Tijuana Gringo |
Michael Thomas |
4 December 2000. |
"Hello, Mike! You didn't call for a ride?""No." We hugged, briefly, "You know I love walking. After an hour on the train, and changing from blue line to orange, it felt good to be on my feet for a while, moving under my own power. I wrote some poems on the train."
"Yes? Good. But I'm sorry you missed lunch. There's more in the fridge, if you've a mind to."
"Thanks. What'd you'all have?"
"Roast beef sandwiches."
I started to fix one for myself. "Mmm. Looks good. And you got the poop-on mustard."
Mom laughed at my mangled French. "You all set to go?"
"More or less."
"How long is the bus ride, again?"
"Ten or twelve hours."
"Straight through? No changes?"
"Yes. No. One bus."
"All night long?"
"Uh-huh. Oh good! Still some sliced tomatoes and onions. Thanks."
"You'll call us, Michael, when you get there?"
"Of course, Mama."
I watched the weather channel rather closely the past two days. Looks like mild weather will prevail all this week over west Texas, New Mexico, and Chihuahua.
Yesterday Mom bought me some clothes, including a jacket. It will be cold at night in Ciudad Juarez, and colder on the long night busses through the wild desert mountains. It is December, after all.
"This is an early Christmas present, Michael."
Now I'm home in Tijuana again, counting the hours until I leave tomorrow afternoon. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.
I can catch the city bus two blocks from here, down at 2nd & F. It will make the loop through downtown, up C (Ninos) and down B (Constitucion), then cross over the river and crawl along the foot of Libertad through Palacio zone. Twist around the hill where there still be aguas termales, and run the long stretch through Buena Vista until at last we shall each the big bus terminal. That's the end of the line. I will get off and check in at Autobuses Chihuahuenses. Then....
Cousin Daniel insisted I go over to his building tonight. His landlord, Carlos, had invited me & him to see him before we leave. I mean I leave.
Carlos wanted to thank me again for writing the bullfight poem about him. It was nothing, really. Amazingly simple. I just knocked down some verses in October after he told the story. That was about the time I met him, I think. Daniel had just moved in across the park, in his building, and....
But that's too long another story.
I think my landlord, Agustin, knows Daniel's landlord. But I don't think they are friends. They only live a block apart, on opposite sides of the Teniente Guerrero Park, but the two times I have mentioned this I felt a sudden chill and silence, as if neither wants to speak of the other. Curiosity festers me... but then, like another saying my father had (or so the family tells me, I don't remember him), "If you can't say anything good, don't say anything."
Well, Agustin has his restaurant, and Carlos does catering, so they are closeby but not exactly in the same niche. Or league, for that matter. I mean, Agustin's food is usually good, I often eat here, right downstairs of the apartment I rent from him. But Daniel's landlord is a way better cook than my Agustin. Agustin is a good cook, yes, but, you see, don Carlos ain't merely a cook, he's a chef!
He claimed tonight he was only offering us leftovers, but sheesh what leftovers! Stuffed pork loin, portabello mushrooms, vegetables in vinagrette, almondine safron rice, plenty of beer... mmm-mmm! Es decir, nam-nam!
I gave him a copy of the poem. He gushed and hugged me after reading it.