which he expounds at length, enthusiastic and raving about the wilderness in the largest national park in his country. Ricardo’s trying to talk us into visiting because there is a public campground along the beach on the Gulf inside the park. I’ve never heard of Laguna de Sontecomapan. Ricky says the boat ride we can take through the jungle and largest nature reserve in the country is worth the entire stay. This has Joe convinced we should go. I try to talk him into Isla Mujeres, instead as I have no experience with Ricardo’s

Sontecomapan.

“Entonces Johnny, I am going to lose you at the end of your contract?” Navarro asks the next

Monday at work. “Why?”

“Sí, Zeller wants me to go to Paraguay in September.”

“Paraguay? De veras? Are you going?”

“No.”

255 “Why not?”

“I’m checking out Brazil, to see what’s cooking in Rio.”

“What do you mean, what is cooking in Rio?”

“I’ll look for work, eventually.”

“Doing what?”

“Working in a lab, I suppose.”

“Where?”

“I’m not sure yet, I have to get my Portuguese in better shape.”

“I might be able to pay you a small stipend if you wanted to stay on, my friend. Zeller would have to cover the rest, however.”

“Thanks Enrique,” I say, “I think it’s time for me to move onwards, though.”

“What about your fiancée?”

“She’s coming with me.”

“You shouldn’t go to Brazil. It’s dangerous. If you think Mexico is bad, Rio es un desmadre total.

You should stay here, Juanito, in the capital. I need your help, and someone with your expertise.“

Outside of Clinica Zapata, I didn’t have much in the way of expertise, I explain. It’s enough I am told.

Next Thursday with Joseph sitting next to me inside La Flecha Roja, the Red Arrow, the diesel soaked death trap, we swig from our separate quarts of tequila in brown paper bags, beginning the ride from the Estación Oriente into the evening traffic jam on the periferico. Navarro told me I needed a vacation and to think about my future and career. He likes me, I think.

256 Ricardo talked us into buying tickets to Catemaco, a village just east of San Andrés Tuxtla on the

Laguna de Catemaco; he says we could hire a crew with a motorboat to navigate us along the waterways of the wildlife refuge. Our final destination after navigating the Laguna de Sontecomapan is to Ricardo’s fabled campground, a spit miles away on the Gulf. Wary of Ricardo’s claims, I tried talking Joe into the

Yucatan, but Ricky, not here with us now, convinced my friend that his campground was the better choice. This sounds fabulously exotic to Joe. Knowing Ricardo’s odd tastes in destinations as I do, I begin to wonder. We change buses after I have an opportunity to introduce my American friend to mole poblano in Puebla, its home town, and explain its natural history. There is no mole poblano like the real thing made in its cradle, we sop every drop with warm tortillas.

Gunning eastward into the encroaching darkness, I begin to dread this strange new journey into the lowlands, the damp of the jungle after midnight. What is Ricardo getting us into? He knows some strange places, that’s for sure, but I wish he were here with us as I will sure soon be far from my comfort zone, I can feel the evil spirits rising from the darkening forests.

“Man, that Tom Wolfe sure doesn’t like anywhere in the United States,” Joe says, after taking a big swig of agave. He hates everywhere he goes in America, at least in this book.”

“I know,” I reply. Am I starting to feel the same way, myself?

257 Chapter 24: La Barra de Sontecomapan

As we push toward the scarce dawn light just beginning to show, the old Blue Bird school bus with its destroyed shock absorbers decelerates and pulls in to the sleepy village of Catemaco, province of

Tuxtla, in the state of Veracruz de Ignacio de la Llave. The air is heavy, turbid and chilly with the damp of the lower tropics and the Gulf of Mexico. Catemaco is deserted. Nobody is outside yet or even awake it seems. Maybe it’s too early. The others who got off the bus with us quickly dissapear down the alleys. A berserk rooster attempts squawking his peculiar little whitewashed hamlet out of its slumber, but it's to no reward. Julieta explained that Catemaco is famous for brujos, sorcerers who are practitioners of a distinctive variety of local witchcraft. We are not spooked since the friendly old brujos in this part Mexico function more like medicine men than warewolves.

Still shuttered, we reach the Basilica del Carmen in the central plaza. There’s no obvious hotels, restaurants, nary a single tiendita to buy a newspaper or bottle of water anywhere around here. No sounds but for the frightening choir of birds, gearing up for their unreasonable and maddening diurnal cacophany. The cathedral door is locked. We look down from the decrepit square to the gray lagoon, and beyond, to the timber on the volcanic hills of Mono Blanco and Nixtamalapan. We could have flown to

Isla Mujeres and stayed at a four star hotel, I am thinking, instead of freezing our asses, hungry like this, dehydrated, trying to figure out what to do next.

“This is so cool,” Joe says.

We walk the few blocks down to the shore of the lagoon. A long row of dinghies and rowboats are pushed up in the silt, their red, green and blue paint peeling off, fishing nets hanging over weathered strips of wood. We skip pebbles for a long while. Then it's pitching peso coins against a curb up the hill.

As soon as the sun rises above the clouds in the eastern horizon and clears the fog, the locals begin to stir. Shutters and doors begin to open; buckets of water are poured on to the porches for the

258 daily mopping, the national tradition of Mexico throughout the dry season. Maybe there are zombies in

Catemaco, I ponder, extinguishing one of the joints I had brought.

Behind us down the hill, I notice two men unloading sacks of limes and rice from a pram.

“Hello gentlemen,” I begin, in my politest Spanish. “Can you kindly tell us how we can travel to La

Barra de Sontecomapan?” This is the coastal island accessible only by waterway through Los Tuxtlas

Biosphere Reserve. After they’ve loaded their rice and plantain cargo into a waiting pickup, we procure a ride on the pram for a few dollars in gringo money. Joe and I balanced in the bow; Paco and his son

Alejandro straddling the engine.

“This is going to be fun!” Joe shouts out. Joe, aka Marlin Perkins, is extremely interested in a tour of the Monkey Islands we are about to embark upon.

“Are you Blue Jay aficionados?” I ask. They are both wearing the hats of the Canadian franchise that is only four years old.

A gift from tourists, we are told. Paco pulls the starter and we motor gracefully by the modest, thatched habitations tucked away in washes of liana and vanilla vines. Alejandro begins the official part of the tour by explaining there are over five hundred species of birds, migratory and endemic, and more than a hundred species of bromeliads that grow in this forest. Do not swim in the fresh water river, we are warned, because of crocodiles lurking in the water. Paco points out medicinal plants that grow in the jungle used by the brujos in Catemaco. I’ve never seen or heard of most of them. Floating along the mouth of the stream at the eastern end of the laguna; past the allspice, mango and cypress trees, we enter a gentle dreamland of butterflies, dragonflies, and metallic green beetles crawling on the fallen timber. We spot in this order; an osprey (halieto), a turkey vulture (zopilote), a great blue heron (garza azul) and howler monkeys (araguatos) thrashing about at the top of a papaya tree. Houses on stilts.

Young laughing boys in bleached white shirts proudly show off the sandbar sharks they have caught, the

259 bright red blood still dripping from their gills. Joe is in Joseph heaven, so I entertain him with a bit of

Conrad I memorized in high school:

"Going up that river was like travelling back to the earliest beginnings of the world, when vegetation rioted on the earth and the big trees were kings. An empty stream, a great silence, an impenetrable forest...you lost your way on that river as you would in a desert, and butted all day long against shoals, trying to find the channel, till you thought yourself bewitched and cut off for ever from everything you had known once - somewhere - far away - in another existence perhaps."

“Very good, John!” Joe was always voracious reader, and like me, a failed child prodigy.

Past the nance, the sapote marmalade plums, and the bright orange incandescence of the poinciana, the stream opens to the wide estuary beyond Laguna Sontecomapan. An hour and a half after launching from the dock in Catemaco, tha salt water breaking through the muggy swamp air, we arrive at a single settlement on the shallows where an open air cinder block canteen covered with a corrugated tin roof sits next to a modest cabana on the jetty, with a weather worn Negra Modelo sign, three adult goats, four kids and two sows meandering around. Here is the end of the journey, and the green and blue ocean beyond. The end of the world, it seems.

I pay the three hundred peso fee, we are helped out of the boat, hands are shaken all around, and I pass Alejandro a generous tip as we bid goodbye to our river pilots.

“Fantastico!” Joe tells them. It was a sweet ride through the jungle, watching the howlers run and play.

Inside the little cantina it becomes apparent we can have a decent breakfast. It is there that we are fated to meet Yimmy, a mustached, cordial middle-aged man who is sitting at a picnic sized table with three adolescents. Jimmy is his real name, James officially, as he was born in Laredo, Texas we soon learn. Around La Barra, however, he is known as Yimmy. He is the local judge of the jurisdiction. Baseball

260 caps are popular here, his comes from Atlanta. T-shirts, plaid short sleeve shirts, gym shorts and sandals are the fashion statements of Sontecomapan.

He hears out my whole story, what I am doing in the capital, that I have become an honorary chilango, and how a couple of gringos like us made it through the estuary from Catemaco unscathed. Jimmy quickly determines that we’re trustable enough to be taken on a motorboat tour of his nearby three-acre marijuana plantation. Does every single judge in Mexico grow pot? I ask, telling him about Puerto Escondido and the sinsemilla I brought with us. He’s got an impressive bunch of seedlings, that’s for sure, but most of his fields have been harvested by this time of year in preparation for the planting before the rainy season. Joe is mesmerized. As for me, I’ve seen this before on more than a few hikes. Jimmy says that cruise ships dock from Canada and Russia during the high season, and the tourists who are launched to La Barra buy him out of most of his weed. He brags up a small fortune he makes between December and March. Jimmy doesn’t own a car, a big house, or any weapons. He has no fear of anything, or anyone way out here, and travels everywhere in his boat. Back in the shanty, we are fed scrambled egg and chorizo sandwiches with a side of fried plantains and cold Tecates. Jimmy starts a tab we can pay later when we are ready to depart.

“Where is the campground, Señor Juez?

“You are walking around in it already. It’s the entire path from here, la casa de Yimmy, the southernmost spit north all the way up to the end of the strand. Here, look at the map.”

Joe and I are soon hiking northward on the barrier island, enjoying a salty and cool breeze from the sea. The sun shines fully upon us and it feels great to be out of the pollution, the honking chaos of

261 Mexico City, the clinic and the subway and the altitude stress and investment of time it takes to get around from one end of the city to the other. Walking among the sea oats, we look for a place to pitch

Joe’s two man Eureka Timberline tent he is eager to use.

A suitable location sits a few yards above the beach into the coconut palms, two klicks north of

Yimmy’s langostino shack. After setting camp, Joe wants to go for a long run in his new Nikes. My crumbling, fetid, smog- and soot-blackened Sears tennis shoes are no match for his. But I oblige, and we go jogging, no easy task in the soft sand. So we decide to leave the shoes behind. Hundreds of pintsized wharf crabs dart in and out of their burrows, the whole strand is pock-marked with them. Hypnotized, we watch them scurrying in and out of their excavations. Hundreds and thousands of them. They might carry us off at night, into the watery grip of Nereus himself.

We overheat, running as far as this, so hard on the ankles such that a plunge in the Gulf becomes inevitable. The only trouble is that, farther and farther into the ocean, the water is not even deep enough to soak the mid shin, nary a kneecap of a shot legged man submerged. How can it be this shallow for such a long distance from the shore? We run beyond and further, in the hope that we'll at least get up to waist level but the so-called Gulf of Mexico doesn't seem to be deepening beyond the level of a kiddy-pool. We must be at least two hundred yards out by now. This is a beach, Ricardo? Lying down in the water I'm only getting my stomach wet. So different from the Pacific, where each trip out could be one’s last.

Swimming is impossible, and besides, the water is one hundred degrees at least, warmer than the air.

Some beach, indeed. Why did I let us get talked into this? We are the only humans around, and that begins to freak me out a little. Why didn’t we go to the Yucatan as I had recommended?

Inside the tent, we’ve played a tournament of backgammon games and the beer, warm, is almost finished. Maybe it’s the heat, the weed, or the sheer isolation of La Barra, Joe finishing the Wolfe, and I struggling to keep my concentration on Melville’s Confidence Man. Just then we hear bells, several

262 tinkling bells outside our tent. Cowbells. Startlingly, an unmistakable "Mooooo" is rowdily uttered outside the tent. I unzip and peek out beyond the open flap and Jesus H. Christ, there’s a bloody whole herd of cattle that are making their sluggish, deliberate and smelly way through our campsite with a horde of flies buzzing above each one. After tying our shoelaces and getting a better view outside, we notice that their keeper, walking just behind the stragglers, is just a little kid. He's wearing the traditional straw hat of Veracruz and is carrying a leather whip in his hand, prodding them forward. He nods a "buenas tardes," looks at our tent and then is on his calm and measured way, singing a love song to himself alongside the shallow beach. I counted thirty-seven fly-ridden, dusty head of cattle.

The beach near our tent is now littered with dung. Joe is delighted, snapping away with his

Olympus as he’s been doing. So far he's got an expansive running collection of Mexico’s many wild and domesticated animals, beginning with the pig in the pen near our complex in San Lorenzo. It’s all catching up to him, though; the bus ride, the run, the beer and smoke. Helpless to the heatg of the lower tropics, he falls dead asleep for the afternoon siesta.

Suffering the ennui of this terrible beach, I go outside to smoke another one and watch the crabs scuttling around the cow paddies. Wharf crabs by the thousands, with a few fiddlers mixed in. What would it feel like to have one’s consciousness working awareness into that primitive form of nervous system? What do they sense and feel? Are they capable of love, shame, grief? Walking with ten legs, with only eyestalks through which to navigate their dangerous world, what a life to live. I throw them a bit of tangerine; two of them begin a tug of war over it. A larger one invades the duel and a decapod melee results with all parties scrambling to opposite corners. The primordial days of the warm oceans must have been a pageant of paranoia. I feel the crustacean inside of myself, and through the collective unconscious, I feel the totality of the Devonian period, three hundred million years ago. What was it like to swim with the first marine arthropods? Pterygotus? Or to die in the furious, snapping jaws of

263 Xenacanthus? What would it feel like, to wear the slimy armor of Cephalapsis? Watch my ass, I think, that is the first lesson of the hungry Devonian. As I think of vertebrates devouring invertebrates, hunger returns, and alas, we’re out of snacks. So I leave Joe, the cattle wandering slowly southwards now on the beach, and head the same way, toward casa Yimmy.

"Where did you pitch your tienda de camping?" the judge suspiciously inquires.

"A couple kilometers north or so."

"No!" Yimmy shakes his head and wags his index finger back and forth in the traditional nationwide sign language for the negative. “No. Absolutely not. Go get your compañero and bring him down here in front of Yimmy's restaurante and set up your tienda de camping right here where I can watch over you, you’ll be safe here.”

I study the Judge carefully.

"Just do as I say, or else you'll be ripped off all the way down to your naked ass if you pass the night where you're tenting now." My naked, Devonian ass.

One learns to respect and heed the advice that is given by an elder such as Yimmy when flung in far corners of the world like this one. I trust this man and I have good instinct.

I place two orders, for langostinos, a large side of fried potatoes and four Tecates. Jimmy dunks the sea bugs, descendants of Pterygotus, in a peppered herbal broth, pulling the steaming colander out to drain after a few minutes of boiling. He packs the styrofoam carry out containers and beers in a brown paper grocery sack and scribbles a figure on our tab.

“Get your culos norteamericanos back here before dark.”

“Gracias, amigo.”

264 The sun is settling into a gentle red orb over the bay side of the island and the light is softened by and temperature mellowed by the time I return to the tent. Joe is awake, sitting in front of it, writing postcards by the last light of day.

"Dinner! You’re amazing!"

“Just useful,” I say, missing my girlfriends and civilization in general.

"Wow, what are these?" He asks as I pass him the plastic forks and knives.

“Langostinos.”

“Prawns?”

“More like crayfish, I think, or little lobsters. Here, cut this lime with your pocket knife.”

“Fabulous. And more beer!” Stuck with Tecate, not my favorite.

“Yimmy says for us not to camp way up here overnight.

“Why not?”

“He says it’s not safe. We’ll be robbed, or worse.”

Now Joe looks suddenly perplexed.

“He wants to keep an eye on us – outside his shanty.”

“Well, let’s eat and pack up then,” Joe says with a mouth stuffed with potato wedge. "Do you trust him? What if he turns out to be a homicidal maniac with an inclination toward cattle prods and handcuffs?" The John Wayne Gacy matter is apparently still haunting many folks in the Midwest, and throughout the world.

After dinner we pack the trash, the traveling backgammon board and its players carefully latched inside, the playing cards, novels and the weed tucked safely into my pack. The tent is easily and swiftly disassembled. That degenerate Ricardo, getting Joe interested in this place.

265 The evening is spent with a short walk staring into the Milky Way, and showing Joe how the constellations we had grown up with are compressed at this latitude, how one gets a small peek at the southern hemisphere. Bullshitting the rest of the night away with Jimmy and his guests by the light of a single incandescent bulb hanging from the ceiling of the cantina, the moths circling around it, Joe gets a good workout using his newly discovered ability to speak and understand Spanish. He needs my help but

I’m proud of him for trying so earnestly. Most Americans would be bellyaching in English about these accommodations and Joe’s reaching out to them passes not unappreciated.

Exhausted from our overnight jitney ride, and secure under the watchful eye of the patrón, the fair and impartial judge of Sontecomapan, and wrapped up in a blanket in one of Jimmy's hammocks, I close my eyes. In my dreams, I see a blinding, raging sun. And crabs scuttling about, hundreds of wharf crabs in the surf.

266 Chapter 25: Barefoot in Bugambilias

The first purples and greens of dawn are scarcely perceptible when I am awakened by the sound of giggling children outside the flap, an innocuous noise common enough everywhere and anywhere in

Mexico. So I fall asleep until the incoming rays of the sun heat the tent into an inferno, and being inside sweating like this becomes unbearable.

Upon unzipping the flap and looking about, I notice my shoes are missing. Strange, I distinctly remember taking them off before zipping up last night. More interesting is the fact that Joe's highbrow eighty-dollar pair of running Nikes have been left unmolested but my smog-smeared, grimy, flea-bitten ten dollar Sears sneakers are nowhere in sight.

Of course. My decomposing tennis shoes will easily blend into this part of the country, under the radar of the local constable. Joe's shoes would immediately be recognized as stolen. The poor bastard who made off with those gamy, putrid old dogs must have really needed them. I'll be making the first leg of the trip home barefoot and that’s that.

Inside the shanty, Yimmy has strong coffee brewing, fresh squeezed orange juice, sliced papaya and warm tortillas ready. He's scrambling eggs with chorizo, made in house. Aromatherapy.

"What happened to your shoes, Juanito?" I look at him with a “What the fuck do you think?” expression. I didn’t need to explain. Yimmy begins to laugh.

"Niños." Children, he says.

“Do you have any huaraches I can borrow?”

“Lo siento, I am sorry, I do not.”

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” are the first words I speak to Joseph when he wakes. My first objective is to find sandals. They won’t let you on the bus barefoot. Joe sets off for his morning run, leaving his new Nikes behind, insensitive to my having become a victim of a petty crime.

267 "So Yimmy, what does a guy like you do for fun way out in the middle of nowhere?" I ask, taking a bite of warm tortilla stuffed with eggs and sausage.

"Pues, I lived in the capital for five years, oye, I can't stand the big city, the smog, the traffic, es una pura locura."

"Sí, se sabe." It was beating me down as well. “How many girlfriends do you have in the jungle?” I ask.

"Muchas! Let me show you something." Yimmy leads me under an alcove into his living room whose centerpiece is an Admiral clock radio. He motions to a comfortable old sofa and brings my cup of the sugary turbid from his Westinghouse in the kitchen and goes to a back room where he retrives a gavel, judicial robe and plaque for me to admire. His robe looks just like the zippered bag I wore for graduation in Madison, it could have been made by the same cheap outfit, which I don’t share with him.

"What kind of cases do you hear?"

"Minor disputes; automobile and boating accidents, disagreements over property, business transactions, petty abuses and thefts, we settle our problems among ourselves and don't have to send too many people off to jail." Yimmy could send us both off to jail if he wanted, he lets us know with a cute grin on his face. I already did know that.

“Much shoe theft here en la barra?”

“No.”

"How often do you sit in trial?"

"Once every week, Monday. Nada más. There's not enough cases to hear, only two or three usually a week. Sometimes nothing, nada."

"Are you salaried then?"

"Of course." What a life this guy leads.

268 "How many tourists come here during the high season?"

"Muchos, muchos. Russo y Canadiense."

"No kidding, how come?"

Yimmy pantomimes stuffing a duffel bag and sucking hard on a joint.

“I see.” He will never be featured in the National Geographic, I fear, although he should be.

"What happens if they find out about your finca?" I ask.

"Who finds out?"

"The federales for example, or the DEA?"

"Bullshit, the federales, ja, ja, ja, my brother is a capitan in the federales of Tuxtla, nobody gives a shit as long as everyone benefits. The pinche gringo DEA has their price too, you think they don’t? Those mamones. They don't come around poking their nose into Sontecomapan."

“I hope not.”

“They’d never be seen again.” Fed to the sharks I imagine.

The judge says we can hitch a float to Catemaco with a couple of boys from the bay later in the afternoon. I ask him to make us reservations; he responds by only laughing. After Joe returns and we have had a breakfast, we spend the sunny morning reading in hammocks under the shade, puttering around with our host a little and taking a hike north and south along the beach. Upon our return to the harbor a lunch of rice, beans and red snapper sautéed in tomato sauce, green pepper and basil is ready, huachinango a la veracruzana. Two cold beers are opened. The entire bill for our stay in the campground including meals comes to a little over ten American dollars. Drinking Tecates, lying in the hammock; I finish The Confidence Man, not an easy read. It is speculated that Melville had gone mad while trying to complete his last and unfinished manuscript, and indeed its conclusion was incomprehensible. I doubt he was able to finish it properly; nevertheless the old tar was still good for a few exceptionally crafted

269 passages. On to John Kennedy O’Toole’s Confederacy of Dunces, a new bestseller that Joe brought to

share.

As the midafternoon languishes, a motorboat swings through the open channel of the bay to the ocean side of the strand, two young boys on board tugging a canoe by a hemp rope. We are packed up and are ready to go, unshaven and grimy with the sweat and salt of the tropics.

"Buy us a beer, eh?" Fito, the boy with a bulldog’s face requires. Fito is short for Adolfito, little

Adolph. Who gives their son a name like that in the postwar world?

“How old are you?” I ask, since he looks not a day past fourteen. One good looking over and I know trouble lies surely ahead. In the United States it would be a crime to procure alcoholic beverages for kids these young but Yimmy OK’s it, the fool. He'll have another one too, with Yimmy’s approval.

So, one beer stretches into three for the sixteen, and two for the fourteen year olds. I drop out of the ludicrous conversation with these teenagers and growing impatient, I insist we get rolling.

"Come back in December my friends, Yimmy will be waiting for you with the next harvest!"

"Goodbye Judge," I say, shaking his hand, pissed off that he summoned these goofs to take us back. Joe is not insensitive to my quiet trepidation.

The motor craft is pointed toward the Laguna de Sontecomapan with everything except for my shoes, into the direction of the setting sun, the high cumulonimbus wafting into a red and orange phosphorescence far away and high in the atmosphere. Speeding off across on the bay side of the island, into the wide lagoon it's cool enough now to have to wear the windbreaker.

"You will take us all the way to Catemaco?" I shout above the din of the fully revved motor.

"No, Telebachillerato, Bugambilias. You can catch a ride to San Andrés there.

270 “Where is Bugambillas?”

“It’s at the end of the Laguna de Sontecomapan. Colonia La Huerta. If you miss the bus tonight,

there are many camiones, you can pay one of the villagers a few hundred pesos and they'll drive you all the way to the terminal in San Andrés." Joe is clearly at his best in circumstances like this. I, to the contrary, have become a creature of comfort. It’s starting to get dark. Fito’s younger companion has remained speechless through the long ride.

Little had we realized how drunk the amateurs had become, these adolescents, until the accident happens. They were gunning way too fast into the estuary, navigating through the swamp, hard to see anything with their dim nine volt lantern. Upon having to execute an unexpected turn, thunk! The canoe gets snagged under a cyprus root, the rope is broken free and we are jerked abruptly forward with the interrupted inertia of the crash.

"Puta Madre!" All becomes swearing in the blackness, and after the curses; many frogs croaking.

The lamp was carried overboard and is lost in the marsh. Fito chokes the motor, but it doesn’t start.

We're drifting sideways. I look up and there is Leo, Virgo, the Milky Way, the oddly compressed spring constellations giving way to those of summer. Nothing impedes the starlight now; the moon unrisen, they are brilliant tonight, sparkling, multicolored and awesome.

The boys remove their trousers, T-shirts and sneakers, and jump out of the boat to recover the dented canoe. They’re having trouble restarting the engine and question if there’s enough gas left in the tank.

"Chingada Madre!" Fito shouts, giggling about the whole mess and I can almost forgive them for it since I managed stuff worse than this when I was their age, except for the fact that the rest of our lives now depend on these clowns. This is one time we’ve set ourselves up to be all too vulnerable. Is this a set-up, so they can rob us naked?

271 The boys push the motorboat through the dark bayou, the dented canoe retied behind us again.

It's shallow enough for them to walk through the creepy ooze and leeches, the water line just above their waist levels.

Joe, delighted, is having the evening of his life; he thinks this is the greatest, being pushed across

Styx by two bungling, apologetic, inebriated juveniles. They will soon be sorry for the chromomycosis they will likely contract by wading through this bog. In excessive detail, I comprehend the most obscure and horrible afflictions of mankind. Many are endemic right here.

It takes over an hour to finally see the green lights in the distance and tie up at the stilted house in the village of Bugambilias, bougainvillea-ville.

"You don't owe us anything since we fucked up," Fito says as the boys dry off with their trousers and put on their shoes and shirts. He is going to try to find us a little marijuana to make up for the inconvenience, second currency of the country.

"Nonsense," I say. I know these are poor kids and I feel a tinge of guilt for my paranoia, alone in the jungle with complete strangers.

"I will pay you the hundred pesos we agreed upon, you certainly deserve it." I plan on giving them a little extra. These are dumb, poor, but honest kids it seems.

There’s a cantina open in town, a game of billiards in progress, but the proprietor or his guests can’t change a one thousand peso bill. Fito gives me his impressive pearl and jade handled switchblade to hold as collateral while he goes on an errand with my money, around forty American dollars, looking for change.

He’s gone for a long stretch, so Joe and I count the stray dogs wandering in the street, we’re up to seven. But then quite abruptly, the clamorous generator that powers this godforsaken little outpost shuts down, the music stops and all else is conversation in complete darkness. The curfew, el toque de

272 queda. A single switch thrown and all is chaos. The street is completely invisible except for an occasional

vehicle driving away from the darkened little cantina; the stars are now hidden behind a blanket of

stratocumulus.

"Nuts Joe, let's get out of here. I don't know where the hell he went and if he'll ever be back."

A white Datsun truck drives slowly by, a male passenger rolls down the window, offering a lift to

San Andrés, exactly what we are waiting for. I hand the switchblade to the kid who has been hanging around with us, who I think is Alejandro, Fito’s companion, but it’s all blackness around the headlights. I tell him it belongs to Fito, and to please give it back to him, although I can't make out his face very well. I just want to get going with these folks, even if it’s bouncing in the back of a pickup. The anonymous kid is gone quickly with the knife, disappearing into the night. At that very instant we hear Fito from the darkness behind shouting, "Juan, José!" Our ride wants to get going. Fito could not find change, nor marijuana. I don't want to stiff these kids. The men in the Datsun don't have change either. We wave them onwards, thanking them for the offer and they drive off in a cloud of dust, leaving us standing there with Fito and the one unchangeable thousand peso bill we had left for the trip home.

"You still have my switchblade, right?" Fito asks, pointing his pen-light at the ground.

"I gave it to Alejandro since we were about to leave…then I heard you calling for us."

"Alejandro? No, I just saw him a moment ago. Where is my switchblade?"

"I could have sworn that was him, the boy I gave the knife. It was not Alejandro?"

"You gave mi navaja away to a stranger? Mi navaja, you are telling me that it’s gone…missing?"

Fito looks toward the ground, and buries his unusually large face in both of his hands.

"That was my brother in law's switchblade. He's going to kill me when he finds out what has just happened."

"I'm sorry Fito, I really am, I'll pay for a new one." Jesus Christ what had I done? Caused a lapse of

273 honor between relatives, the justice of the jungle would be quick to extract its vengeance.

"No, no. That one was a special knife to him, his oldest brother may his soul rest in heaven with

Jesucristo, his oldest brother gave it to him as a wedding present." So this is no ordinary switchblade, it's

also a family heirloom with immeasurable sentimental value and a young innocent will undoubtedly lose at least an ear, limb o\r head for having lost it. We will pay our dues for being involved. Now we were in a mess, a complete fucking mess. People die for less than this in many parts of the developed and developing world. And here I am, walking around barefoot in the chicken shit, catching hookworms.

Ricardo, you will burn in hell for this, you bastard.

There is no way out of Colonia Huerta at this time of night, everyone is gone except us. We're entirely at the mercy of Fito who keeps reminding me that his brother in law is going to bullwhip him because in a hurry I passed his prized possession along in the darkness to a completely dishonest but lucky stranger. If his brother in law is so much in love with his goddamn switchblade then why did he let this baboon Fito have it? There's no hotel, motel, inn or hostel, no more gasoline left tonight for the boat and the sacred object is gone, pocketed by some mystified kid who probably thought I was just being generous. And I may die deep in the jungle tonight, far from my shoes, for all of this.

"You can stay at my house," Fito says.

I have to think about this one. It's either that or pitch the tent in the road. Lightning flashes in the western sky, not all that far away. The air stirs.

"What do you think?" Thunder rumbles, and a few raindrops begin falling. Very large raindrops.

"Let's do it, thanks."

Fito leads us down a lonely gravel road through the jungle, the whole way cursing the lost switchblade. I am having trouble not stepping on sharp and dangerous pebbles and other small, invisibly harmful objects.

274 "When my brother in law finds out about the knife he's going to skin me alive." I presume this means he has other knives in his collection. I ran out of apologies and it was taking forever to get to his habitation. He’s going to kill us, I am thinking.

As we round a curve on the dirt road, we finally come into the orange light of the security lamp outside "Conasupo," the ubiquitous Mexican government-owned convenience store. Fito lives in the back of this little dugout. In the increasing thunderstorm, he unlocks the metal door and pulls it upwards to let us in.

His quarters are a glorified toilet with a cement floor and a sleeping arrangement that looks like it belongs more to Heidi than to this backwater huckster, earnestly it's very feminine with the wispy mosquito netting draped around the bedposts of the girly canopy bed. All he needs is the Tom Cruise poster. Fito throws us clean towels to dry our hair and backpacks and fetches a couple of canvas cots from the recess of the store, unfolding them for our sleeping bags. We sit around for the rest of the night, getting a chuckle from Fito's antique and mildewed Playboys, drinking beer from the shop that runs on its own generator.

We learn from our host that there isn’t much to do for a sixteen year-old in Bugambilias, there aren’t many single girls that stay here, most leave for work in Veracruz or beyond en el norte. He never finished high school but Conasupo is a steady job with benefits and Yimmy throws him odd jobs once in a while around the beach, shuttling tourists around. They didn’t have much out here but a better life than in the city, he says.

At midnight, Fito strips down to paisley boxer shorts and a muscle man T-shirt, partially revealing the elaborate and artistically painted tattoos of the crucifixion and The Virgin of Guadalupe on his chest.

The cots look and smell of jungle rot and fabric fungus. The cold cement floor is not an appealing alternative.

275 While Joe is at the sink brushing his teeth I watch Fito pull a Smith and Wesson .38 Revolver from a shaving kit, he watching me from the mirror. He loads and locks the cylinder and tucks it underneath

one of his pillows. Is he worried about us, or is this part of his bedtime ritual, sleeping in the back of a

Conasupo in the middle of the jungle? I surmise he will blow us both away in our sleep for having lost his switchblade. Or for our money, our stuff, Joe's shoes, and for losing the switchblade as well? At least he was going to do it with a gun and not a blade. If he shoots it might be clean and relatively painless. But maybe he doesn’t want to waste the bullets.

"Goodnight Joe, it was really nice knowing you. Thanks for coming down to visit."

"What are you talking about?"

"You'll know soon enough. Goodnight Fito."

"Goodnight." Before turning out the light, he utters a last curse about his brother in law who would unquestionably beat the living shit out of him tomorrow when he finds out about the knife.

From within an incomplete and tormented dream, I am awakened by a terrorizing bolt of lightning striking close by, sensing the vibrations of the thunder in my bare toes. I’m freezing in this torture-casket, this cholera-cot, even wrapped in a denim jacket inside of a sleeping bag. It's raining a frigid downpour and I wish this teenage miscreant would just get it over with and blow us both into the afterworld. Trying to sleep on this cot is worse than murder. My head aches and I need something besides a sickeningly sweet cola to drink.

Slipping into another delirious dream, I try desperately to fetch an infant who has fallen underwater and is lying on the bottom of a lake. I can see the baby clutching a small doll. I dive down deep, but I can’t reach them without running out of breath and having to surface. I have to rescue that

276 baby, for it will surely die. Horns are honking, the screeching of automobile brakes before a crash, all the trucks and buses. The traffic blurs into a hideous choir of wrinkled faces chanting a surreal ode. There's a ghastly old man playing a frightful dirge on an accordion. A siren begins to wail. The horns! The traffic!

The cacophony, what a racket!

It takes me a long while to come to my senses and realize that these sounds are not just part of a dream, they are real noise in the waking world. The jungle is teeming with birds. Each one of them, calling for a mate I suppose, making themselves be heard. This is not awakening to the melodious springtime songbirds of North Carolina during spring break, mind you. It is instead a terrifying noise, a planet overpopulated by impudent, menacing pterodons. Not a gentle arising. A deranged horde of raptors coming to wreak revenge, peacocks caught in an electric fan.

When the sun has risen behind the gray of the dissipating storm, I try to put on a happy face, after all, at least we're still alive, although feeling the pain. The patrón drives up in his three-wheeler, and with the cash box in his left hand, unlocks and raises the security door so we can buy snacks and orange juice. Twinkies and Little Debbie lookalikes for breakfast; like those one can find in any junk haven like

Conasupo.

Morning in this forgotten camp is painfully uneventful so Joe and I pass the time reading until it’s time to settle accounts with our host. While we're waiting for a ride, any ride to anyplace remotely civilized, we sit on the edge of the gravel road. Fito has a slingshot and he's trying to stone everything from kids on bikes to joggers, dogs, and howler monkeys up in the trees. If this is a typical day, Fito must spend at least one sixth of his life playing with his slingshot, a staggering two months out of each year.

Before eleven, after three hours of uninterrupted yest unsuccessful monkey-hunting practice, a

Ford pickup cruises by and our host flags down the driver.

"Thanks for giving us shelter in the storm my friend. Here’s something extra for your trouble." I

277 pass him another couple hundred pesos from the change he brought us. He can’t be making that much way out here.

Joe and I are soon on our way to San Andrés at last, sitting and bouncing in the back of the red truck, a middle aged couple sitting in the cab.

"While you were brushing your teeth he loaded a .38 and tucked it underneath his pillow."

"Really?"

"I thought he was pissed off enough to kill us because of the switchblade I gave away."

"Yeah John, you're a regular philanthropist, aren't you?"

A little past four o'clock in the afternoon we arrive in San Andrés Tuxtla, a village tucked neatly into rolling mounds of coffee trees where a white mist is hanging low between the cool, green surrounding hills. Only five thousand inhabitants live here but San Andrés seems like a metropolis after where we've just spent the last two nights. The first objective to do is to procure footwear. Cheap rubber sandals can be purchased a few blocks away from their zócalo in a petite zapatería. On our way back to the bus station, trying to get used to walking around in my new beachwear, we discover a marketplace still open. I show Joe how to bargain like a native and we splurge on painted ceramic plates, gifts for his brothers and parents and trinkets and tiles for the girls.

Now that I will not be mistaken for a barefooted beggar, we can wolf huevos rancheros, chorizo and coffee around the corner from the bus station, and be off on the overnight express, another Red

Arrow headed for Puebla. The old coach we board putters and coughs with a wrecked muffler. Hopefully this will be the last ride I experience on the Flecha Roja, ever. We have a 1,500 mL bottle of mescal on hand at least.

278 Chapter 26: La Honda

On the long dark highway to Puebla, the sleeping passengers are startled awake, everyone of us, by a rock that comes violently crashing through the window a few rows up and across from where we are

sitting. It sounded like a howitzer going off at first. The man sitting next to the broken window swears, holding a handkerchief to his bloody mouth and sweeping away the broken glass. He shouts out a robust

"Chingada madre!” for all of us to hear. I go and check him out and ask him if there’s anything I can do besides get him a dirty T shirt for his bleeding mouth.

The driver doesn't even stop to check out what happened, he keeps on at full throttle in fear I suppose of what might happen if he stops. That missle was not hurled for a noble purpose. Joe is thoroughly flummoxed.

“What happened?”

I tell him that a rock was thrown through the window. His confusion turns to a perplexed aspect.

“Highway robbers, maybe,” I suggest. This country is enigmatic enough in the daylight, in the darkness though it can indeed be frightening, especially to the newcomer. “They’re probably just kids, punks.”

“At this time before the sun is up?”

“Don’t let your guard slip down here,” I say to my puzzled looking friend. “The fear makes you feel alive, doesn’t it, the constant surprise?”

“Jesus.”

Dawn, Saturday May 2. The red arrow pulls into the eastern edge of the still quiet capital. Joe

279 wants nothing more than to watch the Kentucky Derby today, since his dad breeds racehorses in West

Virginia and Joe grew up shoveling stallion shit. Charlie and Betsy are the only friends we know who have a TV that is capable of tuning in the event. There’s also Anderson’s but Joe is running low on cash, he doesn’t want to sponge off me any more than he already has, so we take the subway to Insurgentes, walk a mile south and climb the five sets of fifteen steps to the top floor penthouse on Manzanillo. Our friends do not answer the door. Occasionally, I’ve hopped up on to, and over the roof from the fire escape at the end of the hallway to their patio below, a deep but not fatal fall, and can enter through the unlocked back door when they aren’t home. Since I’ve cut them numerous favors, both with legal and illegal medicines, they let me get away with this kind of behavior, they’ve let me use their house as a crash pad and we’ve become close and trusted friends.

Joe and I gain access to the rooftop and, with our backpacks securely strapped across our waists, jump the ten feet drop into their patio, laughing and rolling over as we fall down. Mission accomplished.

But they have locked their patio door, not typical for Charlie and Bets. Not so funny, actually.

Crap. We are now stuck inside their walled in patio, and the neighbors are not home either. I’m not enough of a locksmith to try to break in without wrecking their patio doors. One can get in a lot of trouble for this kind of stuff when it comes to landlords here. Shit on rye. Estupido de mierda.

“Sorry Joe.”

How do we get out of here, now?”

Good question. The drop from the patio to the ground below would require a hang glider to navigate. We can’t just go traipsing across all the other adjacent patios on the floor, I know only their immediate neighbors. Merde. I’m tired from the cramped ride, so I collapse in the hammock, swaying back and forth with my sandaled feet hanging outside of the mesh, trying to figure out what to do now.

“I don’t know. Maybe they went out of town for the weekend.”

280 As Joe paces back and forth experiencing and vocalizing an increasing urge to urinate, he makes

me aware of a middle aged woman in a black dress standing across from the other side of the neighbor’s

patio wall, her arms folded in front of her, scrutinizing us with a junkyard dog expression on her face.

“Buenos dias, señora,” I shout. She merely stares at us, not smiling. In the best Spanish that can

be mustered, I try to explain what has just happened, and why. Not sure what the word for Derby is in

Spanish. Stupid idiot Americans.

“Estamos atrapados!” Trapped, I shout out. No response.

“We are close friends of Charlie and Betsy!” I shout to her. “Cariños amigos!” She still has her hands folded. I fear she’s about to call the delegación. At times like these, I can start recalling vocabulary I hadn’t remembered since high school. What is the word for fire-escape?

“Estamos atascados señora! Ten piedad de nosotros!” We’re stuck I told her, have pity on us!”

After analyzing for an uncomfortable, awkward few minutes more, the sourest expression on her most annoyed, distrusting and wary face, she let her arms loose and signals to us.

“Vengan!” Come! We quickly hop the neighbor’s walls, north and then south and are let in and out of her tidy apartment into the corridor.

“Muchissimas gracias, señora!”

After repeated and profuse apologies and thanks, I am told that our friends are in Satelite for the day, at Ricardo’s mother’s house for a little fiesta. Luz has a television as well; and cable, so I call them from the public phone in front of the Sears where Joe is inside, finally able to relieve himself. I invite ourselves over and ask if it’s OK for Joe to watch the race. I apologize for having caused a stir with

Charlie’s neighbors, explaining how we had almost become trapped all day on his balcony.

281 “So, what did you think of Sontecomapan?” we are asked after a long taxi ride to Luz’s co-op in

Satellite.

Before I can point out my new sandals, and am able to tell Ricardo that I will never go anywhere else he recommends ever after, Joe answers his question.

“Increible! Muy rico! Muy muy rico!” Ricardo is pleased, and nods an ‘I told you so,’ in approval, looking at me.

“Muchos araguatos,” Joe replies to the delight of Luz, Ricky and my girlfriends. Howler monkeys.

“And John got his shoes stolen.”

As we settle into the art of doing nothing and relaxing, and as will happen in this country in the presence of unlimited alcoholic beverages, I inevitably become merrily toasted on rum, as do all of the guests and host. I have no interest in any horse race anywhere; and just as Joe has charmed everyone into watching it and the derby is about to begin, I bring Nereida in the kitchen to tell her about our exploits in Sontecomapan. She interrupts, holding on to my arm, and comes close to whisper in my ear.

“Let’s go make love.” She smiles and pinches my bicep. It’s been a while since we have been intimate. “C’mon Juanito, let’s go have a quickie.” That is a word I taught her, I hope.

“O.K.”

We sneak into the bathroom together, lock the door behind us and drop our jeans and underwear to the floor. The sea nymph, naked from the waist down, pulls me inside of her before I have a chance to ask her a single question.

“I don’t have any protection,” I say. I knew she went off the OCs recently.

“It’s alright.” Knowing better, we screw furiously, Nereida sitting on the edge of the sink, for several minutes until someone loudly knocks on the door.

“Is everything OK? Are you sick, Juanito?

282 We stop. Nereida answers.

“I’m not sick, un momentito, por favor!”

Pent-up with recent abstinence, we resume the rhythm until she digs her nails into my skin and I climax inside of her, holding her underneath her buns, hoping not to break the sink from its moorings.

Giving her a slow kiss, tasting the salt of her secretions under her earlobes, I dry her legs with Kleenex tissue and flush gthe commode.

“God, how I missed you,” I say. “Sleep with me tonight, please, all night.” She nods and gives me a hug. “Te quiero muchissima, mi princesa.”

“Welcome home, Juanito, I’m glad you’re back. Isn’t Sontecompan tan geniál?

“Come, we should join the others,” I say as we get back inside our own pants. I think someone wants to use the bathroom.”

Julieta seems peeved. I’ve learned to recognize the taut, flat line of her pursed lips when she is angry. How she avoids eye contact.

“Que tienes?” I ask her, but she is ignoring me.

Finally, she turns her head to look at me and asks, “Why is your friend such a…moralista?”

“What happened? Why do you say that?”

“Or is he only a racist?”

“No!”

“I asked him why he is not interested in making love with me, or for that matter Nereida and me.”

“He may have or be carrying herpes, remember, so don’t take it personally? What did he say to you?”

“He did not mention that he is infected with herpes. Instead, he believes that lesbian sex and

283 lovemaking involving more than two people is immoral.”

“I told you he is a puritan. He thinks oral sex is sinful, too,” I say, “and icky. But remember that he is engaged.”

“But screwing around with other women the same time. Something must be wrong with him already,” Julieta says. “He’s more interested in horses than us it seems, as far as I can tell. After we show him the Kahlo museum and buy him lunch, he has turned down an invitation to make love with either one of us. But you’re telling me it is because he is afraid he picked up a sexually transmitted disease, and now that makes more sense to me, so I will not judge him harshly, I will thank him for being concerned about spreading it.”

I ask Ricardo to drive Joe to San Lorenzo after it’s time to go.

“Where are you going to stay tonight?” Joe inquires.

“At Julie and Nereida’s apartment.”

“Oh, I see,” he says, looking a little hurt. “You know your mom and dad are worried about you, don’t you? They contacted me! The incident at O’Hare with your uncle made them really unhappy. Don’t you realize what this has done to them? Everyone is concerned about you, John, all of your friends.”

“We three have become a couple you realize,” I say. “I missed them, I’m sorry but it’s hard to find Nereida in town.”

“Don’t you think you’re going to be dumped in the end, or one of you will end up hurt? It’s not right what you’re doing, living outside of the norm and alienating your family. I pray for you, John.”

“What in the hell, pray for me? You sound like my mother. Why pray for me? What has happened to you, you have become some kind of born-again, have you? I’m being accused of sinning?”

“I have been undergoing somewhat of a moral and spiritual transformation.”

“Thanks to all my weed you’ve been smoking! Get over it and keep your transmogrifications to

284 yourself. I never had a real girlfriend before, really. Now, I wake up to at least one, if not two really sweet, smart, strong, caring and life-affirming girlfriends and I love both of them more than life. They love me, so at least they say inbetween the lines. How many marriages survive in the states, Joe? How many end in divorce? We live in a world that is not ruled by jealousy or possessiveness. It’s difficult for many, I realize, but monogamy is not for everyone either.”

“How do you handle them having affairs with other men?”

“It’s really not anyone’s and it surely isn’t everyone’s business. I’m happy, the happiest I’ve been in a very long time. So everyone go fuck-off and let me live my life the way I want for once if they’re my true friends. Life is short pal, really short and the clock is ticking, so don’t worry, please don’t be concerned about me, I don’t need anyone’s prayers but my own, OK?”

Ironically, a horse named “Pleasant Colony” had won the race, and I suggested it was some sort of omen to Joe.

“You’ve really changed, John.” Maybe I had, but only for the better, I assured.

“When are you coming back to the cabana?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. Come down and meet me at Sanborn’s at one, OK? And enjoy my bed.”

On the ride south to Coyoacán, promising the girls that Joe would be fine for a night alone with

Ricardo and would likely get a good meal out of it, I tell the shaggy dog story of Yimmy, starring Conasupo

Fito and the switchblade of his I gave away, to their captivated interest and amusement. Any story about naïve gringos struggling with the dangerous nuances of Mexico is extremely entertaining to them. “La

Honda,” the slingshot; the latest vocabulary I’ve learned in Mexico.

285 “Mix me one of your elixirs, Julieta. Un grande.”

“OK, I have a new ingredient ready.”

“A new ingredient, what? I’ve missed you both so much. What new ingredient?”

“A surprise and mystery experiment. I’ll tell you afterwards. You’re going to get the cuero tonight,

I’m afraid, first, amigo,” Julieta adds. “Because your rude friend had the gall to sexually frustrate me.”

“Sorry.”

“He’s so good-looking, what a sin he isn’t interested in Mexican women. I can understand if he

doesn’t want me, but also to turn down the opportunity to sleep with Nereida? What can possibly be his

problem if he’s not a complete homosexual then?”

“I think he’s trying to be a committed monogamist,” Nereida suggests, “and that’s honorable.” I

don’t remind them of his recent indiscretion in Los Angeles.

“It’s all right by me, I want you both for myself tonight. I miss our little routine,” I reply, thinking

of how fun it is to have both of them on top of me at once. Trying to be as polyamorous as I can, and not to covet these kittens, the truth is that I am indeed jealous of their exploits with other men. Nereida probably has one in every port; I know she has a crush on Tommy too, in Madison. Julieta has her lovers tucked away in nooks and crannies around the capital, past, present and likely future; athletes most of them. I don’t have any problems with all their girlfriends, but it does hurt a little when they lust after some other guy. I’m trying to deal with that. I want to be their only alpha. Realizing I have no control over them though, and righteously shouldn’t, how will I learn to let go of them? The mere thought of losing them is utterly unbearable. Whatever transpires in the future will be. Go with the flow or be dragged.

This time they will be mine, however, and tonight will have to be my eternity.

“Live every day as if it were your last,” a diabetologist I met at the Clinic advised, after we had a phbilosophical discussion of the inevitable. I did, I told him, and that’s precisely my problem these days.

286 Chapter 27: Cinco de Mayo

“How is it possible to satisfy two partners, simultaneously?” Joe asks, as we put an end to our avocados and Kraft Catalina dressing, and start into Sanborn’s enchiladas suissas for a late Sunday brunch. May the Third, we are soon approaching another important national holiday.

“Elixirs,” I reply.

“Elixirs? What?”

“Concoctions Julieta whips up. At first it was hard to get used to their taste, but…”

“What does she put in them?”

“Apple cider vinegar, honey, cayenne…a few kinds of little flowers and herbs.”

“That sounds really gross. What are they supposed to do?”

“Prolong stamina, and promote overall sound urogenital health.” Joe almost chokes on his forkful.

Upon finishing coughing and having a sip of Tehuacán he asks “and then what happens?”

“I watch them make out and undress each other.” Joe smiles.

“Perverted. You’re a voyeur. But please continue.”

“I only get involved when they’ve had a chance to work themselves up as much as they can, and only until I am invited to join in.”

“Obedience! You’re into submission!”

“Indeed I am. I’ll show you my red and sore spanked ass when we get home.”

“That’s OK,” Joe says, blushing and looking a little worried. “Concerned” is the adjective I will sure hear soon, over and over.

“They push me on my back, and pounce on top of me, facing each other. Our favorite position is for me to give one of them oral sex, as she’s straddling me, making out with the other, who is riding on

287 top, cowgirl.”

“You’re giving me way too much information, John. Cowgirl?”

“Vaquera. And then they switch.”

Joe seems like he is going to heave.

“That’s really…sick. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have your mouth so close to someone’s

rectum, and exchanging so many different kinds of body fluids at once.”

“We’re all bathed and clean, Joe.”

“I don’t know, it’s debauched. So abnormal. There’s something wrong with your brain, John.

You’re weird but I knew that the first day I moved into the dorms.”

“It’s fun, Joe. Much more fun than golfing and horse racing and camping on some shitty beach, more fun than Pleasant Colony has ever had in his whole life, I bet you.” Pleasant Colony, we did indeed have that happening.

“Karen misses you, why haven’t you bothered to write to her lately?”

This is true, I admit. I owe Karen a letter explaining my plans to relocate to Rio in just six weeks and inviting her to visit. This seems to upset Joe.

“You’re my favorite puritan, amigo.”

“I’m not a puritan.”

“I should say not. You’re been smoking all my weed, and have been drinking me and Ricky out of house and home. You’re just a sexual puritan.”

Joe had received some kind of bad news from home in his last phone conversation. He doesn’t want to talk about much but is needed back in Virginia as soon as can be. Stressed out by whatever it was, he is self-medicating beyond budget in the last few days.

“You offended Julieta, she was jilted that that you wouldn’t make love with her. She thinks

288 something’s wrong with you.”

“Sorry, the chemistry isn’t there.”

“She’s beautiful, and so athletic. How could you turn down the opportunity to make love with such a pretty, smart and dark Latina woman?”

“I don’t think sex should be sport, or entertainment.”

“Just for procreation?”

“How about for the one person whom you really love and make a commitment to?”

“So now that you may have HSV, you have become a monogamist. You’re worse than a refromed alcoholic or smoker!”

“I realize my mistake!”

“What if it’s more than one that you are in love with? Love is just between two, humans should mate for life like gibbons and black vultures?”

“Yes, I believe so, and so do most of the major religions of the world.”

“But you have been untrue to Lisa.” This is Joe’s sweetheart from middle school days.

“We’re not married.”

“Yet.” They are planning to wed this coming September. “Well, good thing your Johnson isn’t rotting off with HSV2 sores, at least not yet.”

“That was a wakeup call for me, John, and it should be for you as well. I am in the clear by this time, aren’t I?

“Maybe. It’s important to be careful, still. Keep fretting, that will get your gamma interferons up.”

“It seems like you’re being fairly careless. How do you protect yourself from catching something or getting them pregnant? Do you know everyone else your girlfriends are screwing? Do you trust them

289 that much?”

“More than I trust God herself, Joe. Nereida was buying oral contraceptive packs in Canada,

they’re not easily obtained here. That’s ironic because the first birth control pill was developed in Mexico

City by an American chemist in 1951, did you know that? He was messing around with Mexican yam steroids. His name was Carl Djerassi. She stopped taking them as she was worried about risk of blood clots. Julieta uses an I.U.D.

“Thanks for the medical history. That’s not what I asked, however. In three-way, or more-way relationships, one person ultimately gets hurt, don’t you think? Knowing you, I fear the worst.”

“You know this from experience? Established fact? How would I or you know?

“Which one do you love the most, what if you had to choose between the two, por ejemplo?”

I pause to ponder, slightly impressed with his increasing vocabulary.

“Hard to say. I was interested in Nereida only at first. When we first started dating I learned about her preferences and the nature of her relationship with Julieta and other women and men. I don’t know, Joe, both of them come as a pair, they’re inseparable friends and lovers to me now. The two have been close for many years, like sisters. Which one? They’re such a different experience. Nereida is usually quiet and reserved although alcohol and or marijuana turns that around quickly. She’s sensual, slow to be aroused, reluctant to bring things to an end, she’s is sweet and gentle and loving; a Toltec princess. I told you what her name means. Julieta is the dancer, the athlete, the tiger. She knows what she wants and how to stalk and hunt it down and savor the blood flowing down her lips. Julie gave me a head injury the first time making love. A head-banger! They both have such delicious little culos. Sometimes they rought me up a little but what a lucky boy I am.”

I pay the bill, Joe leaves the tip. Oblivious to the tourists at the adjacent table who apparently heard every word loudly and unashamedly spoken behind them, the two old Norteamericanos shoot me

290 a most disapproving scowl as we walk by. Eavesdroppers and prudes. I need to remember that some people can understand English here.

To walk off the heavy lunch we think it wise to hoof it all the way to the Zocalo. I thought it important that Joe pay tribute to a few notable sights that should be on his list before he returns to the states, perhaps never to return to this capital. A quick tour of the National Palace and then north to the

National Museum of Culture is planned so I can show him the famous eighty meter wide mural

Revolución panted in 1938 by the Oaxacan artist Rufino Tamayo.

Joe had seen the best of the Siqueiros and Rivera murals, thanks to Ricardo and our girlfriends.

Exposure to the greatest of the twentieth century Mexican muralists Tamayo and Orozco seems an appropriate last gesture of hospitality and tour-guiding for the afternoon. So, we stand in front of the arches and ornate red doors, looking up to the fresco depicting the rebellion of workers and peasants against the bourgeoisie. This is a violent and thought-provoking rendering, some upper class dude getting beaten down by a club-wielding campesino. Joe loves it and notes it might be well-suited for the capitol in Madison. Inside there are more than twelve million artifacts from all over the world on display.

“C’mon, let’s check out the museum.”

Joe’s last day in the capital is spent with the 3Ms; murals, markets and museums, more of them at least and on his own; infusing the most salient of all Mexican platters and casseroles, plazas, plaques and statues. At the end of his long and final day as tourist, my friend meets me at the clinic where I can show him what Trypanosoma cruzi and our other little monsters look like under the microscope, and a taste of what the end of the day in my workplace is like, following with the one last long ride up highway fifteen Joe might ever take.

“The history of this country reads like that of the Bible,” Ricardo asserts in San Lorenzo as he

291 gives my friend all three paperback volumes of Bartolomé de las Casas’ “History of the Indies.” Ricky and I

chipped in to buy these for Joseph. They’re untranslated so as to keep him going farther into Spanish studies.

Joe’s flying to Washington tomorrow morning; from one nation’s capital to another. He still seems strained about it, having to deal with whatever it is that has gone wrong at home that he doesn’t want to talk to me about. Nereida found him a good deal with Mexicana, he’ll get bumped up to first class if she still has any clout. Joe will be coming home with a few good stories to tell at least, and a bunch of crap he bought all over central Mexico.

On his last night in country, watching in trepidation, we see a sketch I have seen a few times played out in Michoacán and Oaxaca but this time it’s the patrón of the sole cantina in San Lorenzo being shaken down by the federales, an unexpected trio who show up just after closing time, right in front of the two Americans. Joe keeps his eyes on the trembling, apologetic proprietor who shows the proper papers and respect to the authorities.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here. We’ve stayed beyond closing time and now he’s in trouble and we’ll be next if we don’t vamoose.”

“What is going to happen to that fellow?” Joe asks as we walk quickly downhill on the wet pavement. The rainy season is gradually returning.

“Ah, he’ll pay them a small bribe and that’s that, did you notice the more than generous tip I left behind?”

“Or else what happens?”

“He gets the shit pounded out of him. Rubber hoses. Maybe killed, I doubt it, though. Not just for keeping his place open too long, that’s only a moderate fine.”

“Wow.”

292 “You don’t fool around with those monkeys, Joe. They are in control of this jungle.”

“That sucks.”

“It does. I should have been keeping an eye on the clock. They just want money, if you give them what they’re asking for, though, you survive.”

“How much are they asking for?”

“Depends on what they can pin on you, evidence. The owner? He’ll get off with just the thousand pesos I left him, I hope. If not, then not another thousand, certainly, no more. A successful parasite is one that doesn’t kill their hosts. The federales can’t price themselves out of business, remember where you are, amigo.” A thousand pesos is worth around forty bucks each in the states. “If it were you? Depends on how well you can speak and understand Spanish. Well, with the local cops that’s true, but all the federales I know speak the King’s English.“

Goodbyes are bid in front of Benito Juarez early Tuesday morning; we remind him of the native

Oaxacan with humble roots and wish him good luck back in Ronald Reagan’s America.

“Be careful, OK, brother?” He says, “where ever you end up.”

“You too, my good friend, give everyone a big hug from me and tell them to just chill.”

On the way back to work from the airport, I remember when, on a frozen and frosted January night in Madison, We saw an old man exiting our only massage parlor, as Karen, Joe and Lisa and I went cruising by.

Rolling down the passenger side window Joe barked, “You pervert! Does your wife know what you’ve just done?”

“Joe,” I said, sitting in the back seat, in a cloud of marijuana smoke, “his wife probably died years ago. Relax, Captain Standish!”

With my friend on his sktylit blue way to the District of Columbia and its B-grade movie star of a

293 president, and not distracted further, I can focus on wrapping up at the clinic in a few weeks. I need to

hold council with my nymphs and set a date to fly out of the country so we can begin our exciting new

life.

Cinco de Mayo is a minor national holiday meant to celebrate the defeat of the French who came

to collect their debt from Monsieur Juarez and, much to Europe’s surprise, were defeated in The Battle of

Puebla on this day in 1862. The French were considered to be the premiere army in the world until they were humiliated by General Ignacio Zaragoza Seguín, a real morale booster for the Mexicans. We celebrate in Nereida’s mother’s kitchen; she has concocted a delicious and hearty chicken and rice soup.

Our morale is good at baseline, and is boosted further by the national holiday and a day off. The tourist season is winding down, and Nereida has been at home more these days.

As the conversation continues at the table, my mind wanders to the more than seventeen thousand dollars in United States currency I have tucked away since October of last year. A large part of it has come from the trading of marijuana, with those in Mexico City who, too foolish to save themselves a fortune, either can’t speak adequate Spanish, or are too afraid to risk it on their own. This is remarkable, but I had a much superior product compared with the avergage taxista in the D.F. A small part has come from what Ricardo’s family has been able to return that I’ve invested in the trade but I’m not keeping books on that. This amount of cash, more I have ever had in my entire life, may not go long and far enough for the three of us, however, in Rio de Janeiro.

I have a remedy for that. I learned an interesting trick from two of my best customers working in the French embassy; Anne and Caroline. They recommend a technique they have perfected to double

294 one’s investment in a short period of time, guaranteed to yield one hundred percent return every time.

American Express can easily be defrauded, according to mes amis because they are imbéciles. They told me of a certain señor Angel who works in a certain AMEX’s branch in the Zona Rosa, who furnished of course with the customary mordida, might let a minor security measure lapse while one is purchasing traveler’s checks. Such a minor slip would go unnoticed, yet at a later time be exploited to double one’s holdings. The minutiae of the scheme are complex and many, including fabricating the disappearance of one’s belongings. But they say it has worked every time for them.

This is fraud indeed on a more than small scale. Yet American Express is also properly a fraud by itself. One infraction doesn’t negate another, mind you. I know exactly how I can make this work. Before we leave the country, I will double my investment; a sizeable one. Not the biggest fish, nor am I the strongest one swimming against the tide, but by providence I have adapted to change. This, Darwin teaches us, is the overriding principle of the origin of all species.

295 Chapter 28: Los Asaltabancos

Monday afternoon, May eighteenth. Closing the gate to the compound in San Lorenzo after

work, I am instantly greeted by my neighbor Marisol.

“The federales are here.”

“For what reason?” I ask, instantaneously earth shaken, shocked, fearing I’ve just had it.

“They’re looking for a gang of Guatemalan rebels robbing banks. They’ve been reported to be in the complex, or nearby.”

“Awesome.”

Across the courtyard and inside the open sliding glass door, I watch my trembling landlord tossing a nitroglycerine pill under his tongue, and after, both of his unsteady hands on the glass of water shaking, as if he’s having a seizure on top of his usual attack of angina. Unfortunately, I have just attracted the attention of the trio of federal police nearby, like a pack of mad dogs to an intruder, and am soon to be next on their list of those to be interrogated.

I tell them my name, showing them the Clinica Zapata ID and lying about where I’m staying. I don’t want them anywhere near our cabana. I was just up here to see mi amiga Marisol, just a friendly visit, señores. Way too much marijuana in the cabana, and not enough cash on hand to get me out of this kind of mischief. Or maybe too much cash hidden away. They press me on the details and exact address of my imagined habitation in the capital. Five hundred Manzanillo, Apt. 5G. This is Charlie’s address.

Across from Sears and El Jarocho, I add, unnecessarily. Who is my landlord? Good thing I knew this,

Charlie’s neighbor.

“Why are you asking me all these questions, what happened, que pasó?”

“Curiosity kills the cat,” replies the man with the AK-47, in quick and perfect English. He’s dressed like any other plumber in Cudahy, Wisconsin. I get where he’s coming from, so I keep calm and answer all

296 of the questions that he and his thuggy, sadistic buddies request, politely, using Usted and not the familiar second person. These guys never show any kind of badges, or identification, and might as well be felons, themselves. The Federal Judicial Police rule the land. Any average chilango could swiftly be transported to the Desierto de Los Leones and have a cap popped between his eyeballs, and nobody would ever find out what happened to him, his relatives might be afraid to even ask. With foreigners, they’re more judicious, but they could easily sweat it out of me in the reclusorio, forever after, if nothing else, just for kicks and giggles. They are the Klan; the Mafia and the Stasi, all rolled up into one.

Intimidating their countrymen recreationally from coast to coast, I am sure afraid of them, despite my impeccable Spanish.

Our extended interview is completed, names and addresses are written in a notepad, and the ugly, short, overstuffed brutes take up position waiting for the doomed asaltabancos, as if they’re all acting in a spaghetti western.

Marisol makes me a cup of tea as my nerves are a little shattered.

“Call Ricardo’s mother can you please? Keep an eye out for him coming up here, and turn him back for the time being if you see him before he runs into them, for Christ’s sake.”

I walk calmly down the road to the pesero stop, despite having just come close to having a stroke, and wait for the next Chevy to take me back into town. No common sense staying in Acopilco with the three Musketeers hanging around, hiding and wanting to start a shootout. My enormous appetite has suddenly vanished in a rush of adrenal steroids and catecholamines, I feel my gut churning in a storm thinking about what they’d find in our cabana if they happen to take a peek inside.

At the Constituyentes stop I call the girls, explain the dire situation in San Lorenzo and beg for asylum for a few days. It is granted as long as I stop at the market for a list of items on my way south so as to save them having to run an errand.

297 “We have simply got to get ourselves out of this godforsaken country,” I reaffirm while unpacking the chamomile, yams, corn, garlic, peanut oil and whole chicken I have been asked to procure. “This kind of bullshit is driving me crazy. Last week they were shaking down the cantina at closing time!”

I roll us a big joint, but the girls are not interested in smoking.

“Que tienes?” I ask Nereida. Don’t hold it inside. She seems upset.

Directing her glance upwards towards mine, she says softly, “My mother has just been diagnosed with lymphoma, she is very ill.”

A moment passes in silence while I watch the teardrops swell around her eyes, and overflow, smearing her shadow. I give her a long hug, and tasting her salty and cosmetic secretions, I lie a little and tell her, “Don’t worry; there are good treatments for these kinds of malignancies these days.” This is not yet exactly true. She has been admitted to an oncology unit at UNAM’s hospital nearby and is scheduled for surgery and standard induction chemotherapy.

“I want you to understand John that I cannot, and will not leave home when my mother needs me in her time of suffering and disability.” I look towards Julie, who averts her stare to the floor. Nereida walks into the bathroom to wash her face. When she returns to the kitchen, she says “I will not be relocating any time in the near future. I am sorry that I have ruined your plans, and have rained on your parade, as they say in your country.”

“What about the airline reservations we made and paid for? They’re not refundable, remember?”

“The airline reservations?” she asks, incredulously.

“Yes.”

“Go fuck the airline reservations!” Julie looks angry too, now; flashing me a disparaging scowl.

“Do you have a mother, John?” Tienes madre, o no?” Nereida asks.

298 “No, I do not think so. I do not believe that you even love your own mother, at all, do you?”

I don’t know how to answer. How mad they are when they call me by my English name, John.

“Tu no tienes madre.“ You don’t have a mother.

This is the worst curse one could hurl at any Mexican man, that he is of little mothering, or literally has had no mothering at all. Crawled out from underneath a rock, so to speak.

“Go ahead, and fly to Rio de Janeiro you selfish, greedy, carpet-bagging North American pig! I don’t care to be a part of your materialistic and insane fantasy about your expectations from the world anymore! Bastard! Can’t you understand where I am, what I am dealing with now?”

Where in the world did she learn that term, carpet-bagging? She’s crying again. What is wrong with me, where is my heart? Planning a bank robbery, I suppose.

I set the table and begin to peel a few garlic cloves so as to cook them a nice dinner while

Nereida talks nervously on the telephone with her sibling, and Julieta avoids me, completely. We eat, and

I wash and dry the dishes in an uncomfortable, prolonged silence. Nereida leaves to pay an evening visit at the hospital without saying goodbye.

Julieta tosses an uninflated air mattress on the kitchen floor, next to the tandem bowls of kitten food and water. Not far from the litter box. I get the message.

“Do you know the word ‘responsibility,’ Juan? Conoces la palabra responsabilidad?” She asks.

This is the second worst insult one can chuck to any honest, mature Mexican man.

“Yes, I do.”

“Show us, then, putito.”

299 Chapter 29: The Flower Carrier

“I’m sorry Nereida; please accept my sincere apology, I was thinking so selfishly, asking you to leave your mother behind at this time. That was wrong, it was very wrong of me. In an honest attempt to get us all to a better place, I made a big mistake in ignoring your family and their needs. I’m very sorry I behaved like that.” She scrutinizes my expression and body language, not averting her fix inside my eyes.

“And I am sorry I called you a selfish pig and a bastard. That was also wrong. I know you have a kind heart, as much as it is often masked by your unchecked materialism. Please be patient with me, and

I will do the same with you.” The sea nymph reaches out to take hold of both my hands across the round table at the café.

“I am so worried, Juanito.”

It’s sad to see her so down. Carla’s oncologist wasn’t sure where the malignancy had originated, but her high grade tumor had already metastasized into the lumen of her stomach, into her liver and beyond. The prognosis is not a heartening one. I suggest we take the short walk to the Parroquial Mayor de San Juan Bautista nearby, the Parish church of Saint John the Baptist. I’m not a religious person by anyone’s standard, but I propose we say a few prayers for Carla. That’s all I can think of at the moment, although I will ask Enrique tomorrow if she’s getting the best of care possible.

Cancer is our evil twin. This thought comes to me inside the muted, incensed darkness of the cathedral. A part of us that wants to live and survive as much as we do. Would there ever be anything strong enough to kill it? Prayers will not be enough for Carla, I fear, but here we are, a place for praying.

Entering their apartment, Augusto César Sandino looks down upon us disparagingly from his propaganda poster, as we have just made material and spiritual contributions to the Catholic Church, which have sourly displeased the inner communist of the volatile Centroamericano.

“I’m going to find you one of Rubén Dario to replace this guy,” I say. “This fellow was an unhinged

300 maniac, Nereida!” Maybe being inside the cathedral did this to me.

Augusto Nicolás Calderón Sandino, during his short lifetime of making trouble for landed

Nicaraguans and the United States Marine Corps who came to their rescue, honestly believed he was the

incarnation of God on earth, and his wife; the Virgin Mary. The “César” was his idea, rejecting the middle

names he was given, typical of the alarming narcissism that would mark his very brief adulthood.

“A gun-craving violent freak with predilections for bizarre and fanatic notions is not my idea of a national hero, amor. As a gentleman of letters, Rubén Dario, is a better fitted Nica in your refined living room, que no?” Julie is off at the orquestra with Ricardo this evening, and having a little time to ourselves, Nereida soon appears in an open white shirt without her panties. She knows this is a sure fire way of making me insane with horniness.

“C’mon, take your clothes off and let’s make love, I want you just for myself right now, Rubén

Dario. I need relief from all of this stress, mi estrés.”

I didn’t need persuading. I am in love with the creature, and would not leave even this dirty, forsaken hellhole behind without her. Or Julie. They had become my best and most trusted friends.

Genuine doves, they are. Palomitas. I promise her that I will not to go to Rio by myself, and to stay with them and help them.

Often times, lovemaking is a simple and mindless physical action, not unlike suffering unrelenting thirst, and then enjoying a drink of cool water; or being famished, to soon revel in the delightful banquet of skin on skin contact. A humble need; easily satisfied.

Rarely, however; lovemaking is a desperate act of biological survival. Reaching deep within our souls to their darkest inner labyrinths, we seize the parts of our ancestors that have remained intact over the long ages, the bits and pieces of our familial deoxyribonucleotides, the haplotypes we crave and miss the most; they overtake us with the heat of their hearts and their inexplicable passion for continuity and

301 genetic recombination. Expelling their roots in the most furious and foolish human exploit we can

perform, we sexual acrobats, as a favor perhaps committed in innocent stupidity yet unbeknownst

respect for our antecedents, convulsing, spit our seeds at one another so we may expire but also continue to live. Powerless against the tide of ancient eukaryotic reduplication, lovemaking becomes a ferocious attempt to tear that one ancestor we cherish the most from the long-ago rest, to hurl them onward, violently, towards eternity. In this way, this evening, Nereida and I make love as if it’s the last night of our lives. We make for a terrible, sweaty and bruising sexual struggle; pushing against one other forcefully to uproot, awaken and pull the ancestor forward in time. I feel her Toltec progenitors and my own terrible Celtic and Roman forebears rising and shaking from their tombs within. The sea nymph recreates her mother to live yet once again. After climax, weeping in each other’s arms, spent and exhausted, I plummet into a dreamless and black sleep.

Friday May 29, my last workday at the Clinic, financed at least by Bucky Badger at the University of Wisconsin, that is. My students, Lazaro and Navarro, and everyone in the staff yank me off the scope, drag me by the arm to the break room, blindfold me and make me wait on a stool.

Mementos to keep Clinica Zapata eternally near; a framed print of Diego Rivera’s “The Flower

Carrier.” Another; a poster of Emiliano Zapata and his staff that was artistically captured after the

Revolution, in 1912. A third is a white T-shirt that simply reads “PUTO” on the front. Cherub, literally, but more correctly translated, “faggot.” This gets a huge laugh from the crowd. Very funny. Puto had become my nickname at times, thanks to Ricardo as well as the folks at work. Sexual humor is quite the rage in

Mexico City these days, and there is no use trying to be politically correct here.

302 “Thank you, everyone,” I announce. “I shall miss all of you, severely.”

This is real sentiment. They had bothered to get all this stuff together for me, and I hadn’t a gift or thought in return, not for any of them. I apologize for this, my inconsiderate, North American ways.

“You brought us the microscope, at least.”

“A gift from Zeller,” I remind them, feeling low, the ungracious, numb, detached and unemotional Norteamericano. “Solamente un regalito.”

I did what I could, but it’s a losing battle. There’s no serious attempts made to address the innumerable public health difficulties that bring this many kids to the clinic. Is it poor sanitation?

Poverty? Deficiencies of education, nutrition or common sense that make life so difficult in this city? The people that count, those who might make a difference; they’re wiring their money out of Mexico as if in the Silver Age. It’s still a long siesta for them. The Spaniards raped this country, centuries ago; any attempt to help anyone out is pissing in the wind. Maybe Brazil isn’t any better, but at least there’s the beach, the ocean breeze and half-naked women lounging all about.

Before I leave Clinica Zapata for the last time, Navarro pulls me into his office, to plead.

“I’m flattered, jefe, I really am, but I have to move forward in my life.” Of course this was some bullshit phrase I thought of, off the cuff, so I could avoid having to deal with him in the real world when I needed an excuse to explain my departure. Mexicans can be so possessive.

“I can help you get into Medical School at UNAM, you’re crazy to let that opportunity slip through your fingers. How easy is it to get into medical school in the states? And you’re insane if you think you can live comfortably in Brazil, it’s dangerous and exasperating for anyone to live there, especially the

Brazilians.”

“And here is not dangerous? Muy peligroso, también?”

“Not nearly in comparison my friend. Listen, I can pay you a stipend, you should stay here and

303 work with us. Do we not mean anything to you, Juanito?”

“No Enrique, you all have meant very much to me.”

“Listen to my advice, then. The meaning of life is not about having a good time on the beach, playing volleyball all day long and chasing mujeres up and down from Copacabana to Ipanema, OK? Grow up and divorce your penis from your brain. One will fail before the other and you better hope it’s one rather than the otnher. Now it’s time to choose. It’s about using your talents and intelligence to help those who are suffering the most in this world.”

I had heard this one before, many times, from Eleanor Roosevelt on down.

“Fuck Brazil. They’ll rob you blind. I can pay you a decent living, instead.”

“Not enough to survive, Enrique.”

“If we can survive on our low salaries, then so can you, norteamericano!”

“Sorry, amigo.” He’s making me feel bad about leaving. Not sure I’ve ever felt that wanted in the workplace before.

“Keep my phone number always, Juan. You will need it someday. You will need my recommendation to get into medical school, wherever you go.”

“Goodbye and good luck, buena suerte, amigo.”

“Buena suerte, John.”

Walking though grimy, greasy, noisy Tacubaya and Tacuba; the smoke of the sweetbreads grilling over the charcoal, the horns honking, looking toward the haze to the east and down the valley, I feel my lusty ancestors speeding me ahead, like a sailing ship proud on the open ocean, a stiff wind blowing

304 behind. It feels wonderful not to have any rational plan to life; to take it one day at a time, play it all by

ear. I didn’t want to go to medical school, not at all. I just wanted to buy an International Herald Tribune,

attempt the Eugene Maleska New York Times crossword puzzle, and enjoy a few beers. No hacer nada, y

despues, descansar.

All this, while Carla lies in the hospital, complicated with pneumonia after another surgery. I hope I am being the best man possible for my friends during this time. We are planning to give Carla the meaningful service she deserves. But when the loose ends have been tied, I’m getting these girls out of here, for once and for all, as quickly as I can.

Selfishly, I am a contented but not complacent little boy. The felony I am poised to author will take some careful preparation and planning. No sense rushing it, and making any little or large mistake.

The full meaning of the word responsibility is ambiguous; debatable in my mind. The meaning of the word clever; however, is not.

A vulnerable man will be bribed. A trip will be undertaken. A lie will be told. My earnings shall then be multiplied, fruitfully. My breaking of the law will be a perfect and seamless criminal offence. It will double the twenty kilobucks I have already squirreled away, and it will buy us a year of free time in

Rio before we have to start behaving like serious adults again.

This crime is my dream, the orange creamsicle of my ambition, the fruition of my labor and risk- taking. It shall be the best of presents to be savored on Christmas morning, by the most gleeful little boy on the planet. My transgression will be the goose’s most golden, grandest egg. Strolling along the street, strangers are perturbed by my smile and laughter. Another stoned gringo they are likely thinking, not incorrectly.

With the Rivera print in my bag, I will play flower carrier to my nymphs. I detour to the Mercado

Jamaica to procure a bouquet of carnations, dianthus and asters for my steadfast, ardent lovers.

305 Chapter 30: Muy Amable

June eight. Making the international rounds; distributing a little over two kilos in the vacuum sealed packages of two, five, and ten grams. The seedless Oaxacan sinsie and Pulco Gold inside had become my trademark, all the way along the Zocalo, to Insurgentes, Coyoacán and beyond. Nothing but the best, and we’re totally metric these days. I stroll into the Zona Rosa, order an espresso, and wait until precisely fifteen minutes before closing time at the American Express office, next door.

There he is, the guy that mes amis told me would be working Mondays before closing time, sitting at one of the desks.

“Buenas tardes señor,” I begin. “I’d like to purchase fifteen thousand dollars in traveler’s checks.”

“Quince mil!” cries the rotund little man with the thin moustache, incredulously. He looks up at the clock on the wall. Seven forty-seven.

“It is my severance pay,” I lie. “I get paid only in cash, I’m sorry, lo siento.” This is true.

“I apologize señor, we will not have the time to undertake this transaction since the office is preparing to close in ten minutes.”

“Please, Angel?” I ask. “Sería tan amable, por favor?”

“How do you know my name?”

“I am a friend of Anne and Caroline,” I say, extending a handshake that is loaded with a couple of rolled thousand peso bills that Angel takes into his grip. We make eye contact; he looks a little nervous.

“I see.” He hesitates a little to study me more.

“Have a seat here, un momentito,” he says before walking behind the counter and entering the open and guarded vault.

The highest denomination they had on hand at the end of the day were one hundreds. I filled out the paperwork, and had my passport, working papers and clinic ID tag Xeroxed. They let me keep that,

306 the Zapatistas did, for another souvenir. Signing the checks slowly, I feigned a pained and sore right hand.

This will take a while, one by one, all one hundred and fifty of them, in fifteen packets.

The front door is locked by the armed guards. I continue to sign the checks, uno mas uno, with my steady and slow moving fingers. Angel is looking impatient.

“May I sign the rest of these next door at the café, señor Lopez?”

“No, I have to witness you signing every single one of them.”

“I understand. I’m sorry, I suffer from juvenile arthritis. It takes me such a long time.” He isn’t looking very sympathetic.

“You’ve been very kind and understanding. Muy amable. Please accept a token of my gratitude, a regalito for you and your family,” I whisper, producing a plain white envelope from my suit coat jacket and calmly placing it on his side of the desk.

“I forgot to show you these additional documents and credentials.”

Angel looks around, sees the others are busy and sneaks a peek inside the envelope and quickly pockets it.

“Wait just one minute. Un momentito, por favor, señor.”

I’m trying to relax and not seem uptight, unsure if he’s going to call the federales or fix my problem. I keep my gaze on the refreshing piña colada that the suntanned young woman, lying in a hammock on the beach in Zihuatanejo, cups between her hands in the life size standup. The Mexican government is really pushing that place. I stayed there once and thought it was totally boring.

“Very well señor Estrauss, buenas tardes.”

It works. Money talks and that’s pat. Thank you mes amis, Thank you Angel. The guards open the doors to let me out. I only signed one of the packets. With an additional five kilobucks in Mexican bills I set off to the Insurgentes Metro, to buy dollars with pesos at the currency exchange. The exchange rate is

307 going down day by day. I’ve been keeping an eye on it. This place is about to tank, I think, in many ways. I

congratulate myself for the fiscal soundness and bread-winning abilities my ancestors have handed down

the generations. I just need to get my girlfriends out of here. They’ll thank me for it someday.

“Why do you have to go to Acapulco?”

I look at my beloved Tolteca as, sleeves rolled up and apron tied tight, I scour the casserole pans.

“It’s part of the plan.”

“A plan for what?”

“To ensure that the three of us will have enough resources to live comfortably in Brazil.”

“You are insane,” Nereida says. “What kind of laws are you planning to break now?”

Neither does Julieta approve of my mission, step two of the scheme.

“You are going to end up in prison. We don’t want you to go to do whatever your plan requires in

Acapulco.”

The Rubén Dario poster I ordered from León, Nicaragua arrived and Jewels is busy reframing and replacing Sandino. Nereida is on extended family leave from Mexicana; the tourist season coming to an end and she’d be scrambling for flights otherwise. Julie’s last show ended in May, so we’ve been spending a lot of time together; I’ve been trying to lessen their burdens and be a responsible and cleanly and edifying housemate; reading Gabriel García Márquez aloud to them so they can help me with the

Spanish I have yet to learn.

The relative inactivity and my improving culinary skills of the last few weeks have put a little more weight on the three of us. I watch them pulling hard to button their jeans as well. I’m enjoying the

308 extra meat on their bones, especially how it’s filling out the curves in their cute little Mexican culitos.

How sweet it will be to have more space than this tiny little departamento.

“Am I the only one who drinks alcohol anymore in this casita?” These girls aren’t imbibing anymore. Or smoking. Not even coffee that they usually love. What in the hell has gotten into them?

“We need you here, Juanito. I need you to be nearby, in case of any emergencies my mother may have.”

“She’s doing amazingly well, amor, and I will only be gone two nights.” This is true. Carla’s first round of systemic chemotherapy had shrunken her metastases; she was tolerating the drugs very well and had even regained a decent appetite. Nereida thinks this is because we are praying for her regularly at the altar of John the Baptist.

“I have a bad feeling about your plans. Please do not go to Acapulco.”

"Listen, escuchame, my stay is legally coming to an end in Mexico, I don’t want to go back to gthe states and I need to get the two of you out of here, with me. This is necesario! Imperative.”

I have acquired a personal saint for recent supplication. He is sixth century Leonard, who lived under the rule of fellow convert Clovis, first King of the Franks. The King promised Deacon Leonard that any worthy pagan prisoner converted to Christianity would be released. Leonard, given the regal right to liberate, is by this means considered patron of criminals.

Thanks to Ricardo’s auto thieving housemates as well as numerous other Mexicans and Southern

Europeans, I have learned that one can break various laws and still remain devoutly Roman Catholic. Had

I succumbed to the vast superstition that underlies this entire wild and crazy nation? I am lighting candles to fucking Patron Saints for crying out loud. Praying to them for protection. Maybe I am smoking too much of my own stash? Perhaps I should sober like the girls.

I walk alone in the tapering rain to pick up the list of necessities from the tiendas that will sustain

309 our life through the weekend, including the Times Herald Trib. But first, inside the somber and quiet

recesses of Saint John, I leave the five donations and light the candles, uno mas uno. One for Carla to

Peregrine Laziozi, patron of cancer patients; the next, to Lennie from me. The third and fourth; my prayers for Nereida and Julieta and the last to Saint Nicolas, patron of repentant thieves.

310 Chapter 31 La Trampa

This is the least charming port in all of Mexico. The inauguration of the wet season brings a purple and dark blue gloom to Acapulco; repeating wisps of low clouds hide the tops of the mountains at dawn, extending into the Pacific, shrouding the division between sea and sky. This is not high season, there aren’t many cruise liners in the harbor and it was easy to find a room at the Ritz for a decent rate over the weekend. The airfare cost very little. I would need nothing more from this shithole than its excuse as the most crime infested tourist trap in the country. I’m not here, after all, to get a suntan. The key to success will be patience, let the caper unfold naturally, allow the sin to commit itself.

I finish the crossword in the International Herald by filling in the last three blanks: “Brought forth a lamb” - EANED. “Odd people or animals” - SPLACKNUCKS. “Subject to endless prattle” – GARRULOUS.

Eugene Maleska is to be highly credited for dredging such a Byzantine glossary from the most peculiar crypts of the English language. When, and under what pretext might one insert such words into conversation? In silent contemplation of the anastomosis of Saxon and Latin that produced our paradoxical tongue, I prolong a breakfast of bananas, pineapple, papaya and coffee. English is composed of two major minds; Spanish in kind, with its incorporated Arabic. The sun slowly intensifies and the clouds burn away, the sweet coffee now inducing sweat. Crime is a matter of degree. The villainy I promise is nothing beyond a simple business transaction. This will hurt no one, it will be a simple, victimless fraud, I keep reassuring myself.

Acapulco has its own smell, like nowhere else in the tropics; a half sweet, half fetid rot, a mix of nectar, blossom and sour garbage charges my schnozzle, strolling up the gully on Constituyentes, above and away from the highbrow resorts on the water. Each of its numerous barrios is much like this one; a long stretch of murky puddles and uninterrupted graffiti. A laundry; a driving school, brakes here, tires there, windshields across the street, Para Todos Autos. The legless man is propped inside a wheelchair in

311 front of the Seventh Day Adventist church, begging politely for change. I leave him a modest five hundred pesos, for the good luck of the both of us. And there is Loncheria Janie with its red lettered vertical Coca

Cola signature spanning the white stucco wall on the side of the entrance, where I am likely to run into

Ignacio or Nacho as everyone calls him. I’ve done business with him before, he has earned my trust.

I order a scrambled egg and chorizo sandwich on the patio, with a Chaparrita Tamarindo.

Swatting away two persistent flies, I ask the waiter if Nacho can be contacted.

“Quien inquiere?”

“Juan, del D.F., soy amigo de McPherson.” During my lonch, I notice two of his enforcers in muscle shirts looking me over. One of them, number 69, stares me down and then makes a phone call.

When I pay the bill, the cashier says “Nacho is not here at the moment, but he asks that you leave a telephone number and the name of the hotel where you can be reached.”

The ringing wakes me from a late afternoon siesta.

“Meet me in the bar, I’m here at your hotel.”

“OK.”

I watch the raindrops splash in the pool from the sliding glass door as I get dressed and slip on my loafers.

Nacho, in Ray-Bans, hair slicked back, wearing a clean and pressed light blue Guayabera shakes my hand.

“Dos Bohemias por favor.”

“Welcome back to Acapulco my friend, how can I help you, Juanito?”

“I’m not here for much weed this time, Nacho, although I’ll buy a half K. “

312 “I can get you a better price if you can take two.”

“I have another business proposition for you, instead.” I know what his special talent is: international money laundering, he has secure and tight connections.

“Una propuesta? Dígame.”

“Listen,” I begin in a voice not to be overheard, “Oiga, I have fifteen thousand dollars in unsigned

American Express traveler’s checks. “

“So…what?”

“I’m going to claim that they’ve been stolen, so I can get them all replaced, or doubled shall we

say, doblados.”

“I know this racket. Where did you get the cheques?”

“Let’s just say that I was able to get this nice chap in D.F. to let me have them without signing.

“Oh, so you’ve been working with those French chicks, have you? McPherson’s friends? What do you want from me?”

“I am wondering if you or your friends can use the perdidos in any way?”

“Los originales. You want me to buy them from you? Stolen checks? Ja-ja, how much are you expecting to earn from those?”

“Sixty percent, in American cash. Valen mucho.”

“They’re not worth mierda my friend. It will take a long time for me to be able to make anything out of those, they’ll have to be disseminated around the world to return any value. One must minimize risk.”

“A risk worth taking?”

Nacho shakes his finger. He asks me if I want cocaine. No use for coca, sorry.

“I’ll give you ten percent on your unsigned checks. In Mexican pesos, or marijuana. And even

313 then I’ll have to find many pendejos to take them off my hands.”

“Diez porciento? Nada mas?”

“What do you think I can make out of traveler’s checks that are reported as stolen? That information travels fast around the globe these days, you know?”

“C’mon Nacho, you are a talented money changer, legal or otherwise. You mean you’re telling me you can’t launder this like you do the rest? You can make at least seventy-five percent, maybe more?

They’re unsigned, remember. You can use them yourself.”

“Bullshit. No mames. Twenty percent, maximum.”

You had to bargain for every goddamn thing here, right and left, legal or not, it is the national way of life. They expect it from you. I was ready to sit him out.

“Oiga, I want sixty, seiciento porciento, that’s a gift! Otherwise I’ll hold on to them and use them myself, outside of the country of course. I’m in no hurry. You wait and think about it. Ask your friends all around. I’ll be here tonight and tomorrow night as well. I’m not leaving until Sunday afternoon.“

“Twenty-five porciento, nada más.”

Back in the room, after I’ve scored the half kilo of the world renowned Acapulco gold from

Nacho’s Mercedes, I bid him farewell and good luck.

“Think about it, and let me know. In the meantime, I’ll be shopping around, maybe spending some of them here and there, nowhere where your friends have businesses. But thanks for the offer. I’m going to stay firm at sixty, nine thousand in American dollars. And I’ll ask your help finding me an official who we can pay off to fill out a false police report. Think about it, please, my friend. One way or another,

I’ll find a way to get a decent return on them.”

“Es una locura, foolishness!” he says, shaking my hand again. “Be careful, Juanito.”

Walk away from a deal; they’ll come back to you. Just like Toluca. It’s part of the bartering

314 process enshrined in the singular Mesoamerican blood. Just a matter of lying low, taking one’s time. Ser tranquilo. I have a lot of nerve, I realize, asking for the cop as well, but that has to be part of the deal to make it reliable. You don’t have to pay more than fifty bucks to convince someone to undertake these kinds of shenanigans, that’s all. A little cash, or wool as they say, goes a long way en Mexico Lindo.

Not much to do now but wait, and no hacer nada. Read the newspaper. One hundred died while rioting in Tehran after the dismissal of Iran's President Banisadr. Arrests and executions of opposition members ordered by the Ayatollah Khomeini and the Islamic Revolutionary Guards. Alexander Haig and the United States, for the first time, selling arms to the Chinese.

After a late dinner of ceviche and prawns, a walk through the Papagayo amusement park near the hotel after the evening rainstorm ended, and a phone call to the girls, I fall asleep having reached a little more than halfway through the middle, so far generally unmoved by John Updike’s Rabbit is Rich.

Saturday morning, the phone wakes me early. Nacho. He has a friend who is offering six thousand American bucks for the checks. One hour from now. Nada mas, nothing more.

“Does he know I will report them as being stolen as part of a robbery?”

“Si.”

“Can he help me get a police report?”

“Maybe.”

“You’ll have to promise. Part of the deal, or no deal.”

“That will cost you a few extra hundred dollars my friend.”

“Fifty,” I reply, sure that we’re in for another long round of squabbling.

315 Forty percent is not a bad return for a year in the stock market. Many make less and think they’ve done marvelously. I’ll have turned it around in a week. Six thousand extra bucks for me and my sweethearts. I was hoping for more, but they will take the heat better than I could, trying to pass the bad checks on my own. Am I being greedy? Perhaps. This could buy some extra time in Rio. Every little bit is going to help, and I am proud to be the provider. El sostentador. Do I, a Roman Catholic, feel sinful for my plan to defraud American Express of this sum? I do not. As creditors, they were the leeches sucking the blood of the little fish like me in Mexico and all around the planet, every single one of us. The game was won not by the biggest, but by the cleverest minnow. Or am I the remora or pilot fish, swimming in the wake of the great sharks? They won’t miss the fifteen kilobucks, it would be a mere drop in their colossal bucket of moolah, worldwide.

My offer of a few hundred bucks inflates into five at the Policia Ministerial, on the other side of the Parque, with Nacho’s friend’s connection, shining me on for more and more cash, spending the afternoon of Saturday June twenty with the accommodating but expensive local official, who, in front of the oscillating fan, fills out the false police report on his 1960s model Royal typewriter, stating that I was pickpocketed by a group of youths in the Papagayo. All fifteen grand of traveler’s checks in my

(imaginary) billfold lifted in a split second, just like plucking a daisy from its stem.

My passport, kept safely with the hotel consierge during the time of theft, is inspected, the real wallet squirreled away in a tricky part of my backpack, secure in the room. Funcionario Rodriguez typed up a convincing report, and he should have, for five crisp Benjamin Franklins. I had written a description of the suspects for him whom I memorized in the crypts of my vivid yet accurate and precise imagination, like lines from a play.

‘So, you’re swindling American Express, are you?” the cop asks. I shake my head. He laughs.

“They deserve it, those pendejos,”he says.

316 Convincing American Express of my carelessness proves another difficult challenge. I pretend to not know too much Spanish under the Krieg lights.

“This seems like a highly unlikely circumstance,” the investigator remarks. “Let me see if I am understanding this correctly. You had all the fifteen thousand dollars of checks with you at once? Inside the Papagayo? We never advise carrying that total amount at one time, señor Estrauss. Especially in a park like that.”

“Well, I suppose that is what traveler’s checks are for,” I calmly replied.

Answering the questions I knew they would ask, filling out and signing three different forms, one looking intimidatingly legal, I describe the imaginary assailants in as much detail as I can, the gang of three youngsters that surrounded me in the park, their baseball hats turned around, their T-shirt slogans, sneakers, ubiquitous Mexican kids of course, pretending to ask me a question but in the process of lifting all of my cheques.

Fingerprints and more signatures. A photograph. Waiting. Reading about life through the eyes of

Updike’s terminally conflicted WASP Harry Angstrom. Waiting longer. The same cutout of the woman in the hammock in Zihuatanejo.

At last the checks are replaced and my passport is returned. Bingo. The deal is sealed and I’m happily signing all the new packets, one by one, uno mas uno, this time around. Not as difficult as I thought. I have an honest face and can lie like a son of a gun. I should have been a Hollywood actor, like our president back in Gringolandia.

“Muchissimas gracias, señora,” I say before receiving the last lingering and highly suspicious glance from the inspectora. She’s recording every minor detail of my appearance, her skepticism is palpable.

This is not a crime, in Christian mores. Deed done, mission accomplished, I could now set about

317 town, fifty five hundred bucks ahead of the game. It could have been more, but it’s going to buy time for the three of us. This is what money is for.

What is El Amigo Miguel offering for a dinner special tonight? I wonder. Not a worry in my mind.

318 Chapter 32: Pedo

I thought I could handle the expensive boutique tequila at Amigo Miguel’s, but after extinguishing the joint because the latest lot number of Gold has proven to be too much for even me, I realize that I’m on the other side of sweet Mary’s line. Always better to get high before drinking than afterwards. Why hadn’t I, on plentiful occasions, learned this lesson before? Fucking cactus.

Pedo. That is what they call you when you’re this wasted. A fart, literally. Indeed I am one far gone, mesquite-grilled, spinach and artichoke stuffed fart. If there is one kind of pot that can kill, it’s the traditional Gold cured by the experts. I try my best not to look idiotic.

“Someone was here, inquiring about you,” mentions the desk clerk, handing me the key.

“Quien?” I ask with undisguisable concern.

“Una inspectadora de American Express.”

“Yes, I have been pickpocketed.” I stop to catch my breath. And to think quickly.

“I will ask at this time to check out since I must leave a day early.”

“But where will you go at this hour, señor?”

I pay the bar tab and phone bill, mumbling a flimsy excuse for the early checkout, and lie as to where I will stay. He gets a considerable tip, too, I’m hoping it is more than the one AMEX left him.

My passport is returned, and I make an exit, wishing him a good night.

Mierda. This does not portend well. Why were they looking for me? Sucker is probably calling the inspectadora right at this moment. Am I just paranoid because of the weed? Better to get the hell out of here, discretely. Tuck the shaving kit and Updike into the center pouch of the backpack. Make sure the new traveler’s checks and cash are where they’re supposed to be; deeply hidden in the recessed pocket.

Good. Weed; check. Zip the passport and wallet in the pouch. Leave a generous tip for the housekeeping staff. The last dirty, hand-worn pesos I had. Glad to be leaving them behind. Pray to Saint Leonard of

319 Limoges. Double check bathroom and around and under bed. Turn off light. Peep out closed curtains.

Quietly slip into the darkness.

Where am I going? Not any flights to the D.F. at this late hour. Or for that matter, anywhere. Too

much heat on me now to stay safely overnight at the airport. Another hotel? Too hot for that, perhaps as

well. My name is likely passed around town with the promise of a reward. Thoroughly stoned, baked to a

crisp, the cannabis isn’t helping me calm down. But this time, the paranoia is for real. They’re out to find

me, they are. Sheer dread compels me to steal into the darkness of the night, keep my head low. Have to

be the clever dolphin now. Sharks near.

Think, quick, think fast, mind, I repeat to myself. But my brain, drained of the glucose it needs to carry on, hypoglycemic from acute alcohol intoxication, addled with artisanal tequila and arguably the most powerful marijuana on our beautiful blue planet, tells my legs to take us inside the vast Papagayo.

Be drawn into the blackness. Find the most unlit, secluded campsite in the sprawling green park.

A comfortable piece of lawn where we can lay the sleeping bag in ensconced privacy. We, meaning legs, brain and the rest. Disconnected body parts in a dark night, soldiers eager to be reunited in the morning, when Captain Liver has completed his graveyard overtime watch.

The pen light shows us where to hide. A triangle of three coconut palms with a soft, ferny underbrush betwixt. Perfecto. Out of the range of the lamps on the foot path. Way too messed up to string the hammock, or to even try to open and fumble with the inside of the pack. Was it possible to feel this way from marijuana and alcohol, alone? Nacho probably laces his weed with ketamine; the bastard.

Or was it heroin?

Just the lightweighter, my trusty sleeping bag. That’s all I will need tonight. Sleep, clear the brain and get the hell out of Acapulco, sober and calm, not the trembling mess I have become, on the bus, not the plane. Unroll the bag and spread it flat. Muggy here. A few bugs. I’ll survive if I can simply lie down

320 without falling off of the surface of the earth. Flick off the deck shoes and strip down to my speedo, this

is the best way to cool down. Rainy season makes for a sultry night at sea level in the tropics.

Lying on my back, looking up into the starless pitch, with the backpack securely tied to my wrist, I experience the sudden and unpleasant sensation of being strapped into a carnival ride. Hello my old friend, acetaldehyde. I should have known the coffee makes it difficult to metabolize you. This is the

Wisconsin State Fair ride where one is spun backwards, the axis of rotation transecting your flanks.

Rotating in reverse, again and over again, like a monkey in a centrifuge. Stop. Please end this cruel and nauseating ride, kind ring master. Head continues to roll one hundred and eighty degrees into the plane of the ground, and again upright. I pray not another. Sucked rearward, I spin faster and faster, the brain rolled into the ground with the gravitational pull of Jupiter. Not having the energy to retch, I let go and give way to the wreckage spinning out of control, like a doomed airplane about to hit the ground. Trailing smoke, I yaw and plummet into the abyss.

In my dreams I am visited by puffy-faced, laughing, ugly Conquistadors, chewing the red flesh held in their overfed hands; spitting out the sinew. Saint Leonard, and a slow parade of friars walking up a foggy hill. A ringing bell. A storm. Thunder. Severed human limbs and heads tumbling down the side of the ancient stone temple; fresh human blood leaks and flows from them, dripping and clotting on its way downward. Bats and owls flying in wide arcs. Mercy.

Diving into the water to retrieve the drowning baby. Finding him and bringing him up to air, I sit on the shore by his side. He transfigures; and becomes me. And I, outside of body, looking at myself morph into a baby tiger. The tiger turns back into a human baby. And the infant becomes a sardine, squirming and twitching on the shore.

321 Chapter 33 La Mochila

Nightmares of conquistadors, hushed friars in rhythmic procession, human infants turning into animals and back again, the tormented visions slowly subside. The wee hours of the morning give way to a more comforting rest and eventually, a peaceful dawn. And, as upon so many other sunrises in Mexico, the first threads of daylight bring the sound of children’s laughter all around my shuttered eyes. I had gotten as used to it and them as I had the first singing of the birds. They were already awakened and prowling about, the millions of children of Mexico. On a Sunday morning in the largest park of a big port, this does not come as a surprise or alarm. I drift in and out of sleep, not knowing, or caring if they’re the elves of my dream, or are real, corporeal creatures. Until one of them prods me in the ribs with a willow branch. There’s at least six; none of them seem older than third-graders. I sit up abruptly and curse them to go away. This makes them break out in uproarious laughter, like a cheap movie monster, a little scared but giggling uncontrollably.

My head hurts only a little, and I wait for the double vision to resolve. Reaching for the water bottle in my pack, barely able to form words because of dehydration, in the backpack that I left…right here. Or was it…over there? Perhaps I hid it in the ferns. Acutely, I notice the leather strap and metal chain that always connect my wrist to the pack is gone. Cut away, I surmise. How could I have been that fucked up not to have sensed, or taken notice? As messed up as I was, I was sure I had fastened myself securely.

But the backpack is gone. My sandals, shorts and T-shirt, vanished in kind. I stand up and start screaming at the kids.

“Donde está mi mochila? DONDE?

Despite how much it hurts to run on bare feet, I chase one of them down on the foot path, tackling him from behind, I hold his skinny, emaciated little wrists together, my feet puckered with gravel.

322 The little Mexican devil.

“Where is my fucking backpack, you thieves? Return it to me immediately or I’ll call the police on

you unlucky bastards. You’ll wish you never had been born.”

“We didn’t steal your mochila, señor, en serio. Look, see, sir, we have nothing that belongs to

you.” They empty their pockets. One of them is crying.

I check each one of them. The backpack is nowhere in sight. They are right, they have nothing that belongs to me that I can at least see. My belongings at the present moment are the speedo bathing suit I am wearing, my dirty old fabric sleeping bag and my saliva, finally; nothing more. Passport, traveler’s checks, cash, identification, wallet, watch, half kilo of perfectly good marijuana; the earrings I had bought the girls, all gone. Everything I owned that had value that I hadn’t sold after moving out the cabana. Right now, I am holding a little less than a hundred dollars in my savings account back home. And no way to access it. That’s it, all of my assets. Evaporated. Sublimation. Mayday.

I look all around me, in abject denial, thinking the backpack is still somewhere under the ferns, silly fool I am. Using the sleeping bag as a makeshift set of hip waders, I hop around, conducting a thorough sweep of the underbrush around where I had slept.

Nothing. I search twice, and then again without the sleeping bag as I have fallen twice while inside it. But with my free right foot I step squarely in a neat coil of fresh human excrement. Thief left his calling card behind. The smell of it, squashed between my toes makes me sick. I notice it’s on the bottom of the sleeping bag, as well. I wipe my foot in the grass, front and bottom and leave the bag hidden under the fronds so I can wash off in the ocean. I can always get a new sleeping bag. After I get all my stuff back, whenever that will be.

It’s not too strange of a sight, is it, in Acapulco, to see a gringo walking down the busy boulevard wearing just a Speedo and nothing else? Even though it’s cool and cloudy this time of morning. One

323 would think he’d at least be wearing sandals, and some kind of shirt or windbreaker, even. Shorts would have been modest. But when that gringo walks across the long crosswalk on the raw pavement in his bare feet, dazed, with nothing but a speedo at seven o’clock in the morning and his one shit-foot for crying out loud, a dazed and unshaven gringo at that, it does attract minor attention from the taxistas, just as the ordinary bums draw the attention and common sympathy of the tourists. But even the bums are better dressed than this unkempt tourist of a bum.

Strange sight, the overfed Canadians are surely thinking, when I approach them to beg for telephone change. Nobody is in Mexico this time of year besides them because it’s still cold way up there.

They politely ignore me and hurriedly scuttle past, casting a disparaging glance to my dirty and uncovered falling behind as they outpace me, I can’t walk that fast with all the trash and shards in my bare feet.

The ocean gives me a rushing chill, and as soon as I have washed as best as I can, I step back into the swimsuit and wade on shore to let the breeze dry me off.

What in God’s green earth am I going to do, now? Nobody will give me change for a phone call, let alone even listen to my predicament. Not any of the tourists, or the locals in their kiosks. Not the orange-juice lady setting up shop, nor the coconut slicer, not the peddlers, not the joggers, for certainly for they aren’t carrying any change. No fucking towel even.

Wet and the sun not yet fully exposed, I begin to shiver. Not the refreshing tingle of seawater on parched skin, but the sensation of an illness coming on fast. My limbs and belly tighten as I freeze, and I rub my skin trying to hasten the drying process. I need fresh water to drink. That costs ten pesos that I don’t have. I plead to the coconut woman, saying I’ve been robbed.

“Por favor, señora, solamente una.”

“You should inform the police,” she says curtly, pointing in the direction of the Ministry, “They’ll get you some water to drink.” She is used to Mexicans begging, not North Americans.

324 This is not going working out so well, my morning. What’s the backup plan and did I even bother to formulate one? The only refuge I have is Loncheria Janie, I’ll walk up there at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning and pray they’re open for breakfast. I’ll call for Nacho and he can at least get me some clothes, sandals and a phone card. That’s my only hope for the moment.

Navigating Constituyentes is harder than I imagine. Side-stepping the puddles so as to not pick up hookworm, and trying to avoid stepping on the broken bottles, I run short of breath going uphill. The sun appears from behind the big cloud and suddenly I feel scorched. Breaking into a cold sweat, the shivers resume. I feel my stomach go tight and I drop to my knees in front of the brake shop. The pedestrians are staring at me, laughing. The unkempt gringo in just a speedo, probably drunk out of his gourd.

I steady myself leaning back on the stucco and lift myself into a standing position. My ears are ringing and I am dizzy. I surely am spiking a fever.

“I’m not drunk, I’m sick,” I say to some smart aleck who makes an unwelcome comment and hand gesture. I stagger up to the legless man in the wheelchair sitting in front of the Seventh Day

Adventist Church waiting for early mass, its figurehead, hoping he will remember me. I’ve become a petty spectacle by this time.

“Señor, por favor,” I beg, wanting to ask him for change. But the shivers grip and shake my spine;

I start convulsing. I want to vomit but the ringing in my ears surges to a deafening roar and makes me turn.

“Señor,” I say, “Please…” but at that moment in time all goes black before I collapse senseless on to the pavement.

325 Chapter 34 La Redentora

Nereida appears wearing a nurse’s uniform. Cute. Ricardo has a stethoscope coiled around his white examination jacket collar.

“Since when have you have become a doctor?” I ask. “And a nurse?”

“No, John.”

Emerging from a confused underworld as if having been buried under the floor of the ocean and slowly coming up for air, returning to life, I contemplate the IV apparatus taped to my right forearm and bottle of Betadine on the tray. I’m lying in a hospital cot, tied in a blue frock, the top and left side of my head bandaged. “Primaquine phosphate” says the label stuck to the bag of saline. That’s for malaria.

What in the hell? No wonder my dream was so terrifying.

“Where am I?”

“You’re in Acapulco, Juan,” Ricardo replies. Nereida is holding my left hand.

It’s coming back to me now. Mierda.

“What happened, Juanito? Que pasó? Where are all your belongings, your passport and identification?”

Where and how did I contract malaria? Not here, certainly, since the incubation time was typically as long as a month. Sontecomapan. But how were they able to find me here?

“You were repeating our names when they resuscitated you. They found Nereida’s phone number.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Why were you sleeping in the Papagayo, Juan?” Ricardo wants to know. Nereida thinks she understands. Ricky believes I have lost my mind.

“How did you know I slept in the Papagayo?”

326 “That’s what the children told the police and your doctors.” Fuck, they know about it now,

especially if the backpack has been recovered.

“I have lost everything,” I proclaim. “Everything.”

“You have been so foolish John, why?” My girlfriend looks sad, worried more than angry.

Ricardo laughs and laughs. He thinks it extraordinarily amusing, how his country could swallow

me whole and spit me out like this. What’s happened to her? Nereida seems so more substantial lately,

chunky, her cheeks more round than I remember. My two friends have the expression that suggests “we

love you but you are frankly quite insane.”

“You have not lost everything, amor.”

“What do you mean? My backpack has been found?” But this will be bad. Weed and checks, reported to have been stolen. I am in a world of shit.

“No.”

“Then, what do you mean?” I ask, ironically relieved that it’s still missing.

“Does my being here mean nothing to you?” Nereida asks, annoyed by my inconsiderate

behavior. The expression on Ricardo’s face reads “you are a prizewinning North American pendejo.”

I have been a perfect jackanapes. A spoiled little Georgia frat boy in a pink polo shirt.

“I’m sorry, amor. Of course I have not lost everything. Thank you so much for coming to take me home. How is your mother doing?”

“She is doing extremely well and has surprised her doctors. It is quite a miracle.”

“Good. I’m happy to hear that.”

The young attending physician, called to my bedside, explains how he supervised the treatment of my subdural hematoma, and Plasmodia not falciparum that proved sensitive to conventional therapy.

A hemolytic episode I had following the first dose of chloroquine, however, raised the possibility that I

327 may have inherited glucose 6 phosphate dehydrogenase deficiency. José suggests that I be tested for this

upon a neurological follow-up I am to schedule after returning to the capital, suggesting it compromises

continuing therapy. My mother may have handed me the tainted chromosome, I conjecture, the Italian.

The most common X-linked enzyme deficiency in the world, I say. Acevedo smiles in agreement. I had

nary a clue.

“Sí! I thought that might be the case.”

“How long was I out?”

Acevedo doesn’t bother with the social and ethical issues on my problem list. I assume he has

spoken with my friends about the predicament. Instead, he rattles off a set of instructions as to

prescriptions for alternative drugs less likely to result in a hemolytic attack, and advice for the next two

weeks; what I should be wary of, and wishing me good health and luck as he signs the discharge

documents.

“And please remember to give my best regards to Dr. Navarro.”

The socialized infrastructure entitles me, like any other Mexican, to what is essentially free health

care, that is, until August when my working papers expire. The working papers that were reproduced

from the originals which Ricky had been thoughtful enough to remember to bring with him. This mishap

could have cost me multiple kilobucks back in the states. Not a cent here, at least for right now. Ready to

be transferred into the custody of my friends, yet there’s one more formality that must be settled. The investigator from AMEX is on her way to have a word with me. My adrenal medullae release their granules and the stress hormones tighten my blood pressure. Here comes that stroke.

“You have encountered more than one stretch of bad luck in Acapulco in such a short period of time, señor Estrauss.”

It’s her, alright.

328 “What happened to your personal items and passport?”

“Stolen.”

“From?”

“Parque Papagayo.” I didn’t want to lie anymore.

A long sequence of silent moments follows. La investigadora seems mired in disbelief. If I could only photograph the expression on her face. Those huge sunglasses, Jesus, where did she find those?

“I would ordinarily file charges against you, señor Estrauss, with the federal police,” she begins seriously. “But I lack a clear idea or any evidence as to exactly what crime you have committed, except for foolishness. I imagine that an ordinary tourist, having been robbed in the Papagayo once, would not risk such a second opportunity. This surprises me.”

I don’t know what to say.

“I suspect that your intent was to defraud American Express. You checked out of your hotel before the last paid day of occupancy, only to sleep in a public park at night? That, by itself, is illegal, contra la ley. It is also quite an insane thing to do anywhere in Acapulco, in my opinion. Why did you check out of your hotel so late at night?”

More segments of silence, connected only by the palpable confusion evident between her persistent questioning gaze and my idiotic grin. She talked with the police and the kids who probably live in the Papagayo. They don’t call you investigator for nothing.

“It was because…it was because…I am John the Baptist, reincarnated,” I blurt out like a high school freshman on stage for his first audition. “The C.I.A. has surgically implanted a radio transmitter in my brain so you can follow my every move from now until eternity, OK? Can’t you clearly see that this has happened, what you have had them do to me here?” I start to cry.

She has it all figured out now.

329 “You will benefit from a psychiatric evaluation, señor Estrauss. I advise you to not to attempt recovering the checks you were issued in Acapulco, or anywhere else in Mexico. You have been listed as an indivdual with whom American Express will no longer conduct business.”

Halfway home, on the long ascent to the highlands of the Sierra Madre del Sur inside Nereida’s trusty beetle, we pull into a parking lot at the top of a mountain pass on the edge of the state line of

Guerrero, near a shrine to the Virgin Mary that stands at the end of a foot path.

“La Redentora,” Nereida says. “You should pray to her.”

I look deep into the nymph’s dark eyes.

“You should pray to her, for redemption.”

Again, my expression begs her for an explanation.

“Numbers three, four and seven.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Los siete pecados capitales.” The seven deadly sins. Greed is number three; sloth four, and seventh is pride.

“I see. But not lust, numero uno?”

“I do not believe lust is a capital sin,” she says.

“But Dante's unforgiven souls of the sin of lust are blown about in restless hurricane-like winds, symbolic of their own lack of self-control,” I say, miming as best as I can being blown around in restless hurricane-like winds, despite my bandage and overall condition.

“Screw Dante. Pray for redemption. Pray to la redentora.”

Whether or not Mary is the redemptrix, or co-redemptrix as some in the church claim seems irrelevant at the present moment, even though for a long period it has been a controversial point of contention among those who care about such things. Which Nereida does, as she seems to be drawn

330 especially of late to the Gnostics and also the Marists, cherry-picking her Catholicism and mixing it with

Marxism like so many Mexicans do. For what or whom did I care? My beautiful girlfriend. Holding her

again in my arms, hoping to make tender love with her and our other lover too, tonight. Something weird

about the recovery from illness; on the mend I always experience an unusual hankering for sex. Feedback

loops and pituitary factors I surmise; a surging rebound of testosterone after the stress hormones

subside?

She has requested that I formally seek redemption. And here we are, in front of the immaculate, looking over the wide and hazy waves of mountainsides, now becoming green again with rain. So as to honor what my lover deems important, I kneel and ask the holy mother for forgiveness for my numerous digressions. Just as I had done so many times at St. John Vianney.

In the back seat, there’s no room for us to do anything else but hold each other tight and surrender to the inertia as Ricardo is not really as much driving as he is changing numerous cassette tapes while navigating the dangerous hairpin curves. The bandage makes kissing a little awkward.

“How is Julileta, amor?”

“She is well.”

“That is all?”

“The three of us need to have a very serious conversation after you have had a chance to rest, tomorrow morning.”

“About?”

“Our futures.”

This concerns me. Am I about to get thrown overboard? Turned out on the street like the roaming strays of the city dumps? Without any resources, nary a single peso, a sip of beer or a solitary toquecito of cheap marijuana. Ask friends if I can crash until I get my feet back on the ground?

331 I pray this is not the future she wants. Why did she say futures?

“I love you,” I whisper. Nereida looks at me, a little sad, a little wary.

“I mean it.”

“Do not say it. Just show me that you do with your actions.”

"I will, amor."

"I warned you about going to Acapulco."

Reaching the southern outskirts of Mexico City, outside the open window I am greeted by the typical beasts of burden who work so hard in this ancient capital, day after day. Men carrying fifty pounds of limes or potatoes on their backs, the bicyclist with precariously high stacks of newspapers somehow balanced and transported without catastrophe, the Indian mothers carrying half their own weights of children in their serapes; chickens, puppies, chiles, flowers and whatever organic and inorganic content is left from what they have attempted to peddle during the long day on the pavement. Such a woeful and rainy capital for those toiling so strenuously, and making so little from it.

332 Chapter 35 Brasil

Not having as much room on the futon as there once seemed to be, I was accidentally rolled off of it by my snoring, slumbering girlfriends, so I sleep in a while after they arise and leave the bed. But the sound and aroma of squeezed citrus and bananas in the blender eventually bring me to. Julie is out at the market at opening time, the best time for her to get exactly what she needs. Nereida has made Orange

Julius and serves me a tumbler full. Raw eggs aren’t a health concern anymore, since I just got over my first case of malaria. The pH isn’t right for S. typhimurium, anyway. The girls found second hand clothes that fit me. That was nice of them. White and key lime green guayaberas. Khakis. Loafers my size. It will be a while before I can replace my wardrobe. I look like the real chilango now.

“So, what kind of trouble am I in? Tell me, no more suspense.”

“You’re not in any trouble, Juanito.”

“Well then, what’s up, what did you want to talk about so seriously, amor?” Nereida begins her yoga routine on the mat.

“Mexicana has grounded me. I am now completely without work,” she says, stretching sideways.

“For what reason? Our import export business has been discovered?” I ask, my heart beating faster.

After she stands and turns so that I can see her body profile, wearing her black tights, looking like a little cherub from the side view, I don’t need any more verbal information. We had discussed the topic a few times. She was feeling her biological clock ticking away and had set the goal of making a family, someday.

“You’re pregnant.”

“Sí,” she says, now a tear dripping down from one eye, looking right at me.

“And I am the father?”

333 “Why do you even ask?”

“You are sure?”

“I am sure. Why must you have to question me like that?”

“Well, I thought you may have had something going on with one of our friends in Madison.”

“Yes, I did, briefly. But it never went as far as we have, not even close. Believe me, Juanito, I know that you and only you could be the father of our baby.”

How is Brazil ever going to happen, now? My consternation turns into a strange mix of sadness and pride, it makes for a raw feeling altogether. Emerging into a new, supernatural realm, since, somehow we’ve managed to duplicate. Amazing. Terrifying. What was I expecting? We had gotten sloppy with birth control, the two of us. I don’t know what to say.

“You want me to fly to America and have an abortion?” She starts really crying now. “Sorry, I will not do that.” This is prohibited in Mexico.

“Of course I don’t want you to have an abortion. I love you and I will be here for you, always. And for our child.” I take her in to my arms, my sobbing girlfriend.

“Just go to Brazil by yourself, it’s alright, it really is. Go. Vaya.”

“No, it’s not alright, now that I know this.”

After a few minutes of silence, feeling the bump in her belly with my own, in her embrace, she wipes her tears on my T-shirt sleeve and says “We could have been more careful. Now is not the best of times for me to be out of work.”

“It is meant to be,” I reply. “In truth, I’m not unhappy about it, at all. The opposite, truthfully. Just a little surprised.”

She looks into my eyes, probing the veracity of what I have just said.

“I am not unhappy about it either little Juanito. Just worried. So worried.”

334 “About what?”

“How will we make ends meet? You are no longer working, and Julieta is also having difficulties

with the Ballet.“

“Why?”

“I will let her share her troubles with you in person.”

“McPherson will front me a couple kilos from Puerto. That can get us back on our feet for a start.

Most of my customers are still around and probably craving the good shit since I’ve been gone.”

“OK, but keep it all in San Lorenzo, will you? It’s much safer there than here.”

“I moved out, remember?” Ricardo had also lost interest in keeping the cabin.

“No you didn’t, really.”

“What do you mean?”

“Juli and I signed a lease with the landlord when you went to Acapulco.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s so inexpensive and such a sweet little slice of heaven way up in the clouds. We wanted a weekend house. And somewhere where you can occasionally stay when you’re being a total asshole.”

“Good going, thanks!” I am glad to hear this. Of all places to be in the D.F., San Lorenzo could still be our Shangri-La. But that goddamn hot water heater needs to be replaced even if it means having to do it ourselves.

“You will pay the rent, Juanito. We will move to the cabana, eventually. There’s more room for the three of us and you can have a private man’s bedroom.

“O.K.”

“Your friend Theo has started an English Academy. You can go to work for him as he was

335 inquiring as to your whereabouts recently. “

“Theo? You’re kidding. No way. Enrique offered to take me back on before I left, did you know?”

“Why didn’t you share that with us?”

“Because he will pay me next to nothing. Are you taking vitamins?”

“Yes, of course. Why didn’t you tell us you had this opportunidad?”

“What kind of vitamins?” She shows me. I read the label. These won’t do. I will have to get Stuart

Prenatals. I know where they can be bought at the best price, we stock them in the clinic. But I don’t have any money. Nada. Lana no hay. Must leave a message for McPherson’s mule and ask for the favor. So I phone the hooved mammal and explain the circumstances. McPherson is a generous, decent man. We don’t call him Saint Peter without reason. He will come through for us and I will make it worth his while in return, doubling the favor.

As I am getting off the phone, Julieta comes home in a bright white sundress in a yellow and green daffodil pattern, holding canvas bags of groceries in both hands. I pour her a cup of coffee as she unloads the eggs, oranges, beets, carrots, spinach, cheese and bananas. The chicken goes in the fridge. I don’t see her in dresses often. She hardly ever wears them. And she’s looking wider in them.

“I’ll have a chamomile tea instead, thank you.”

“O.K.”

“So, you had much fun in the sun, in Acapulco?” Julie jokes as she slides a dozen eggs into the refrigerator.

“Very funny, muy chistoso. Shut the fuck up.“

“I have just been let go by the Ballet.”

“Why?” Julie looks at Nereida who sends her a subliminal signal in silent sea nymph code.

“Gemelos. Llevo tus gemelos, cabroncito!”

336 “Gemelos?” I ask. I don’t know this Spanish word. It sounds like a disease, or condition.

“It’s one of the signs of the Zodiac,” Nereida says, cryptically. “Los dos, conjuntos.”

The Zodiac. Los dos. The two. What does this mean? These girls are playing with me. Aquarius,

Pisces, Mars, Aries, Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, Leo, Virgo…” What in the?

“Gemini, yes, that’s it, Gemelos,” Nereida confirms.

I ponder over the period of fifteen exact seconds.

“Twins.”

“Sí, tuins, cabroncito.”

“Et tu, Julieta?” They don’t get it right away but when they do, it’s not funny to either of them.

Neither is “Estamos a toda madre.”

I’m not sure what to make of Juliet, who doth make the torches burn bright. Her attitude seems so casual. She doesn’t seem that fased by it, going about the blender, stuffing peeled beets and carrots and watercress into the freshly squeezed orange juice, cracking two eggs into the mix and whipping it on high speed, a pregnancy concoction for the three of us. Whatever Nereida has, Julieta and I should also have. This is true of babies as all else. I get it. They had to be that way, the inseparable sisters they have become. Go with the flow or be dragged. Abide or be stropped. Communistas.

“Gemelos, John. Machos. Nuestros.”

“How do you know?”

“Ultrasonido. They both have your big nose, and your big Italian one. I can feel their little hard- ons inside of me already, kicking around, two boys with erections, already! They’re yours, certifiably.”

“Oh the bullshit you can!”

“Mark my words. They’re males, I also know because I have morning sickness. You get morning sickness always with males. And I have two of them inside of me, see?” she asks, pulling up her dress.

337 Julie could be so goddamn sure of everything. Problem is, so far she’s always been right.

“The Ballet is not in need of a pregnant dancer at the present time. Especially times two”

“Bastards,” I remark.

“Nor a flight attendant.”

Although I think Mexicana has dumped her for a younger and more virginal woman, I am happy

Nereida is not flying. She was getting tired of it anyhow. We didn’t need the North American customers. I knew as many expat suckers who could still afford the high price we request, the risk tax.

“So what will we do now, Johnny?” Julieta inquires just as I am about to question the ancestry of her twins, but Nereida nips that in the bud.

“Don’t even ask,” she warns.

“Shall we get a paternity test to scientifically prove that you are indeed the father of our three children?” Julieta suggests, guessing where I was going. Big noses, constant hard-ons, hyperactive; Julie’s two are going to be a waking nightmare on earth. Maybe that’s enough proof for right now. I hope

Nereida is carrying a girl.

“How is this going to work, legally, madres?”

“We were thinking that you could first wed Julieta, next week, since she is farther along. Then you could divorce her quickly, after she has delivered and marry me before it is my time to deliver. We have to work fast. It will take much money and dealing since we’re only six weeks apart. This will be difficult under Mexican law, and we will have to seek the help of my nephew, the licenciado and a judge.

It will be very expensive. But this way, John your legal obligations as father of our children will remain intact in Mexico for the both of us. This is important to us.”

“You’ve already got it this thought out? This far through?” Amazing. A lawyer even.

“Now you will understand the word responsabilidad, señor Juanito cabroncito.”

338 Their plan is entirely insane, it obviously is not going to work and we have to figure something else out quickly. Maybe Yimmy in Sontecomapan could make it good for us? Donovan’s patrón? Marry one in the states and one here? I’m not coming to the table with any other viable alternative.

There is sure not going to be any Brazil for us, at least for years to come. No Copacabana, no

Ipanema, no Cocoverde. No Carneval, no rum and coconut, no hammocks, no topless women on the beaches, no live music, no dancing, no orgies, no more fun whatsoever. No random encounters with sexy young Latin vixens. Just this wretched capital that’s easier to take in drenching rain than it is in sunshine and its unbearable responsibilities. Only the long line of poor Indians, waiting for the bus, standing patiently and stoically underneath the billboard of the blond beauty. I feel the whole nation beginning to teeter. Even the air says that Mexico’s future is not bright; we’d be so much better off elsewhere, anywhere. We weren’t the only ones thinking this in the capital of July, 1981.

I know only what my plan will be for this afternoon, with borrowed umbrella and backpack.

That’s as far as I can think ahead. Pick up the dope and divvy it up in Acopilco. Get stoned out of my gourd up there, since I have been in the hospital for days and have reached a point of an uncomfortably prolonged week of sobriety that has transformed into downright anxiety. Hope I’m not too anemic still for the altitude. I should begin the process of getting a new passport as I’m peddling to the stoners at the embassy, anyway, they can help me with that. This will mean getting a birth certificate sent from the states, though. What a load of red tape. Focus on the present: to come home with the Stuart Prenatals, protein and iron for the girls. It’s hard to keep your protein up here. And your copper.

We are crazy, zonkers, psychopathic, willingly bringing three more Mexicans which they will all soon legally be, into this troubled and grossly overpopulated world, nation and capital. There’s nothing but fucking children here anyway, everywhere you look, every time you turn around there’s hundreds of them, with their big, dark curious and wary eyes seeing right into your soul, knowing all of your furtive

339 deceits.

Pondering my guilt, helping in no small way to overpopulate the planet, overpopulate overpopulated Mexico City, on the overpopulated subway, buzzed as ever, I make an abbreviated round for the neediest of my customers, only getting a little extra attention directed to my injured head in public, but having to explain the bandage to each one of my customers in private.

Would three more Mexicanitos make any difference, really, in the long run for good or evil? Tip the balance one way or the other? Three more straws to break the camel’s back? If we’re lucky, they will grow to be bilingual and a little smarter, better looking, and more adaptable than the average. They will be our Mexicanitos and we will have to buy shitloads of toys for them and spoil them like everyone else does here. In Mexico there is even a national holiday to celebrate the fucking little imps.

It slowly hits as the powerful and slowly creeping cannabinoids have allowed me to ponder our predicament deeply; that these are not the ordinary responsibilities of fatherhood. There is the responsibility to secure citizenship in the states should we ever need it. Another responsibility will be avoiding the pitfalls of illegal fatherhood; one might well end up in the Reclusorio for polygamy. I pray

Nereida’s nephew is a talented attorney and is not going to take us to the cleaners.

My future will be punctuated with middle of the night sick children wailing and thrashing, changing cloth diapers and reading Goodnight Moon over and over and freaking over, in Spanish and in

English. Finally, there are my parents who, if already have not yet, will certainly disown us. The only comforting thought is that the Mexican medical system will not bilk us out of house and home like would happen in the states around something like this.

340 When I return to Coyoacan in the evening, toting vitamins, onions, organic beef liver and the margin of profit it will take us to keep the household going for the next week, Julie is preparing to make a concoction with a little cannabis I gave her for morning sickness. Soy milk with a few buds blended in.

Muy suave. Just enough to prevent nausea the next day.

I make a dinner that I only eat in part since I care not for beef liver. It’s made the entire apartment smell. But the girls seem to like the way I have prepared it, as well as the guacamole and herbed rice, sautéed onions and carrots with their favorite kind of cheeses. After I wash and dry the dishes, I tell them I have a declaration to make.

“I promise to help support you, support us, and to remain by your sides through thick and thin,” I begin “But, I have to ask you both something very important.”

“Thank you Juanito. Consúltenos.”

“Do you love me? I mean you never really mention it at all. I’m just asking.”

Long silence, and the expression on their faces that suggests I’m a little crazy.

“I can say I love you, but words are empty. It will be better for me to prove it with time rather than words, just as you have done this evening for us. Thank you for making dinner and cleaning up. I am so exhausted.”

“Thank you,” I say, taking that to mean maybe a yes from Nereida. Julieta does not answer, she merely nods.

“You will never leave me, either of you?” I’ve never asked anyone that, ever, or certainly two girls at once and it makes me feel like a little boy.

Friends don’t come easy here, like they do perhaps too easily in the states. When a true friendship is made it seems, the bond becomes a permanent one, their hearts are yours for eternity. For the first time I let them see me crying. They have come to my rescue, my sirens. And I have been such a

341 complete idiot.

I’ll have to show them I can do everything they will have to do, except for the breastfeeding.

Diapers, formula, working with little sleep. My muchachas will certainly break my balls more than once in

a while. But tonight they have shared the observation that their increasing estrogens have made them

exceptionally lustful, and that it had been perhaps too long of a while when the three of us had the

opportunity to make consistent whoopee. I hope I am healthy enough for them, tonight.

As Nereida tucks the clean sheets around the futon in preparation for an early bedtime, Julie flips

her rolodex cards and dials a call. When answered she says “Julieta, Espera un momentito.”

“Juan,” Jewels says, bringing me the phone on its long cord.

“Hello Enrique,” I say, after I’ve recognized the voice on the line. “Yes, this is true. No more

Brazil.”

“Good. You’ve come to your senses, finally.” The girls obviously left out most of the details.

They’re having trouble getting one of the new secondary antibodies to work, he says. The scope could use a little advanced maintenance. He doesn’t have enough time to see patients and manage the lab, too. Could I get help him get more control materials from Madison? Always complaining, always asking for favors.

I have to think about this. Working with sick, gross diapers all the day long, and then coming home to more diapers times three.

“I’ll look forward to seeing you in the morning then, amigo.”

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