“You know,” I said, “We’ve been drinking since we got off the plane, and I really don’t feel that drunk.”
“Same here,” Joe answered, pausing like his mouth was still waiting on his brain. “Maybe it’s this heat.”
“It’s suffocating,” I agreed. It had been a few years since I’d been to Cabo. It was always hot, but never this humid. “I think I’m sweating off the alcoh…”
“Damn I’m hungry,” Joe interrupted, his ADHD firing on all cylinders. The smell of charbroiled meat drifted through the air, tugging us, trance-like, down the strip. In addition to the heat, the town seemed darker than I remembered. Maybe Cabo had gone climate-conscious and cut some of the streetlights.
We followed the delicious aromas to their source—a beat-up taco stand perched on the edge of a curb. Two women in jeans sat in plastic chairs wedged between the cart and a parked car. An old guy with a white mustache ran the snack shack. “Dos carnitas tacos,” I said.
“Dos carne tacos,” Joe interrupted. “Jesus dude, leave the Spanish to me.”
As the words sloshed around in my brain, it occurred to me that it might actually be “carne asada.” Knowing Joe’s love of arguing though, especially after having a few, I let it slide.
The old man reached into a cooler, pulled out some steak and created two perfect mounds on the grill. Then he pointed to the drinks lined up on the edge of his stand.
“Dos Coronas.” Joe said giving me a look.
I rolled my eyes. “I could have handled the beer.”
“That’s about all you can handle.” He retorted, twisting a lime into his bottle.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“I mean, you really can be kind of clueless. That poor lady sitting next to you on the plane was petrified. Probably the first flight of her life and all you did was make wise cracks.”
“I thought she was joking,” I said. “Who actually pays attention to the safety talk?”
The old man had given me a huge slice of lime with my Corona. I’d given up on trying to twist it into my beer and instead was trying to squeeze juice into the opening.
“Dude, when she asked you to repeat what they said, did you really have to respond, ‘Put your face between your legs and kiss it goodbye?’”
“How was I to know she was actually concerned about proper procedure during a water landing?” I asked. I gave up on the lime. There wasn’t a trash can in sight, so I just held the squished hunk of fruit. The ladies who’d been camped out on the plastic chairs stood up and left, so we decided to sit and take a load off.
“Thanks for making the trip,” Joe said holding out his beer. He had been trying to get me to go on a trip with him for months, but with a live-in-girlfriend, a guy’s weekend proved difficult, especially when the guy was Joe.
“I don’t have much else going on right now,” I said, clinking my bottle against his. I’d forgotten about the lime. The impact shot juice all over my face.
“I’m serious man. I mean, sorry about Sharon.”
“Susan,” I corrected, but he didn’t seem to hear me. Not that it mattered, I was busy wiping lime juice off my face. Blurry patches floated across my vision, and for a second, I thought maybe the beer was kicking in. Then I realized I still had my sunglasses on. I slipped them off to clean them. And—look at that! The place was blazing with lights. Cabo hadn’t gone green after all.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Joe continued. ”Most of my friends have gotten married off. You’re about the only drinking buddy I have left.” This was the closest Joe and I ever came to a deep, meaningful conversation. But I knew what he was trying to say. We decided to make this trip just after the aforementioned girlfriend left me.
I took a swig of beer. Before slamming the door, she said I was obtuse. I wasn’t totally sure I knew what that meant but given past arguments, I was pretty confident it was her fancy-schmancy way of saying I was clueless. She could have said she was running off to Tibet to join a Buddhist monastery or suddenly at the age of thirty-four decided she was lesbian, and it would have made more sense. I mean, is her new boyfriend going to be any less clueless? My guess is that meathead will be leaving his beer on the coffee table without a coaster inside of a month.
We’d finished our Coronas and started a second round when the ladies returned. Being ever the perfect gentlemen, we stood up and gave them their chairs back. Now I ask you, would a clueless person be so conscientious?
The old man finished cooking our tacos and handed them to us. I took a bite. The combination of steak, salsa and melted goat cheese was incredible, “Dude, I think this is possibly the best taco…”
“What’s that?” Joe asked. I started to repeat what I said when I realized Joe was talking to one of the women in the chairs.
“You want massage?” the one closest to us asked.
“Can you show me a sample of your work?” Joe said as I walked over. We were both now standing above her next to her chair. She looked and said something in Spanish to her friend who sat furthest away from us. Her compadre, in turn, answered in Spanish, “Es Muuuuuy buenoooo!!!” she said emphatically upon hearing the translation, cupping her hands under her breasts and lifting them.
To be honest, I hadn’t taken much notice of either of them until that moment. I thought the one who we were hovering over was a bit on the chunky side; but standing above her, looking down at her flower-patterned bra and all that it contained, I must admit her physical condition had its advantages.
“No! Your hands.” Joe said without missing a beat. Muy Bueno turned to the translator, who relayed what Joe said back to her in Spanish. Muy Bueno then looked down at her hands and slowly flipped them over, as if she couldn’t imagine why anyone would be interested in them. “I want to see a sample of your work,” Joe said, slightly exasperated. Then he leaned over so she’d have easy access to his shoulders.
Again, Muy Bueno glanced at her friend. The translator was plain-looking—small, petite, the kind of girl you’d pass by at a bar. Yet she wore a constant smile that made her look like she was terminally on the verge of laughter. Probably married. Probably had a couple of kids. Probably didn’t complain about the toilet seat or the sixteen million other things I supposedly did wrong on a daily basis. Probably made some señor very happy.
Happy. The word echoed through my mind. Had I really been that bad? Been that much of a slob? In a way it made sense. Thinking of Susan’s voluptuous body made me wonder why she was ever with me.
Stop it! It would have been a shout had I said it out loud. Don’t go down this oad…you’re here to forget. Take a drink—there you go. Stay in the moment.
Muy Bueno was now rubbing Joe’s shoulders. At six-foot-two, he looked like Lurch bending in half so she could reach him. “Let me show you,” Joe said, stepping behind her chair and beginning to knead her shoulders. “See? Work your fingers in deep… and use your thumbs.”
“How much for the massage?” I asked.
“One hundred and fifty dollars.” Apparently, Muy Bueno didn’t need a translator when it came to matters of money.
“One hundred and fifty dollars.” Joe whistled as we walked away. “That’s a lot of money for probably the worst damn massage…”
“I know,” I responded, “I see massages advertised all over the strip for way cheaper. Why was she so expensive?”
We looked at each other, and it suddenly hit us. Oh! That kind of massage.
Maybe I really am clueless. Despite all the jokes I’ve heard over the years about eating in Mexico, Joe and I had just eaten at a roadside stand. Hands down, the best taco I ever had. But the cost was a lot higher than what was shown on the menu. Much, much higher.
Most of the next two days of our four-day vacation were spent with me curled in a ball on my hotel bed—or on the toilet—trying to ease the pain shooting through, and out of, my abdomen. Sleeping was my only escape. I dreamed of the translator—of her black hair, her smile. Her hair softened to light brown, her eyes to hazel.
Wait—what? That’s not the translator. Karyn? How did I end up at the office? She wore that same almost-laughing smile she gave me in the breakroom whenever I told a joke—even at ones that weren’t all that funny. “How come you never asked me out?” she said, her voice teasing. It jolted me awake, back into that swirling, feverish half-consciousness where my gut burned and my body ached. The question lingered. It had felt so real—like my subconscious was nudging me. Karyn wasn’t all that different from the translator—same build, same quiet warmth. I guess I’d passed her by to chase something shinier. (Shinier on the surface, at least)
Sometime later, Joe came to my room to check up on me. He had a very attractive redhead with him. “Ace said you weren’t feeling well,” she spoke in a thick New York accent.
Ace? I just rolled with it.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“He has Montezuma’s revenge,” alias-Ace said flippantly.
“You poor thing,” she said. “My uncle lost all his hair from that.”
We both shot her a look. “Cancer of the hair follicles,” she said. “Caused him to lose all his hair.”
“You know,” I said, “Joe’s actually really good at massages. You should ask him to rub your shoulders.”
“Shut up!” Joe answered, and they turned to leave the room. “Are you really good at massages? There’s this spot between my neck and shoulders that’s really stiff,” I heard her say before the door shut. “And Ace…Who’s Joe?”
That tiny bit of talking drained me, so I decided to go back to sleep. My mind drifted to the day Karyn dropped her badge just inside the office door as she was leaving. The door required the badge to open, so once it closed, she couldn’t get back in. I was leaving through a different set of doors when I spotted her standing there, staring at it like she was trying to Jedi-mind trick it back through the gap.
As usual, I’d left my badge at my desk, so I couldn’t swipe her in. The receptionist had gone home and if co-workers were in the office, they weren’t close enough to hear our pounding on the door. So, there we were, two peas locked out of a pod, trying to fish her badge out from under the door. The badge clip kept getting snagged on the door frame. We tried pens, scissors, and even a hanger from the coat closet. It must have taken half an hour before I finally angled the clip just right and it slid under the door.
I smiled at the memory. Yeah—I was definitely talking to her when I got back. If I learned anything from the time I was with Susan, it’s that I need to be with someone who’s as obtuse as me. Well, I thought as another wave of pain shot through my bowels and I sprinted to the bathroom, maybe not quite that clueless. Just someone on the same general spectrum.
Damon Yeargain has had numerous short stories—both fiction and nonfiction—accepted for publication. He tends to place characters in difficult situations to see what unfolds: sometimes humorous, sometimes inspiring, but always worth the ride. You can find more of his published work at https://fictionalfuel.com. Thank you, for your consideration!
