Margarita Wednesdays

by Deborah Rodriguez

  THE NIGHT I GOT THE call from Barb was when I knew I was really starting to belong. It was ninety-four degrees outside, and not much cooler inside. When my cell rang I barely had the energy to answer.

  “Deb, it’s Barb,” she said very calmly. “Bob is dead.”

  I shot straight up on the couch. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. That’s terrible! What can I do?” I blathered into the phone, picturing her sweet, elderly husband that day at the beach.

  “I can’t find Bodie’s phone number. I need someone to get rid of the body.”

  My mind flashed for a second on a Barb I’d never imagined, one holding a bloody knife or a brain-splattered hammer over the kitchen sink. “Um, Barb? Don’t you think you should call the coroner? They have those here, right? Or the hospital? Or perhaps the police?”

  “I don’t think—”

  “How did he die, Barb? Where is your husband’s body?”

  “He died on the living room couch just a little while ago and . . . husband? Who said anything about Art? Bob is our dog, Debbie.”

  I tried to cover up the sound of my sigh with a little cough. “Of course, that’s what I meant. Let me make a few calls and I’ll get back to you.”

  I quickly dialed Bodie’s number, anxious to get him started tapping into his network of fellow animal lovers. No answer. With no phone book to be found at my place, I rushed down to Macaws, where Glen and Sharon and Cesar the bartender were just closing up, and we got to work searching for help. In the middle of it all, Bodie called back. Though I swear I made it clear that a dog had died, I learned later that all Bodie heard was “Bob died, and we need to get rid of the body.”

  Silence.

  “We’ve called a few twenty-four-hour numbers listed for cremation services, but none of them answered,” I explained.

  Still, silence at the end of the line.

  “We thought about double-bagging him and putting him in the parking garage but I think he would begin to stink in this heat. I’ve asked Glen and Sharon if they have an empty freezer just to keep him cold through the weekend, but all their freezers are full.”

  More silence.

  “Bodie, are you there? We just need a number for someone to take Bob away.”

  “Maybe you should call the American embassy.”

  The embassy? Seriously, I’m thinking, you report dead dogs to the American embassy here? I wasn’t about to go down that road. After all, when I had tried to report that my son had received a kidnapping threat and that my life was in serious danger, I got jack shit out of the American embassy. I highly doubted the American embassy was going to be the answer now. It was time to call for reinforcements.

  I alerted the rest of the troops, and soon the phone lines were on fire. One vet was too drunk and said he’d come by on Monday. Two others claimed they didn’t have a freezer big enough to store the mutt, and that we’d have to wait until after the weekend. The rest of the round-the-clock services didn’t even answer. A nice funeral was obviously out of the question. Now it was simply a matter of removing the body from the living room. Bonnie headed to Barb’s house to help deal with the dog on the couch. She had an idea, remembering that Roger the Realtor lived nearby in a big house with a lawn. Perhaps Bob could be buried there.

  But Roger’s big lawn had been recently cemented over, in his gringo attempt at the preferred local style. Roger pointed out the empty lot across the street. We were jazzed, and relieved. “Who has a shovel?” someone asked. Glen said that he thought he might know someone who knew someone who had a shovel, but as we stomped on the hard ground we realized what we really needed was a pick and an ax.

  We then considered a burial at sea, but feared the waves would just wash him back up to shore. Mafia-style was floated as an option, as in a bag and some rocks, but we had no boat, and it was late. Maybe a Hindu pyre on the beach? With no wood, and an overeager police force, we knew we’d never get away with it. And in the middle of all this, the reality of losing their beloved Bob was just beginning to sink in for Art and Barb.

  Finally, Bonnie, who spoke more Spanish than all of us combined, got hold of a vet and, though she swore he sounded drunk, successfully persuaded him to come get Bob. We still don’t know what became of Bob. All I do know is this: in Mexico, it’s not a good idea to die on the weekend. I’d have to remember to be extra careful on Saturdays and Sundays.

  WE TRAVELED AROUND LIKE A revolving herd of goats that summer, stopping to graze at the nearest taquerías and quenching our thirst at a variety of watering holes. Now there was always something to do and someone to do it with, no matter what day of the week or what time of day. We’d gather for roof parties at sunset, or wander down to the water to watch the cliff divers floating through the sky.

  One Thursday evening a few of us headed to Zaragoza Park, where older Mazatleco couples would tango and two-step long into the night. I had heard that it was a pickup scene for the Mexican geriatric crowd, the place where a widowed grandma or a spinster aunt could go with her head held high, all dolled up with silk flowers in her hair that matched the folding fan in her hands. The men, with their perfect posture and pointy white shoes, led the women gently across the plaza with an air of elegance that seemed to have come from another era. That night a couple of mustachioed men asked me to dance. “No, gracias,” I said with a little smile. I couldn’t imagine dancing in that heat. It was hard enough to survive just sitting there watching from a plastic chair. Besides, I didn’t dance in any weather, at least not in public. Never did, and doubted I ever would. I envied these women as they spun and twirled proudly and gracefully across the plaza.

  Sunday nights, we’d meet down by the water to watch the clowns. Me, I got more of a kick out of watching the spectators splayed out in a giant circle on the plaza’s hard ground, mothers and fathers and children totally and equally engaged in the silly slapstick, as if it were the original Broadway production of The Lion King. They really love their clowns down there. Whole families of clowns have been prancing around in their giant shoes and fright wigs entertaining generation after generation of Mazatlecos for years. And boy, do those clowns rake it in. I’ve heard they even earn more than doctors. Even so, I’m glad my mom was a hairdresser and not a clown, because then I’d have to be one, too, and I wouldn’t be caught dead in those mismatched outfits and that gaudy makeup.

  AS THE SEASON CHANGED, SO did Mazatlán. Of course, weather-wise it only dropped a few blessed degrees, but in terms of the vibe, it was as though the volume had been turned up about a hundred decibels. The snowbirds were flocking back from Seattle and Vancouver and Winnipeg and Minneapolis, and along with these fair-weather residents came the charity fund-raisers, the wine tastings, the gallery openings, and more parties than ever. There was a buzz of anticipation along the Malecón, with people shouting and waving to each other, hugging, kissing, showing off new hairdos and clothes as if it were the first day back at school. To me, it felt like those of us who had endured the marathon that was summer were being trampled by a bunch of sprinters with a bit too much enthusiasm. Where were all those guys while we were holding down the fort with our heat rash, wilted hair, and bubbling sewage? Personally, I was proud to carry the badge of honor that comes with being a full-timer, and felt lucky that I had gotten the chance to know the hearty group I met over the summer. I had learned a lot from them, so now I simply followed their lead, embraced the new energy, and dived right in.

  It was way too easy to get lost in all that chaos. I was always good in chaos. It didn’t leave me much time to think about myself and, for the most part, that seemed to suit me just fine. This perpetual fiesta sure beat that interminable sitting around that the Indian had prescribed up in Napa. I started to think that maybe this was all I needed in the first place. But when I took the rare quiet moment to have an honest conversation with myself, I also feared that, though I was certainly having more fun than I ever did in California, I had allowed myself to become distracted. Mazatlán was one giant distraction. It w
as easy to live a life without a responsibility in the world, a life disconnected from everything, including myself. And I knew that, in the long run, that would get me nowhere fast. I’d lived a lifetime searching for that someone or somewhere I thought might bring me happiness. And though I was certainly hopeful about my new life in Mexico, deep down I knew that the only one who could make me happy was me, and that the only place I’d find happiness was a place deep inside myself, a place that was becoming increasingly difficult to locate amid all the noise.

  I had come down to Mexico determined to do things right this time, and I wasn’t about to give up on that. So even if I wasn’t yet sure how to work on the inside, in the meantime at least I could keep working on the outside. The hairdresser in me was a huge believer in the look-good, feel-good philosophy.

  The gym thing had sort of fizzled when Roberto, the owner, got shot. As happens down here, nobody really talked about how or why. They just padlocked the doors and went on with life. And so did I.

  It was a visit to my mother that pushed me to pursue another avenue of self-improvement. Not an actual visit to my mother, but rather it was the thought of a visit that prompted me to apply for my FM3 visa, the one that would allow me to leave the country without my car, should I have to do so in the case of an emergency. I wanted to be able to just hop on a plane in the event that my aging mother needed me. So, apparently, in order for me to be granted the rights that this visa offered, the Mexican government needed to see, and photograph, a naked face. That meant a face devoid of all hair, including, for example, hair strategically parted to mask a broad forehead, bangs cut at exactly the right length to cover a droopy eyelid, a curl placed just so to distract from a sinking jawline. Not one stray hair. And they wanted to see your ears, which apparently can only be made truly identifiable when standing face forward at attention with cotton balls shoved behind them until they stick out like a cartoon mouse. “Sin sonrisa. No smile!” The shutter clicked.

  “I’m hideous,” I cried to Sharon when I showed her my card. “How can I even see anything with those big old sacks hanging down over my eyeballs? And what the hell is that under my chin? Tell me I don’t really look like this.” Sharon just laughed. “What do you think?” I asked, stretching my cheeks back as far as the skin would allow.

  “You look like Bruce Lee,” she answered.

  “Don’t you think I’d look a lot better with just a little work?”

  Sharon shrugged her shoulders. “I think you look just fine.”

  “C’mon. A little lift?” I raised my brows to the ceiling. “A little tuck?” I flattened my chin with the back of my hand.

  “It’s a big deal, Deb. It’s major surgery.”

  “Ooh, I know what you need, Debbie,” piped in Analisa from behind the counter, where, to the joy of both of us, she was now working the day shift. It was adios Mamita’s for her. “Cirugía estética vampiro,” she said. “I have a girlfriend, she got this.”

  “Cirugía estética vampiro? What is that?”

  “You know, it’s like a . . .” She pushed her front teeth out over her bottom lip.

  “Why would I want buck teeth, Ana?”

  “No, not that. You know.” Now she raised her collar, grabbed Glen by the front of his T-shirt, and pretended to bite his neck. “They take the blood.”

  “Mosquito?” Glen giggled, clearly enjoying himself.

  “Vampire! You mean a vampire?” Sharon shouted out.

  “Yes! That is what it is. A vampire facelift.”

  I was picturing a procedure that would leave me with a whiter than white face and long, pointy fangs, not exactly what I had in mind.

  “It’s where they take your own blood and put it back into your face,” Analisa explained. “With shots. It will make you look joung. I’ve seen the pictures.”

  Sharon shuddered. “There’s no way anybody’s getting me to do any shots, unless they’re shots of tequila.” It did sound pretty disgusting, and I had my doubts, but to me needles sounded way better than knives.

  Mexico has its own take when it comes to health care. Like at the pharmacy, where there always seems to be some sort of party going on. I’ve seen a guy there dressed up like a giant Pillsbury Doughboy—although I guess he’s supposed to look like a doctor—dancing around outside trying to entice people to go in. There’s also often a “nurse” hanging around out front, handing out promotional flyers for all sorts of miracle cures. This is a country where you walk in off the street and the pharmacist offers up Viagra and Lunesta as if they were Tic Tacs or Lifesavers. Where you can get storefront X-rays and blood work done on a whim, any day, any time. But as quirky as it seemed, I hadn’t heard anybody complaining about the medical service down here. My only personal experience until now had been the one time I went to the clinic inside the pharmacy with my ears plugged up. A nice doctor irrigated them swiftly and efficiently. Then he triumphantly held up my big glob of earwax for all the world to see. “Mira! Frijoles en sus oidos!” I had beans in my ears.

  I persuaded Sharon to accompany me to the doctor on Juárez Street, the one Analisa had heard good things about. The neighborhood left me thinking twice about leaving my car unattended, but inside, the office was a sparkly white.

  “The Vampire?” The graying doctor took my chin in his thick hand and slowly turned my head back and forth. Then he shook his own head slowly back and forth. “Not for you.”

  “Why not?” I whined, enviously eyeing the posters of Salma Hayek, Cameron Diaz, Penelope Cruz, and the like plastered on the walls of his office.

  “Too late. The Vampire can only do so much for a woman like you.”

  A woman like me? What the hell did he mean by that? Before I could yank my chin from his hand and head to the door, he continued, tapping each part of my face with his pen as he talked. “Perhaps with a brow lift, some work on the eyes, a little lipo under the chin, cheek implants, and then we straighten out that nose, yes. You might look beautiful.” He flashed a perfect smile and swept his arm toward the posters on the wall, as if he had personally performed surgery on them all. I slumped in my chair. I never knew I had a crooked nose.

  “And you,” he said, turning to beautiful Sharon, “the same. But also your lips need work.”

  He took off his glasses and stood up. “That will be seven hundred pesos for today’s visit, please. Each.”

  MY REPUTATION, WHEN IT COMES to entertaining, is, shall we say, somewhat spotty. Though I shine when it comes to the procurement part—I’m the one who’s always assigned to bring the chips or the sodas for any get-together—my shortcomings, when it comes to dealing with an oven or even a mixing bowl, are widely known. I try to keep things simple. The one and only time I volunteered to host Christmas dinner for the entire family, including the in-laws, I knew better than to attempt a roast turkey. But cooking spaghetti for fifteen turned out to be a whole different matter than doing it for four. Fortunately, the day was saved by a secret dash to the gas station for their famous fried chicken. Another time, when I decided I wanted to try my hand at my own gas station chicken, my tendency to get easily distracted resulted in a kitchen fire, where everything, including the carpet, went up in flames. Even in Kabul, at my own coffeehouse, I was told in no uncertain terms that my one and only job was to greet customers and stay out of the kitchen.

  But on Carnaval Street none of that stopped me from impulsively inviting a few of my neighbors over one Saturday morning for a little get-together. Thank goodness for Analisa, who arrived early with a cake from Panama Bakery, along with her crucial bilingual skills. I put on the coffee. Pepe, the old man who lived on the other side of my bathroom wall, appeared at my gate exactly on time, with a tan fedora on his head and a bag of candy in his perfectly manicured hand. It wasn’t long before Josi and her brother-in-law Jorge, who together own a building six houses down on Carnaval Street, arrived, Josi in her flip-flops and shorts and Jorge looking as though he were headed to a board meeting.

  I’m not sure what
I had been thinking. I picked at my cake while the four of them chatted away. Analisa tried her best to draw me in.

  “Tell your friends how do you like living on Carnaval Street, Debbie.”

  “You know how I like it, Analisa. You go ahead and tell them.”

  Analisa rattled something off in Spanish. “Jorge wants to know if you have met the dead people yet.”

  “Excuse me?” I almost spit out my coffee.

  “You heard me, Debbie. So have you seen them? The dead people?”

  “Um, no.”

  “He says he knows lots of dead people. One who lives in his building is a doctor.” Analisa looked at Jorge and nodded her head, clearly impressed.

  “Really,” was all I could say. Who was I to judge? After all, I’d seen plenty of strange things myself in my own lifetime. Besides, there was no way I’d want to offend him.

  “Yes,” Jorge continued, “but he is a very nice and very peaceful dead doctor.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Josi says she wish he would send the dead people to shop in her store.” Analisa laughed. “Jorge says he does, but they don’t need many groceries.”

  Jorge was full of stories. I had barely finished pouring a second round of coffee when off he went on a long, tragic tale about the people who used to live a few houses down from mine. The story goes that one night a young girl who lived there went out dancing with a friend. They met some boys, things turned ugly, and the girl was murdered. Her mother, inconsolable, spent two years mourning over her deceased daughter’s clothes and locks of her hair, praying for her return. Then the girl did return, in the body of her twelve-year-old niece, who had been living in the house as well. One day the niece was normal, and the next she was howling like a wounded animal, suddenly with enough strength to throw tables and chairs and people across the room. She began attacking everyone around her. Jorge heard the commotion and went down to look, and caught sight of the girl growling. The doctor was called, but everyone quickly agreed that this was no illness—the girl was possessed. The street emptied as priests and pastors and ministers of all denominations came to perform an exorcism. The only noises to be heard for the next three hours were the screams of a young girl and the baying of dogs across the neighborhood. That was twenty-two years ago, and the last time anyone ever lived in that house.