Last Thanks Giving in Mexico

We were up at 5:00 am . The nocturnal Rob Quint was dangerously disoriented, mumbling and running into walls. Rob, his bartender’s schedule shattered, had taken to dozing off at odd times during the day, like while walking down the beach, or swimming.

Gabriel picked us up in front of the hotel.

“Gabriel, where can I get some film?” I asked.

“Meester Steve, chew won’t find nuthing open in Mazatlan... It’s 6:00 in the morn, Meester Steve.”

That was funny, the entire town had been open two hours earlier, at 4:00am. We arrived at the harbor; an assortment of 30 fishing boats were backed against the dock taking on fuel and beer.

I spotted a gringo with a camera case and raced to catch him. “Hey, Mister, looky here, I work for a newspaper in the States and I need film!”

“Oh, yeah? Which one?”

“The Crested Butte Chronicle.”

“Never heard of it, but anyway it’s my only roll, I don’t want...”

“Oh, please, mister, if we catch a marlin and I don’t get a picture, who’s going to believe it!” I was begging shamelessly.

“No, I’m sorry, I...”

“I’ll give you twenty bucks for it...”

“Sold.” He handed it to me, took the money and leaped on a departing boat. I lokked at the roll.”HEY!!! THIS IS ONLY 12 EXPOSURES!!!”

The guy played an air violin as his boat pulled away.

We were 200 yards out of the harbor when the Venus died.

Captain Jorge, after drifting for half an hour, finally extracted a plastic bag, jammed with the water intake hoses. @@!!!## Plastico!! #@#@@!! Garbage!! We proceeded. The Venus was pitching, rolling, leaping, and falling, Joe and I clung for dear life. Rob slept like a baby below deck.

Our bery bery smart Captain was watching the seabirds who were looking for a school of sardines. Where there is a school of small fish, there will be larger fish. We just waited for the birds to dive, at which time Captain Jorge and 29 other bery, bery smart captains charged in. All hell broke loose, birds were sqawking and diving on a boiling mass of sardines, dorados (mahi) were leaping through the school in ajoyous feeding frenzy and boats were charging back and forth across this fishy turmoil.

Captains screamed and shook their fists at other captains. Our first mate, also named Jorge, leaped on the transom, dropped his pants and bent over towards the offending boat. Some age-old sailors’ signal, I assumed, you know how these guys get...I lokked around, we were 25 miles offshore in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, and all 30 of us were jostling in a space the size of a football field. Leave it to these guys to turn a fishing trip into a soccer game. Fish soccer. Then the fish hit, every boat got one at the same instant and, of course, and every boat had five lines out, even if there was only one client. A pole bent double, Jorge 2 yelled and grabbed it as Jorge 1 gunned the Venus, trying to set the hook, into the crowd. Loud referrals to jorge’s mother erupted over the CB radio.

“Wake, Meester Rob!!” Yelled Jorge 2. It was Rob’s fish, having won a prior coin toss, and up from the cabin he stumbled, groping his way across the heaving deck, fell into the fighting chair, and started to reel.

Rob didn’t have a clue where he was. The beautiful fish, iridescent green and gold, zipped through the water like an arrow but was no match for the massive marlin reel. Rob easily brought him to the boat, where Jorge 2 gaffed and hauled him aboard. The fish immediately started to lose its color and as it lay dying, the once-brilliant greens and gold faded to gray. There was some heavy meaning here somewhere but, as usual, it eluded me.

Things settled down, we floated downwind enjoying lunch. Their meal down, the captain adn crew tossed all their trash overboard. Cans, bottles and plastic bags, exactly like the one we’d sucked up that morn. Did they realize?...Should we point out??...naaaa.

We caqught one other dorado that afternoon and headed in. Only one marlin was caught in 30 boats. Although the Mexican captains practice catch and release, it is only after the client doesn’t want it, the captain and crew don’t want itand it is deemed not hurt severly by the fight. In other words, not many are released.

Consequently, there aren’t many marlin left. Simple, really.

As the harbor neared, I turned to Joe, “Ya knlw, Joe, I’ve been thinking about this mermaid photo...”

“You mean, where we hang Laura by her heels and we stand around her with our fishing poles?” (Laura was going to meet our boat in 20 minutes.)

“Yeah, well. I’ve been thinking that some readers might find that offensive.”

“Exactly, Church, after all, we’re men of the nineties.”

“Yes, sensitive men, men that respect women, men that...”

“Men that owe $100 if she shows...” interjected a seemingly awake Rob.

We hit the beach running; after all, the bet was for 3:00 and it was now two minutes till. No way she would show. We leaped in a cab; “Let’s go, let’s go!!” we instructed the driver.

Safely ensconced back at the hotel, we instructed the chef on the preparation of the dorado. We cleaned up, toasted the sunset, and returned to the crowded dining room.

Soft guitar music and tuxedoed waiters set a classy atmosphere as we raised our glasses in salutations of the day’s success.

Suddenly Rob’s jaws dropped, as if he’d seen Godzilla behind me. Before I could turn, two-inch red fingernails passed in front of my eyes and encircled my throat. A cloud of perfume engulfed the table.

“OKAY, BOYS, WHERE’S MY $100??” The restaurant went dead quiet.

I turned slightly to behold an irate Laura. She was dressed in a black skintight body stocking. Shiny black stiletto heels and her black hair piled high made her look two feet taller than I remembered her, while dangling silver earrings highlighted her flashing black eyes.

The Three Amigos stared at each other like lobotomy victims.

“SO YOU BOYS WANT TO HANG ME UPSIDE DOWN FROM A MEATHOOK IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE MEXICAN FLEET???”
You could have heard a frijole hit the floor. The kitchen help was filtering in, waiters translating for them.

“Ahhh, Laura, sit down, have a nice glass of wine...” I ventured.

“I DON’T WANT ANY @##$$**@@!!# WINE!! I WANT $100!!”

Patio patrons were easing in for the show as Joe and I dug deep.

“MY DADDY’S NOT TOO HAPPY WITH YOU GUYS!!!”

“You told your father we were going to hang you from a meathook??”

“Oh, boy, just what does your father do, Laura?” as if I couldn’t guess.

“HE’S IN CEMENT, WHICH IS EXACTLY WHERE YOU GUYS ARE HEADED!!”

We paid Laura her $100 and apologized profusely, She turned on her heel and stormed through the riveted dinner crowd. “I NEVER WANT TO HEAR FROM YOU GUYS AGAIN!! NEWSPAPER! HAH!!”

Things were never quite the same around the Torres Mazatlan for the Three Amigos; we were dogs in the flowerbed, flies in the cake.

It was Jesus that finally came to our rescue.

“I’m gonna take chew boys to see a leetle Mexican culture, a place you won’t see no damn gringos!” I wasn’t sure if this made me happy or not. He picked us up at 10:00 that night. The cab dropped off the pavement into what looked like Africa. We had left the city, passed the docks and arrived in adubious part of Mazatlan. False-front buildings gave the place an old west look. Red lights festooned the doorways in what I assumed to be pre-Christmas decoration. A few suspect-looking taco stands dotted the street, where one or two patrons lay face down in the dirt in front of each. Not a good sign when picking a dining establishment. Other bodies were propped against walls, sombreros pulled over their faces, dogs and pigs rummaging their pockets. It looked as if some low-level tequila bomb had gone off.

We stepped through some swinging doors into what appeared to be a disorganized riot. A “rock” band was enthusiastically butchering Santana’s “Black Magic Woman.” About 30 women sat along one wall. They looked like potatoes in leotards, each wearing a number on their ample bosoms.

“Hey, Rob!! Looky here, they’re playng some type of Mexican bingo. This is great!!” Vendors piled the crowd with plastic roses and BBQ iguanas on sticks.

“Hey, Rob, ummbo!! Hey?” One guy had a device called the testosterone tester hung onto two wires while he cranked electricity through you. A meter hung from his neck displaying just how much voltage you were taking, just how big of a man you were. His customers would jerk like biology frogs, veins popping from their brows, before collapsing. You’d rarely see a woman do this, just proving once again girls know nothing about having a really good time.

Police in leather coats and sunglasses patrolled the crowd, M16s slung over their shoulders. YES!! The place was reeking in cultural diversity!! This is why we travel!!

Suddenly the band went into some jungle rhythm, a 10-year-old kid quickly mopped the dance floor, then strung a huge chain around it. Was this to keep the customers out? Or the floor show in? The lights dimmed, the band increased its tempo, suddenly onstage appeared a...a...steamrolled peacock??.. No, it was a woman, a substantial woman at that, adorned in a feather costume that stuck six feet out from each side, She leaped about the stage.

Then into the lights landed a pot-bellied, middle-aged male wearing a tiny skirt of feathers, a G-string, and nothing else. He strutted about, kicking his feet in the air as the crowd went nuts. He leaped behind the peacock lady and with much difficulty (as she was gyrating wildly) proceeded to undo her costume. Yes, folks, it appeared he was going to strip that girl naked. What in the world had we gotten ourselves into?? Hey, just what kind of a place was this?

Well, when he got her down to only a skirt of feathers, she looked exactly like one of Dis-mounts waltzing hippos. He bent down and did the unthinkable...that’s right, buckaroos... he picked her up!! Not without some struggle, he got all 200 pounds of her on his shoulder and started to spin around. He was about half her size and his skinny white legs were knocking violently as he staggered about the stage, spinning faster and faster.

Patrons sitting close started to pull tables back, even the band was backing away as it seemed only moments now before he lost control of the twirling mass of femininity. He was somehow able to lower her to the floor where she continued to spin. He collapsed, gasping for breath. The crowd was going berzerk. Yes, it was an evening steeped in rich cultural heritage.

On the way to the airport the next day, our taxi caught fire. The driver calmly stepped out and hailed us another cab.

“How much do we owe you for this far?” I inquired.

“No problem, amigo, when will you visit us again?”

“Soon, my friend, very soon...”

 

The lack of Thanksgiving in Mexico

by Steve Church

 

It had been a wt, miserable morning under Lonsome Bob’s skirt.

Trailer skirt, that is; it seemed that the other local contractors were too busy or simply not equipped to handle a job of the magnitude of Bob’s skirt. Bob was forced to call us.

We’re Church Bros. Construction, where no job is too small, no bill too big. Theproblem was, I hadn’t figured on the snow. Even though I’d only been on the job for three hours, I knew it was time to re-evaluate our estimate. When Bob wasn’t looking, I slipped off to Kochevar’s to rework the figures.

I was staring at a bag of pork rinds listening to my feet drip, when an old employer (and still friend), Joe Rous, approached. Joe didn’t say a word as he dropped a brochure below my frozen nose. A stunning sun-baked blonde floated in a crystal-blue pool. Swaying palm trees lined the pool’s edge, offering shade to a serenading Mariachi band. A beaming Latin waiter stood knee-deep in water, balancing two pina coladas on a silver tray. The blonde, obviously lonely, was staring directly at me!!

I looked at Joe.

Joe said two words: “Free room.”

An hour later, on Bob’s time, I bought a ticket to Mazatlan. $240 round-trip from Denver, free room.

Locally-famous bartender and family man Rob Quint would join us.

Rob and I agreed that we would need a reason, an excuse for this venture. As loving and liberal as Rob’s wife Lynn is, Rob didn’t think she would take extracting kids and cars from snowbanks all week while her other half lay on the beach extracting pinas~ from coladas.

“Dear, I’m off to Mexico, change the oil in the Trooper while I’m  gone, will ya?”

“Of course, love, if you’ll bring me back one of those little soaps, from the hotel, I love those little guys, they’re so cute.”

Rob didn’t think it would go exactly like that...

I’d need a reason for my editor, Mr. Lee Ervin, a better reason than the brochure bombshell staring at me. I couldn’t even show Ervin the brochure, he’d think the girl was staring at him!

That’s the kind of guy he is...

“I know; we’ll go after Marlin!!” I told Rob.

“Who’s Marlin??” Marlin Davis?? Marlin the Magician??”

“Marlin the fish, the biggest game fish in the world, the one with the sword...”

“Hold it,” Rob cut in, “I don’t like fish, Lynn knows this, especially fish that are larger than me and armed...”

“Ok, I’ve got it, why do people go on vacation?”

“Because it’s there...??”

“No. Two reasons: number one, you go to escape your all-too-familiar surroundings; number two, you go to immerse yourself in totally unfamiliar surroundings, so you’re given a new perspective on your old familiar surroundings. We’ll go ‘cause there’s no Thanksgiving in Mexico, WE’LL GO ‘CAUSE IT’S NOT THERE!!!”

Rob stared at me as if he’d just realized he’d been carrying on a conversation with a cabbage. He backed quietly but quickly away...

It had been 20 years since I’d been to Mazatlan... 20 years since that horrible accident...maybe they’d forgotten by now...maybe it was safe to go back...

It was the dead of winter when we, myself and another long-haired reprobate, decided to go to Mexico. It was midnight, we had $200. By dawn we had purchased a 1964 Ford Galaxy for $100, exumed it from a snwbank and filled it with “trade items” for our neighbors to the south. We Americans have always had this pesky little habit of wanting other cultures to experience the wonders of a more advanced society such as ours.

We can’t travel to exotic lands without bringing something to impress the locals. Something like the Warthog Missile or a good case of smallpox will generally get their attention.

Our visit would be no different, we would bring the finest acheivements our culture had wrought thus far: eight-track Neil Diamond tapes, polyester bell bottoms, Playboy magazines...