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.

That Guy.

My tendency to look at others and size them up according to the simplest things is something I need to work on.  As much as we should  not pre-judge, we all do it anyway. If someone has on the wrong shoes, the wrong haircut, a stain on their shirt or whatever it may be – they are immediately categorized and filed into whatever compartment our little minds choose.  Such was my assumption with that guy.

I had no idea who this guy was, only I had seen him around town and something about him seemed odd.  The way he walked and his footwear was what first got my attention.  This guy is a gringo.  He walks very stout, with his chest puffed out and arms swaying sluggishly at his side.  That alone is no crime, but no one can take a bad-ass seriously when gazing at his feet you see he is wearing cheap flip flops.  Who wears flip-flops on a daily basis on rough streets like these?  Perhaps he takes the ‘easy livin’ creed a bit too serious.

Recognizing that walk, and the stiff puffy posture, I had been able to start spotting this guy all around town.  Once on my radar, I began to notice the rest of his attire.  Camouflage knee length shorts.  This is another faux-pas here.  We are not hiding in a jungle, and to the best of my knowledge there is no urban warfare going on.  Anyway, those shorts are null and void when paired with flip-flops.  No one is ready for full on ass kicking wearing flip-flops and knee length shorts.  Wait-there is more, the Rambo style headband he always has on too.  To me, he gives us gringos a bad name.  He looks like he’s lost and somewhat of a clown.  Mind you, I have not even gotten to the big, biker sized sideburns he sports…

I see him in the ice cream shop, outside on the street talking to girls, walking ever so proudly through the main square.  That guy is everywhere!

It was only by chance that I actually found out about that guy while sitting at our neighbor’s house.  Her daughter was spilling the beans on a resident New York hipster who was thrilled to be at a naked acid party when she referenced this weird guy who hits on every girl he sees.  More to the point, she had just been hanging out with this weird guy a few nights before and after he was striking out with every single girl that crossed his path, he turned and hit on her.  She asked why he would do such a thing, and he simply replied that it was a game of odds.  If he asks 100 girls, at least one will say yes.  Our neighbor’s daughter said she told him that even though this is Mexico, asking a total stranger on the street for a date can only get you a firm “No” and cement your reputation as a freak.  I was quite happy with this, because I knew nothing about that guy except my perception already sensed he was a bit wobbly.  Of course, he could be getting constantly turned down by his daily uniform, knee length camouflage shorts, headband and flip-flops are not typically things that get women hot.

After the mother and daughter discuss the antics from a few nights earlier, the mom starts to tell how she met the strange fella.  They were in the bank, waiting for hours (as you do in Mexico) and thus struck up a conversation.  It turns out that though that guy is a bit weird, he is a real sweetie according to the mom…and the dad, as a matter of fact.  He actually has carried groceries for the mom, replaced the dad’s beer after he helped himself to a little too many of the brand new case that was just purchased.  He is also somewhat of a gentleman, walking home the daughter and others when a woman should not be alone.  It appears he has some admirable traits.  The mom gives us the brief lowdown on the guy I have been seeing around town.

Turns out he is an Iraq war veteran.  According to the story he told the mother, he did his turn of duty, saw some things he wasn’t supposed to see and went through some traumatic situations (no doubt about that).  He is on meds, but the daughter says that he confessed he doesn’t want to take them, and frequently skips his dosage.  The guy showed up in Mexico via bus.  He had his duffle bag and flip-flops, and why he chose here, only he knows.

Leaving the States he took the bus over the border and in to Guadalajara.  The bus ride allowed some of the passengers to size him up.  After the long and grueling bus ride, he was totally unaware of the snare laid waiting for him when the bus stopped.  Getting off the bus and passing through a few customs agents, he was accosted by two guards with baseball bats.  It was not a pretty sight.  They beat him up real good, and only the nearby crowd stifled the beating.  The two assailants fled and left him bleeding and beaten on the bus station floor.  The cops came and as he got himself together, he was determined to press charges on the two assailants; after all, there was a crowd of people who witnessed the beating and he was sure justice would be served.

The cops took him to the station and began the lengthy chore of Mexican paperwork.  (Mind you, this is Mexico so filing a report is probably a waste of time because the cops won’t do anything anyway).  There was a mole in the midst, because as the guy is filing his complaint and charges, the father of one of the assailants shows up with cash in hand.  He tries to buy the guy off and get him to drop the charges.  According to the tale as it was told to me, the guy was confused as to why this was happening in a police station.  He insisted on the charges staying in place and wanted the assailants arrested.  He denied the money from the father and sent him on his way.  He was battered and tired, and this process was taking way too long.  Finally, after all was said and done, the police returned that guy back to the scene of the crime, the bus station.

Imagine it; you ride on the bus for countless hours to s strange land and first thing that happens when you get off is you get beat to a pulp by two guys with baseball bats.  Bloody, bruised and sore, you then have to go to the police station and try to communicate with the police what just happened…and also have a stranger come in and try to bribe you to drop charges.  There is no doubt this poor guy had been through the ringer and was dead tired.  The robbers took his bags and rifled through his wallet, so he was left with nothing but a beaten body.  Returning back to the bus station, he had no idea what to do next.  Exhausted, he sat quietly and drifted off to sleep.   He was unaware and had no idea of the time frame, but while he had dosed off asleep, two men came in to the bus station and searched for him.  When they found their mark, they began taking photos of him.  Obviously, these guys were not doing this for curiosity, but these images would quickly be dispersed to some rough characters that would see to it that this lowly gringo who insisted on pressing charges would be done away with.  As the two men finished their photos and left, a thoughtful and concerned passenger in waiting nudged the stranger and told him to wake.  They relayed the instance of what just happened and told him to leave immediately, or else.  Obviously, the beaten foreigner knew what would happen if he stayed any longer.  With no bags or anymore belongings, he grabs the first bus out of there.  Guess where he lands?

Like I said, any guy who walks around in camouflage shorts and flip flops and matching headband must have a few screws loose.  After the story was told to me about this guy, I soon understood why, and yes, my heart felt for the guy.  What does one do after fighting crazed Arabs in the dusty Middle East and then coming here and as soon as your feet touch the ground you get a thorough ass kicking by two crazed Mexicans with baseball bats?  Anyone would suffer from a few screws getting knocked loose after that. 

So here he is, trying to start a new.  I now know a bit more about that guy, and have a bit of reverence for him.  Who knows, maybe he is just a loose canon who deserved getting the living daylights beat out of him-maybe not, who knows?  I can at least understand some of his kooky behavior a bit better, even though I question a bad case of shell shock being the cause of asking out every single girl you see in hopes that a single one says yes.

In his defense, how many young guys today will carry a stranger’s groceries for them?  Better yet, how many punks these days know that when walking with a woman, you take the outside of the sidewalk?  Not many.  Perhaps that guy isn’t such a bad apple after all.  I know that I will end up talking to him sooner than later, and then I will know if my pre-judged opinion was right, or if I totally missed the mark.

The Professionals

I am constantly in awe of how this once great civilization has decayed into perfectionists in half-assedness.  Truly amazing.

In recent weeks, Winston has been having problems with his heart again.  It is not good news and the end result is inevitable.  I try to enjoy our time together every day that we are both still here.  I love him immensely, what more can I say.  I want him to be as healthy as possible, and if his health is failing, I want him to be as comfortable as possible.

We visited a vet who had come highly recommended.  She seemed nice enough, and very accommodating.  Standing in her office as she viewed Winston’s x-rays, I was a bit confused when she said she would send Winston’s tests to the heart specialist…in Argentina.  “In Argentina?” I asked, yes, in Argentina.  With this type of system, I knew immediately I would never get a quick answer regarding Winston.  I went with it though, and trusted those with degrees in medicine.

The following night, Winston appeared to be getting worse, and he lay on the couch with a heartbeat as fast as the bullet train and breathing to match.  We called the doctor to ask her what may be happening.  She simply replied that she still had not heard back from Argentina, and perhaps Winston was having a reaction to the new medicine.  I did not need my dog dying on the couch in front of me because a guy in Argentina had not replied to a woman in small town Mexico.  Luckily, Tonya had the idea to call his doctor in Mexico City and ask him what we should do.  Thankfully, he took time out to talk her through what we should do.  Another day passed and still no word from our new vet or the guy in Argentina.  Finally, the phone rings and the vet calls to tell us she heard back, and would send us the results.  Tonya told her what had happened and how since she could not answer us, we went to a doctor who could.  With no malicious intent, this simple seeking of help caused a riff with our new vet, and it appears to have been short lived.

We went back to the public to ask who we should use as a vet.  We get another tip, and follow it up.  This guy seems really nice, and tells us of a heart specialist who visits another nearby town once a week.  The neighboring town is much closer than Mexico City, so we decide to follow the lead.  Tonya calls the specialist and he takes his time to discuss Winston’s situation.  He sets aside time to see him on his next visit.

On the given day, we drive to the neighboring town and meet the specialist.  He seems very nice and professional.  He is standing at an examining table with the resident vet.  They ask questions, look at Winston and ask for any previous results, which I hand over on a USB stick.  They both move to a computer and view the results, talking back and forth with their opinions and observations.

The specialist comes to us as tells us he will do an ultrasound to view Winston’s heart.  As he talks over the current situation, he asks about the doctor we had previously seen.  When we tell him of the situation, he says he knows of the doctor in Argentina, and he is a God-like figure to those in the same field here in Mexico.  Had we only known we were dealing with such a figure…

The specialist pulls out a manual and asks how much Winston weighs.  Tonya and I look at one another and shrug our shoulders.  I tell the doctor I think he weighs 13 something kilos, “Does that sound right?” I ask.  He says he sounds about right.  He insists on knowing the exact weight, because the diagnosis and medication and following procedures would need to be exact-and it is all based on weight.  He asks the other vet to weigh Winston, and he disappears downstairs.  He comes back a few minutes later with an old bathroom scale.  He sets it down next to me and proceeds to stand on it.  He says his weight to all of us standing there, and then reaffirms his findings to say that the scale is accurate.  He motions for Winston.  I pick Winston up from the table, and begin to try and put him on the slightly rusty bathroom scale.  The vet motions not to try.  He touches my arm and pulls me toward the scale.  The specialist speaks up, “You get on the scale, not Winston”

I hand Winston to Tonya and look at the scale.  It is not zeroed out.  If all of this is to be exact, why am I getting on a scale that is not correctly set?  I stand on the scale and the vet looks at the weight.  He says it aloud to the specialist.  He then tells Tonya to hand Winston to me.  I am now standing on the scale with Winston in my arms.  Unbelievably, this is how they get to an exact weight in order to make life saving decisions in situations like this.  The vet tells the specialist the difference in weight.  I was right!  It was right at 13 kilos!

The specialist then asks for Winston to be hoisted back up on the table and that he will now do the ultrasound.  He tells the other vet to shave off some of Winston’s hair.  The vet opens a drawer and pulls out a pair of electric shears, like a dad about to give his son a homemade haircut.  He plugs it in, taps them on the counter and turns it on.  He touches it to his palm to make sure the blades are working.  Knowing that everything is functioning, he asks where he should trim.  The specialist tells him and he leans over Winston and starts the trimming.  Every so often Winston flinches, but the vet keeps at it.  It is not until after the ultrasound I see a whole series of gashes and cuts along Winston’s side.  The shears work, but are incredibly dull…or the vet is ham fisted with electric trimmers.

The specialist now says he is ready for Winston.  He says something to the vet, and as soon as he puts the shears away, he pulls out a large bag of dog food and plops it on the examining table.  He grabs a dirty pink towel and lays it out nicely over the large bag of dog food.  “Winston will love this, he is going to be so comfortable…like at a spa” the specialist says as he drives his fist into the bag to shape the bag for his purpose.  He looks up at me and with both hands pats the newly formed bag of dog food draped in the pink towel, “OK, let’s go!”

It takes a while to do the ultrasound, first Winston on one side, then the other.  When he finishes, he raises his hands and says, “OK, we are finished now”.  The other vet turns the lights on and the specialist is digging in his bag. “I am going to burn these images to a disc now”, he says and pulls out a blue CD writer, with scotch tape all over the top.  As the disc is whirring away on the table, he explains what he has seen and what to do next.  “Now, we will take x-rays of Winston”.  I dread this almost as much as Winston.  He hates getting put on his side under the strange machine with men in lead jackets holding him down.  It is like ‘Marathon Man’ all over again.  When the vet and his assistant have prepped the room, he comes out and asks for Winston.  I take Winston and lead him into the room, feeling like a guilty parent of selling out my kid to some heinous event.  The vet takes Winston in and we continue talking with the specialist.

The specialist informs us that we are doing all that we can given the situation, but thinks Winston needs a different diagnosis.  “It is not really anything too different, but just for technical reasons we should change it” he reaffirms.    Winston comes walking out and all seems OK.  Seeing Winston, the specialist realizes that now all the necessary steps are completed.  He sits and discusses the possibility of some new medication and asks some more questions about Winston’s recent behavior.  The vet pokes his head around the corner and gives the specialist a sign that the x-rays are ready for viewing.  Tonya and I sit on a small dirty couch, and watch them view the newly shot images.  They are not touching them, and they are holding them on the corners with a pair of tongs.  One of x-rays slips out of the tongs and onto the floor.  Obviously, they are not dry enough.  They look around for somewhere to hang the x-ray to dry a bit more.  They come back to the examining table and look around the room.  The vet sees something.  He walks to the corner of the room.  He takes the x-ray and attaches it to a fan which has been hung upside down from the ceiling, in the corner.  Ingenious.

I can’t believe it.  These are the professionals.  I feel like I am in good hands.