You are currently browsing the monthly archive for November, 2007.
Delusion |diˈloō zh ən|
Noun
An idiosyncratic belief or impression that is firmly maintained despite being contradicted by what is generally accepted as reality or rational argument, typically a symptom of mental disorder: the delusion of being watched.
• The action of deluding someone or the state of being deluded: what a capacity television has for delusion.
ORIGIN late Middle English (in the sense [act of deluding or of being deluded]): from late Latin delusio (n-), from the verb deludere (see delude).
“There are dead fish under my pillow.”
“What?”…
They say that admitting you have a problem is the first step towards recovery. I would like to take this opportunity to introduce myself: “Me llamo es Andy Rice y yo soy un addicto.” That’s right, you read that correctly, I am an addict. My addiction has done very little physical harm to me, but the mental consequences, I fear, may be felt for weeks, maybe even months, to come.
My memory of the last two weeks is a total blur. I was deep in the throws of my addiction and little else mattered. I needed my fix and I did not care what it cost (I think it was about 60 pesos.) It all started with an innocent trip into town.
We trod down the same hill we walk down on a daily basis. It’s at an incline of about 60 degrees and its terrain is made up of loose dirt and rocks, some very large rocks that have wreaked havoc on the bottom of my poor Ford Escort on many occasions. Numerous neighborhood dogs, of various temperaments, populate the hill. We boarded the bus and handed over the 10 pesos for our tickets and scurry to found our seats before the bus violently lurched ahead with no regard for what bodies it might be hurling around. The ride was bumpy, as usual, but pleasantly familiar as we cruised through the little colonies on the way into town. Once in Olas Altas, we exited the bus and walked two blocks to the left. The large blue and yellow sign came into view and we walked toward it, not knowing that the simple act of entering this building will cost me the next two weeks of my life. We took care of our business inside and walked back into the open air to continue our errands. We arrived home, made dinner, and cleaned up.
“Are you ready? Just to warn you, you might get hooked.”
“Sure.” I respond, enthusiastically.
The next morning I woke up feeling perfectly fine, but somewhat distracted. That night, the same routine, and the following morning was more or less normal with the distraction slightly elevated. After the third night, I was hooked with no hope of recovery until I had seen it through to the end.
I sat up in bed and stared Kirsten awake. “What is it?” She asked.
“There are dead fish under my pillow.”
“What?!”
“There are sardine-sized anchovies under my pillow.”
“No there aren’t. Go back to sleep.”
Just to clarify, I KNEW that there were fish underneath my pillow. I knew exactly what they looked like. They were there and I wasn’t really all that surprised to find them there. For some reason, I thought it was worth waking Kirsten up for, so I must have at least found it to be something special, somehow.
I rolled over and went to back to sleep. ‘It must have been that damn show!’ I think to myself. I have just completed the second season of “Lost” and have no recollection of anything else taking place for the last two weeks. Forty-eight episodes in roughly 12 days, and now I’m dreaming about fish under my pillow. Last night, I dreamt that I was fighting a samurai that looked suspiciously like Jin, the Korean guy from the show. She warned me and I didn’t listen. I’m waiting a week off before renting season 3.
LOS NINOS EN PASO ANCHO
tamale |təˈmälē| |təˌmɑli| |təˌmɑːleɪ| |-ˌmɑːli|
noun
a Mexican dish of seasoned meat wrapped in cornmeal dough and steamed or baked in corn husks.
ORIGIN from Mexican Spanish tamal, plural tamales, from Nahuatl tamalli.
His dirt bike is blue and his helmet is white and is one of those motorcycle helmets that is just the top. It is shaped like the top of the organ that, like it or not, guides me through most of my decision-making. On the back of the motorcycle is a large basket, which holds a pretty good-sized cooler. On his face is the happiest grin I have ever seen. It’s the kind of expression that seems like it might be permanent. He is yelling something over and over again in Spanish as he slowly snakes his way through the Colonas on the outskirts of PV and into the Old Town. His sales pitch is delivered very quickly en espangol and I can only make out one word: “TAMALES!”
“He must be selling tamales from his dirt bike.” I say.
“What’s a tamale?” Kirsten asks.
“It’s like seasoned meat coated with this cornmeal mash stuff and baked in a cornhusk.” I reply
“We CAN’T forget to go the farmacia while we’re in town.” She says.
Among the first sounds we hear in the morning, in addition to roosters, turkeys, dogs, and occasional fireworks, is our neighbor. One morning, very shortly after dawn, we hear a man at the top of his lungs “OOWW!” It’s like the drunk-guy ‘WHOOP!’ or something. Anyway, that’s what he does a millisecond before the bass line of ‘Superfreak’ by Rick James comes bouncing up the hill and out across the valley.
“Is that Superfreak?” Kirsten asks, sleepily.
“I’m afraid so.” I mumble.
“Who is that?”
“It’s our neighbor down the hill.”
“What’s he doing?”
“I don’t know. I guess he’s listening to some tunes.”
“What time is it?”
“Early.”
As the song progresses and the decibel level increases, we hear him singing along with a very thick Mexican accent, and simultaneously burst out laughing. From that day on, the song may change, but our neighbor continues with the early morning rocking. Lately, it’s been ‘Karma Chameleon.’ For the last few mornings, another neighbor has yelled at him and he turned it down. I don’t really mind it. We have to figure out who he is.
Every day we see the dirt bike/tamale guy. We sit on the bus, and I say, “Look, it’s your friend.” And she replies “Oh yeah, the happiest guy ever.” He is smiling ear to ear every time we see him. We’ve started to notice him more often because he seems to be coming back and forth from town to Paso Ancho a lot. On the way up the hill, just as we’re turning the bend into our driveway, I look to my right and see a blue dirt bike with a big basket on the back parked beside the home of our noisy neighbor. Of course! The happy tamale guy on the dirt bike is the same guy who blasts bad pop first thing in the morning. Kirsten can’t wait to meet him and I’m a little scared.
embarrassment |-m_nt| |_m_b_r_sm_nt| |_m_b_r_sm_nt| |_m_bar_sm_nt, _m-|
noun
a feeling of self-consciousness, shame, or awkwardness : I turned red with embarrassment.
• a person or thing causing such feelings : he was an embarrassment who was safely left ignored | her extreme views might be an embarrassment to the movement.
• financial difficulty : his temporary financial embarrassment.
It was last night, while riding the bus from Paso Ancho to Olas Altas, that I witnessed a quiet, private moment that was never intended for my eyes. Although the act was somewhat unnoticeable and unforgettable, to me it was significant. It left me with the corners of my mouth turned up. It reminded me that emotions are universal. They are not racially or culturally bias and disregard one’s age or gender in most cases. They are the body’s way of reminding us that we are human. Even more fascinating to me is the commonality between us all. We may be told from the time we start waddling the difference between right and wrong, good and bad and all the grey that lies between but we are all casualties of our emotions; for it is emotion that motivates our actions, regardless of reason or logic.
Children in Mexico have different school hours depending on their age and grade. The small ones, up to grade 5, attend school from 8:00am until noon while middle and high school aged students pour into the classroom at 1:00pm and flee around 7:00pm. Of course there is the typical after school lingering where they develop important social techniques such as bartering, belittling and bribery. There are the cool kids on one end of the basketball court and the less cool outside the fence waiting for the bus. There are the girls whose skirts are worn just a centimeter higher than the rest and the girls whose hair hangs low and over the lashes, shielding the face from judgment. There are no yellow school buses taking them to and fro, just the public buses that cost 5 pesos a ride. Many times we end up squished between arithmetic and anatomy, tattling and tonguing.
On this particular night, last night, although the bus was filled with children it was unusually dim and subdued. Their weight was even in their seats, their voices subtle. I glanced over across Andy’s forearm and noticed a girl sitting alone. Everyone around her was coupled, but she paired with no one. On her lap sat a knapsack, pink and dirt in color. She was holding on tight. It appeared to be out of security although I couldn’t tell if it was to provide security to the bag or the bag was proving security to the girl. She looked about 14, however these days my perception of age is relative to my own. When I was 14, I barely stood four and a half feet tall, wore braces and dreamed of bras and razors. These days most girls of 14 can see over the crest of my head, wear halter-tops and dream of birth control and Mom’s refill of Paxil. I noticed that as we got closer to town, she appeared to become nervous. I examined the change in her lips that seemed to withdraw inward the closer we got. Her fingertips followed the edge of the front pocket of her bag, pulling the zipper open all the way to the end. She slid her small hand inside and pulled out a pair of glasses. She hid them inside a loose fist and pulled the zipper closed.
As the bus eased forward and finally stopped, she stood and waited for the rest of her equals to exit first. I watched her stained blue and white uniform drop down the four stairs to the sidewalk. As we pulled away I caught the little girl cautiously sliding her glasses over her nose. Head lowered she walked away, probably in the direction of home.
Things I saw today.
payback |_p__bak| |_pe__bøk| |_pe_bak|
noun
1 financial return or reward, esp. profit equal to the initial outlay of an investment : a long time lag between investment and payback.
2 an act of revenge or retaliation : the drive-by shootings are mainly paybacks.
Probably one of my favorite things about Mexico is the fact that you can go to the Farmacia, give the pharmacist your symptoms they simply get you the medicine without a prescription. I just recently had to do this, two times as a matter of fact. The first was about 5 days ago when I developed an awful sinus infection. The second time was a bit more embarrassing. For those of you who have either experienced this or know who has, I am sure that you can empathize. I am one of those fortunate few who develop yeast infections when on antibiotics. Unfortunately I cannot just go to the humiliating Feminine Products aisle, grab the meds and be on my way. In Mexico ALL medicine must be purchased from behind the counter. This is one of those differences that I love and hate all at the same time. Andy, since day one, has been much better at the whole speaking Spanish thing, so I asked him if he could explain to the pharmacist what I needed.
“Are you fucking serious Kirsten?” Andy responded. This response was not unusual, as I have been known to test his limits.
“Please,” I whined just like I did when I was nine. “You’re better at it than me and I just don’t feel well. My head hurts, my throat burns, and I want to scratch my crotch off.”
“I can not believe I am going to do this.” Andy turned to the computer. “How do you even say yeast infection as a man to a woman and still keep your balls? Please explain this to me.” He used the translator, made a mental note of my condition en Espanol and we headed into town.
There was a rather substantial crowd around the pharmacy counter. Andy glanced over at me obviously irritated. I grabbed hold of his hand and tightened my fingers. After a five minute line wait we approached the woman, obviously more irritated than Andy. I turned my head hiding the smile.
“Hola. Hay algo mal con la vagina de mi novia. Huele realmente malo y ella no parará el rasguñar de él en público. Pienso que puede ser que sea una infección de la levadura. Voy a romperme para arriba con ella si ella no consigue una cierta medicina rápida.”
The pharmacist looked confused and amused. Confused and amused? That’s not exactly what we were going for. I thought maybe she didn’t understand however she left the counter and returned a moment later with cream and a pill.
“Thanks baby,” I said with my upper lip a bit further out than my top one. “I really do appreciate everything you do. I’ll make it up to you I swear.”
He kissed my hand and with a smile looked back at me, “You don’t have to. It’s my pleasure. I do it because I love you.”
I was anxious to get home, begin my treatment, check my email and lay down in front of a few episodes of Sex and the City, which I had already seen 53 times over. I did my business in the bathroom and then sat down in front of the computer and woke the screen up from a long nap. The translation program was still open. I was about to quit Firefox when the English portion of what Andy translated caught my eye.
“There’s something wrong with my girlfriend’s vagina. It smells really bad and she won’t stop scratching it in public. I think it might be a yeast infection. I’m going to break up with her if she doesn’t get some medicine quick.”
intoxicate |in_täksik_t| |1n_t_ks_ke_t| |_n_t_ks_ke_t|
verb [ trans. ] [usu. as adj. ] ( intoxicated)
(of alcoholic drink or a drug) cause (someone) to lose control of their faculties or behavior.
• poison.
• figurative excite or exhilarate : the team was intoxicated by the prospect of another victorious season.
I will premise this by saying, “This merely the recollection of events that took place two nights ago. It is meant to provide entertainment to reader, closure to myself and a reminder to Andrew.”
Cuates y Cuetes was having their 14-year anniversary bash on Thursday night and the owner had fallen a little bit in love with Andy and his bass. She would not take no for an answer, “Andy, you will be there right?”
He promised he would and I prayed that this would open the door to gig offers.
The musicians had to be there at 5:00pm but nothing was going to start till 8:00pm so I opted to stay home and do some work until about 9:00pm. I knew that Ms.C was going however I just planned on hopping the bus solo style. After four and a half hours of staring at my computer screen in the middle of a furnitureless, pitch dark room I slipped my shoes on and trekked down the hill to catch the bus.
It was an interesting ride. The second guy to get on after me was this dirty, scrappy guy probably 55 or 56. He smelled like a tequila factory and was slurring really easy Spanish vocabulary. The bus driver was obviously annoyed, purposely nailing the giant trench in the road before the intoxicated one could find a seat. This caused him to stumbled backwards, spine first, onto the floor. Climbing up onto the seat he mumbled something that I’m sure resembled, “Fuck you.” Three blocks later there was a man in front of the small store to the right, not hailing the bus down however, the driver stopped and opened the door. He instructed the drunk guy to get off the bus and told the guy in front of the store, apparently his amigo, that he found him a woman. They exchanged laughs as Mr. Snockered fell down the stairs and into a pile of trash. I was a bit alarmed, hoping this was not the precursor for the rest of my evening.
There were tables illuminated with candles covering the shore. There were more people than I had ever seen at Cuates y Cuetes and I wasn’t even sure how I was going to find Andy. There was a rather large stage this time set up right on the beach and there was already about eight musician playing, including two full drum sets. I began searching for his faux-hawk seeing as though that is the tallest thing on him. I ran into Mr. Rio and he told me that he had just seen Andy so he probably wasn’t very far. I headed towards the bar figuring that might be a good place to check, seeing as though he wasn’t on stage. Before I even made it to the overhang I heard, “Kirsten! Over here.”
There they were. Ms.C was wearing a wrap skirt and tank top. Her hair looked longer than I remembered and was up in a loose ponytail. She had a beer in one hand and a burning cigarette in the other. Andy was standing next to her wearing a permanent smile. I took a deep breath in, kissed him once, released the deep breath and asked for our waitress. I figured there was no way I was going to catch up at this point but the least I could do was make a good effort to.
Most of show consisted of people tagging each other on and off stage, Andy only playing a few tunes while I was there. Ms.C kept talking to me about real estate and how our property manager wanted to take her out to see some homes. Every twenty minutes or so she would shove her camera in my hand and say, “Em just nawt the photo grapher (two words) yuuuuu arrre. (hiccup) Cud you plssse take another wun ferrr meeeee.” (big smile, eyes crossed)
Towards the end of the show people started collecting each other to make “what are we doing next” plans. Andy and I were included in the Mr. & Mrs. Rio, Passionate Pedro and Chimbo collection. I wasn’t sure what to do with Ms.C because she was snuggled up to Mr. Creepy Stalker Guy at the table in front of the bar. As exasperating as it was to deal with drunk Ms.C I still felt oddly responsible for her safety. They all suggested we just take her with us.
We all piled into Mr. Rio’s SUV. Chimbo and Andy could not stop laughing and making jokes about the “Double Chimbo.” This is actually were Chimbo got his name. He had been working on playing two saxophones for months and decided to debut this freakish new talent at the show. After he got off stage Mrs. Rio kept busting his balls about fitting two saxes in his mouth at the same time, which morphed into two appendages, which eventually evolved into the Double Chimbo. Chimbo (the word) is Columbian slang for dick, the country where Chimbo (our friend) is from. Every song that played on the radio was turned into Double Chimbo rock, reggae and roll. While that was occurring to my left, Ms.C, to my right, was going on and on to absolutely no one about how she used to be a groupie and hang with famous reggae musicians. Then she started recounting concerts she’d attended twenty years back and about how naughty she really was. It was the broken record from weeks before torturing me once again. I was feeling the desperate need for another cocktail.
I was looking forward to Salsa dancing with Mrs. Rio but unfortunately upon exiting the car I realized that Mrs. Rio had fallen fast asleep and was going to stay in the car while the rest of us went inside. There weren’t a whole lot of people in the neon lit club. The walls were glowing pink and green. A nice man with an alcohol menu sat us at a table up front. We decided to order a whole bottle of vodka and a carafe of cranberry. At first the idea seemed perfect, and the most affordable at only $200 pesos ($20USD) for Absolute. After a couple minutes of consulting my memory index I realized this was an awful idea. The last two times Andy drank hard alcohol around me he started acting crazy, like possessed by the rotten potatoes or something. The chilled bottle was set in the center of the table. We were each given a glassed filled with purified ice cubes. Chimbo dispensed the vodka while Andy followed behind with the juice. We all raised our glasses, Andy’s a bit higher than the rest. I figured it couldn’t get that bad as I sucked hard through my straw.
The dancing started out fine. I must admit I’m not a strong lead and my patience is not as great on the dance floor as it with kindergarteners. Andy managed to get the merengue basic down and half the time the salsa basic as well. It was only when I started watching others dance and giggling a bit at our missteps that he became agitated. It was fairly reminiscent of my birthday when we attempted to salsa dance on a crowded floor with way too much bourbon. The less focused our own dancing I was, the huffier he seemed to get. Once I suggested we sit down he was completely destroyed and refused to dance again.
I decided at 3:00am that it was finally time to go. I had already gone to the bathroom to check on my neighbor twice and hidden the vodka from my boyfriend three times. I attempted to make contact with Andy’s only eye still open.
“Baby, it’s time to go. Okay?” I said in the softest, least irritated voice I could find.
“Annndeeee. . . .letz haf enudder,” Chimbo said stumbling towards the table.
“No,” I said sternly, my teacher voice slightly raised.
“Shesaysicanthaveanymore,” Andy retorted attempting to mock me. He grabbed a short stubby glass intended for votive candles and swung the Absolute over my head. “Ima big (pause) ummmm boy (pause) and I’m fiiiinnnnneee.”
I grabbed both the bottle and the candleholder and placed it at the other end of the table. “Aaaaaaaand we’re done. Come on vayamos.” I cupped my hands underneath Andy’s arms and pulled upward. I managed to motivate him enough to dispense goodbye handshakes and follow me towards the exit. I looked around but saw no trace of Ms.C.
“Dammit! Where the hell did she go now?”
Just as I was about to make one more trip to the bano she rounded the bend. I waved to her to come towards me. As she made the fifth step her foot got caught in her skirt propelling the rest of her body forward right into Chimbo, his trumpet-playing friend Juan, and some girl Andy referred to as “big boned.” They scattered like insects around her body balancing her torso back over her knees. She grabbed her head as if she was looking for something. I could see her searching the ground, panicked. I glanced over at Chimbo’s feet noticing what appeared to be a dead rodent. Grosse. Then I remembered that Ms.C’s hair had looked longer earlier in the evening. That dead guinea pig was Ms.C’s fake ponytail. Grosser. I turned my head, picked up the piece and handed it back to Ms.C.
Together, Cockeyed, Wrecked and I, made our way out the door and towards the line-up of taxis. I led the way with Andy weaving a bit more than swaying and Ms.C somewhere in last. The second time I only heard it. First there was a muffled scuff, then the clack of a heel, a smack and finally a howl. I whipped my head around to find Ms.C ass over teakettle on the cement. I spotted one naked foot, three cab drivers busily turning her upright and Andy frozen in bewilderment. I made my way over to Ms.C and picked leaf, twig and gum wrapper out of the pet on top of her head. By this time Andy had made his way over to the last cab in the row.
I called over to the tired man leaning against his yellow car, “Paso Ancho por favor?” He pointed to the driver whose car was first in the row.
Before I had time to thank him I heard Andy force words out his mouth. “Why ya godda be like dat huh? Auways trying to sssscrew us out uv monday, ah . . .i mean. . . ummm. . . money.”
“Andy!” I screamed running in-between he and the poor unsuspecting man. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I pushed him forward. I apologized in Spanish to the cabbie, shook my head, pointed at Andy and tipped my imaginary beer towards my mouth offering an explanation.”
Before I had time to freak out I spotted Andy and Ms.C getting into the first cab. I opened the left rear door and sat next to Andy.
“Como esta?” the driver asked smiling in the rear view mirror.
“I’m in hell but thanks for asking,” I said smiling back through my teeth. I looked over at Andy, whose breath was one minute from turning in a snore, squeezed his thigh and sunk back into the pleather.
“Did yew know I usted be a guppir, a grappei. . . unm mu . . . i mean groupie?”
Chimbo playing the double chimbo.
the devil multiplied
