Dove Season (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) (7 page)

Finished, Red Boots didn’t bother to flush the toilet. He just walked to the door, bypassing the sink. I was in too much bladder distress to lecture him on hygiene. I hurried past him to the toilet and unzipped my pants. And just stood there. Even though I felt like I was going to burst, nothing came out. Fucking stage fright. I closed my eyes and waited for Red Boots to leave, thinking of waterfalls, the ocean, and dripping water.

I heard the door close behind me. My body relaxed. I took a deep breath and counted to ten. On four, I was pissing. But then, instead of the silence that should have been in the room, I heard footsteps. Bootsteps, to be precise. I half-turned my head, trying to maintain my drunken aim. Red Boots and Green Boots stood with their backs to the closed door.

In the half second that my brain had to register and assess the situation, I couldn’t imagine a more defenseless position. While Green Boots hovered near the door, Red Boots took small steps toward me, malice in his crooked smile.

I did the only thing that I could think of. I took the offensive, turning quickly and pissing all over Red Boots’s red boots. He jumped back, but I moved forward, aiming to get as much urine on him as I could. If he would have had a chance to collect his thoughts, he would have punched me in the face. But when you’re dodging piss, that pretty much consumes the mind. I even roped the stream toward Green Boots, forcing him to do a little dance. I felt like an Old West gunfighter.

“Come on,” I yelled, my drunken bravado making me invulnerable. I was actually having fun, laughing boisterously.

Then my stream began to weaken. I used whatever muscles I could to force more out of me, but it slowly reduced to a dribble and then drained to nothing. And I was left standing with my dick in my hand and two pissed-off and pissed-on Mexican cowboys staring at me with murder in their eyes. In retrospect it was a pretty funny image, but at the time I couldn’t see the humor.

I probably should have rushed toward the door. But if I was going to get in a fight, my first priority was to get my pants buttoned up. It’s kind of an unwritten rule in street fighting not to have your penis exposed. I had the first couple of buttons done when Red Boots threw a haymaker that caught most of my shoulder and some of my jaw. I fell backward, the back of my legs hitting the toilet behind me. Tripping over the bowl, my head hit the wall and my body got pinned awkwardly between the toilet and the wall. My legs were draped over the bowl, one arm underneath me and the other sticking straight up.

I clawed at the side of the toilet, my eyes on the approaching Red Boots. Panic started to overtake me. I struggled harder, unintentionally wedging myself further into the tight space. My only consolation was that I had just seen Red Boots take a leak. At least he wasn’t going to piss on me. Only beat the shit out of me.

Sure enough, he kicked me. The point of his boot connected with the back of my thigh. My own piss sprinkled my face, droplets from the top of his boots. The irony of it all.

“
Dinero, pendejo
,” he said, thoughtful enough to use Spanish that even I could understand.

“Fuck you,” I replied, extending him the same courtesy.

He pulled a big folding knife from his back pocket and opened it slowly. He showed me both sides of the blade. It was a well-used knife stained with black splotches. I could even smell the faint odor of fish coming off it. It would have been bad enough if it was clean.

“Okay,” I said, holding up my hands and pointing to my front pocket. “My money is in my pocket.
Dinero esta aquí.
”

He nodded.

Using the opportunity to try to stand, I slid away from the toilet. I was stalling, knowing Bobby had all my money. I reached into my pocket anyway. That’s when the bathroom door swung open.

Bobby took two steps in, his melon knife in one hand. Before Green Boots could turn, Bobby had kicked him right behind one knee with the flat of his foot. Green Boots folded backward with a yelp. The moment he hit the floor, Bobby brought his foot down on the guy’s wrist and then kicked him in the cheek. It took all of two seconds.

Red Boots turned in time to see, but hadn’t moved. The two of them stared each other down. Bobby looked at the knife in Red Boots’s hand. Red Boots looked at the knife in Bobby’s hand. Bobby smiled. Red Boots didn’t.

Bobby glanced at me. “Get up, man. We’ve got to go.”

“No shit,” I said, wiggling out of the space and sliding across the urine-puddled floor. I kept my eyes on Red Boots’s knife, waiting for him to do something stupid.

Reading my mind, Bobby said, “He ain’t going to try nothing. He came in here for the easy buck. That’s you. He might be a dumb Mexican, but he’s smart enough to see that I ain’t easy. I’m too much work. Nobody ever wins a knife fight. You both get cut.” Bobby looked at me, the floor, and Red Boots’s legs. “Bro. Clean up on aisle five.”

We backed out of the bathroom. He closed the door and hurriedly stacked cases of beer in front of it.

“The door opens in,” I said.

Bobby shook his head, set down the case of beer, and walked past me toward the front.

I kept looking over my shoulder as we walked quickly away from the bar. The neighborhood still bustled with activity. Food vendors were out in force, and the smell of the street was intoxicating. Or maybe it was all the beer and violence that was intoxicating.

Bobby smirked. “They don’t teach that in karate class.”

“The guy came at me. I was taking a leak. What am I going to do?”

“Stop pissing, maybe?”

“I couldn’t. I didn’t. It wasn’t conscious.” I couldn’t believe I was getting defensive or even discussing it. “When did you become such a kicker?” I said, trying to turn it on him.

Bobby laughed. “You smell like diaper.”

I didn’t notice that Bobby had stopped until I was a couple of steps past him. I turned. “Come on. Why you stopping?”

“We’re here,” Bobby said, pointing to the painted Cachanilla’s sign.

“Bobby, those two cowboys are going to be looking to kick our ass. Do this some other time. I need a shower. We’re out of here.”

“First of all, they would be coming to kick your ass, not mine. Secondly, who gives a shit?”

“I don’t want any more trouble.”

“Why not?” Bobby asked, as serious as I’d seen him. “We used to come down here all the time. It’s no big deal.’”

“Bobby,” I said, defeated.

“We’re here. We’re right here,” Bobby said. “Nothing is going to happen. Well, probably nothing. If something was going to happen, it already would’ve.”

“It did. I got attacked in a bathroom. Jesus Christ, I’m a fucking grown-up now. I don’t get drunk and in fights every weekend.”

Bobby laughed. “That supposed to be some jab at me? Shit, like I care a dog fart what you think. For all the places you’ve been and all the shit you’ve seen, how can you be such a puss? ‘I’m a fucking grown-up now.’ What the fuck does that even mean?”

“I’m covered in piss. My own piss. I want to go home.”

“Fair enough on that front. Chalk that one up to experience.” Bobby shook his head. “But this prom date ain’t over ’til you put out. You’re here for Jack. Your father, not mine. You asked me, remember? I shouldn’t have to convince you. We’re friends, and I’m going to back you no matter how stupid you are and no matter what stupid you do. But as a friend, the last thing I’m letting you do is quit. We started this together. We’re going to finish it together. So sack up, put all your personal shit away, and let’s go find a hooker for your old man.”

Bobby walked to the door of Cachanilla’s, not waiting for my response. I nodded abruptly and followed him.

Very few people can pull off a purple velveteen suit. The guy working the door at Cachanilla’s might have been one of them. He was dressed like Superfly by way of Cantinflas, deep purple down to his snakeskin shoes. It was hard to tell if it was fat or muscle under all the ruffles of his frilly shirt, but he had size. Luckily he was one of the friendliest guys I had ever met.

He looked at me and Bobby, did the math, and smiled widely. Two Americans standing outside of a Mexican strip joint didn’t make for that complex of an equation. He smelled money. And after the doorman gave me a whiff, he obviously smelled piss, too. To his credit, he didn’t say a word. It takes one hell of a salesman to ignore urine. He went straight into his patter. “Best floor show in
México
. Beautiful
chicas
. Cheap tequila.” He turned to me, smiling. “You like Mexican pussy?”

I smiled and laughed under my breath. His Mexican accent sounded slightly affected like he was exaggerating it to sound more like the Mexican that he thought we thought he was.

He didn’t wait for my answer. “You come in, you have a drink, another drink, you watch the girls, talk to them, have fun, buy the girls some drinks, you know. You like to have fun, no?
Sí? Sí.
Some drinks, some more drinks, you find a girl, you like her, she likes you. You think maybe I want to be alone with her. She wants to be alone with you. Another drink just to be sure. That’s when you talk to Guillermo.”

“Who’s Guillermo?” I asked.

“I am Guillermo. Whatever you need. Talk to Guillermo,” he said, pointing at his inflated chest.

“Thanks,” I said, taking small steps inside. Bobby had already squeezed past and was leaning against the hall wall, laughing at me.

Guillermo kept up his patter, leaning in closer to my ear. “One hundred dollars. Any girl. All night. Guaranteed. Only one hundred. Nothing to a man like you. All the girls, they’re clean. Doctor did the full check two days ago.
Bueno.
And these girls.” He whistled. “They do it all. Everything. Whatever you want. They love it all. In the mouth. In the pussy. In the
culo
. They love it.”

I finally got past him and made my way inside. Behind me I could still hear him. “Weekday special. Three for the price of two. Whatever you want. Talk to Guillermo.”

As strip joints go, Cachanilla’s was a bit of all right. It was a big room with a large stage jutting out of one wall, stripper poles at each corner. Harsh, bright light illuminated the stage, but the scattered tables and booths quickly receded into shadows and darkness, the corners black with depraved potential.

A nude-except-shoes, mid-thirties Mexican woman was on the stage not quite dancing, but gyrating her hips in uncoordinated spasms that made a mockery of eroticism. It quickly grew on me. There was something splendid about her bored lack of effort.

Bobby pointed to the bathroom door against the far wall. “Go clean up. I’ll get us a table and some drinks. That scuffle made me dangerously close to sober.”

The bathroom was filthy, but empty. A toilet, a urinal, and a sink all against the same wall with no dividers between them. I felt a noticeable rise in the humidity. The walls and floor were wet from I don’t know what. I didn’t want to touch anything, but I washed my hands and tried to pat down my pants with a wet paper towel.

As I was giving myself a failing sniff test, a plump woman walked in pulling a short Mexican man in his fifties behind her. She sat down on the toilet, nonchalantly crossed her legs, unzipped the man’s pants, and began working his shank with the same motion and interest as someone inflating a bicycle tire.

In an effort to look in any other direction, I stared at myself in the polished steel that passed for a mirror. My kingdom for a partition.

When I glanced back, the Mexican man had one of the woman’s breasts in his hand. He squeezed it as hard as he could without moving a muscle. The woman continued her violent pumping, staring directly at me with a shrug and a face that said, “It’s a living.”

What is it with me and Mexican bathrooms? My pants were clean enough.

“Dude, you still smell like piss,” Bobby said as I sat down.

“I was kind of a third wheel in the john.”

There was a shot and a beer waiting for me and the same in front of Bobby, but Bobby waved the girl over anyway. “
Una cerveza más. En una taza, por favor.
”

“Do you see Tomás?” I asked.

Bobby nodded his head toward the back without looking. My eyes drifted toward a very dark booth in the corner. Tomás was in his twenties, looking good in a suit, button-up shirt, and no tie. He held court with two bar girls and a hard-looking guy in a cowboy hat. A giant stood in front of the booth.

Tomás had a stack of American dollars on the table in front of him, probably twenties. I watched the cowboy sitting next to him peel one off and bring it below the table toward one of the girls. She feigned a sexy smile through her discomfort. Eventually he brought his hand up from under the table, gave his finger a quick sniff, and took another drink. Tomás stared at the man for a second past comfort and then returned talking to the girl next to him. So much for the kid I taught to ride a bike.

The girl handed Bobby his glass of beer. Bobby paid, and the girl walked back to the bar. Bobby said, “I’m not going to apologize.”

“For what?” I asked.

And Bobby threw the full beer into my lap.

“What the fuck?” I half-yelled, half-standing.

“Rather you smell like beer than piss.”

“I’m fucking soaked,” I said, pulling the dripping pants away from my wet skin.

“You’ll thank me later.”

“Well, fuck you now.”

I wasn’t quite ready to talk to Tomás. I needed a break. I’d had more excitement in the last hour than I’d had in some time. I was beginning to embrace it, but it was definitely exhausting. So I did what you do in a place like Cachanilla’s. I drank and watched the ladies on the stage.

The woman on stage was dancing to her first song. It was a
corrido
that I didn’t recognize, but they all sounded the same to my ethnocentric ear. She was in her thirties and danced fully clothed in what looked like a circa 1985 gold lamée prom dress. No tease, she danced with concentrated disinterest, watching herself in the mirror on the far wall. She swayed and turned like she was displaying merchandise, which appropriately she was. She didn’t take a stitch of clothes off during the length of the song.

The second song was “Ace of Spades.” But even with Motörhead’s increased tempo, she maintained her slow sashay. At the very end of the song, she took the dress off. Not slowly, not seductively, but awkwardly, unzipping the back and letting the heavy fabric drop to the ground. It was so workmanlike that I found myself looking at the crumpled dress instead of her naked body.

The third song was, of all things, “Baby, Baby” by Amy Grant. She danced in the nude except for her clear plastic high heels. Full bush and real tits, it was only sensual in its total lack of effort.

I turned to Bobby, who kept his focus on the woman on the stage. “Look, man,” I said, “I’m sorry if I’ve been a drag. It’s just been a long time since I’ve been down here, and I can’t get comfortable. I don’t got that thing you got, to do shit like this so easy.”

Bobby shook his head and grinned, the kind of face you make when you’re frustrated with a small child or a dog. “What in the holy fuck are you talking about?” he said.

“I can’t cross a border and just see people differently. Can’t see Mexicans and Americans as different. People are just people to me,” I said.

The song ended, and the woman walked off the stage. Bobby turned to me. “I’m officially calling bullshit on that. You’re as much a racist as me.”

“It ain’t racism. I ain’t explaining right. It’s Mexico, the country. Look at where we are. What we’re doing right now. I enjoyed her dance. You think she did? Or do you think she’s doing it to have some money to send south or to save up to get to
El Norte
or to just feed herself? Or her kids? I can’t help think of that shit when I’m down here.

“Like those kids on the fucking street. If I was anywhere in the U.S. and a six-year-old came up to me, I’d immediately ask where his mother was or find a cop or do something. Here, it’s not just that I don’t ask. I don’t need to ask ’cause I know. There’s no point. In doing anything.”

Bobby held up his hand. “When’d you turn all hippie? Christ. You guilty for every starving child in the world? They’re out there whether you see ’em or not, you know. What are you going to do about it? You going to take all the little kids in and save them? Save the world?”

“No. That’s the thing. I ain’t going to do nothing. I ain’t even going to try. And it makes me feel like an asshole.”

Bobby sat up. “Look, man. Mexico is like a house that’s caught on fire. And as an American, you’re outside, standing on the sidewalk, right? You’re watching it burn, but you see people inside. You see them on fire, burning alive. But you can’t save them. There’s nothing you can do. You got only two choices. You can stay and watch, or you can say to hell with it and walk away. Don’t matter none to the people in the burning house. Either way, they’re fucked.”

“We’re participating. I came down here to find a prostitute.”

“For a good cause,” Bobby interjected. “And don’t tell me you never got some Mexican tail. Never came down, hit the whorehouses.”

“Not proud of it, but yeah, once. But when I went back to her room, the room she lived in, slept in when she wasn’t fucking, and she took the stuffed animals off her bed before we were supposed to screw, I realized how fucked up it was. How human and vulnerable and tragic that poor girl was. How I was about to use her. Like that was why she existed. I couldn’t do it.”

“Dude, you’re making me feel bad for being in a strip club. Don’t ruin titties for me. I’ll go vegetarian before I let you ruin tits for me. You got no right.”

“I stopped coming down here because I got tired of seeing people get used. Being back just reminds me that nothing has changed.” Listening to myself, I wondered how I had gotten so maudlin and introspective, and then I remembered that I was on my umpteenth beer.

“You’re spinning this whole ‘if you’re not a part of the solution, you’re part of the problem’ bullshit. It makes a great bumper sticker for your shittily painted VW bus, but sometimes there ain’t no solution, so you just enjoy the problem.

“You see that youngish lady over there.” Bobby pointed at a girl talking to a couple of older Mexicans at the bar. “She’s going to fuck someone for money whether you like it or not. She could grab one of them rough-handed
campesinos
. Or maybe she lucks out and ends up with a sensitive fella like you who gets all guilty and gives her all your money as you cry into her pillow about how unfair the world is. No matter what, she’ll be back the next night, throating some dude in a back booth. For all you know, this place is an improvement from the shack she grew up in and the father who beat her three times a day.”

“That’s your thesis? Some people are just fucked?”

“And if you believe different, you’re the most naïvest fucker on the planet. There’s a large population of this country where hooker work is a step up. Didn’t the last line of
Chinatown
mean anything to you?”

“Forget it, it’s Mexico,” I said, cracking a smile.

“Exactly, Jake. So go talk to Tomás and stop thinking about shit you can’t change.” Bobby downed his beer.

As I approached Tomás’s booth, the giant took a few steps toward me. He put his hand up like a traffic cop. Taller than me and built like the Michelin Man, he looked completely immovable.