Rough Draft - A Chapter from
Riding a Bus in Mexico
There
is something delightful about silver-stream zippers that when pulled upon,
reveal thick, feather soft sleeping bags, sometime a pillow, puffed with
perfection.
And
there is something whimsical about wearing jeans tucked into heavy hiking boots
that sport multicolored toe-socks, cuffed slightly over the top-tier of
shoelace.
But
in that moment, standing stranded outside a dilapidated nowhere liquor store
somewhere in a Mexican jungle, alone, I didn’t feel the magic, the lovely, or
the delight.
And
as for whimsy? My polished pedicure was buried under dirty mud slicked
Birkenstock’s, and my borrowed jacket
didn’t exactly provide warmth and comfort over my light blue halter-top and
navy pinstriped short, shorts. And, I was terrified.
Every
monster in the world came out that night. Some screamed and chattered from
treetops. Others trotted on jungle paths snapping twigs under soft-pad paws. A
few howled (werewolves!) But most
hugged gallon jugs of liquor. Their silhouettes shown against crackling embers
jagged like tree-branch beasts. A sip, a swig, it didn’t matter. More was in
store, once the shop doors opened.
The
more pleasant, beyond drunk, sang and
strummed guitars, sloshing their words and fumbling their fingers over slightly untuned strings. I stood there unable to comprehend how I could get left behind, yet
again.
Even Joe, must be frantic by now.
I
quieted my mind and searched for solution. I remembered a piece of required
reading during in the fifth grade about a cowboy named Shane. He was an
outcast, and always sat with his back to the wall. I thought that sound advice
in my situation, and chose my territory against the exterior wall of the store.
From my vantage point, I could see almost every direction. I was safe from
rouge drunks. Shane would have been proud.
With
some assurance of safety, I settled in not so nicely. I was afraid and the moon
didn’t help. It loomed through the soft sway of canopy, and with it, long,
crooked shadow-claws stretched across the ribbon of highway and up
mountainsides.
My
worry and fear didn’t end there. Nomads and drifters surrounded me, plopping to
the ground, mumbling and fumbling through bags filled with junk food, but mostly
drink. The only things familiar to me were the stars, the cold, and two other
intoxicated men the cashier had battled with earlier that night. For some
reason, one decided to keep me company.
“Go
away.”
The
gentleman, who had not seen the
inside of a shower in weeks, offered me a drink from his almost empty bottle.
“No, thank you.”
Being
a considerate guy, he wiped off the mouth
of the bottle on his crusty sleeve and offered again, holding the bottle close
to my face.
“No.
I don’t drink that stuff. Go.” For more clarity, I shooed my hand. It worked.
He swaggered away, but unfortunately, only to make room for my next date. He was wearing a long, trench
coat . . . lovely . . .
“No.
As I told the other gentleman, I
don’t drink that stuff.”
So
what does he do? He caps his gallon of Vodka, and lifts from inside his coat a
fifth of Tequila. He aimed a flashlight from underneath the bottle to highlight
his display. While pretending to read the label, I noticed his hands. They were
soft and his nails were manicured. His coat was clean. Obviously, he was not a
local.
“It
looks like a good brand, and domestic, but I don’t drink. I never touch the
stuff.” He unscrewed the cap and reached under his coat and he delivered two
plastic party cups.
“I
am impressed, but gracias, no. I
never touch that stuff.”
He
finally spoke…in Spanish. His tone, and style of speech was eloquent like Dr.
Jake’s. With gesture of hand toward the sky, he continued to converse. I
decided that he was talking about the stars, the frigid air and of course,
sharing a drink.
He
set his flashlight on the ground, but not before giving it a click to emit more
light. I could see that his clothes were clean and maybe expensive. He reached,
again, inside his coat and this time brought out two pictures. One was a photo
of three women, and the other a single shot of the eldest woman.
“Your
esposa?” I asked pointing to the woman whose hair was piled high on her head.
He
confirmed with a smile and a nod.
“And
la hija and la hija?” I asked pointing to each young lady.
“Si,
si. Doce. Catorce.” He said pointing to each.
“Ah.
Twelve and fourteen. They are beautiful–bonita.”
He
nodded in agreement. He talked a bit more and then asked again through charade,
if I wanted a drink.
“No.
Gracias. No.” Then he smiled. His act was the same. He reached inside and
across his coat, but this time he twisted a bit before bring-out a corkscrew
and next a half carafe of wine.
“What
a fabulous idea. A roving bartender.”
Once
again and like a trained concierge, he held enough light against the bottle so
that I might read the label.
“I
see that the vineyard is from Ensenada. It’s a good one. I’ve enjoyed a few
glasses myself, but I never touch the stuff. No thank you.”
Of
course he ignored me and commenced to set the corkscrew. Within seconds, it
popped.
“Champagne?”
I asked. He indicated no and moved the bottle under my nose tipping it slowly
right and left.
“Ah.
Wine, and no doubt, a good one, but I don’t drink. No booze, no wine, no
bubbly. Never have, never will.”
Language
barrier or no, I was a bad liar. He poured two glasses and then reached into
his coat one more time and brought a third plastic tumbler.
“Three?”
I said. “Really, wine is enough. I don’t drink the hard stuff.”
From
out of the shadows, a woman once hidden behind the curtain of night, appeared
on perfect cue. “You are the woman–the pictures!” Her husband, like a magic
man, produced the photos almost out of thin air.
“Yes.”
I said pointing at her tiny portrait. “That’s you!” She held out her hand and I
shook it wildly. Both she and her husband laughed and chortled through excited
conversation. With our cups almost filled, we toasted something. I chose to
believe that we were celebrating our safety, the adventure, and the fact that
my angels had stopped ignoring me…
