Chapter 11

After what seems like days, I finally get called to leave the cell. Whenever someone gets called they don’t come back. Maybe we’re let go. I did sign those stupid papers.

I’m told to walk along the line again, even though it’s just me and a guard. We stop at a window with a small opening at the bottom. I the woman behind the glass my name, and she looks at me hard. My name does not amuse her, which I pick up on right away, because it usually amuses everyone else. She nods slowly, and opens up an envelope with my name on it. I feel like a convicted criminal, even though I haven’t done anything wrong.

She hands me my watch, wallet, jacket, and wedding picture of my parents.

“You think you’re pretty funny, huh?”

“No.”

“Well we got a way of dealing with smart-asses like you.”

“I’m not trying to make trouble, honest.” I get a feeling this isn’t a good time to start telling them I’m an American citizen.

She writes something down on a piece of paper and a buzzer goes off. “I’m done with this one. Have a nice trip. Next!“ A door opens and I am led into yet another cell. How many cells does this place have?

Have a nice trip? What did that mean?

 

 

Finally, after an eternity, a guard comes to let me out.

“Okay, we have something special for you today.”

“What? Special? What does that mean?”

“Special, as in, not ordinary, set apart. You should really learn the language if you’re going to try to live here, amigo. The judge has signed your papers, and your plane is waiting. Lets go.”

“Plane?”

I stand up and he grabs my wrists and spins me around. He puts the plastic handcuffs on me again. I hate them—they cut into my arms.

He walks me down a hallway, then out a door where I’m blinded by the sudden shock of real light—sunlight. I’m led to some kind of wagon or van that’s waiting for me, and without any warning, I’m shoved inside, landing on my face. I see a bunch of little white lights swirling and diving in front of my eyes.

“Hasta la vista, baby!” I look back over at him and see a wicked grin before the door slams shut. Where am I going? I thought they were going to let me go!

Chapter 12

After takeoff, a flight attendant cuts my handcuffs with a little clipper thing. They must get a lot of deportation-ers on these flights. Those Immigration officers seemed to think it was funny to send me as far away from the border as possible. So many questions flood my brain: what am I going to do? Why are they taking me to Guadalajara? How am I going to get home? Why is this happening to me?

A Pee Wee Herman movie starts on the screen in front of me. I can’t handle this right now. I feel the growing sadness in the center of my chest that signals depression, like lead flowing through my veins. I feel heavy, dark and tired, not to mention a little nauseous.

After about an hour of silent rage and frustration about my whole situation and how it is still playing out, arguing in my mind about who is at fault, tying to remember the guards names who shoved me around like a criminal, who I’m going to sue, and what CNN is going to say about all this once I get back, when I tire of all this screaming in my head, I come to the realization there is really nothing to do but sit back and go for a ride. I see a AAA Travel Guide to Mexico in the pocket in the seat in front of me. I pull it out, and flip through the pages. Wow, this is going too be a six or seven hour flight in cramped seats and crummy old movies. Maybe I can sleep my way to Guadalajara.

I begin to fantasize about jumping from the plane. I take back what I said to Willie about work and my version of hell. Right now, my whole life is hell.

 

The magazine pages, glossy and full of ads seem to be all for hotels and car rentals in Mexico, with happy white faces smiling at me, telling me what a great time I’ll have when I get there. Even the ads are insincere; fake smiles on fake families with fake promises.

 

 

Dad looks so different now. He is balding, which is rare for a Mexican, and the ring of hair in a circle around his head looks like a scruffy horseshoe. His mouth is dry and cracked and blistered from too much sun, his nose is swollen with thick purple veins from too much alcohol, a huge belly brags of his lack of physical effort and it sticks out from under a plain white sweat-stained tank-top t-shirt. His tattered blue jeans strain at the waist and stop right above his ankles, his sagging black socks show through his tan sandals, and his toes stick out through holes his toenails dug while tunneling to freedom. I’d recognize him anywhere.

His family comes up behind him like a sad garden, every flower a wilting tragedy. Torn and wrinkly dresses of various faded colors, and pants with holes in the knees. All the boys are fat around the middle and skinny everywhere else, just like their father. All the women, girls I should say, are barefoot and pregnant, from Mom right down to the teens and tweens. The whole tribe has gaps in their smiles and what’s left of their are yellow or brown. They obviously prefer tequila over mouthwash and the kids run around skinny and dirty with muddy mustaches made from dirt and snot. They smell like a garbage dump, and flies circle their heads looking for treats.

The family stares at me, trying to get me to come close so they can marvel at their American relative. Their sad, shameful faces painted with guilt, pleading for forgiveness, wishing they could be like me, thinking that maybe if they would have been kinder to me and my mother, things may have turned out better. Regret is their master and they swim in a sewer of shame and dishonor—evidence for all to see. They’re even shunned by other Mexicans and live like hobos, begging from town to town.

Someone asks me, “how can you be related to them?”

“I’m not really,” I tell them.

 

 

“This is your captain speaking.“

Huh? How long have I been asleep?

“We are on final approach at the Miguel Hidalgo y Castilla International Airport in Guadalajara.  The weather is sunny and a balmy eighty-five degrees. Please observe the fasten seat-belts sign. . .“

Oh, crap, I’m still on my way to Mexico. My wrists still have the indentations where the handcuffs were. This is really happening.

 

“. . . Please remain seated until the plane has made a full and complete stop.”

The moment the plane has all it’s wheels on the ground and the plane is level, many people jump up out of their seats, grab their things and rush to the front of the plane. It’s like a race or something. I guess, here in Mexico, there’s a lot of grey area in the definition of a full and complete stop.  I think I’ll wait and let them fight it out to get off the plane the quickest. A couple of extra minutes aren’t going to hurt me any.

As people pass by me, they stare at the guy who had the handcuffs on. This is so humiliating. At least now I know what real scumbags have to go through when they get deported. I always thought transporting them back home was a gift. I can’t wait to tell Shane. . . wait, I can’t tell Shane and Willie I got deported.

It looks like I might get the chance to face my father and reveal to everyone the scum-sucking pig he really is. This could be interesting. . .

 

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Chapter 13

Wow!  Eighty what degrees? Are you kidding? The heat off the tarmac is ferocious. I check my watch; it’s almost three. My stomach growls reminding me I missed lunch—breakfast, too, now that I think about it.

Not much of a greeting here at the airport. When you land in Hawaii I hear some beautiful girl puts a lei around your neck and gives you a kiss to welcome you to their island. You would think that Mexico would do something similar, with all the tourists that come here. Mexico should have their own twist to the greeting, like instead of a lei of flowers around your neck they could place a sombrero on your head, and when you bent over and closed your eyes for a kiss, the girl could give you a swift kick in the nuts.

I quickly cover the short distance from the plane to the airport, and pray the Mexicans have discovered—ahhh, air-conditioning.

I follow everyone else, they look like they know where they’re going. I think I have to go through Customs before I can enter Mexico. I wonder what this is going to be like. I’ve never been. . . that was it? Wasn’t I supposed to stop or anything? I look around and see a man in a tan uniform sitting at a table, barely feigning interest in the people passing by. Well that was anti-climactic. He barely looked at me. I guess I don’t fit the: drugs or weapons smuggling profile. I’m more the: young kid looking for his no good deadbeat dad, kind of profile. They probably get a lot of us down here. I bet someone could set up a little stand next to the customs desk—DNA testing, while you wait.

This is a very small, and old airport, and in no time I’m, back outside in the sweltering heat of the mid-day Mexican sun.

There’s got to be a bus stop around here.

I stand at the doorway for a second and take it all in. I’ve never been out of the United States before. I am in now another country. Yesterday I was at work, having a lousy day, but not in my scariest of nightmares would I have thought I would have ended up here, today, in Mexico of all places. My life got weird in a hurry.

I stand and look at the scene in front of me. The traffic is mesmerizing. It ebbs and flows, bobs and weaves, zigs and zags, all without turn signals to announce their intentions. I guess they drive by braille down here. All the cars are bunched together and synchronized like they’re in some kind of dance routine, and everyone is in colorful metal, glass and chrome costumes.

Feeling a drop of sweat run down my chest, I look for some shade. A bus stop would be nice. I could take the bus into town and look for my dad. I seriously doubt I will find him, but my parents got married in Guadalajara and my dad’s family lives around here somewhere. I don’t know when I’ll have this opportunity to find that deadbeat ever again.

The glare off the white buildings is harsh. Most people I see are wearing sunglasses. I should get some too. I’ll bet they’re pretty cheap down here.

Now, where is the bus stop? That looks kinda like a bus stop sign, but it’s all in Spanish, except for the numbers, so I really don’t know what it is.

I feel like such a tourist. If this is a bus stop and a bus does pick me up, I have no idea where it will take me. Everything around here is in Spanish.  I can’t tell which way I am facing but I think there are hotels in that direction.

 

 

I glance at my watch for the um-teenth time and see I’ve been standing here about five minutes, and I have yet to see a bus, just a few stragglers emptying out of the airport and disappearing every which way. Maybe waiting to be the last one out wasn’t such a smart idea. I bet everybody on the plane ran to get on the last bus before it left. Why doesn’t anyone announce these things? Instead of stating the obvious, “it’s eighty something degrees outside and very sunny,” which any fool is going to find out the moment they exit the plane, he should say, Hi this is your captain speaking, you have exactly two minutes to get to the bus stop before the last one leaves, so don’t worry about the plane stopping, just grab your things, open any emergency exit, and jump.

Two Mexican couples, come out of the airport and walk over to stand about fifty feet away from me, at the edge of the sidewalk and facing the oncoming traffic. They are all wearing light earth colors with white shirts and blouses. I’m at the bus stop, I think, so they must be waiting for family to come pick them up or something. There doesn’t appear to be an arrivals or departures staging area around here, or line of taxis waiting to take people away from the airport to the hotels. Maybe those got snapped up by the eager de-planers too.

The couples wave excitedly at a white Volkswagen van with the number fifteen written in black electrical tape on the front. It stops in front of them. The driver gets out and runs around the front of the van to open the door for them, then he runs back to the drivers side, gets back in, and they drive right past me. The passengers and I stare at each other as they drive by. I get a funny feeling something just happened.

Another couple comes out of the airport, talking and waving their hands excitedly. They walk over towards me, and they also stop about forty feet between me and the oncoming traffic. They are not there for long before they get into an old, small, green and yellow Volkswagen beetle, which I bet is a cab. Maybe that Volkswagon van was a cab too. Makes sense. Small slug-bug cab for a couple of passengers, and a big van for families or people with lots of luggage. They probably use Volkswagens for cabs like we used to use those old Checker cabs. I still don’t see any buses coming.

A small family carrying some luggage stands in about the same place as the last people did, and they appear to be looking for someone too. After a few minutes another white Volkswagen van with the number 12 in thick black tape pulls up and the driver runs around, opens the door and they get in. The driver runs back around to his side, gets in and pulls out into traffic and drives right on by—same as before. The driver is smiling and sweating as the van passes me. Still no bus. They should post a schedule with bus numbers and routes so people would know how long they should expect to wait like we do back home.

A gentle breeze carries the scent of Mexican food to me. If I walk in the direction of the wind I’m sure to find a restaurant. I don’t think there are any houses around here. Restaurant. I’m getting hungry. I didn’t eat real well in jail, and I slept most of the trip on the plane. Maybe I should look for some food first, and then start looking for my deadbeat dad.

A middle-aged woman with short black hair and large gold hoop earrings walks up and stands twenty feet in front of me. Her baggy tan colored pants and silky blue shirt wave lazily in the light breeze. The wind isn’t strong enough to actually cool anything down, it just gently blows hot air all over my body and makes me drowsy. I feel like I’m standing in front of a giant blow dryer with the setting turned to boredom. I need to get this search for my—that jerk going as soon as possible, and then find a way to get back home.

The woman in front of me waves and a small green and yellow Volkswagen beetle stops beside her.  This must be the slug-bug capitol of the world. The driver just reaches over and opens the door from inside to let the woman in. Still no bus in sight.

It’s way too hot to stay here in the sun all day. Maybe I should hire the next Volkswagen that comes by.

A young couple with their young daughter in hand, stops about the same place that last woman stood before getting her cab. They all seem to want to stand between me and the oncoming traffic. I think I’ll stand twenty feet in front of them and snag the next slug-bug that comes by. I’ll just pick up my bag, walk nonchalantly . . .

Mission accomplished. Now I just have to find the next yellow and green slug bug, or white van with a number on it and flag it down. It shouldn’t be long. I’ve seen three or four of them go by in the last few minutes.

A small family stops about twenty feet in front of me. It’s a young couple with a little daughter. . . hey! I look behind me and the family I snuck in front of is not where I left them. That is them. They are in front of me again.

They are a young family, not much older than me and their little black-haired girl, dressed in light blue dress like her mom, is staring right at me. Her parents are pretending I don’t exist. Well two can play—well four can play this game.

I slowly walk a long way around them so they don’t see me. . . La de dah, such a nice day for a pleasant stroll. . .

Oh shit. They must have eyes in the back of their heads. They are casually walking further up the sidewalk too. That’s not fair! I’ve been here way longer than them. I walk faster.

Busted, Mom just took a peek. Now they are walking faster too. My casual walk has now turned into a stiff-legged run. They begin to run, too, but the little girl is slowing them down. Ha!  Oh good they stopped. Victory is. . . Oh shit! I didn’t see that green beetle. Well, it’s theirs now. The Dad looks over at me with a cocky grin. Whatever.

I look back in the direction I came from and see I’ve run about a quarter mile in the opposite direction I want to go. My whole body is now covered in sweat.

I think I’ll just walk in the direction all of those Volkswagens went. Funny how nobody stands at the bus stop—wait! Maybe it’s not a bus stop. Maybe it’s just a trap so the locals can get taxis without having to wait in line behind the tourists.

Before I cross the street, I take one last look back to see if anyone is standing at the bus stop. Nope. Maybe it’s out of order. Or maybe the Mexicans haven’t quite figured out how bus stops work.

I pull out the picture from my back pocket and look at it as I walk. I might as well start searching for my so-called father, or anyone else in this photo. Mom said my so-called dad washed dishes and bussed tables, but you gotta think that in seventeen years he would have gotten a promotion. I wonder if he cooks. They do speak his language down here, so he could work the front of the house too. Maybe he is a waiter. I think searching the larger restaurants and hotels will be a great place to start. Then, if I don’t find him today, I’ll ask at the jail or police station, first thing in the morning. I bet he’s on a first name basis with everyone who works in the jail. One of his brothers is a cop. He’s in his uniform in this picture.

Here comes a white Volkswagen van. Just for kicks I wave at it. It pulls over and stops right in front of me. The driver runs around and opens the door. SCORE!  There’s a couple of other people already in here. Are we sharing? How does that work?

I get inside and the driver closes the door, and while he runs back to the driver’s side of the car, I take one last look to see if there’s a bus anywhere in sight. I wonder if bus stops are even needed, unless you are a bored Mexican, and want to laugh at the stupid tourists who stand around waiting next to any old metal pole that sticks out of the sidewalk.

“Hi, my friend, you need hotel?”

English, great. “Yes, I need a cheap hotel, some place near all the big hotels.”

“You need big hotel.”

I guess his English isn’t all that great. “Yes, I need a hotel in la middle of la. . . Guadalajara.”

“ Oh, yes, my friend. I got it for you, my friend.” He has a big smile that wrinkles his whole face. He is a thin middle-aged man and he’s wearing a light brown hat with a black band around it, and a white short-sleeved button down shirt with pockets on both sides, but something about him strikes me as odd. I can see he is also wearing a t-shirt underneath his shirt. In this heat? Are you kidding me? Where’s his mittens!

The other people in the back smile when I turn and look at them. Can I handle three days of this? I have to be back at work on Thursday. “Not too expensive,” I repeat.

“Ex-pen-sive.”

“No, NOT EX-PEN-SIVE-O.”

“Espensivo.”

Christ, I’m in a country of idiots. What was I thinking? I’ll never find my—ugh!

“Sure, sure my friend. I got it for you,” he says again with a big grin. I should have just walked. We merge into traffic, or more correctly, push everyone else out of the way. As we pass an old Mercedes-Benz, it does the same to us and we swerve a bit, and everyone next to us swerves too. I guess cars made in Germany have the right of way down here.

The city is dull and drab, with dirty white buildings that contrast sharply against the brightly colored signs advertising things in Spanish, mainly, but there are some in English scattered about too. This town stinks of cars and beans and every few blocks there is the sound of Mexican music playing loudly outside, as if it’s piped in from some central radio station for the amusement of the tourists.

I didn’t think the airport was this far from the center of town. The driver is pointing out all the landmarks and saying stuff in Spanish. I guess he used up all his English on, “I got it for you, my friend.”

The city is bigger than I had imagined. We seem to be in the downtown area now. Large stately hotels, bars, stores, a few big neon lights. many more signs in English, lots of old, small offices over appliance stores, apartments over liquor stores, shops over restaurants, cantinas over shops, shops over shops—very confused looking.

The driver stops in front of a large hotel then jumps out and runs around the van.  I guess he was going to open the door for me, but I’m halfway out already when he gets to me. The couple in the back look relieved. I pull out a couple of dollars and hand it to my new smiling friend.

“Thank you, my friend. Hasta luego.” he says and runs back to the drivers seat. I wave, and the old folks in the back of the van wave back, as the driver shoves his way back into traffic.

I look at the large, hotel in front of me. There’s a fountain in front and tall potted shrubs on either side of the front doors. I guess this is as good a place as any to start. I’m not sure what to expect, but I might as well look around for my good-for-nothing dad, and maybe see some of Mexico before I get a room and call Mom.

Wow! How am I going to explain all this? I barely believe what’s happened myself, yet here I am.

Chapter 14

The moment I set foot inside the hotel, icy air removes any drowsiness the extreme heat outside may have given me. They seem to have perfected air-conditioning down here. It’s not this cool in the offices or restaurants in Arizona.

The lobby is gi-normous. The floor is black marble tiles with white and gold veins and flecks. The sofa’s are all plush white, and there are black throw pillows with gold tassels at each corner. There is a scattering of dark wood tables, some with magazines and newspapers on top of them. It looks like bus loads of people cold sit and talk, or read in here. Where they would get the buses—I don’t know, but they could get dropped off here while they wait to get checked in. At the far end is the reception desk, and then off to the right appears to be a lot of plants and music.  I wonder how much it costs to stay here. Oh, that reminds me. How many pesos are there in a dollar? I should probably go to a bank and switch the money so when they say something costs so many pesos, I can give it to them and they won’t try to take advantage of me when they see I have American money and no friggin clue what the conversion rate is.

I make my way through the expanse of the lobby to the reservation desk. A nice looking brunette in a dark blue suit and long straight hair pulled back behind her ears, smiles and looks up at me from her computer.

“Hi, do you have a reservation?”

I have no idea what to say. How do I word this? I’m looking for my father, sounds pathetic. Do you know any of these people, sounds like a detective. Should I ask for him by name? That at least sounds normal. I’m taking way too long to answer her. She must think I’m deaf or something. “Hi, sorry. . . um, does an Armando Veela work here?”

“I’m sorry sir, I don’t recognize that name. Does he work in the hotel or the restaurant?”

“I. . . either. . . um . . . I mean, I don’t know.” Get a grip Frank, “I’m looking for my . . . uncle. I haven’t seen him for a long time. The last I heard he was working in a hotel or restaurant in Guadalajara.  Do you recognize any of these people?”

“Any of these people?”

Oh crap. “Yeah, I haven’t seen some of my relatives in a long time and I’m trying to look them up, you know, find my roots.” Roots? Did I actually say roots?

“Maybe you should talk with a manager, perhaps he could help you.”

“Great. That would be fine, I mean fine, that would be great.” I’m coming off as a complete idiot. I can’t believe I’m sweating in this chilly room?

“Can I tell him your name?”

“Frank. Frank Veela.”

“Veela?”

“Villa, Frank Villa.”  Great. Now she thinks I don’t even know my own name. She waves to a tall, black-haired man in a light colored suit and dark tie. I hope he’s the manager and not a hotel-bouncer-guy.

“Frank . . . Villa here is looking for his uncle, perhaps you can help him?”

“Possibly.”

Wow, give the cologne a break. “ His name is Armando Villa. Here is a picture. I haven’t seen him in a long time and the last I heard he was working in a hotel or restaurant around here, so I thought I’d ask around and see if anyone recognized an old photo of him.” There, that sounded normal.

The manager’s neatly trimmed mustache purses up for a second as he looks hard at the photo, and then he looks back at me, and his impeccably trimmed eyebrows get a little screwed up, then he looks back at the photo again. I’m impressed by his haircut. Every line is straight and sharp. I bet when he goes in for a haircut; he gets his whole head done at the same time.

“He is the Groom, no?”

“Yes, you know him?” Could it be this easy? A chill runs through my entire body. I might actually get face-to-face with my dad—holy shit!

“No, but I see the family likeness.”

Whew! Close one.

He points to someone in the picture. “Is that John Travolta?”

“No, he’s an uncle.”

“Oh, that white suit and black shirt. . . I’m sorry sir, I don’t recognize him, or any of these people. Perhaps you could try the police, maybe they could help you better.”

“Maybe, but first I thought I’d try some of the places he may have worked and look for find a friend or something.”

“Perhaps if you show this photo to the bartender. Gerardo is his name. He has been longer here than anyone, even myself.”

“Okay. Thanks for your help.” This guy’s English is really good. A slight accent, but I can at least understand him.

He smiles at me, but without moving his head, his eyes look at the receptionist. She returns the same expressionless look.

What was I thinking? Hello, have you seen my daddy? Oh God, this is so pathetic. I really should have thought about this on the flight over—prepared a script or something.

I follow the music around the corner and see a live Mariachi band playing on a small stage in a cafeteria-sized lounge.

The bar is very showy. All the bottles of liquor are lined up neatly above the bar, and small lights behind some of the bottles make them glow wonderful colors. The bar itself is black, with padded black leather edges to lean against, and it’s sunk into the ground so that the bartender is at eye level with the customers when they are sitting. Very classy.

The bartender sees me coming and he walks over to me. His uniform is sharp. Black pants, black vest, white ruffled shirt. When he gets right in front of me I can see him more closely. I notice this guy must go to the same barber as the last guy. Every hair on his head and face is cut very straight, and in sharp angles. It’s like somebody masked off his face and spray painted his hair on.

“Hi, what can I get you?”

Wow, what is the drinking age down here? “Hi, Gerardo? The manager said I should ask you if you know my uncle, Armando Villa.”

“Armando Villa? No senior, the name is not familiar.”

“Well, maybe you would recognize his picture.”

I hand it to him and he bends over to see it in the lights below the bar. “Which one is he?” He looks up at me and then back to the photo.  “Oh, wait, he is this one. The wedding is his.”

“Yeah, my uncle married my mom—I mean my mom married my aunt. No, my mom is not my aunt.” Ugh!  “These are all my relatives, do you recognize any of them? I’d really like to find them, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen them.”

“All of them?”

Oh, shit.

“You are missing all of your family?”

“Yeah, I . . . um. . . ran away from home when I was. . . young . . . ger,  and now I’m trying to find them.”  God that was stupid. He studies the photo a bit more, then hands it back to me.

“No, I do not know any of them, but that is an old photo. Sorry. May I get you a drink?”

“No thanks.” I just want to get the heck out of here.

 

 

The noon sun bouncing off all the buildings outside instantly blinds me after being in that dark bar, and the heat seems even worse after being in that refrigerator of a hotel. I wait for my eyes to adjust before going down the steps.

My stomach growls, no—roars, reminding me I haven’t eaten today. I should look for a decent restaurant. I wonder if there are any American food places around here. This lady looks friendly, I’ll ask her. “Excuse me, do you know where there is a McDonalds or Carl’s Junior—“

“Si. . . “ and that is all I understand. She is talking so fast it sounds like a kid imitating a machine gun. Bih-kih-duh  bah-kih-duh  boh-kih-duh  boo-kih-duh, bang bang bang. Is this really a language?

“Gracias.” I’ll just keep walking down this street a bit farther.

This is a strange city. Some of the streets are paved with asphalt and some of them are paved with stones. You know if they cleaned the outside of the buildings once a decade or so, this place wouldn’t look so. . . lived in.  Could use a little paint too. Why do I smell beans? Is it this city, or has Taco Bell ruined my nose?

I’ll try some Spanish on this guy. “Hi, hola. Donde esta la McDonalds?”

. . . Damn! This guy talks faster than that lady. Okay, smile and nod and keep on moving.

My watch says 3:28, but did I pass an international time zone, or did I just go straight down? Maybe there’s more time lines at the equator. Makes sense; the earth is wider at the equator and the sun would probably take longer to get around the middle than at the ends.

I’ll ask this lady, “hola. Donde esta la McDonalds?” Why did she give me that look? What the heck is she saying? Over this way? Yeah, pointing helps. Okay, Gracias.” I must be getting close.

The buildings down this street seem to be getting older and more tired. Laundry hangs out to dry above what looks like a video store. An apartment above a musical instrument store doesn’t have any curtains, and a chubby woman in a black sleeveless dress smokes a cigarette and blows the smoke out over the street.

When I turn the corner, the accordions that had been lurking in the shadows until now have all been set free and happy music is bouncing off the walls and down the street. It’s like a Mexican boom box competition with singers, accordions, and tubas adding to the cacophony of Mexican life here in the older part of the city. I can’t quite distinguish one song from another.  Accordion music, hot and muggy weather, bean scented air. . .  It’s almost like home—or is home, almost like here.

I walk a little farther, and some kids are playing stick-ball in the street, squeezed in by old cars on both sides, but they don’t seem to mind. All of the ones with long pants have holes in the knees, and the ones wearing shorts have bandages on one or both of theirs. They look like they’ve been playing all day. Someone should tell these guys it’s okay not to slide into home when you’re playing on asphalt.

“Hi guys, donde esta McDonalds?” . . . Wow, jackpot. Of course, any kid will know where McDonalds is. “Wait, wait, slow down.” That shut them up. “Donde McDonalds?” . . . Frickin-A.  All six of these little guys are talking excitedly and pointing in all different directions. I can’t make out a single word. “Gracias.”

I think this is the way back to the center of town. I cross the street at the light and after a minute I come across someone who might help me. Wait, this guy looks tough. Just look down and keep walking.  People get mugged down here all the time. I should have just stayed on the main street. I suddenly feel like I’m a junky, looking to score a McFix in the shady part of town.

I cross the street at another light and walk back towards where I think I came from. The sidewalks here are made of brick. I’ve never seen that before. Ever.

It’s so hot down here. I sure could use a soda right about now. Yeah, a couple of Big Macs and a humungous Pepsi. I’ll ask these two guys for directions.

It just occurs to me there is something strange going on around here. What’s up with all the dark colored t-shirts? It’s way too hot down here for dark clothes.  “Hola, donde esta la McDonalds?” He points down another street. Great, I haven’t been down there. Maybe this is where I went wrong. There had better be a fricking McDonalds down here or I swear. . . I mean, how can I expect to find my father when I can’t even find a McDonalds in Mexico? It should stand out amongst all the cantinas, Mexican markets, and shoe repair shops like a Nun in a crack-house.  This looks like a used record store. They still have these?

This guy looks friendly, “hola, donde esta McDonalds? “

“Hola. I don’t know, tu savy Starbucks?”

“No. Yo looking por McDonalds.”

“Yo looking por Starbucks. Tu no like Mexican comida in Guadalajara?”

“Nah, yo trabajo in Taco Bell in Arizona. Yo tango mucho Mexican comida every day.”

“Oh, si.  Yo no see a McDonalds, pero yo see yellow esta.”

“Tu mean down aquis?”

“Si, attempt-o esta.”

“Okay, gracias.”

“De Nada. Tu no seen a Starbucks?”

“No, pero, con me . . . luck-o, it’s probably next to la McDonalds.”

We both laugh. “Si,” he says.

“Well, good luck.”

“You too.”

Finally, someone who speaks regular Spanish, and at a reasonable speed too.

Chapter 15

I’m so hungry I could. . . Oh my God. . . I see something yellow. I feel a surge of energy. As I get closer, two large yellow arches begin sticking out from behind their hiding place beside a large building. What a beautiful sight. I think I hear a choir of angels singing. When did I start running? Who cares; I am so starving. . . and melting.

I rush past people leaving the restaurant, fling open the front door and scramble inside. I never thought I’d miss the smell of hamburgers and French fries so much. Wait a minute. What’s this? The menu is in Spanish? Are you kidding me? The sign is in English.

Okay, no problem. I speak restaurant Spanish. I can figure this out. Okay I’m looking for a Big Mac. You can’t say that in any other language. Big Mac. . .  Big Mac. . .  Grande Mac—that’s it!  Tried to trick me eh? Oh, wait—there are a bunch of little paper menus in English on this table.

Wait a minute. Now that the menu is in English, why is the money still in Spanish? That only helps me half-way. Somebody should tell that Kroc dude it’s either all or nothing for us Gringo’s. If someone doesn’t speak Spanish, they probably don’t comprenday pesos either. Look at these prices. It feels funny to spend over four hundred of anything for a hamburger. Okay, my turn. “Yo quiero dose Grande Macs y uno Pepsi grande por favor.”

“Hey, great Spanish.”

“Oh, you speak English.”

“Duh- McDonalds.”

“Duh- Mexico.”

“Duh—ochenta y cuatro dólares y bayntay says veintiséis centavos por favor.”

“What?”

“I didn’t think so.”

Great, I’m getting talked down to by a McDonalds worker in Mexico. That just made my day.

“Oh, American dollars, who would have guessed?

I think I’ll just keep my mouth shut and wait for my food. She is bagging it right now. Everyone is in uniform and working away, floors clean, everything is in good repair. Red tile floors, just like at Taco Bell. Somebody probably made a lot of money selling red tile to all the restaurants of the world.

“Here you go, Señor! Next?”

Ahhh, this smells so much better than beans. There’s an empty table over there by the window. Let’s see if the food is the same as back home. That’s what a franchise is all about, right? Consistency. Looks good. . . Smells normal. I take a big bite, chew it a few times and the old familiar flavors—what the. . . hot! hot, hot. . . jalepenos?  What am I going to do with a mouth full of acid?  I spit my mouthful of half-chewed burger onto the table in front of me. I sip on my soda with the same intensity as a fireman putting out a three-alarmer.

That’s better. Who the heck would put. . . oh yeah, Mexico; they probably put jalepenos in everything.

Where’s that cashier. . .  She sees me, and her smile got a little bigger. No problem. I open up the burger and take the offending peppers out. I notice the Mexican guy at the table next to me is putting them in his burger. His jalepenos are on the side in a small plastic cup. Mine were inside. . . I look back at the cashier who suddenly looks very busy, even though there’s nobody in line at the moment. Okay, rule number one: don’t piss off the cook before she makes your food. That is rule number one anywhere. God! I go to Mexico and immediately lose forty or fifty I.Q. points.

Oh well, at least the soda tastes normal. Too bad it’s almost gone.

I look straight ahead at a large and very pale Mexican lady, dressed in a large red Moo moo, or sarong, or whatever you call those things that wrap around you like you just rolled out of bed, taking a very colorful sheet with you. She has dozens of packets of hot sauce. Hot sauce? They have hot sauce at Mc. . . Mexico, I keep forgetting. In here, all the decor, the smells, the colors, tables, everything is just like in America—except for the menu’s, but if you don’t try to read them, you’d swear you were in the US, except for the jalapeños and hot sauce. She’ll never even taste that chicken.

I kind of expected to see more Americans in here. Bummer. I would have liked someone to talk to.

The workers here are good. The floors are clean, the tables shine, the signage is neat, the ceiling—ah, is that lint I see on the ceiling bosoms? Yep, not quite as detail oriented as we are back home. The windows look good, and I don’t remember seeing any litter outside, but then again I was pretty much focused on getting inside once I saw those big yellow arches.

Those Big Macs went quick. Okay, now the final test. Let’s see what their bathrooms look like. . . or do I dare? I just ate. Oh well, I gotta go. That Pepsi is running right though me.

 

It’s still hot as hell outside. I have to jump to my right to dodge a guy with large mad eyes running into McDonalds. That’s probably what I looked like when I found this place. I guess this happens all the time around here. They should seriously think about putting the arches higher, or hanging over the street or something.

Now which way do I go?

 

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Chapter 16

This hotel looks good: tall and kind of old-ish looking, with lots of wood trim, the usual stucco exterior walls, and a red tile roof. A dark red canopy stretches out twenty feet to greet the guests and a gold seal or coat of arms hangs from the front of it. A deep red carpet covers the sidewalk that leads to two large glass doors. I bet a couple of hundred people work here. I can already hear the music coming from somewhere deep inside the building.

The moment I step inside I notice this hotel is colder than the last one. The decorations are older and darker. The floor is red tiles with dark grey grout in between them, the same as in Taco Bell, but much larger. There are tall green plants in large white vases, and the walls are covered in red wallpaper with some kind of pattern in red felt sticking out of it. All the wood chairs and sofas are made of dark wood and the cushions are covered in pearl white cloth. The front desk is made of dark wood to match the furniture, and is only a few steps from the front door. A female desk clerk in a white suit smiles at me, so I walk over and re-start my search for my deadbeat dad.

“Hi, um, my name is Frank Villa and I’m looking for my uncle. His name is Armando Villa, does he work here. . . by chance?” This girl isn’t as pretty as the last one. She’s obviously dyed her black hair blonde—which now looks orange, and she has a slight black mustache under a Toucan-like nose. Her eyebrows are thick and dark and I can see her plucking a break in-between them to keep from having a bug furry uni-brow. I bet all her friends say she has a “great personality.”

“Just a moment.”

She picks up the phone and talks quietly so I can’t hear what she is saying.

Thank God! The music stopped.

“Senior Villa? I checked and there is no Armando Villa working here. Your uncle, don’t you know where he works?”

“No, I just know he works in a hotel in Guadalajara. Maybe he’s worked here in the past?”

“You may check with the Manager. He has been here many years. He is in the bar right now.” She points to a set of dark wooden doors off to the right of the lobby. “He is wearing a white suit.”

“Okay, thanks” I walk over to the large wooden doors and open one. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to get used to the darkness. I begin to make out a little guy with black hair, chubby face, goatee, white suit, thin black tie. He looks like a mini Mexican Colonel Sanders. I’ll just wait here until he’s done talking to the musicians. I can’t believe how dark it is in here. This must be the place to come when you are having an affair and you don’t want to be recognized.

There he goes. “Excuse me sir? Are you the manager?”

“Si, yes, may I help you?”

“Hi, my name is Frank Villa and I am looking for my uncle. I haven’t seen him in quite a while and all I know is he lives in Guadalajara and works in a restaurant or hotel.”

“There are many hotels in Guadalajara, and many more restaurants. Good luck.”

He begins to turn away, “His name is Armando Villa.”

“No, Armando Villa is not working here.” He starts to leave again.

“You don’t recognize the name?”

“No, excuse me please. Maria? Maria, momentito. . .”

I think I’ll keep my photo in my pocket and just take his word that he doesn’t work here.

“Can I get you something?” The bartender scared the crap out of me, my eyes are still getting used to the dark.

“Me? Oh, no thank you, I just—I have to go.” The drinking age must be around eighteen. Maybe even sixteen. This trip could get interesting.

As I leave I see the orange-haired hostess isn’t busy. “Excuse me, where is the next big hotel from here?”

“That would be the  “Matador.” Are you walking or driving?”

“Walking.”

“Okay, Just go left and down the street about six blocks, and then go right and under the freeway. It will be on your left. Good luck finding your uncle.

“Thanks.” Whew, that was a little easier. I leave just as the band begins to play; perfect timing or what? I wonder if I should even try showing the photo any more. It is pretty old.

I step outside and once again face the intense heat and harsh sunlight. In front of me I see a green Volkswagen pull out right in front of a white pickup. The people driving those slug-bugs are maniacs. I’m amazed they aren’t all dented up, but if they constantly miss each other like that, then maybe they should be in good condition. It does kinda look like close calls are the norm around here. Turn signals are definitely optional equipment. I wonder if they are even installed on cars bound for Mexico. Or maybe the first thing they do with a new car is yank out the turn signal lever. Wont’ be needing this—yank!

I pass by a small colorful cantina that’s in the middle of a large building. Could be a Mexican dive.  It’s painted the same color as those green Volkswagens, and it has a bright blue door.  There are no windows. You can tell the music inside is coming from a jukebox or radio or something. Definitely not live. I bet only hardcore Mexican drinkers go there. I wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like that.

A little farther down the street I see the freeway the receptionist was talking about. I stand and wait for the light to turn green, but everyone else seems to just keep right on walking. Green light, red light, yellow light—doesn’t matter. Maybe Mexicans are color blind and they are just too proud to admit it. That would explain the gaudy color combinations for their restaurants, bars and taxis.

A lady and her little boy walk up behind me and wait for the light with me. Two teens just keep on going as if the light wasn’t even there and walk in between the crossing traffic. One of them turns around and looks at me, like I’m from Mars or something—that’s not emasculating. I bet that’s how it all started; one guy makes a dash for it and nobody else wants to look like a wimp.

Finally the light turns green.

Chapter 17

A big restaurant squats beside the overpass on this side of the street, and it sits in the middle of a large parking lot. I think I’ll check here first, and then go to the hotel across the street after.

The moment I step inside I’m greeted by a long lost friend: air conditioning. It’s like food for the skin.

The hostess is pretty, I guess, in a strange sort of way.

“Hi sir, welcome to El Burro. Just one today?”

“No, actually I’m looking for my uncle. His name is Armando Villa. Does he work here?”

“No, I am not to be knowing any Armando.”

She’s not strange looking—she’s Indian. “Are you sure? Has he worked here in the past maybe?”

“You are not knowing where is to be your uncle?”

“I only know he is in Guadalajara and works in a restaurant or hotel.” Christ, does everyone down here know where all their relatives are twenty-four hours a day?

“That is being a lot of places to look. I’ll ask my manager. He may be knowing your uncle. You can wait in the bar. Your name is?”

“Frank Villa. Thanks.” Wow, I never knew people from other countries would want to work in Mexico. I thought just Mexicans wanted to work in the US. . . I wonder if she’s legal?

I walk over to the back of the restaurant where the bar is. Nice, plush black leather seats. Ahh! It feels great to get off my feet. I’ve been doing a lot of walking today.

Live  Mariachi music begins to play—how original. It’s like the same band is playing the same song everywhere I go. Is today Groundhog Day in Mexico?  It’s more like a song than a musical style. I bet the guy who wrote this song was named Mariachi.

“What can I get you?”

I look up and I’m face to face with a latin model. Wow, she is beautiful. “Um. . . could, uh. . .  yeah. . .  um,” I bet I’m scoring big points so far. “ I’ll have a beer.”

“What kind?”

Oh shit, I hadn’t thought of that. “Um. . .  what, um. . .  kind do you have?”

“Tecate, Dos Equis, Corona . . ”

“Okay, that one. . .  a Corona.” I’ve seen those commercials with the lime wedge in the bottle.

“Okay.” She puts a square white paper napkin on the table in front of me and then turns and walks away, leaving a wake of sweet femininity behind her.  I like the way she walks. Her butt’s a little big but. . .

“Hi sir, are you Mister Villa, the person looking for his uncle?”

“Yes, that’s me. His name is Armando Villa. Have you ever heard of that name?”

“You can’t possibly be a detective.”

“No, I’m not. Really, he is my uncle and I just want to find him. We haven’t heard from him for a couple of years and my mom is a little worried.”

“I see. No, I don’t know anyone by that name. Do you have a photo of him?”

“Yeah, right here.” I fish it out of my back pocket and hand it to him. He takes out a little flashlight from his jacket pocket and shines it on the photo. Man, is this guy is prepared, or what?

“Is this your most recent photo?”

“It’s the only one I have with me.”

“Which one—the groom, no?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“No, no. The only one I recognize, well, partly—“

“Really, which one?” Anyone in that photo could lead me to him.

“The man in the white suit, John Travolta, are you related?”

“No, he’s another uncle.”

“John Travolta is your uncle?”

“No, the man in the picture is my uncle, not John Travolta.”

Oh, I thought you said he was your uncle.

He is my uncle.

John Travolta is your uncle?

No, John Travolta is John Travolta and my uncle is my uncle.

Oh, I see. No, I don’t know him, but that looks like a long time to remember a face.”

“Okay, well, thanks for your time anyway.”

“It is nothing.”

“Here’s your Corona,” the waitress sets the bottle on the napkin in front of me.

“Thanks.” I’m actually going to buy a beer. The manager didn’t even blink when the cocktail waitress walked up with it on her tray. This is so easy.

“That will be thirty-six pesos.”

“Uh, all I have is American is that okay?”

“Yes, that will be . . .”

“Will five do?”

“Yes.”

She smiles and for a moment I forget who I am. “Okay here you go. Keep the change.”

“Gracias. My name is Carla.”

“Hi, my name is Frank.”

“I mean I’m your cocktail waitress, Carla, let me know if you need anything more.”

“Uh, yeah, and I’m your customer, Frank. . . nice to meet you.” God! Did I just say that? This is going to be hard when I get old enough to drink back home. They should let you practice so you won’t be such a klutz when you turn twenty-one and all the sudden you’re supposed to know how to do this.

Wow, my first beer. . . Ugh! This tastes awful. “Uuuughhhh.”   I think I’ll chug this thing and get it over with. . . ow, ow, ow, it burns. Too much carbonation. “Buuuurrrrp! Oh, excuse me.” That just came out all at once. I see why people drink beer slowly.

“Burrrrrrp.”  Okay, almost done. There aren’t very many people in here, and nobody seems to be paying me any attention. I better get this over with before someone cards me. I gotta burp one more time. I’ll try to be more discreet, “Auuurrrp.” Oh crap, I burped through my nose. I grab the napkin and wipe my burning and dripping nose with it. A flood falls down my cheeks. This must be why they give you napkins with your beer.

I dry my eyes with the backs of my hands and look around the room.  I wonder where Carla went? Good thing she didn’t see that. I gotta get going before I do something really stupid like fart out of my ears or something.

I try to finish the beer, but only get a couple of sips before I have to stop. It tastes horrible. People actually like this stuff? It tastes like. . .  wheat soda. Who in the world came up with this idea? It sounds about as appetizing as carpet flavored cup cakes. I finish the beer and practically run for the door.

It’s not as bright out now as it was earlier. There are long shadows all around, making the buildings less bright and reflective. The temperature is cooling off a bit too. That was a trip—I bought and drank my first beer. Wow. Mexico is cool! I would have never gotten away with that back home. Sniff, sniff. My sinuses are extremely clear, too. Nice. I wonder what strange new experience awaits me at the next hotel.

Chapter 18

What’s up with hotels and air-conditioning? The chill in here wraps me up like a cold blanket. Mariachi are playing in the bar as usual. Must be some kind of law or something; if you sell alcohol, you must have mariachi music playing.

The host in this hotel is a man for a change. He is tall, blonde, wearing black pants, black vest and white shirt. Another guy walks up to him and he is dressed the same, except he also has a black jacket and tie on too. They both look American. What are they doing working down here? What is this, reverse immigration—outigration? I’m going to have to shout above the music in here to be heard, “Excuse me but I am looking for my uncle. Here’s an old photo of him, he’s the groom and his name is Armando Villa. Does he work here?” The waiter glances at the picture, then quickly walks away.

“Let me see that. . . when was this picture taken? Hey, is that—“

“—No, he’s not. He’s an uncle.”

“Well, it sure looks like him . . .”

Apparently John Travolta was big in Mexico in the seventies. “Yeah, it’s all I have with me. Do you know anyone who would be able to help me find him? My mother is really worried. We haven’t heard from him in over two years.”

“No, I’ve been here for twelve years. I don’t think your uncle has ever worked here. Of course, he could look a lot different today. John Travolta doesn’t even look like that any more.”

“Yeah, I’m finding that out.”

“Now if you’ll excuse me.” The host grabs some menu’s and walks over to a small family who just came in the front door.

The memory of my first beer makes me giddy inside. I wonder if the bar here will serve me.  Couldn’t hurt to try. The beer didn’t really taste all that bad did it? I’m starting to feel a little. . . different—calm, perhaps. How many beers does it take to get drunk?

I follow the music to the bar and notice it’s darker in here than the lobby, which may be why I was served before; they couldn’t see me very good. “Hi, can I have a Corona?” The bartender smiles and walks down the bar and brings back a beer, opens it in front of me and sets it down on a square white paper napkin. Five dollars worked last time. Maybe if it’s a good tip they won’t say anything. “Here, keep the change.”

“Gracias.”

I sit down at the bar where he put the napkin and beer. I look around for someone to object and see it doesn’t look like anybody even sees me. I’m actually sitting at the bar. This is so cool. Peanuts sit in a shallow black bowl in front of me. Maybe these will help with the taste. I should probably hurry, an American manager will probably know I’m not old enough to drink yet. Or am I?

This place is getting busy; there aren’t many empty seats in here. The cocktail waitresses don’t wear skirts as short as across the street, but then again this is a hotel. Gotta keep a family image, I guess.

These peanuts are addicting. They seem to be working; this beer doesn’t seem so bad. . . Ugh! But not that great either. I would much rather have a Coke. They burn when you chug them too, and make you burp, but at least they taste better.

I notice all the single men sit here at the bar, while couples and small groups sit at booths along the walls or tables set up in neat rows in the middle of the room. A small napkin sized dance floor, that probably holds two couples—three max, sits empty in front of the band. This same song has been playing in all the places I’ve been to today—except McDonalds. Must be the national anthem.

I gulp down my beer to finish it off.  That wasn’t so bad. The peanuts are all gone too. I guess that’s my cue to leave.

Whoa! Almost fell off this bar stool. They should make them a little more stable. This could be a lawsuit waiting to happy. Okay, where next?

It’s getting dark. I should searching stop soon. I don’t wanna get mugged. Maybe I’ll get a room at the next place I go. Hey! I feel great.

The temperature outside is getting bearable now that the sun is almost down. Man, look at that family run across the street. All four of them—made  it too. Boy, If they can cross here, they can cross anywhere. . . “it’s up to you. . .  something-something Mexi-cooo.”

Hey, what is this guy looking at? Never seen a white guy before?  Well, that’s okay. This is the first time I ever seen a Mexican Mexico. Where the hell am I? Where’s my bag, oh, I don’t have one. Whew! I think I’m getting drunk.

Oh, a Volkswagen. I’ll flag it down. “Yeah, sure I want a ride. Take me to. . . thank you I can get in. . .  ahhh, take me to. . . what was I gonna say? Casa, no . . . hotel. Take me to a hotel. . . Yes I know I just came out of a hotel. I want a fresh one, I’ve been to that one. The driver says something in Spanish, then barges into traffic. I don’t think I told this guy where to go. “Take me to a hotel. Just don’t kill me that’s all I ask. . . or maim me. Just don’t kill me or maim me, that’s all I ask. Or rob me. Okay, here’s the list: don’t kill me or rob me or. . . that other thing.” Wow. I feel like I’m riding in a video game. Grand Theft Slug Bug. Look at this guy go!

We stop in front of a large hotel whose lights are just turning on, welcoming the coming night. This’ll do. “Here is a fiver.“ That seems to be what everything costs around here.

. . . What? not enough? . . . really? Okay, how about another three? Four? Well you’re not getting a twenty for that ride.  . . . What are you saying?  Look, here, take two fives; that should be plenty. . . . What does the meter say then? . . . Oh, the meter was off. Bummer for you then. . . Not me bummer, you bummer. . . No bummer for you. . . No bummer for you. . . No bummer for you. Do you even know what a bummer is? Okay, here’s two more. I’m going. I gotta get a room and find my daddy—I mean uncle.”

This place is fancy. Everything is white and gold. White walls, gold trim, white marble floors with black flecks and gold veins. Every now and then they throw in a black square of marble with white and gold veins just for fun. The couches have gold painted woodwork, and are covered in white, glittery material with gold buttons pushed in deep, forming white diamonds. There are black throw pillows with gold tassels strewn about. A huge gold chandelier with hundreds of sparkling crystal tear drops hanging from the center of the twenty-foot ceiling. White candle-looking lights shine brightly for the crystals to toss shiny dots around the room.

This place smells like roses, but the only flowers to be seen are big white Calla Lilies, in four-foot tall, white vases.

It’s very cold in here. Each hotel I go to has their air conditioning set colder than the last. I bet they have contests to see who has the coldest lobby in town, just like some bars advertise the coldest beer in town.

Our lobby is so cold three people died of hypothermia last week.

Oh yeah? Our lobby is so cold you have to ice skate to the front desk.

So what? Our lobby is so cold we store all our frozen foods there.

Okay, enough of that, where’s the bar? I don’t hear any music. Maybe here you drink in a library.

I walk down a hallway, turn right and voila—here it is.  I’m getting good at finding bars in hotels. I walk up to a dark haired bartender standing behind a tall white lacquer bar.

“Hi, I’d like a Corona please. Thanks.” I make myself comfortable in a white leather bar chair. “Hey do you have any peanuts?” I didn’t know you get the munchies when you drink beer.  “Oh, yeah, you want money, Can you twake a benty? I mean bweak a twenty. . . here.”

So what, is the band on break or what? The bartender brings me back two fives and some ones. “Thanks.” I’ll leave a buck for a tip. If he got a buck for every beer he poured he’d be rich.  You know, the beer tastes better in this bar. I think I’ll come back here and drink from now on. Where am I? I’ll ask the bartender—wait. This will be the first time I’ll have had to ask directions to find where I’m already at.  That doesn’t sound very smart. I should just stay quiet. This beer is going much faster than the others. So what am I going to do now? I should ask around about my dad since there’s no music.

“Excuse me! Has anyone seen my daddy?” The people around me reply with blank stares. “Anyone? Can you talk? Hey. I’m looking for my dad. He’s a bum, and I haven’t seen him my whole life, here’s a picture.“ Now that wasn’t so hard.  A couple of guys in black suits come over and they seem very helpful. “He’s over here? Really? You didn’t even look at the picture. Here, look. . . I don’t need help walking—hey, lego my arm.

What am I going to say to him?  “He’s outside? I said let go of my arm. . . hey, I gotta find my dad. . . I have no idea what your are saying. . . That’s not English. Do you know you are not speaking English? Okay-okay, I’ll go. Thanks for not looking for my dad. What the hell?”

So now where do I go?  I’ve only eaten peanuts lately and still I’m a little hungry. I don’t think I finished my beer back there. I need a restaurant—hey, there’s some kind of place across the street. Looks shiny. I’ll cross here.

Oh, I should run—the cars are stopped. Why can’t I run fast any more? I feel like I’m moving under water. My legs are heavy and feel strange. I seem to be sinking a little with each rubbery step, like I’m walking down some stairs. Just before my knees start digging trenches in the street, I grab ahold of a street sign.

Good, I made it. After I catch my breath I pull myself up to a normal standing position. I wonder what I’m gonna to have for dinner. Tacos? Enchiladas? Burrito? Chimichanga? I could sure go for a hamburger right about now. I wonder where that McDonalds is from here. Okay, speaking of here, where we are. Hmmm.

 

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Chapter 19

Accordions and voices seep through the walls. This town looks different at night. Shadows hide the dirt and grime, and the neon lights tag the buildings with laughter and excitement.

Father hunting is fun. I should do this every year.

Dark brown double swinging doors on a bright green stucco building. Cool, just like the movies. . . and Arizona. Might as well see what’s up.

It’s really dark in here. . . and smoky. The music is loud and tinny, and it smells like old ashtrays. Hey. . . this is a bar—no, a Cantina. Wow, I’ve never been in one of these before. I’m doing a lot of new things down here. If I would have known this was going to be fun I would have come here years ago. . . like when I was . . . six or something.

There’s that song again. I bet if I closed my eyes I could pretend I was home—I mean at work. After I get back home, whenever I want to go to Mexico again, I’ll just grab a couple of beers and go to Taco Bell—same thing, kinda. I’ll just have one more beer and maybe some tacos, then get a room some place.

I hope this place is friendlery than the last one. It sure is different from all the other places I’ve been, trying to find my dad in a strange city, in a strange country. I feel like I’m on a strange planet. Like in Star Wars when Luke Skywalker and that . . . Kung Fu. . . Jedi. . . Muppet-guy go looking for. . . something in that bar on. . . that planet. Maybe I’ll find some clues to my father’s . . . hideout.

My eyes are having trouble getting used to the dark. I’ll just slide up to the bar here. Careful, don’t trip on anything.

All the chairs around the bar have a tall wooden backs. The bartender is talking to a customer at the other end of the bar. I don’t think he’s seen me yet. Must have problems seeing in the dark too. I hope he knows his tip goes down every minute he makes me wait.

I’ve seen a few pretty nice hotels today. Huge lobbies, clean and snappy front desks, fountains. . . cute waitresses. All the shops look to be selling used stuff. This place is like a giant flea market. Maybe that’s why they’re so popular in Arizona. It reminds them of back home. Home. I need to get back soon, before Mom starts to worry. I wonder how long it will be before she notices I haven’t been around. We hardly ever see each other any more.

Man, was I on a mission or what? I guess I can’t be looking in every shop, liquor store, and gas station-like place I come across. I don’t have that much time. If I were here for a few months I could get to know some people, and maybe do a more thorough search, but then the news might get around that an American was looking for Armando Villa, and he may get spooked and hide. Oh, no! What if that’s already happening? What if everyone knows my father. They all do call each other primo at work.

I wonder what Willie would do if he were me right now. What would Shane do? I bet Shane could find my father fast. I bet Shane wouldn’t want me to go with him on any more border patrols if he knew I was kinda related to a Mexican.

What if my Armando is following me right now? Naw, it’s too dark in here; he’d never find me. Heck, the bartender can’t even find me, and he works here.

I think the guy next to me has been staring at me this whole time. I can feel his eyes drilling into me. It’s giving me the heebie-jeebies. What is his problem? I should let him know I see him. “Hola”

“Hola amigo. . . ”

Blah blah blah blah. I should have just stuck with English. “Sorry, I don’t speak much Spanish.” I might as well just give up this secret mission thing. I can’t seem to pull it off.

“I know. I was just messing with you. I’m Luis.”

“My name is Frank.”

“Hey, Frank, now that we’re friends, I’ll let you buy me a beer.”

“Sure, but my name isn’t really Frank.”

“No?”

“No, It’s Francisco”

“Okay, Okay, sorry about that Spanish thing.”

“No really, Francisco is my name.”

“No shit?”

“Really.”

“Great, okay Francisco, buy me a beer and I’ll get the bartender for you.”

“Okay.”

“Hey, flacko, dos cervesas por favor.”

The bartender opens a door below where he’s standing and pulls two dark bottles out, pops the tops off with some device under the bar, walks over and sets them down in front of us. No white square napkins here. No peanuts either. I put a five dollar bill on the bar and the bartender takes it back to where he came from.

“Thanks, Francisco.”

“No problem-o. . . ”

“Luis.”

“Yeah, Luis.”

“So you are down here seeing the sights, getting drunk, getting laid, yes?”

“Not really.”

“So you’re not getting laid?”

“No.”

“So, you a cop or something?”

Suddenly it feels as though everyone in this cantina is looking me right now. “No.” I take a great big sip of my beer before continuing, “I’m looking for my father.” Laughter and conversation erupts all around. The Juke Box begins playing that song again.

“Sorry, we get that a lot down here,” Luis says with a fresh laugh. He’s probably reveling in the perceived pride that a person gets when his race’s machismo has been reinforced, like when an owners dog wins a fight.

“Dog’s lick their balls too.”

“What?”

Shit, I said that out loud. “Oh, nothing.” Good thing there’s a lot of noise in here.

“So really, you down here looking for your dad?”

If I just keep my mouth on this beer, I won’t be able to continue this conversation . . . and I won’t accidentally say what I’m thinking.

“You think he drinks here?”

Ugh! He’s not going to let it go. “Yeah, I think so.”

Luis pauses for a second, and seems to think about that. He squares up his shoulders and looks right at me, “You know I never been to the United States. . . ”

This is never going to end. I should just leave, get a room and go to bed. “Don’t worry, you’re not my father.”

He sits back in his barstool and takes a sip of his beer. “What, I’m not good enough to be your father?”

“Your not . . . old enough.” I lied. I should have said not TALL enough. Both my mom and I are taller than this guy by a mile. Other than that, I can barely make out the face of the person I am talking to, let alone figure out how old he is. “And besides, I have his picture.” I pull it out of my pocket and show it to him. He tilts it so he can see it better in some mysterious light that I can’t see.

“Que faya,” he says. I don’t know what that means, but I nod anyway.

This fourth beer is starting to taste pretty good. I’m getting the hang of this beer drinking. . . thing. I feel more relaxed than I have been since I got here—no, “all year.”

“All year what?”

“Oh, just thinking out loud, sorry.”

“So, what is the name of your father?”

It can’t hurt to tell him, besides, keeping it a secret isn’t going to get the job done. “Armando, Armando Villa.”

“Hmmm.” He thinks about that for a second. “Nope, I don’t know anyone by that name, but you know when we go to the United States, we often change our names.”

“Yeah I know. And why is that anyway?” Lets see someone actually answer that question.

“Well, for the same reason you’re down here right now, amigo.”

He has a peculiar laugh. Kinda like a car that won’t start, but I did walk right into that one. So all Mexicans are dogs. They go north to take a job away from an American, get some girl pregnant, and then go back home to Mexico. They probably brag about how they have enough children in America to populate a small Mexican village. What a guy.

This search seems so hopeless. I feel the darkness forming again, but instead of inside my chest, it feels like it’s hovering over my head, threatening me with depression. Maybe it’s the beer that’s affecting me this way.

I’m beginning to think coming in here was a bad idea. I wonder if anyone else in this bar-cantina, is having a good time.

I bet the women in here are really ugly, and the men don’t find out until it’s too late.

“So what was your name again?”

“My real name is Francisco, but everyone calls me Frank.”

“Frank. Frank? Frank is no nickname for Francisco. Pancho is the nickname for Francisco. Oh, right, Pancho Villa. That’s a good one. You got me kid. You’re a funny guy. Just don’t say that too loud around the bartender, it’ll really make him angry.” He finishes his beer and puts the empty glass down hard, making a loud knocking sound on the bar. “Hey, see that guy over there?”

He is pointing in the direction of some loud laughter coming from a table towards the back wall. There’s the Juke box, and the orange and yellow lights on it barely reveal a thin man sitting with a couple of women. “The guy with two girls?”

“His name is Jose Cuervo.”

Man. Can this conversation get any stranger?

“NO! Seriously.”

“How stupid does this guy think I am?”

“ I don’t think you’re stupid.”

Shit, I said that out loud again. Why do I keep doing that?

“Don’t believe me? I’ll prove it. Hey, Jose, Jose Cuervo… Amigo. Dame un tequila amigo.”

The man waves a beer in the air at the bartender, who reaches down and magically produces two shot glasses with one hand and a bottle of tequila with the other. He walks back over to us and places the glasses on the bar and then he pours the tequila into both glasses at the same time. Wow. Two shots of tequila. Uh-oh—real liquor. I heard this stuff tastes really bitter and they make it with cactus and scorpions and even some secret stuff nobody knows about. The bartender places a shot in front of each of us and then returns to his really interesting staring contest at the other end of the bar.

“Salud.”

“Uh, yeah, salud!” It smells. . . different. Luis just poured it back into his throat all at once. He must like it. I guess it’s like beer; it probably grows on you after awhile. I don’t see any insect legs or worms or anything floating in the tiny glass. Looks pretty clear to me.

“Come on Amigo, drink up!”

“Okay, here goes. . .” I take a sip to see what it tastes like. Holy shit! “Cough—cough, damn, cough.”

“Okay, Pancho, my friend—“

“This stuff is cough-horrible-cough, cough. Why would-cough-anyone cough-cough, drink this shit-cough-cough.”

“Come on Amigo, it’s not that bad.”

Ughhhh! I can feel it’s warm grossness sliding down my throat. I gotta stop coughing and keep it together. I can feel a lot of eyes staring at me in the dark. They’ll think I’m a wimp, or too young to drink and kick me out.

“Hey, take a sip of your beer.”

“Good idea-cough.” I grab my beer and drink about a third of it without stopping.

“Better?”

“Man, that really says something-cough, when you need to use beer to get rid of the bad taste of tequila-cough.”

“Hey, you barely even drank that tequila.”

He’s right. It still looks almost full. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I sense the eyes of strangers staring at me in the dark. This place suddenly feels haunted or something.

“Don’t worry about them my friend. You shoulda told me this was your first Tequila.”

“Yeah. So, is his name Jose Cuervo for real?”

“I called him Jose Cuervo, did I not?”

“Yeah.”

“He just bought us a drink, did he not?”

“ Yeah.”

“What more proof do you want? You want to see his ID?”

“Naw.”

“Anyway It’s better than Pancho Villa,” he whispers.

“How did you know he would buy us a drink?”

“Hey, Jose Cuervo. Amigo! Dame un tequila por favor.”

The bartender sees his signal, and he begins setting up two more tequilas just like he did last time.

“Okay, I got it.”

“No, it is a good question. I thought about this myself for a long time.”

“You mean you asked him?”

“No, No! I figured it out. Listen, If you had the name of Jose Cuervo and you go to a cantina, what do you think would happen?”

Okay, that’s obvious. . . “Everyone would ask me for a shot.”

“Exactamente.”

The bartender sets a couple more shots in front of us. I notice I’m beginning to feel like I’m on the moon, and things are moving slower and more fluidy.

“You barely touched your tequila. Don’t sip it. You’re supposed to drink it all at one time. Even Mexican women drink it all at one time.“

“Thanks.” All the women around here are more macho than me. That tequila looks as full as it did when the bartender brought it over. Are these magic shot glasses or what? “Okay, Let me just get this over with. I tilt my head back and dump the entire contents of the little class into my mouth. My whole body rejects the taste and a warm sensation coats my throat and slides into my empty stomach, but some of it went down the wrong pipe again. “cough, cough, cough.”

“All right, my friend. Now you are a man.”

Oh, so that’s what it takes. I always wondered. Does that mean Mexican women are really men too? Many sensations mingle in my head. I know, maybe if my father used a fake name, then what could his real name be? Rodriguez, Cervantes, Ramirez, Gonzalez. Anything that ends in -ez. Wow. Maybe Villa really isn’t my last name. That son-of-a. . . Why would he name me what he did? “Hey, you think it would be ‘spensive to be name Jose Cuervo?”

“For sure.”

“And you would think he’d want to avoid caninadas. . . tankingada. . . these places.”

“What? No way, my friend, think about it. With a name like Jose Cuervo, would you stay at home?”

I look over at the thin man near the juke box, sitting with a girl of unknown beauty on either side of him. He probably owns the most expensive set of tequila goggles ever invented. That was probably why he brought them here. After a few drinks he would forget how fugly they were and he could fantasize they look like anyone he wanted. Roselyn’s face suddenly comes to my mind, like one of those paintings of melting clocks and stuff. She’s the only Mexican female’s face I can think of. That so sucks. I need another drink.

I look down the dark and fuzzy bar. The bartender is watching a couple of guys stare at their beers. I wave at him, but I get no reaction. I feel like I am swatting flies in the dark. “You think you could get the bartender again? I don’t think he likes me.”

“Why not?”

“He doesn’t ‘knowledge my ezistence.”

“You think? How do you get the bartenders attention where you come from?”

Hmmmmm. Let me think. How do I get bartenders attention back home. I can’t remember. I can’t remember anything about the bars back home. “Oh, I know, you just ask them for a drink when they get here.”

“Wow. It’s a wonder you guys ever get drunk. Down here it is different. We tell the Bartender what we want and then he comes down here and gives it to you. Makes more sense that way.”

“Yep. Dos cevesas por babor” My tongue is not listening to my words. Is looking me stupid.

The bartender looks down the bar at me. Shhhh. I need to be quiet. The guys sitting in front of him are looking at me too. Hey, I can see better. I guess tequila goggles are night-vision goggles too.

The bartender walks over. Why did I call him? Luis does nothing. He put a beer in front of each of us. He says something to me, but it’s in Spanish. I look at Luis for help.

“He is asking if you want to pay now, or when you finish.” He smiles at the bartender.

“Oh, Sure. Si.” God, I feel so stupid speaking Spanish to him when it is obvious I don’t know the language. Luis just translated right in front of him.

“Como se llama?” he asks, magically picking a pencil out of his ear and a notepad from his shirt pocket. Hey, he has magic ears. And his t-shirt has pockets. Now he’s staring at me. I think he is reading my mind to see if I am lying. I better tell the truth or I could get in trouble.

“Pancho Villa.”

The alcohol is really getting to me. The bartender stares at me, like I’m stupid or something. I look back at him. Luis is busy swatting a pesky fly off to the side of us.

“Mande?” he asks me.

Luis is silently yelling at the fly. He probably can’t hear me. The jukebox is loudly playing, but the song suddenly ends right when I yell, “Pancho Villa.” Everyone at the bar turns around and looks at me. What happened?

The bartender drops the pencil and paper and is making his way around the bar very quickly.

Luis whispers, “No,”

“No what?”

“You can’t call him Pancho Villa”

“I didn’t.”

“People call him that behind his back because of his thick musta—“

The bartender looks much bigger up close. I can see the resemblance to Pancho Villa now. The furrowed brow, balding head, thick handlebar mustache, large fist.

Luis is bending down and looking at me. I think I fell.

Someone lifts me up off the floor. I look over and Luis has a wallet in his hands. I don’t think I should drink any more. Other people have come over to me. Some of them are now taking off my watch. Hey, I think I’m being robbed. Luis looks inside my wallet and his eyes get really big and his face gets all screwed up.

I see the bartender again. He looks really angry about something. There’s that fist again.

I’m on the floor again, and it’s really, really dark down here.

“Como se llama el?” the bartender shouts.

I can barely see his face, when Luis looks down at me, holding my student body card. He looks like he’s seen a ghost. “Dime,” the bartender demands.

Luis softly replies, “Pancho Villa.”

I’m getting pretty tired. I close my eyes right as the bartender starts in on the second smart ass of the night.

 

End of Part 1

 

 

Read Part 2 go to http://www.thedishwashersson.com/Part 2

 

Want to read the whole book in one file? Go to https://thedishwashersson.com/buy-the-dishwashers-son/

Chapter 20

After a few watch-less hours, a couple of policemen show up at the door. Several of the guys scramble over to them and they shout to be heard above each other. The others who stay seated keep their eyes down; obviously not looking forward to whatever comes next for them. I don’t envy those guys. I don’t envy anyone in here. I don’t even envy me right now.

One of the policemen shouts some stuff in machine-gun Spanish and everyone quits talking. A few of the guys near the door laugh.  “Soy Pancho Villa!” one of them says.

“No, yo soy Pancho Villa,” says another.

Then they all chime in, “no, no, blah blah blah, Pancho Villa, ha-ha-ha.” Whatever.

Great! One guy points to me—the white guy—and everybody laughs even harder. Even the guys sitting in the back all quiet-like are smiling at that one. Wonderful. I get shit for my name in the US, and I get shit for it here in Mexico too. Thanks Dad—asshole! I take back that envy thing. I envy everyone in this jail for not growing up named Francisco “Pancho” Villa.

The policemen are checking me out. I guess I should talk to somebody and find out what I did. There’s no place in here to hide anyway.  I must stick out like a biker at bible camp. What am I thinking? I stick out like a white dude in a Mexican jail.

Standing up is so . . . dizzy. I hear the others laughing and saying stuff in Spanish as I lean against the wall for balance.

One of the policemen has something in his hand. Oh, great—evidence. I should lie back down and pretend I’m sick.

. . . I don’t understand a thing the cop is saying to me. It may take a while before I’m able to translate anything from Spanish to English. It’s taken me this long just to focus my eyes—hey, is that my picture?  What does he need my picture for? “Si, It’s mine.”

Immediately his rapid-fire Spanish has me regretting I said that in Spanish. “Me hablas poquito espanol.”  Laughter erupts again from the other inmates.

The officer who isn’t holding the picture says, ”You name Pancho Villa and you no speak Español?”

The laughter is deafening. I grab ahold of the bars for support and look around the cell. Every single person in here is laughing their ass off. There are no longer two different sets of guys in here, just one big happy mob. Shit! I’m starting to laugh. I guess it is kinda funny when you think about it.  “Ha ha ha, okay, okay,” now they’ve got me going. “Ha ha ha ha.” Ouch! My jaw hurts when I laugh. “Ha ha ha.” I can’t stop. This laughing is contagious. “Ha ha ha.“ Hey! Why am I laughing? I’m in a fricking Mexican jail. I could be here for life.

“Yo soy Jose Feliciano,” someone behind me says. I turn to see another guy step forward and announce the name of some famous Mexican guy I never heard of.

“Yo soy Ricardo Montalbon,” another guy says.

“El avion, el avion,” the chubby little guy says in a miniature voice. Everyone is struggling for air, pounding the ground. Some of them sit down before they fall down, and the ones still standing are leaning against walls and each other. Laughing makes my face hurt even more, but I can’t help it. “Ha, ha-ha-ha-ha.”

“No mas,” someone struggles to say.

“Si, No mas.” I am definitely caught up in this laughing fit too. I try laughing without moving my facial muscles because laughing makes my jaw hurt. I’m glad there’s no mirrors in here. I bet I look like someone who had their whole face botoxed five minutes before going to a comedy club. I know I’m gonna feel stupid about this later.

The officer holding the photo is smiling, but apparently he’s had enough. He walks over to me, holding out a photo and pointing to someone in it. His finger is on a young man in a police uniform. I look closer at it, trying to get my eyes into focus. Hey! I look at the cop holding the picture, I look at the young policeman in the picture—holy shit! He’s pointing to what looks like a younger version of himself. Ow, my jaw. This is who my Mom told me about. What was his . . .  name-tag says Villa—like that helps.

“Where did you get this photo?” Villa asks.

“It was my mothers.” The two cops look at each other, mouths open. Then they look back at me. The laughter behind me fizzles out. The police officer points to someone in the picture, and Villa nods, and the other policeman disappears down the hallway. I didn’t catch his name. I wonder if he’s in the picture too.

“Pancho, I am Carlos Villa, su Tio, or . . .”

“Uncle” someone in the back of the cell says. There had been a moment of silence but it’s broken now and there are lots of “Que fortunado” and “ay-yay-yay,” and a chorus of comments too low, and probably too Spanish for me to understand.

“Calla te!” Carlos says, and they all shut up in a hurry, but continue to watch the drama unfolding before them.

“So you are my . . . “

“Nephew,” someone from the crowd shouts. The others shush him. I look in time to see the big gorilla guy smack another guy on the back of the head. I return my attention to the policeman with my picture. So this guy’s my father’s brother.

He takes a good, long look at me and says, “Did you father . . . come with you?”

Did he actually say that?  “What kind of crap is this? You know where he is!”

After a long moment, he says, “yes, I do now.”

“So, could you take me to him? I have some things I want to say.”

“Take you to him?”

“Yes, take me to him.”

“You said you knew.”

“I do know. You can’t keep something like this a secret forever.”

He thinks this over for a moment. What the hell is going on? “For him you are looking?”

“Yes, why else would I be in this God-forsaken country?”

“You say you knew.”

“I do know.”

“I think you do not.”

“Then why don’t you tell me? Better yet, let me talk to him myself.”

Again, there is a long pause of complete silence. How much does this guy know about me? Does he know I got arrested and deported? Man! He must think I’m a career criminal; two jails in two different countries in two consecutive days.

“Why did you come here?”

“I told you, I’m looking for my father.” If he doesn’t know I got deported, I’m not going to be the one to tell him. “He’s been down here hiding ever since I was born, living with his other family.”

“Other family? Do not speak of my brother like this!”

Oh, I hit a nerve. “I’ll have a lot more to say when I see him.” I wonder how many more relatives I’ll get to pay back for all the years of humiliation they’ve caused my mom and me.

 

“Francisco, we have not seen Armando since the day he left to be with you and you mother.” His eyes get soft and he stares deeply into the picture. “It was only one year after this photo was taken that I, for the last time, saw him.” He looks up from the picture, “So what know you of you father?”

What? “I never met him.” He looks at me like I haven’t finished. “He left right after I was born—hello?!”

“And he never come back?”

I’ve had about all of this I can stomach,  “I know he has another family down here, and I’m here to remind him of what he did to us.” My voice cracks with excitement. Now it’s my turn to watch for a reaction.  He squirms a bit, but doesn’t say anything. Time to go in for the kill.  “I guess it’s not too fun when the family secret comes home.”  I say it loud enough for everyone to hear. “You pretend to like my mom, dress her up, put her on display in front of all your family, then ship her back to the United States to be laughed at behind her back.” That one was for you Mom. I‘d probably feel much better right now if I weren’t yelling at the one guy who could possibly get me out of here.

“So that is how you think?”

“What else am I supposed to think? He abandoned us like garbage tossed into the street.”

“No! I am now . . . I think he . . . some of us . . .” He looks back into the picture for something, and when he looks up, I don’t recognize his expression. “If this is true, then you are not wrong to be angry. I am now to understand what I think was true for many years.” He takes a giant breath, revealing, once more, the silent crowd behind me. The picture shakes in his hand.

“What is there to understand?”

“Many people go missing, when they go north. Some are caught and come home. Some go to jail and stay for a small time, but they come home.” He stops to take a long, calm breath. “Many hundreds of people every year . . . die.”

“What?” I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. A shiver starts in the back of my head and shoots down my spine. “My dad is dead?” I grab ahold of the bars with both my hands, squeezing as hard as I can. “He left us for another family, I know it. I have known this ever since I was twelve. My Grandpa took me fishing at this trout pond. He let me catch a lot of fish that day, and he had to pay for every one. He told me not to think about my dad any more. He said it would do no good. It would only cause me pain, and it did, and my dad never came back to us. Everything else he said must be true too.”

He studies my face and says, “I know something is wrong when my brother did not send the money. He always send the money. You father, my brother, Armando, he was a much . . . good man. Much popular. Everybody love him, and when he bring home a Gringa, at first, yes, we all are surprise . . .”

I have no idea what to feel right now.

“But when we meet you mother—“

He has been dead this whole time?

“—we all could see why he have much love for her.”

I can’t believe it. A few sniffles and some quiet coughs interrupt the library-like silence.

“They marry here in Guadalajara, so the family could be everyone here. We have much love for our Abuelita.” A muted appreciation from the other inmates for that statement quickly came and just as quickly returned to silence. “She live with us and give much help to our mother and father. She was all that was good in the family. We would not think of to marry without her . . . None of you family come.”

A ringing in my ears makes it hard for me to understand him. I think he is attacking my family. “You—“

”You mother never say it, but we think they do not approve of Armando, or the family . . .”

I can’t believe I’m hearing this, “My grandparents were just not social people. They never have been. They were the ones who taught me not to take this sitting down. They taught me self-respect when my father had taken it away. They told me I was not like my father so I wouldn’t feel bad.”

A slight smile comes over his face as he stares into the picture. “It was a beautiful wedding. Everybody come from all over Mexico, and everyone who meet you mother, love her.”

“No, he’s not dead!”

“He is, Pancho.”

“He can’t be dead, he can’t be.

“It is so.”

“I hate him too much for him to be dead. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him! He’s not getting out of this that easy. He left me and my mom alone to come here and he never returned.”

He looks up from the picture, “The last time we see Armando, he was deported and come home with a baby photo. He was so proud.”

“Deported?”

“I know this is not easy for you. It is not easy for me as well. I always hope I was wrong and I one day will see my brother, but now I know, never will I see him again.

“He can’t be dead. This whole time? What about his other family?”

His eyebrows raise and bunch together, then he looks back into the picture and goes back to a happier time.

“You mother and Armando stay at the ranchita of my father. He play the guitar at night and sing to them outside the window.”

A murmur swells and then fades behind me. Carlos doesn’t even hear it, he just smiles and stares at that stupid picture, keeping his tether to a happy memory.

“He was a singer, bad, and I was glad it was not me he was singing, but you mother have much love for it. You can see in her eyes, much respect. You mother and my father make friends very fast.”

Someone blows his nose—on what, I don’t know—and is quickly shushed by everyone else.  I look behind me and see the audience of semi-silent spectators, pleading for us to continue. I turn back to Carlos, “you know, there’s probably better places I could have learned my father is dead.”

“Yes, Pancho, yes,” he says as he looks around. “This is where I too must learn it. I am sorry it is like this, but some things . . .” He waves at someone down the hallway. “You papers are soon to be ready. Do you want to know about you father, more?”

I look behind me again, at all the others in my cell who are sharing my most intimate story. A dozen or more hungry white eyes stare back at me. The little chubby guy with a three-day beard nods his vote. Even the scar-faced gang-banger smiles pleadingly. Apparently there isn’t a single man in here who doesn’t watch Mexican soap operas.

I guess it doesn’t really matter much any more. I look back at Carlos, who is patiently waiting my reply. Nothing seems to matter much right now. The world as I know is has been shot to hell, and I am left with no moral compass. I nod. There is a brief appreciation in the audience behind me, then Carlos continues.

“There was much happiness the days we met you mother. They have a wedding, nice. Much family, music, food. I was for the police new, and my uniform was very nice. I very proud and handsome no?” He looks up at me and sucks in his belly. A round of appreciation and even a few whistles register from the crowd, who are now inching their way forward, to be closer to the story.

“Armando took you mother to dinners romantic. They walk at night on the beach. I remember you father, or my father, bring Mariachis to play for her special, one night at a big fire on the beach. No one would admit who pay for them. They both, Armando and Papa, were romantic that way, and to not know who was responsible made the night special more, I think.”

“This will not make all the years of pain and shame go away. Anyone can put a positive spin on things. My family suffered for years at the hands of your family.” He stares at the photo again, holding on to it with two trembling hands, with that far away look. “If you were all so damn sincere, why didn’t anybody try to find us?”

“You think we did not? We phone the work of you father, but he works there no more, and they will not give to me information for employees of the past. I beg with them, but they say they no. We write you letters, and my brother Jose, look for you in San Diego.”

We lived with my Grandparents until Mom could work again. “We moved to Arizona.”

“I’m so sorry. We try so hard for nothing.”

The conversation stops. I see my reflection in a picture across the hallway. It is the strangest thing I have ever seen. I look like a sad and tormented criminal behind bars. The reality of my predicament smacks me in the chest. I feel as guilty as I look. Carlos and I stay within the safety of our thoughts for a moment. He is the first to break the silence, “would you like to meet you family?”

A hushed “si, si, si” and “shhhh,” erupts right behind me. This is humiliating. My brain still isn’t functioning at full throttle. I don’t know what to think.

“I talk to my mother when I see this photo and hear a young American is having it. She is very surprise as well. She never give up hope one day, we will all be together again and this . . . life will be better.”

How is this all going to fit into my life? My real life?

He smiles at me, “I think you will like meeting the family of you father.” He steps closer to me and says, “then we can learn how you and you mother live with this. . . It is possible we can share our pain, and then be free from it.” Everyone around me agrees. A hand finds my shoulder and pats it sympathetically.

But that can’t be the end of this, just like that? All my years of growing up without a father, the anger, the hate, the dreams of revenge, and wham! It’s over?  “You can’t do this. You don’t even know me. I don’t know you. How can you end everything about my life and make it out to be . . . a mistake?

“It is very sad you never to know him—you father.”

“A mistake? My whole life was a . . . a misunderstanding?”

“He was a very good man.”

A tear runs down his cheek. This old wound is freshly opened for him too. “That’s what my mom always tried to tell me.” I can’t believe I just said that.

“She did?” Hope floods into his sad and distant eyes.

Now it’s my turn to unload, “Yeah . . . this . . . my hate was much strong.” Why am I speaking with a Spanish accent?  “I would always get so mad when she defended him, even though I knew she felt as betrayed as me. Everyone else had dads who-o cared—“ I clear my throat to regain control over my voice. “—cared enough for them to be around, and teach them things, and . . .  take them to parks, and the beach. But never me. I never even had an excuse.  When I learned he had run away . . . I couldn’t tell people that, so I just told everyone he was. . .  dead.”

I look into his face to see how this affects him. My tears have been storming my cheeks, and each time my voice stops, a small stream runs down my face. “And my Mother; the shame and betrayal, from the person she loved, was very hard to take, but she took it . . .  with much more grace and dignity than I ever could. I think she even forgave him, and I hated her for that! Hated her acceptance of defeat! Hated what that did to our family! I hated everything about him. . . and I hated her for not hating him too. He was nothing . . . he was less than nothing to me. But whenever I would get so full of hate I wanted to scream . . . she would always come to his rescue, and that just . . . made me hate him even more.”

He thinks about that for a moment, or he didn’t even hear a word I said–I don’t know. The room tilts a bit, and I have to grab the bars to keep from falling over. My breathing is erratic. My chest moves in and out, without my consent, and I’m powerless to do anything about it. The old familiar darkness has me in it’s grip again.

“Yes, they love each other very much.” he says, staring down the hallway, a million miles away again. “I guess not even time and anger can put out that flame.” He seems to glide silently with his thoughts for a moment, while I stand here shooting the rapids between anger and sadness.

“Family will do that,” Carlos continued. ”Family bridges all valleys and make mountains easy to climb.” He looks me right in the eyes, “You should meet them, some of them, the ones who live close enough to come. They are making plans now.”

“They are?”

“Yes.”

This is what I came here to do, kinda. My breathing calms, and the floor stops moving. And now I prepare to say the most difficult sentence I will ever speak . . . “Okay. If they are as nice as you, I’m sure I will like your family.”

Carlos reaches through the bars and touches my arm. I feel like I’m being touched by my father for the first time.

“You are my family, Pancho.”

 

 

 

Carlos makes a quick phone call, and he leaves me with his words still bouncing around this cell. I hear a sniffle and I look behind me. “Tu llora?” I hear one of them ask.

“No, No me lloras,” the scar faced one replies. A low murmur sets in as everyone mills about the cell, suddenly looking for something they dropped on the floor.

 

Carlos quickly returns, and just as hurriedly tells me, “you Abuela has been hard at work to prepare for a party in the honor of you.”

“She has?” This is happening so fast.

“I have to work, but I will come when I am finish. My son Jose will come to take you there. It is not far. “

How do I feel about this?

Carlos suddenly stops and composes himself. “How is you mother?” His eyes stare into mine.

“Fine.” I can’t think of anything else to say.

“Does she know you are here?”

Oh shit. How much does he know already? How much should I tell him?  “Yeah.”

He smiles at me. “Yes, it is very fortunate you are not a good drinker.”

I feel a flush of embarrassment. He knows more about what happened to me than I do, which feels a bit . . . creepy.

“What is her work?”

“She is a receptionist at a real estate office in the daytime, and at night, she waits tables at a diner.”

“Living in California is expensive. I don’t know why people do it.”

“That’s why we moved to Arizona.”

“Oh, yes. Is there not much anger in Arizona?” He sounds surprised.

“Yeah, but it must be pretty good compared to here, with so many of your people coming to live there too.”

Immediately, I feel I insulted him somehow.

 

“They are your people too Pancho.” His words hang in the air like the acrid scent of a strong cigar.

 

“I never thought I would have to bail my nephew out of jail.” He smiles. “Meet me in front of the jail.” He goes quickly down the hallway and out of sight.

 

I have waited a long time for a chance to tell my father where he could go, but now . . . I feel a stinging in the back of my throat, and the taste of vomit seeps into my mouth. I turn around and see all the other inmates staring at me, waiting for something, like people do when a movie is over and the credits are rolling, but with this movie, there won’t be any hilarious out-takes to reward them for their patience.

 

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