Post by goldenmyst on Dec 17, 2018 18:33:11 GMT -6
Tijuana Blues
The light waned on the tumbleweed desert. Tijuana lay ahead. Its lights cast a pale yellow glow on the countryside. Arty opened the window of his Austin and breathed the warm sweet air. The last glow of sun swelled in the west.
Arty drove past the bars and broken down buildings with balconies. Finally, he arrived at the hotel. He carried his bags up the rickety stairs and to his room. Etched on the door were the words, “Yankee go home.”
The room was a dingy closet-sized space. It had a wash basin with brown stains and a mirror with a crack down the middle. There was an aroma of dirt, mildew, and whiskey. Arty sat on the bed which sagged. He took a long shower in the bathroom he shared with another room.
Then he went out in into the night. He saw old men and women on the sidewalk, sitting on crates, and smoking. Then he saw the “Gringo Paradise.” Inside a Salsa band played. The band members wore cowboy boots and sombreros. By the pinball machine was a dartboard with a picture of Ronald Reagan on it.
Arty sat down at the bar and yelled, “Aranjuez.” The band played the passionate, “Concerto De Aranjuez.” Arty ordered a tequila and began his trademark monologue. He said, “If they catch me within twenty miles of Vegas, I’m done for.”
The bartender filled a glass of Jack Daniels and said, “Scuse me, senor.”
Arty passed his finger across his neck like a knife and said, “El dead.”
He drank a tiny glass of tequila and said, “Lost twenty rounds at the crap game. First, they break your legs. Then I don’t even want to think about it.”
The bartender got Arty a beer and said, “Si Senor.” Although it was a slow night, by then the bartender was just ignoring Arty.
Arty changed his liquor to a Bloody Mary. He swirled his straw in the elixir. He said, “My wife, bloodsucking wench, says I have to pay her till I, ‘Get lucky and die.’ We’re separated but not by enough miles.”
The bartender took out a writing pad and said, “Cash or credit?”
Arty ate a pretzel and said, “Put it on my tab.” Then he yelled at the band, “Felice Navidad!” The merry song diverted the bartender’s attention.
Arty was too tired to pour out more of his lamentations. He reached into his pocket and his fingers passed through the hole in it. He smiled sheepishly and asked, “Restroom?” The bartender pointed out back. Arty sneaked out the rear entrance, went back to his room, and fell asleep in his clothes.
Arty woke up with the sun streaming through the window. He got up, groaned, and took a shower. There was a loud banging on the door. He put on his robe and opened the door an inch. Suddenly it swung open and two Guardia, policemen, walked in. One held a card in his hand. It read, “Arty Caraway, Professional Bartender.”
One Guardia with a black waxed mustache said “You stupid gringo snake. You should never leave your business card while committing a larceny. You remember you left it with the bartender hoping to get work and take some poor Mexican’s job. We had to check all the nearby hotels.”
Arty rubbed the sleep from his eyes and said, “Sorry.” He pulled his pants on and slipped into his undershirt.
He was ushered into a musty smelling carcel, jail cell. Across from him were women in tight blue jeans and blouses. Next door, there was a big fat man with whiskers who kept moaning. In his cell was a toilet with no cover and a young Mexican guy in a fancy suit.
The young man asked, “What are you in for?”
Arty sat down opposite him on a cot and said, “Bar bill.”
The man combed his slick black hair. He said, “You got a light sentence. Maybe ten years. Me I did favors for the girls. I get one week.”
Arty thought he’d never met a nicer pimp. But a pimp is still a pimp, vermin. The carcelero, jailer, brought them enchiladas which were tasty but tiny. After they were finished eating he took Arty to a tiny room with a fluorescent light.
The carcelero said, “We will do a deal. The Bar owner will take your car. That old broken down Austin isn’t worth more than a vacation in Tijuana anyway. You go back to Gringo land.”
Arty fidgeted in his chair. He said, “A ticket home?”
The carcelero wiped his hands and said, “You catch a ride. That will be not problem, eh?”
Arty thought about his cell and its inhabitants. He said, “Great!”
He went back to his room to get his duffel bag and penned a letter to his wife:
Hi Honey Bunny,
Check’s in the mail and I’m not I jail.
Hope to see you in the Big Easy soon.
The old Austin was stolen by a Mexican
Who had more brains than money. So I’ll
be a while.
Hasta Luego,
Art
Arty hitched a ride in an eighteen wheeler whose driver honked his horn at every girl in sight. The trip through the desert was just pure monotony.
Finally, in Austin, he got a ride with some college kids who were on their way to New Orleans. When they crossed the state line into Louisiana, he could hear crickets and frogs chirping in the wet subtropical night. They dropped Arty off at the Napoleon House on Bourbon Street. Legend has it that the pirate Jean Lafitte had a plan to rescue Napoleon from St. Helena and bring him back to New Orleans to live in this house. The place had portraits of Napoleon hanging from the walls. It was reminiscent of an earlier age when men like Arty were heroes and leaders. Courage and stamina counted more than education. Perhaps Arty would have been a musketeer in the eighteenth century like D’Artagnan, the hero of the “Three Musketeers.”
Arty wheedled his way into a job and went home to his wife. When he entered the shotgun house on Dauphine Street, his wife was wearing her nightgown and brushing her hair.
Arty doffed his army coat and hung it up by the door. Mrs. Juanita Caraway said, “You know I worry about you. Even though I seem mean, I love you deep down.”
Arty sat down in front of the TV. He said, “I know you love me. That’s why I keep coming back.
Sometimes I don’t realize how good I’ve got it.”
Juanita stopped combing her hair. “Amen to that,” she said. She went on, “Remember the boys in Vegas.”
Arty lit up a cigarette. He said, “Men who offer to give you a free tour of the bottom of Lake Mead are hard to forget.”
Juanita got him a beer from the fridge. She said, “They found us. They want you to go back to Vegas and pay or you’ll really pay dearly.”
Arty took a long gulp of beer. He said, “We can’t even afford rent. What do they want me to pay them, monopoly money?”
Juanita said, “I’ll go with you and do rosaries. Something will come up. By the way, my mother in Tijuana needs a hundred dollars. She wants to give Pablo, her cat, a traditional Mexican funeral.”
Juanita and Arty left their house, hocked all their worldly goods except her rosary and hopped a flight to Vegas. They took a bus to downtown where lives were a dime a dozen and the dollar was dictator.
Arty entered the Moroccan Fez Casino and into a white room. He sat at one end of a long oak table.
A man sat at the other end of the table. He wore a suit with no tie and a gold chain around his collar. He opened the talk, “Good to see you Arty. It’s been a long time. I’ll make this as painless as possible.”
Arty took off his sunglasses and brushed his grey hair. The man continued, “Arty, your hair is grey but worse things can happen.”
Arty kept his cool and leaned back. He countered, “What can I do for you?”
The man replied, “The question is what can we do ‘to’ you?”
Arty’s voice didn’t waver. He said, “Let bygones be bygones. Forgive and forget.”
The man smiled showing his gold fillings. He said, “We got a proposition for you.”
Arty sat up straight. The man continued, “Arty you’re the type who would have been a leader of men, a hero, two hundred years ago. Today you’re a nobody, but things change. We need an announcer at the Cabaret. You game?”
Arty breathed a sigh of relief. He said, “God bless you, my son. Of course, I’m game.”
The man stood up and shook hands with Arty.
As his grip got firmer he said, “You just give up half your income or half your legs.”
Arty’s wife had been sitting by his side the whole time. She told the man, “My better half says we’ll take the first half.”
That night the club was filled with people. The red curtains parted revealing the stage and showgirls. Arty stood up and announced the next dance performance. He walked off the stage into the loving arms of his wife.
That weekend Arty and his wife took a vacation to Tijuana to visit Juanita’s mother. Arty stood on the balcony of her mother’s apartment. He watched his mother in law’s cat being carried down the street in its tiny coffin with a white sheet draped over it. The onlookers wailed. No doubt they thought it was a baby.
Mrs. Garcia, her Mom, came out and said, “You be a good husband. Always provide?”
Arty saw the coffin disappear around a corner. He said, “Till death do us part.”
It finally dawned on Arty that he was a man of responsibility, whether he liked it or not. His drifting days were over. He had a job and a faithful wife. What more could any man want?
The light waned on the tumbleweed desert. Tijuana lay ahead. Its lights cast a pale yellow glow on the countryside. Arty opened the window of his Austin and breathed the warm sweet air. The last glow of sun swelled in the west.
Arty drove past the bars and broken down buildings with balconies. Finally, he arrived at the hotel. He carried his bags up the rickety stairs and to his room. Etched on the door were the words, “Yankee go home.”
The room was a dingy closet-sized space. It had a wash basin with brown stains and a mirror with a crack down the middle. There was an aroma of dirt, mildew, and whiskey. Arty sat on the bed which sagged. He took a long shower in the bathroom he shared with another room.
Then he went out in into the night. He saw old men and women on the sidewalk, sitting on crates, and smoking. Then he saw the “Gringo Paradise.” Inside a Salsa band played. The band members wore cowboy boots and sombreros. By the pinball machine was a dartboard with a picture of Ronald Reagan on it.
Arty sat down at the bar and yelled, “Aranjuez.” The band played the passionate, “Concerto De Aranjuez.” Arty ordered a tequila and began his trademark monologue. He said, “If they catch me within twenty miles of Vegas, I’m done for.”
The bartender filled a glass of Jack Daniels and said, “Scuse me, senor.”
Arty passed his finger across his neck like a knife and said, “El dead.”
He drank a tiny glass of tequila and said, “Lost twenty rounds at the crap game. First, they break your legs. Then I don’t even want to think about it.”
The bartender got Arty a beer and said, “Si Senor.” Although it was a slow night, by then the bartender was just ignoring Arty.
Arty changed his liquor to a Bloody Mary. He swirled his straw in the elixir. He said, “My wife, bloodsucking wench, says I have to pay her till I, ‘Get lucky and die.’ We’re separated but not by enough miles.”
The bartender took out a writing pad and said, “Cash or credit?”
Arty ate a pretzel and said, “Put it on my tab.” Then he yelled at the band, “Felice Navidad!” The merry song diverted the bartender’s attention.
Arty was too tired to pour out more of his lamentations. He reached into his pocket and his fingers passed through the hole in it. He smiled sheepishly and asked, “Restroom?” The bartender pointed out back. Arty sneaked out the rear entrance, went back to his room, and fell asleep in his clothes.
Arty woke up with the sun streaming through the window. He got up, groaned, and took a shower. There was a loud banging on the door. He put on his robe and opened the door an inch. Suddenly it swung open and two Guardia, policemen, walked in. One held a card in his hand. It read, “Arty Caraway, Professional Bartender.”
One Guardia with a black waxed mustache said “You stupid gringo snake. You should never leave your business card while committing a larceny. You remember you left it with the bartender hoping to get work and take some poor Mexican’s job. We had to check all the nearby hotels.”
Arty rubbed the sleep from his eyes and said, “Sorry.” He pulled his pants on and slipped into his undershirt.
He was ushered into a musty smelling carcel, jail cell. Across from him were women in tight blue jeans and blouses. Next door, there was a big fat man with whiskers who kept moaning. In his cell was a toilet with no cover and a young Mexican guy in a fancy suit.
The young man asked, “What are you in for?”
Arty sat down opposite him on a cot and said, “Bar bill.”
The man combed his slick black hair. He said, “You got a light sentence. Maybe ten years. Me I did favors for the girls. I get one week.”
Arty thought he’d never met a nicer pimp. But a pimp is still a pimp, vermin. The carcelero, jailer, brought them enchiladas which were tasty but tiny. After they were finished eating he took Arty to a tiny room with a fluorescent light.
The carcelero said, “We will do a deal. The Bar owner will take your car. That old broken down Austin isn’t worth more than a vacation in Tijuana anyway. You go back to Gringo land.”
Arty fidgeted in his chair. He said, “A ticket home?”
The carcelero wiped his hands and said, “You catch a ride. That will be not problem, eh?”
Arty thought about his cell and its inhabitants. He said, “Great!”
He went back to his room to get his duffel bag and penned a letter to his wife:
Hi Honey Bunny,
Check’s in the mail and I’m not I jail.
Hope to see you in the Big Easy soon.
The old Austin was stolen by a Mexican
Who had more brains than money. So I’ll
be a while.
Hasta Luego,
Art
Arty hitched a ride in an eighteen wheeler whose driver honked his horn at every girl in sight. The trip through the desert was just pure monotony.
Finally, in Austin, he got a ride with some college kids who were on their way to New Orleans. When they crossed the state line into Louisiana, he could hear crickets and frogs chirping in the wet subtropical night. They dropped Arty off at the Napoleon House on Bourbon Street. Legend has it that the pirate Jean Lafitte had a plan to rescue Napoleon from St. Helena and bring him back to New Orleans to live in this house. The place had portraits of Napoleon hanging from the walls. It was reminiscent of an earlier age when men like Arty were heroes and leaders. Courage and stamina counted more than education. Perhaps Arty would have been a musketeer in the eighteenth century like D’Artagnan, the hero of the “Three Musketeers.”
Arty wheedled his way into a job and went home to his wife. When he entered the shotgun house on Dauphine Street, his wife was wearing her nightgown and brushing her hair.
Arty doffed his army coat and hung it up by the door. Mrs. Juanita Caraway said, “You know I worry about you. Even though I seem mean, I love you deep down.”
Arty sat down in front of the TV. He said, “I know you love me. That’s why I keep coming back.
Sometimes I don’t realize how good I’ve got it.”
Juanita stopped combing her hair. “Amen to that,” she said. She went on, “Remember the boys in Vegas.”
Arty lit up a cigarette. He said, “Men who offer to give you a free tour of the bottom of Lake Mead are hard to forget.”
Juanita got him a beer from the fridge. She said, “They found us. They want you to go back to Vegas and pay or you’ll really pay dearly.”
Arty took a long gulp of beer. He said, “We can’t even afford rent. What do they want me to pay them, monopoly money?”
Juanita said, “I’ll go with you and do rosaries. Something will come up. By the way, my mother in Tijuana needs a hundred dollars. She wants to give Pablo, her cat, a traditional Mexican funeral.”
Juanita and Arty left their house, hocked all their worldly goods except her rosary and hopped a flight to Vegas. They took a bus to downtown where lives were a dime a dozen and the dollar was dictator.
Arty entered the Moroccan Fez Casino and into a white room. He sat at one end of a long oak table.
A man sat at the other end of the table. He wore a suit with no tie and a gold chain around his collar. He opened the talk, “Good to see you Arty. It’s been a long time. I’ll make this as painless as possible.”
Arty took off his sunglasses and brushed his grey hair. The man continued, “Arty, your hair is grey but worse things can happen.”
Arty kept his cool and leaned back. He countered, “What can I do for you?”
The man replied, “The question is what can we do ‘to’ you?”
Arty’s voice didn’t waver. He said, “Let bygones be bygones. Forgive and forget.”
The man smiled showing his gold fillings. He said, “We got a proposition for you.”
Arty sat up straight. The man continued, “Arty you’re the type who would have been a leader of men, a hero, two hundred years ago. Today you’re a nobody, but things change. We need an announcer at the Cabaret. You game?”
Arty breathed a sigh of relief. He said, “God bless you, my son. Of course, I’m game.”
The man stood up and shook hands with Arty.
As his grip got firmer he said, “You just give up half your income or half your legs.”
Arty’s wife had been sitting by his side the whole time. She told the man, “My better half says we’ll take the first half.”
That night the club was filled with people. The red curtains parted revealing the stage and showgirls. Arty stood up and announced the next dance performance. He walked off the stage into the loving arms of his wife.
That weekend Arty and his wife took a vacation to Tijuana to visit Juanita’s mother. Arty stood on the balcony of her mother’s apartment. He watched his mother in law’s cat being carried down the street in its tiny coffin with a white sheet draped over it. The onlookers wailed. No doubt they thought it was a baby.
Mrs. Garcia, her Mom, came out and said, “You be a good husband. Always provide?”
Arty saw the coffin disappear around a corner. He said, “Till death do us part.”
It finally dawned on Arty that he was a man of responsibility, whether he liked it or not. His drifting days were over. He had a job and a faithful wife. What more could any man want?
