Los Burros and the Bad Boy

It is a very well known fact that the Lord does work in mysterious ways, as was the case with this particular bad boy.  He had not been doing well in school and his grades were not where his parents thought they should be.  As with most parents who hope for their children to succeed, his parents thought it best that he be punished for his lackluster grades.  Of course this little boy was upset, he knew that something he really wanted would be denied him and sure enough it was the annual family vacation.

This young boy was the son of a prominent German businessman who had risen to the top of the pharmaceutical field.  The family was one of the biggest names, if not the top name, in the pharmaceutical field in Germany as well as starting to branch out world wide.  Being a boy having fun and doing the things that young boys do was much more important than studying and doing ones homework throughout the school year.  He was living day by day, not thinking about what may come when the grades were issued at the end of the year. 

When the father announced the punishment, it was a blow to the young boy.  This was a special trip, as the father had planned something truly wonderful. The family was going to go on their vacation back to Germany, but one member would have to stay at their new adopted home here in Mexico.  This particular vacation was a grand one.  They would have to travel up through Mexico, across the United States to New York and take a leisurely cruise across the Atlantic.  After spending some time back in Germany, the family would then take a special flight back home on a new flying machine.  Imagine the grief this young man felt, now hearing this fantastic news about this splendid adventure, and yet he would have to sit at home while his parents, brother and sister enjoyed the wonderful summer jaunt.  This was the vacation of a lifetime, but one would miss out.

The young boy stayed in Mexico as the family started their wonderful adventure.  He wondered what they would do, what they would see and especially about the fantastic new flying machine that the whole family would be flying on to return to America.  This was the thing which bothered him the most.  The thought of his brother and sister being able to forever taunt him of this fantastic flight would surely be a huge burden to carry, especially on such small shoulders…it was almost too much.

It was now early may and the family would soon be home.  The family had written and contacted the young boy, asking how he was and telling him of the sights and fun they had along the way.  He would think about school during these times, and if only he had done better and actually done his homework rather than playing and reading. The young man was sorely upset.  To him, this part of the journey was to be the best.  The family was in Frankfurt and was preparing to return home via one of Germany’s latest flying ships.  They would be suspended in mid air, and float softly through the sky for three days, looking down on Europe and the Atlantic, and eventually they would see America.  The thought of being in the sky for three days, eating, sleeping in the sky was beyond belief.  This is the part that hurt the young boy the most.  If only he could experience this…

His family were passengers on the luxury airship, the Hindenburg.  He never saw his parents again, and his brother would never be the same.  His parents and sister were burned to death and his brother survived, being unrecognizable due to the damage of the fire-but he survived.  The greatest vacation he would ever be presented with then denied would change his life forever.  He and his brother were now orphans.  It is impossible to imagine the amount of grief and anxiety over the whole incident.  He missed the vacation and lost most of his family.  What would he and his brother do now?  The Lord does work in mysterious ways, and for a fleeting moment the young boy thrilled to have his brother back, thought that his punishment for his grades may have been a good thing.

I found myself sitting with the son of the boy who was told he could not go on that amazing vacation.  He lost his grandparents in one of the most famous disasters in history, and now he is sitting here joking about the roses he grows in his garden and how they were grown especially for his best buddy whose birthday we are all celebrating.  The flowers are beautiful and he has a great smile.  The zest for life and adventure obviously runs in his family.  I notice his wife looks nothing like a Mexican.  As the group of revelers sings Happy Birthday to the birthday boy, she asks if he would also like to hear it sung in her native tongue.  Everyone said yes, so she sings it in Norwegian, and does a silly dance to go along with it as well.  I thought she looked different.  Later, after eating apple strudel, I would hear the tale of how as a young man himself, he made an epic journey across the Atlantic to fetch his future wife.  He had no money, so he found away to sail across the Atlantic on a small boat as a hired hand with an American couple who were “purists”.  They did not believe in electricity, compasses and other assorted things that can make travelling a bit easier and safer.  That is a whole other tale…and a big one at that.

His sister sat to his right.  I thought they were getting along rather fabulously, but had no idea they were related.  She has made her living as a set designer in Hollywood and wherever duty calls.  She is not one short for gossip on your favorite Hollywood actor and all that goes on behind the scenes in the world of celebrities.  Who cares about that gossip though, celebrities are a bore.  I enjoyed her tale of the donkeys better.

Michelob were shooting a commercial for their Michelob Dry beer in Espiritu Santo, Mexico.  Teresa took the job and ventured ahead to go and find some donkeys for use in the commercial.  Espiritu Santo is an island off Baja.  It is an environmentally protected sanctuary and in truth, there is not too much there…that includes donkeys.  Teresa had to go to mainland Mexico to villages on the coast to source donkeys.  According to her it was not that easy to find donkeys that suited the requirements.  She went form village to village until she found a farmer who swore that his donkeys were the ones she wanted; his were destined to be stars.  She needed donkeys that could swim.  “Do these donkeys swim?” she asked the old farmer.  He nodded vigorously and almost scoffed at Teresa for asking such a silly question. “Pues si!” he said immediately.  Shouldn’t any donkey that lives on the coast be able to swim?  She asked him again if he was sure his donkeys could swim and he adamantly stood his ground.  She was convinced.  She now had los burros!

She told the director she had los burros and they were ready to go.  The director asks the important question, ‘Can they swim?” and she reassured him they could.  She looks at us as if to make a point clear, “Have you ever tried to get a donkey on a boat?”  It is not as easy as one would think.  Donkeys are stubborn, and when they see that they are going to have to go sea bound, they are ardent in keeping their land legs.  They had to put the donkeys on a boat and sail to the island where they were filming.  “Have you ever seen a donkey on a boat…especially as it is being tossed on the waves?”  Not many of us have.  She sways back and forth and rolls her eyes.  The director obviously knew that this was going to not be easy.  He was planning ahead.

As they neared the island, Teresa was told that they could not get the boat all the way to shore, so they would have to jump out and swim in.  ‘You told me the donkeys could swim, right?” the director asked for reassurance.  Teresa furrows her brow, nods her head and raises her hand acting as if the director was being a nuisance.  She admits that she was nervous, but the old man told her the donkeys would be fine.  She knew it would not be so easy.  She said she was glad to get off the boat though, because the poor donkeys looked miserable and terrified from being out on the water.  The producer sent the camera crew ahead and had someone filming as the started to leave the boat.  He was floating in the water with his underwater camera, ready to film the donkeys exit.  Teresa got the donkeys to the end of the boat and managed to finally get one to jump.

There was a huge splash as the donkey went overboard.  The director was standing by to witness the event.  They were horrified.  The donkey didn’t even try to swim.  He just sank.  Teresa panicked.  “There is a cameraman underwater, he can help” the director said.  Teresa jumped in to assist with the donkey.  She laughs as she tells of the sinking donkey.  “He was like a stone.  He just sank.  He went straight to the bottom.  I was horrified.  I was going to drown this farmer’s donkeys.  He told me they could swim!”

The donkey overboard sank like a stone.  She could see the fear in the donkey’s eyes as it went further under the waves.  In the fleeting seconds that passed, she had no idea how she would get him back to the surface.  As she neared the donkey she could not believe what was happening.  The panicked donkey had eyes the size of platters, and his ears were pointed straight back behind his head.  As he felt his hoofs touch the bottom of the sea, he started walking.  She wanted to laugh, but that is not a smart thing to do when you are underwater trying to rescue a drowning donkey.  The cameraman got the whole thing on film.  A few others had dove in and helped get the stubborn donkey to the surface, as he would surely drown if he were to walk himself to shore.  Once the soaked donkey was safely to shore, they immediately decided that it was better to send a small dingy over to get the rest of the donkeys.  It gets worse trying to convince an already panicked donkey who just watched his friend nearly drown to leave the boat and get into a smaller, more wobbly one.  True to her creed, Teresa made it happen.  She promised the director he would have the donkeys he needed to make the commercial a success.

With all the burros safe on land, Teresa acted as mother, and kept a watchful eye on los burros as she went about helping with make up, lighting and whatever else needed a hand.  One of the jobs was to go around and pick up all the donkey poop.  As an eco-sanctuary, trash and donkey poop are not allowed.  In fact, there can be no signs of human presence or strange animals that are not indigenous to the island left behind.  She said the filming went well and they got it all in the can.  The director was happy.  He got the shots he wanted and felt he would be able to convey old Mexico to the folks back at home so much so that they would reach for a cold Michelob Dry to help quench their imagined Mexican adventures.

“How did you get the donkeys back after the shoot?” someone asks amid the laughter.  Teresa raises her hand, then her forefinger, “Cranes!”  Everyone laughs even harder as the trick is exposed.  She looks wide –eyed at everyone at the table and asks, “Have you ever tried to get a donkey that almost drowned back on to the boat from where it fell off of?”  Cue the even louder laughter.  She laughs too as she says that now that the filming was done and it was time to go home, she had to miraculously manage to hire some cranes to come and lift the donkeys back onto their boat.

We were expecting birthday fun but had no idea we would get these treats.

Watch the finished Michelob commercial here (drowning scenes not included).

Lessons learned in the parking lot.

We met in the parking lot.  Tonya was inside getting some groceries and he walked up to the car.  Lucca is in the front.  He approaches the passenger side carefully, points to Lucca and says, “Is he…” and then moves his hands to imitate a dog running, “…is he a greyhound?” 

‘No, he’s a whippet. Those are the greyhounds” I say pointing into the back seat.

He has two silver teeth.  He smiles a lot and keeps wiping the car with his rag.  He has a nametag hanging form his neck, in a clear plastic cover.  He’s making small talk, passing time and hoping to make some money.  “I have a pit bull.  He had six puppies” I smile and tell him that is a lot.  “Yes, I have the man, and my wife has the lady.  They make the six puppies.”  He tells me about his dogs while petting Lucca.

“I lived in Houston for 14 years” he tells me in his heavy accent.  “Really?” I smile, “That is my home”.  For whatever reason, this is what breaks the ice.  This is our bonding moment.  He smiles and shows his silver capped teeth, reaches in the window and we shake hands.  “I was there for fourteen years.  I work construction, I do plumbing.  I got busted by immigration that is why I am back here now”  he keeps telling me how he is looking for work and that he is a good plumber, “I can do anything.  I will do it good.  If you need to change your toilet, I can do it.  I will fix your sink, whatever you need.  I am a good plumber”.  To appease him I tell him I will call him if I need him or know of anything.  I grab a piece of paper and a pen, “Here, put your number here so I can call you”.  He grabs the paper and pen and stalls for a moment.  He scribbles his number down and hands me back the paper.  I look it over, but there is no name. “Hey-what is your name?”  “Rodrigo” he says, and he flashes his name badge to prove it, ‘Rodrigo Hernandez”

He leans against the car and we start talking about Houston.  He lived way out at Gessner and 290.  I told him where I lived and he shook his head, “Yes, by Bellaire?”  Not quite, “Oh, by Chinatown?”  I laugh and tell him he’s getting closer, “In between Bellaire and Chinatown” I say.  He smiles back and nods and continues on.  He says he’s been around and knows a lot of people in the States.  He’s been in Houston, Orlando, Chicago…I ask if he stayed in Pilsen (a heavily populated Hispanic neighborhood in Chicago).  He shakes his head and says, “No-it’s in Illinois…you know, and Michigan” Ok, I get it and I won’t correct him.

“I am back here because of immigration, they catch me”, he smiles, ‘Three times they catch me” and he shakes his head.  I raise my eyebrows.  ‘One more time and they tell me I am going to federal prison”. 

“No, you don’t want to go to federal prison” I reply.  He agrees, shaking his head and repeating, ‘No.  I do not want to go to federal prison”

I am curious, so I ask him about his travails back and forth over the border and around the States.  He is obviously happy to fill me in.  Like most Mexicans and those form Central and South America, he is trying to care for his family.  He does what he can to make money, even if he is away form his family.  “My wife, she has twins” he says looking at me.  He repeats himself, and he motions with his hands like there are two compartments, “Twins.  She has one boy, and she has one girl. Two babies”   I congratulate him on the news and he smiles, agreeing that it is a good thing.  ‘How old are your babies?”  I ask.  “Seven months, premature.  My wife had the babies in Leon, and now they are at home.  We have to watch over them, that is why I am trying to get more work”.  He tells me he has been here for a handful of months.  I tell him I have been in Mexico for three years.  He tells me that is good.   I tell him I had been in Mexico City for over two years, and only here a short while. He smiles and nods, “Yes, it is beautiful country here” as he points to the parking lot.  He motions all around and says, ‘Here is much peaceful and nice, easy going.  Mexico City is too many people, too many things.  Here is good for you”.  I appreciate his reassurance…and hope he is correct in his prophesy.  He walks around the car and wipes the window, and the mirrors.  He comes to my side and leans against the car next to me.  He tells me how he likes Houston.  “There is lots of people in Houston.  They have lots of food.  There is lots of clothes.  They have everything.  I like it! I like Houston, whatever you need you can have”.  I smile, and I understand what he is saying, especially coming from.  Mind you, in the super mega grocery store parking lot we are in, it is vast in size but slim in choices.  You get two brands of beans, and only styles.  Whole or refried…and that takes up half an aisle!

“You know Galveston?”   He asks as he leans toward me.  I tell him I do.  “I was there when the hurricane came.  I was in jail there…”  I notice what appears to be a snag in his story, so I ask, ‘If you lived in Houston, why were you in jail in Galveston?  What did you do?”  He stops and looks at me for a moment.  “It was county jail” he says.  OK, but I tell him Galveston is a different county. “Oh, yes. The county Harris.  That is Houston”, he smiles and continues, “The jails were all full, so they send me to Galveston.  I was there during the hurricane.  It was bad.  The lights went out, there was no electricity. There was water everywhere, no food, it was bad” he asks if I was there for the last hurricane; yes, I was.

He walks away to try and hustle a quick peso, helping guide someone with a load of groceries to back out.  As soon as he finishes he is back talking to me.  Each time he wanders off and returns he switches sides of the car…to keep things lively I suppose. Now he is back to the passenger side.  As he talks, he reaches in and pets Lucca, and wipes and re-wipes the top of the door and all he can within reach.

“So what happens when you get busted by immigration?” I ask bluntly.  It seems straight forward.  Firstly, they hold you and question you. “They asked me where I was from, I said ‘here’” he smiles.  It is obvious with his dark skin, silver teeth and heavy accent, he is not from Texas.  “I told them I was born here, in Texas” and he says they pry him to be specific.  He told them McAllen.  He says that they took his papers, ran him through the system and came back and said, ‘No. You are not from McAllen, you are from Mexico.  You are going back”.  He shook his head.  He laughs and admits that he was caught out.  I tell him it was smart to say you were born in McAllen, but they still busted him.  They take all the illegal’s and bus them to Laredo.  “They pull up and make us get off the bus.  OK, go, get off” he says.  He tells of how they have to get processed out and then make the walk across the bridge to Mexico.  “There, there is someone waiting.  They ask where you are from and try to rearrange a way back home.  Maybe they give you a little money, something to eat and a ride back to your town”

“Is this your town?” I ask. “No, I am from Comonfort”.  Rodrigo came here for work.  He says the town close to him, Celaya, is too hard.  Not enough work, low wages and too much theft. “You go to the store and come out and your car and dogs will be gone” he reassures me.  He makes a grand swipe with his hand to drive home the point.  “I hear it is rough there too.  A few weeks ago they shot a man on the sidewalk, the cartels” I say.  He shakes his head, “Yes, it is very dangerous.  They are everywhere…but here is good.  I like it here.  There are many nice people and I have spoken with many Americans about different things, I like it” he reminds me again that he can do almost any thing concerning plumbing, and asks to keep him in mind. 

“I have a few weeks that I need to go back to America” he says as he looks across the parking lot.  I remind him that there is a lot on the line.  He replies back, “I know.  If I get caught this time, I go to the federal prison. I have to go though, I will try”.

“Isn’t it dangerous?  How will you do it?”  He steps back a bit and straightens up, “Of course it is dangerous.  The frontier (border) is very hard and dangerous. Many bad things happen there.  I will take the free train; do you know the free train?”  I am amused at the thought of this ‘free’ train.  I have a vague idea of what he is talking about, and ask if I am correct in my guess. He says yes, “that is the one”.  This is the train that is notorious that people from all over South America and Mexico hop off of here to get some food or try and find work on their way to the States and sometimes as they are fleeing the states.  The area where the train passes through town is notorious for crime and dodgy characters. “Are you ever afraid of hopping on the train, not knowing who is already on there or what they may do?” “Yes” he shoots straight back, “It is scary.  I hop onto the big empty cars and hope there are others like me.  Sometimes there are bad people there who rob you and try to hurt you.”  He straightens his arm out, towards the sky, “This train, it goes straight to Monterrey, Laredo, into Houston and keeps going.  It is easy to get to the States.”  He pauses for a minute, and then continues with fears of the dreaded Cartel. “I hope I do not meet the Zetas.  They make you pay them before you can get to the coyotes, then you have to pay the coyotes.  It is very expensive.  They are very bad people, The Zetas.” He shakes his head, as if he is remembering certain instances.  He looks up suddenly and says, ‘You know, they are even worse on the people from South America.  They make them pay even more, twice as much to The Zetas, then the coyotes charge even more. I think it is $7,000 to get in to the states” he pauses to do the math, as quoting the ratio of pesos to dollars gets confusing.  Sometimes, he says, even after they do get into the States then they have to pay again to be let free or to get the information of where to go or who to meet to find a home and work.

“I worry this time.  I do not want the Zetas to get me.  They take you and call your family and ask for maybe…$500.  That is a lot of money to many people.  They don’t care.  They don’t get the money; they never let you go home.  They kill you even if they do get the money.  I don’t know” he thinks for a brief moment, ‘I don’t want that.  I don’t want to get took by the Zetas and for them to call my family.  I end up in a ditch or a river.  It’s very bad…they are dangerous people”  

He asks if I am waiting for someone, and then ask if it is possible that I can spare him some change, he would appreciate it.  I tell him when the money and groceries come out, I will give him something.  “You are from Houston.  Did you know black people there?” he asks.  Yes, I did.  He shakes his head, “I lived in apartments and they were full of the black people.  They robbed me many times and put a gun on me.   I don’t like them.  I went to Stop and Go on my bicycle…” he makes a moving motion with his hands, like he is sweeping, “I go in for one minute, and they take my bike.  It is gone.  Some of them try to fight me when I ask for my bike. I can’t believe it, one minute and my bike is gone…at the Stop and Go!”

Tonya comes out as he is telling me about his bike.  She gets in and is complaining of being stuck in a long line.  It has taken quite a lengthy bit of time for simply tomatoes, an onion and some peppers.  “Hey, can you give me some change?” I ask her.  She turns to me and says she has none, no extra money.  As she is saying this she proves her point by opening her wallet and turning it upside down.  Rodrigo sees her do so, and steps slightly back from the car.  I look to him; he smiles and puts his rag on his shoulder.  He raises his hand and quietly says, ‘That’s OK…maybe next time”.  I look at him and nod my head; I tell him I will get him next time.  We smile at one another and he waves as I pull away.

New Year's Eve: The Tale of 'Socks' Suzuki

The New Year had started with the same routine as the previous year that had ended.  A half cup of coffee to start with, a sliced bagel (sliced unevenly) that sat lopsided in the toaster and opening the lid of the computer.   It is OK though, it suits the grey skies outside.

There was no evidence of crowds this morning.  The streets were quiet and the park almost empty except for a few joggers doing their laps.  I smiled to myself admiring their dedication…setting a stellar example to those who make New Year’s resolutions.  Rather than make myself great promises and boast to loved ones all the great feats to be achieved this year, I plan on just enjoying the day for what it is and hopefully catching up on a few things I would like to and perhaps file through some vinyl and play some records.  Actually, that would be a great resolution for this year, take time to play more records and listen to music.

This whole New Year’s celebrating has never been a big deal for me.  The thing I was looking most forward to was a nice dinner with some newfound ‘friends’ and then watching the fireworks from the roof.  We even bought a few bottles of wine to be paired up nicely with the steaks we were to have.  Yes, the thought of grilled steak and nice wine was in fact more thrilling to me than the city full of revelers all around me.  I was also curious as to how the chimichurri sauce would be, since the cook had just bragged about how she made a truly excellent concoction.

As one would imagine, a call came late afternoon.  Dinner has been called off because the cook isn’t feeling well.  We are invited to still go over and have a drink with them though.  As Tonya relays the news I roll my eyes, “Yes, I would love to go have drinks with someone coming down with the flu so we all get a great gift to start the new year with”.  More importantly, I pose the question; what will we do now for dinner?  A quick discussion is had and the quickest, easiest solution is agreed upon.  Gone is the idea steak and wine scenario, in is the chicken tacos solution.  Not too thrilling, hamburgers would have been more ‘fun’, but it will do. 

We carry on with our afternoon in spite of our dinner plans being cancelled, doing a bit of this and that and watching clouds roll in.  For some reason, it is all adding up to simply snuff out any fun or enthusiasm any of us may have had.  On top of the mounting discouragements, I lament the fact that that I gave up going to the last bullfight of the year too. For what?

As 7pm nears, we are all cleaned up, donning sweaters and ready to go have a few drinks at our friend’s house.  As we drive over to our destination, Tonya asks what we will do for an escape plan.  I tell her there is no need for an escape plan, we’ll just tell him like it is, ‘We’re hungry, we’re going home and eating our chicken tacos, putting our PJs on and watching this French film, watch the fireworks form the roof and go to bed.”

Tonya is the first out of the car and she reaches up and rings the doorbell.  We stand quietly surveying the neighborhood and making a few faces at one another.  We hear footsteps approaching and the strange yapping of their minute little Chihuahua.  The door opens and our guest welcomes us in. “Oh my.  You look dreadful. Are you depressed?” he asks.  I tell him I am fine.  “Why are you wearing that sweater, its makes you look so serious?”   He greets each of us, I shake his hand and he ushers us through to their patio.  A nice fire is going.  Music is floating by thanks to his clunky old laptop in the study.  He is playing is 1920s playlist again.

“Sit. Please.  What would you like to drink?”  I point to the bottle of tequila we just put on his table. He looks and asks, “Well, what is that?” I tell him it is tequila and he then asks me if I didn’t like the tequila he has.  I don’t. It is that dreadful El Jimador stuff, rotgut.  I must apologize, we have no extra glasses. We don’t have any of those special little glasses you use for drinking tequila…what are they called, yes, shot glasses.  You know, we only have two spoons as well.  One big one and one teeny tiny one that you use for teas or coffees.”  Richard is starting to peer into cabinets and is opening and closing doors trying to find some extra glasses, “Please, go and sit”.  We all grab a chair and sit.  It is nice to be out by the fire.

Richard reappears giggling in his half snorting, half sneering manner.  He has three different glasses, one of which is actually a very small shot glass.  He is laughing as he sets them down.  He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand and stands by his chair as if he is about to make a grand proclamation, “I went to dinner the other night and had the most fabulous wine.  I asked what it was and sent my wife out to buy a case of it immediately.  After purchasing it and opening a bottle, I decided that it actually may be too sweet.  It is this Italian stuff, some Lambrusco…do you know it?” he asks the table.  Before anyone can actually say anything he is pulling out his chair and he plops down and continues with his monologue, “I don’t know.  I suppose it is fine if you are sitting outside in a nice breeze and are drinking this nice light wine, perhaps out in the countryside or something”.  This is not out of the ordinary, this is simply Richard.  He interrupts at will, does these semi-monologues and no matter where you are or what you are doing he will eventually turn his venom on Americans and anything of Latin origin.  He is English. He is very dramatic and brash, and yes, sometimes quite entertaining.

After only a few sips of his lovely Lambrusco, he stops and opts for a juice version of Sangria, thinking it is really the real thing.  Pleasantries are exchanged and everyone comments on how nice it is to be sitting with friends in front of the fire out on the patio. 

Richard seems a bit down, and he is.  He says he has been having a rough week…a rough couple of weeks as a matter of fact.  He is curious about some sea side spots on the Mexican coast.  He keeps asking questions about certain spots and asking if they have been Americanized.  He tells a brief tale of how the last time he was spontaneous in Mexico he ended up doing a 4 hour road trip, which he is quick to point out his Mexican friend told him it was only 15 minutes up the road.  After a completely boring journey they arrive to concrete blocks on the beach.  After all the talk he was let down to see this supposed get away on the coast had been “Americanized” and they had built boxy concrete buildings all along the beach. 

Richard holds his cigarette a funny way when he smokes; I suppose many would say he looks like a fairy.  He puts on a little clear filter on each of his cigarettes too.  Many times he gets carried away and the ash envelops almost the whole cigarette before he taps it into an ashtray.  He is holding his hand up, quite fey, with his cig between his fingers, his legs crossed and he begins to spill his woes involving his brother.  He asks for opinions, and opinions are given.  He complains that he has not one single reliable friend in his life.  Basically, everything is an overblown drama with Richard.  This topic, as is a typical troublesome family issue, involves money.  He mentions a Russian friend of his who he says used to be quite close, “We had so many fantastic adventures together.  We never had an argument, never a single one…until I lent him, let me correct myself, until I gave him a considerable sum of money.  Not only did I lose my money”, he says counting on his fingers, “but I also lost my friendship”, then holds up a second finger.  He takes a drag on his cigarette and gets off on the tangent involving his Russian friend.  It is not in vain though, as the story soon spins wildly into unbelievable territory.  He is in full story telling mode as he starts with this tale involving himself and his Russian buddy.

The Russian had come across some sort of ‘business opportunity’ in Albania.  The two flew down to check it out but were kept at bay until they ponied up the full amount for an ‘initial investment’.  Richard adds, “It all smelled horribly wrong.  I knew something was amiss when they said we had to put all the money in before we even had all the details”.  He leans forward, ashes and continues on.  Peering over his glasses he says, “I was right.  It was a complete mess.  As soon as they had the money they would have nothing to do with us.  Here we are in Albania and these heavies are making it quite clear that we are not welcome at all.  I immediately called my Japanese gangster friend, Suzuki”.  Richard says Suzuki culled together a few other thugs and flew straight away to Albania.  They found the guy they were after.  They went to his place and shook him down, literally.  Suzuki and his Japanese roughs held the guy out of his 8 story window until he decided to pay back the money he had just scammed form Richard and the Russian.  “We got back 80% of our investment.  On the spot!  It was in his safe.  That is quite good I think” Richard says while throwing his boisterous laugh out at the table.  He stops the laughing to take a deep drag off his cigarette and continues in a solemn mode, “They dropped him anyway you know.  I was horrified and asked Suzuki why he dropped him out his window even after he paid. ‘He was a real bastard’ he said, I didn’t question him any further.  He obviously had his reasons and I didn’t want to know anymore”

Everyone is facing Richard as he is telling his tale.  The fire is putting a nice glow around the patio and the sound and smell of the burning wood is quite relaxing.  “You know, when Suzuki got his start, when he was much younger, they called him Socks Suzuki.”  Richard talks about Socks as if he was a real, no nonsense bad-ass that no one should ever cross.  I am not sure how far up on his gangster lore he is, but he swears that it is this one Japanese gangster who really put the idea of hanging people out of windows in the books.  He said that when he would encounter people who did not want to co-operate, he found that hanging them out of the windows usually got the result he was after. It worked on 80% of those he was out to shake down. ‘The real tough bastards didn’t fall for it” Richard says as he arches his eyebrows, getting deeper into the tale.  “Suzuki said that he would hang people out and the hardened bastards would still hold out.  One day, he decided to take off one unfortunate guy’s shoes and retry his original tactic.  It worked in a flash.  Apparently even the hardest bastards think twice when they are hanging out a window upside down with no shoes on…” his hardy laugh is rising in volume, “I suppose that the fear is just too great when someone is holding you only by your socks.  It must feel like they will slip right off!”  He throws himself back into his chair to enjoy his own story and laugh at full volume.  He glances frantically to everyone at the table to see if they are enjoying the story as much as he is.  We are.  It is smiles all around.  Richard rocks back and forth like a spastic kid as he laughs it out.

“You like that one?” he says as he is leaning forward and tapping his cigarette. “I do” I say without a second’s delay.  Being with Richard means being prepared to switch drastically from one topic to another, then back again, then sideways into something else.  Now he is talking about books.  “Americans don’t read do they?” he asks, but he doesn’t expect an answer, he gets on with it and answers the ways he wants it done, “Of course not.  They watch movies don’t they?   I dare not ask Americans if they have read this book or that because it is always the same reply, ‘No, but I saw the movie’. Dreadful.” He turns to me and says, “You are from the South, you should read the book ‘Stars and Bars’.  You would love it!”  Now Richard jumps back to scouting the Mexican coastline for a getaway.

We are not having dinner here now, though as he is on a roll, he insists we stay and eat anyway.  We tell him that after he cancelled, we bought chicken and were going to have tacos now. “How pathetic!  Eating tacos on New Years Eve.  What, and spending the night in watching a boooorrring French film as well?”  He shakes his head and taps his cigarette. “We have to eat you know, why don’t you stay and join us.  We will grill some nice steaks, it will be more fun than those wretched chicken tacos.”  I know it would be.  However, we keep our game face on and insist that we get back so that we can have some dinner too. “I am horrible at starting fires.  Can you start a fire for me before you leave?” he asks as he looks at each of us.  We all know how this will play out.  We all say that we are horrible at starting fires, and stand up to leave.

We all wish one another a happy new year and wish Richard’s wife to get feeling better.  He walks us to the door and as we are leaving he insist we call one another tomorrow and do something so we don’t have to be bored all day.  We say we will and get in the car and leave.

Later, back at home, as we are preparing our chicken tacos the phone rings.  I can hear Richards’s husky voice from where I am at in the kitchen.  Turns out that since we left he will not grill after all.  Maybe he is truly bad at grilling.  He is asking Tonya to recommend a good pizza place.  I laugh when Tonya asks the name of the one that serves as our go-to.  We are not alone having a rather drab New Years Eve dinner it seems.