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.

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.