That was all of my exercise for the day: rescuing four people from probable drowning. You wouldn’t believe how grateful they were. “Hell, man, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. Thank you, thank you very much. We are very sorry that we ignored your advice and insisted in going into the sea.”
I was magnanimous and told them not to worry, no harm done, everything had turned out for the best.
Three months later, at another friend’s gathering, the very same friend told me that I was an irresponsible person. “How could you have let us go into the sea? It was your house; we were your guests and thus your responsibility. You should have stopped us from going into the sea. We are still having nightmares about drowning!” I was flabbergasted. I couldn’t believe my own ears. I just looked at him, turned around, and walked away. It reminded me of an old saying: “¿Qué favor te hice, para que me odies tanto?” Which loosely translates: “Tell me what favor I did for you, for you to hate me so much?”
Noon
That was a year ago.
I got out of the water, picked up my towel, and draped it over my shoulders. Then I walked up the 260 steps to my room. By the time I got there, I was sweating all over again, which was normal when the temperature was thirty Celsius, about eighty-six Fahrenheit, and the humidity 100 percent. I took longer than usual to shower. I put on loose shorts and a T-shirt and went down barefoot for breakfast. It was eleven o’clock, a late breakfast for me.
I had a fruit salad of piña and mango with fresh lime juice dusted with chile piquín, a plate of chilaquiles with green tomato sauce, four scrambled eggs, and a portion of refried beans. The coffee smelled and tasted heavenly. I need a cup of freshly ground coffee to start the day. The aroma of roasted coffee beans is what gets me going. I wanted to hug and kiss Sandra, but I just left it as a passing thought. The road to my heart most definitely runs through my stomach!
I turned on my iPad and reviewed the news and my e-mails. The news was not good. Tropical Storm Manuel was bearing down on Mexico’s southwest Pacific shoreline, while Hurricane Ingrid was causing havoc in the Gulf of Mexico. People were seeking shelter from the approaching heavy rains, gusty winds, and the threats of flash floods and mudslides along both coastlines. Manuel and Ingrid appeared set to wallop Mexico with a one-two punch and mar Mexico’s September 15 and 16 celebrations. Manuel was expected to dump about fifteen inches of rain on Acapulco, with a possible maximum of twenty-five inches in some areas.
I answered three of my e-mails and deleted forty or so junk e-mails.
I fetched my economics books from my bedroom and returned to the dining room to study, but I just couldn’t stay focused long enough to find my study rhythm. So, I gave up on studying, put on some music, and picked up a Paco Ignacio Taibo II (or PIT-II, as he likes to call himself) Belascoarán-Shayne novel, Todo Belascoarán. What a singular character! Belascoarán is an engineer transformed into a self-made, independent detective in one of largest and most corrupt cities in the world. Fascinating reading if you are into detective and noir novels.
Afternoon
The rest of the day went by with constant rain coming down in waves, hitting the living room windows with a vengeance. The sky would grow dark, then light, and then dark once again. Bolts of lightning illuminated the whole of La Roqueta, Boca Chica, and the sea beyond, followed by almost deafening thunderclaps. I could hardly concentrate on my book or listen to my music.
I took an uneasy nap and woke up with a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach.
A rainy rematch
The thought of not meeting Charlie and Caleb crossed my mind. The fight with Charlie had been hard, and Caleb looked as dangerous, if not more. The rain was still falling, but not as heavily as in the afternoon. But I knew I would go. I had said that I would, and therefore I had to. There were no two ways about it. That is just the way my mind is wired. Growing up with a go-getting, self-disciplined, goal-oriented single mother molded me this way.
I got dressed in black pants, black shoes, and a white guayabera. I started off early. I wanted to be there by nine o’clock. Going from Old Acapulco—the traditional part of town—to Las Brisas, where Acaquila was located on Avenida Escénica, would take at least an hour, given the rain and the roadwork associated with the Acabus project.
By nine o’clock, I was in Acaquila, sitting in the same chair as the day before. After one frozen Herradura Reposado, I thought that they would be a no-show. I was wrong. Thirty or forty minutes later, I felt Charlie and Caleb sitting down next to me, sandwiching me.
I said, “I assumed you guys were a no-show. I figured you were running back to the good old USA with your tails between your legs.”
“You should be so lucky!” said Caleb.
“No way, Jose!” said Charlie. “The traffic was a bitch, and it took us forever to find a taxi in the middle of this fucking rain. Hell, it’s been raining all day long! This is Acapulco. Where the fuck is the sun? That is why we arrived late: too much rain, too few taxis. But here we are. Better late than never.”
“So, Caleb,” I asked, “do you still want to fight?”
“Not particularly, no. But if you’re still into it, I will happily oblige,” said Caleb.
“Good,” I said. “I feel the same way. I would rather drink and party than fight. Charlie, Caleb, would you care to join me?”
“Don’t mind if we do!” said Charlie. “By the way, you have to show me that move with the pants. You almost had me there.”
“Yes,” I responded. “You also had me there with that kick to my face. I have no idea how I didn’t go down. Look, the weather is shit. Why don’t we head out for the restaurant and later go to the club?” I said.
“I second the idea,” said Caleb.
“Yeah, I like the sound of that,” added Charlie, looking at me with a smile on his face.
Dinner
We left the bar and walked to the restaurant. The maître d’ gave us a table and three menus. I was in the mood for steak, so I ordered a tampiqueña (a tender strip of seared beef, tasty beans and rice, guacamole, a saucy enchilada, some lightly browned chile rajas, and onions). Charlie ordered the Acaquila hamburger, medium rare, with fries. Caleb went for the pescado a la diabla (crappie fillets in a chipotle and tomato sauce) with steamed potatoes.
We were hungry, so we also ordered the mixed botana (appetizers). We decided to stay with beer. They ordered Coronas, and I had a Bohemia.
The restaurant had few customers, probably because of the rain. The background music was soft and soothing. Our conversation got easier and more comfortable. We were suddenly asking personal questions about our backgrounds.
Who are we?
“By the way, my name is Santiago Carrasco Portillo. My friends call me Santi,” I said, looking at them over my frosted beer mug.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” responded Charlie. “My name is Charles Underhill, and this here is the world-famous Caleb Jackson.”
I told them that I lived in Mexico City and that I was studying economics at the National University of Mexico. I also mentioned that for the last couple of years, I had been on the national wrestling team and the Mixed Martial Arts Circuit.
Charlie and Caleb told me they had met nine years ago at Fairfield Prep, a Jesuit prep school in Fairfield, Connecticut. Charlie was the captain of the lacrosse team. Caleb was there on an athletic scholarship. Charlie saw Caleb in one of the trials, and he immediately knew he was a natural. He wanted Caleb on the team. So, next day, he went looking for him. He saw Caleb surrounded by some of the school’s nasty seniors. They were taunting him with some racial remarks. “Are you black or nigger?” one of the seniors was asking Caleb.
Caleb answered, “What kind of dumb-shit question is that? Here, let me ask you something: Are you an inbred redneck retard, or are you strung out on meth? Even though you don’t deserve a proper answer, I will tell you that I am both. I am a black American because I study and work. But I am also a nigger, because I think that we
deserve special treatment to compete with you on an equal basis.”
Before they could retort, Charlie walked up to the group and asked Caleb: “How you doing? How is the school treating you?”
He then turned around and asked the seniors, “What are you guys doing? Do you know that this guy is one of the best lacrosse players I have ever seen? So, I am asking you again, what the fuck are you guys doing?”
The seniors just looked at Charlie and Caleb, and, without saying a word, they turned and walked away. Even the seniors feared Charlie.
Caleb was upset, and he told Charlie angrily, “I didn’t ask for your help. I didn’t need you; I had everything under control!”
Charlie answered: “I knew that. I know you don’t need my help to deal with those clowns. But this is not about you, it’s about me. I need your help. We really need you on the team!”
Caleb was silent for a moment. Suddenly, the angry face faded into a smile, and he responded: “Yeah, OK, but only because you ask so nicely.”
They had been best friends ever since that moment.
They both liked weightlifting and tennis. Charlie also did some jujitsu and Muay Thai boxing. Though he still liked lacrosse, he had grown out of it by now.
Caleb liked everything from running to weightlifting. However, he didn’t practice anything on a regular basis. He enjoyed weightlifting and basketball because of the social aspects. He was fond of training and shooting hoops with friends. He also loved tennis because he relished competition on a one-on-one basis.
Whatever Caleb did, apparently he was successful at it—not only because he liked winning, but because he couldn’t lose. He was a natural, with the right brain wiring to go with the right body type. It wasn’t hard to imagine him doing twelve reps with three hundred pounds or even running a hundred meters close to or under ten seconds. His body was an extension of his mind. His mind had untapped resources, and his body had sheer animal strength and grace.
I thought, I was lucky yesterday that Charlie chose to be the first.
After high school, Charlie joined the army, partly driven by the death of his father and partly because it was a family tradition. Caleb also joined, partly because he thought it was the right thing to do—and mostly because Charlie joined. They volunteered for infantry, airborne, and ultimately army rangers. Their training took just short of a year.
They pulled two one-year tours in Afghanistan on the Pakistan border at remote mountain outposts, dealing with Afghan and Pakistani forces who were constantly changing allegiance to the highest bidder. They excelled at dropping behind enemy lines and in close combat in difficult terrain. Half of the time, they were doing back-to-back missions, rolling outside the wire and getting into firefights several times a night. The other half, their days were spent training out at the range, playing video games, and knocking out some college courses online.
They specialized in conducting raids, ambushes, and seizures. As a two-man team, they pulled terrorists out of their beds and flex-cuffed them before they even woke up.
After three years in the army, they decided to get out and pursue their academic interests under the GI Bill. They were not disillusioned—just frustrated by the dysfunction of war.
Charlie decided to study law at American University in Washington, DC, one of the best law schools in the country. It was also located close to the public office he so aspired to.
Caleb was more inclined to mathematics and physics. He chose Georgetown University, which met two of his requirements. It had a good science and physics school, and it was close to Charlie.
They rented a nice two-bedroom apartment in Arlington, Virginia, a few minutes away by Metro from their campus.
They came to Mexico, before starting university, to decompress from their last Afghan tour. They came because of Acapulco’s promise of sun, beaches, and relaxation. They were flush with cash from a year’s tax-free pay with combat bonuses.
However, after two days, all they had seen was rain and more rain. They came to Acaquila to have fun, savor a few drinks, and meet some pretty girls. However, that didn’t work out. A girl rebuffed Charlie, and a Mexican—me, me, me—had challenged them to a fight.
So far their trip had been a nightmare.
I hope that was going to change. Then again, I could be wrong.
We talked for more than two hours.
Dancing
After our meal and powwow, we went to the club. It was half empty because of the rain. However, there was a busload of Ukrainian university students dancing and making a racket. Some of them were good looking and athletic. We joined them and danced until closing time.
Of course, modesty apart, I was the best dancer. You know—all those Latin genes! Charlie was a robot, dancing as if he were in the middle of a swamp with cement boots. Caleb had rhythm and moved with a certain instinctive animal grace. Even though he was not familiar with some of the music favored by the international clientele, he felt the music at a primal level and sensed the people dancing around. He was soon dancing as if he were born to it.
I don’t know how long we danced, but we were soaked in our own sweat.
We flirted some with the Ukrainian girls, but it was only that. They were too much into themselves and were leaving the next day after a one-week visit to Mexico City, Cuernavaca, Taxco, and Acapulco. Besides, some of those girls had not learned proper hygiene. When you are in a hot and humid place, such as Acapulco, with a temperature hovering around thirty degrees Celsius and a humidity of close to 100 percent, you should take at least one shower a day, and you have to use deodorant. Otherwise, your presence is loudly announced by your body odor.
At two o’clock in the morning, they all marched in a single line, like good little soldiers, to the bus that was going to take them to their hotel on their last night in Mexico. I hoped they would take a shower before boarding the plane, or they would run the risk of being charged and convicted for contravening the law on the prevention of biological weapons of olfactory mass destruction.
We left soon after, and the rain was still coming down hard. There were no taxis around. The avenue looked like a river.
“Hey, guys,” I said. “Since you made such an effort to come all the way here to beat my sorry ass, you’re welcome to stay at my place.”
Charlie asked me mockingly, “Santi, are you feeling lonely and in need for someone to warm your back?”
“No, not particularly, but it’s understandable that an ugly gorilla finds me irresistible.” I answered.
Without their saying yes or thank you, we ran toward my car and drove home under the constant, unwavering rain. My wipers were at full speed, and still I had to drive very slowly. I could hardly see five feet ahead.
I started to get concerned. The constant rain would be the end of Acapulco unless it stopped soon. Acapulco was full of domestic tourists because of the long Independence Day weekend. The ground and the reservoirs couldn’t take any more rain. In a couple of hours, I was sure there would be mudslides and flash floods. What a recipe for disaster: a multitude of tourists and downpours.
We arrived home after a one-hour drive. We were still in high spirits, so we had a couple of beers, talked some more, and then went to bed at about five in the morning.
These damned gringos sure can party! I thought.
Chapter 3: Food and Lies
Morning
In spite of going to bed late, I woke up to a sunny and dry morning. A promising day—the first without rain in four days.
I put on my bathing suit and flip-flops and went down to wake up Charlie and Caleb.
“Rise and shine, you lazy gringos,” I said as I walked into the room. “We have a sunny morning for the first time in days. It looks like Manuel is taking a break. Come on; let’s make the most of it.”
“Shut the fuck up, man,” said Charlie. “First of all, give me back my head, will you? Second, bring us a bucket of OJ.”
“Come on, guys. We have an appointment with destiny. We a
re going water skiing at the Lagoon of Coyuca, which I’m sure you haven’t heard of.”
“Santi, we don’t have our bathing suits. We need to go to the hotel for our stuff.”
“Take a shower,” I said. “I am bringing you bathing suits and T-shirts, which I’m sure will fit you. After breakfast, we will go to your hotel to pick up your stuff, get you checked out, and then go to the lagoon. How does that sound?”
Fifteen minutes later, Charlie and Caleb were down having breakfast. We started with mangoes with lime and chili piquín. I was surprised that both of them were adventurous eaters. Most Americans are conservative when it comes to eating.
Caleb said, “I have to take this chili pepper back home. Man, this is great. I have never had fruit spiced in this manner.”
We then had enfrijoladas filled with machaca, which is dried beef covered with grated manchego cheese, and three fried eggs on the side, accompanied by a blended orange, grapefruit, and marañón juice and fresh Veracruz coffee. I like Chiapas coffee better, but Veracruz coffee is a close second. It has a good aroma and a depth of flavor that makes you appreciate that you are alive.
As soon as I put the green chili sauce over my enfrijoladas, Charlie and Caleb followed suit. Charlie put on so much sauce that he was sweating profusely. His nose and cheeks turned progressively redder until he looked like a ripe tomato. So I told them, “You taste chili twice—once when it goes in and the second time when it comes out. So, Caleb, I would keep my distance from Charlie tomorrow morning if I were you!”
I drove them to their hotel in Condesa. It took us a while because of the Acabus roadworks. We placed their backpacks and hand luggage in the trunk, and we headed toward Pie de la Cuesta and the Lagoon of Coyuca. The traffic was a nightmare until we hit Mozimba, but it thinned out after that. Nevertheless, we had to drive slowly because of the potholes and the trash that had washed down from the hills by the constant rain.
Warriors in Paradise Page 3
