TALES OF THE SOUTHWEST: BORDER TOWNS

Actual factual photo of the old border crossing at Naco, Sonora/Arizona...

by Grant McGee

            There was a cop in the bank the other day.  He was in full uniform sitting in the lobby.  I wondered if he was there on business or if he was there as a deterrent to anyone who had thoughts of doing bank mischief.

            Seeing him sitting there I flashed back to my days of living along the Mexican border and walking over into the Sonoran town of Naco.  For a while there was a machine gun nest outside the front door of the local bank there.  It seems there’d been a rash of bold bank robberies in northern Mexico and the Mexican military set up shop by putting up a semi-circle of sandbags and planting a big-assed machine gun on a tripod in the center of it manned by three soldiers.

            I thought about telling this to the cop, you know, starting it off by saying, “You should see how they guard the banks in Mexico…” but then I thought better of it.  I thought he might think I was up to some kind of mischief.

            So as I was leaving I said, “Thank you for your service.”

            That’s one of the things I miss about living in Florida:  Mexican border towns.

            Now I know there’s all kinds of talk about our relationship with our neighbor to the south:  politics, immigration, stuff like that.  Some folks won’t even consider a trip over the border.  I’m here to tell you, though, I never had a problem in Mexico.  The only folks who ever cast a weird eye on me during my trips were the U. S. Customs folks when I was coming back into my own country.  They always wanted to know what I was up to in Mexico and what, if anything, I was bringing back.  When I’d come back with nothing, they really got suspicious.

            Each Mexican border town I’ve been in has its own character.  The bigger ones like Nuevo Laredo, Cuidad Juarez and Nogales are pretty much alike.  They’re like any large city north of the border.  In those big Mexican cities I found it was best to act as you would walking in New York, Chicago or L.A.:  don’t flash your cash, put your wallet in your front pocket and be aware of what’s going on around you.

            New Mexico’s only neighboring border town is Las Palomas, Chihuahua, just south of the town of Columbus.  Columbus is the site of one of those rare things in American history:  an attack by foreign troops.  In a pre-dawn sneak attack the morning of March 9, 1916 close to 500 troops under Pancho Villa attacked the town.  Villa’s scouts underestimated the strength of the U. S. Army garrison in Columbus and retreated to Mexico after a couple of hours. 

Previous visits to Mexico were done by parking and walking over.  My visit to Las Palomas was the first time I’d driven over.  I had heard all kinds of tales of thefts on the Mexican side and cars being dismantled by the authorities on the U. S. side coming back.

            What I remember about Las Palomas was it seemed to be a haven for thirtysomething women from El Paso to come and party.  It was the only way I could explain well-dressed, southern-accented obviously intoxicated women all over the place.  Maybe they were having a convention that day, I don’t know.

            I felt bad for the folks of Las Palomas, there were no paved streets.  It was dry summertime and dust was everywhere. 

            I heard conjunto music coming from a cantina so I went in.  There was a guy playing an accordion and another playing guitar.  They were both singing.  It was a good moment in time.

            Then it was time to head back in to the U. S.

            The Border Patrol dude waved us through.

            I looked at my traveling companion.

            “You had me convinced there’d be a hassle coming back.”

            “They’re not going to bother with some big goofy guy who wears rainbow suspenders in a hand-painted F-150,” she said.  “That time they dismantled my Mustang I was traveling with my ex-husband who decided to mouth-off to the Customs guy.”

            I’ve been to Ojinaga, Chihuahua, across the Rio Grande from Presidio, Texas.  It was a non-descript town in a sun blasted landscape.

            I’ve shopped in Agua Prieta, Sonora.  I can remember going into their equivalent of a mall.  They had had a fire and all the merchants were having smoke damage sales.  The damage was so severe to the building I imagined fire officials north of the border would have a fit to see shoppers milling about in the mess.   I figured if you’ve got stuff to sell why not?

            My favorite border town is Naco, Sonora.  Things I remember about that town include the supermercado with its produce from the interior, including unroasted coffee beans, the paved main boulevard of the town (the folks of Las Palomas might be envious), the soldiers guarding the bank, the relaxing town square (I think most Mexican towns have a good central square), fully dressed soldiers walking the sidewalks with their rifles shouldered, Lupita the liquor store pet javelina who came when called and the friends I made.

            I liked to go to fiestas in Naco.  One time, sitting at a table with friends the mariachis came by.  I was hoping they’d sing “Cielito Lindo” but I knew they’d want to sing for a fee so I asked how much.

            Now my Spanish has always been a little rough so the proper phrase “cuanto cuesta” came out as “canto queso.”

            The lead mariachi gave me a quizzical look.

            “Canto queso?” he asked.

            The only other guy who knew some Spanish down at the other end of the table started laughing.

            “Dude,” he said, “you just asked him to ‘sing cheese.’”

            We got it straightened out and the mariachis gave us a rousing rendition of “Cielito Lindo.”

            As I mentioned, the more serious folks I ran into during my international forays were the U. S. Customs agents.  While waiting my turn for my car to be screened coming back into the U. S. I noticed the lovely ceramic mosaics that lined the drive to the checkpoint.  I started taking pictures of the art.

            “Sir!  Sir!”  I heard a man shout and I looked up.  Two customs guys were headed my way.  “What are you doing with your camera?”

            “I’m taking pictures of your art.”

            They had arrived at my car.  Hearing my explanation they looked at each other.

“Okay, but no pictures of personnel.”

            Another time I was walking back into the U. S.  I was asked to empty my pockets and patted down.  By the time I got home I was kind of perturbed by the search, they’d never done that before, so I called the Customs office to ask why they search some folks and not others.

            “SIR,” barked the little lady Customs agent on the line, “AT THE UNITED STATES BORDER WE HAVE THE AUTHORITY TO STRIP SEARCH YOU IF WE CHOOSE.”

            “Oh, I see,” I said, “thank you.”

            “Have a nice day, sir.”

            One day I’ll go back to Mexico.  I want to go deep in the interior to places like Barranca del Cobre in Chihuahua, Aguascalientes or Oaxaca.  It’s radically different from the border towns.

            I remember what my friend, Bisbee Nadine…the poet, said about the Mexican interior:  “deep in Mexico you experience the absence of the terror of time.”

            In the meantime, I’ll be a gringo daydreaming of Mexico.

                                                            -30-

BAD FICTION AND DIRTY LAUNDRY: THE SEX, THE BELL, THE BED

By Grant McGee

            Tyler and the guys were hanging out at the bar after work.  There were “Happy Hour” prices and fried munchies like popcorn shrimp and stuff.

            Tyler was enjoying a dark rum mojito and shooting the breeze with Bob the office manager.

            “This reminds me of my days in Denver,” said Tyler.  “Going to the bar after work.  I had to get out of there though, had a nutzo ex-girlfriend.  But man, was she good in the sack.  And noisy?  I think the whole apartment complex used to know we were going at it.”

            “That’s nothing,” said Bob.  “I used to live above a woman who had a ship’s bell hanging over her headboard.  Every time she had an orgasm she’d ring that thing like she was calling the crew for dinner.”

            “A bell?” asked Tyler.  “Over her headboard?  Why would someone do that?”

            Bob stared at Tyler for a few moments then turned and walked away laughing. 

            Tyler was intrigued.  A ship’s bell above the headboard.  It sounded pretty cool.  There you’d be in orgasmic throes and then “CLANG!  CLANG!  CLANG!”  Tyler hurried home to tell the wife about this one.

            “What would you say if we put a big bell over the headboard of the bed?” Tyler asked his wife over dinner.

            She froze, stared at Tyler with a hunk of food in her cheek and raised her eyebrows.

“What?” she asked, kind of mumbly because her mouth was full.

            “Yeah,” Tyler went on.  “And every time you have a ‘Big O’ you’d grab the bell’s rope and ring that thing.”

            “Have you been watching porn again?”

            “No, it’s something Bob told me.  He lived above a woman who had a bell…”

            She held up her hand to stop Tyler’s talking then swallowed her food.

            “He’s kidding,” she said.

            “Nooo.”

            “It’s a figurative way of describing a neighbor who is really loud when they have sex.”

            “I don’t believe it.”

            “Think about it,” she said. “When someone’s having an orgasm are they going to reach up, grab some string and ring a bell?  No, dear, there’ll be no bell over our bed.”

            That night as Tyler lay next to his sleeping wife he thought about sex. 

Tyler thought about The Sex a lot.

Tyler thought about sex and apartment living and wondered why anyone would put a bell in over their bed in the first place.  Tyler still thought the bell thing must be true, why make it up?  But really, why put in a bell?  Neighbors can hear everything anyway.

Tyler remembered that couple in the duplex in Amarillo who rhythmically banged on one of the walls.  It happened during the day so for the longest time Tyler thought they were hanging pictures, you know, hammering in a nail, hanging a picture.  With all the banging Tyler imagined their walls being full of pictures.  After about the third session Tyler realized what was going on.

Then there was the old apartment building where he lived in Phoenix and the neighbors who just sounded like some kind of bread kneading machine when they were “at it.”  A slow, steady, rhythmic thumping against Tyler’s kitchen wall.  There were times he wanted to pound on that wall and yell, “DANG, Y’ALL.  PUT SOME PASSION INTO IT!”

            The next day Tyler stopped Bob in the hall at work.

            “The bell over the headboard,” said Tyler.

            Bob started laughing so hard he turned red.

            “Is that just a metaphor for woman who is really loud when she’s having The Sex?”

            Bob nodded his head up and down as tears started to run down his red cheeks.  He had trouble catching his breath as he laughed on down the hallway.

            Tyler still thought it was a pretty cool idea.

            He thought when he got home at the end of the day he’d bring it up to the wife again.

            Maybe she’ll change her mind.

-30-

THE HOTEL CHILD: THAT TIME I LEARNED ABOUT HEMORRHOIDS

By Grant McGee

  I was doing some aimless wandering across the vast expanse of the internet the other day and decided to look up my dad’s name.
  He popped up hither, thither and yon in articles about the hotel business. That was his business, the hotel business. He was the world’s greatest hotel manager, at least that’s what he told me and I believed him because after all he was my dad and he had about as much authority to me as Moses coming down from The Mount with The Tablets.
  I found a reference to him in a Pennsylvania newspaper. It was from 1966 and he was supposed to give the keynote speech at a hotel convention but was unable to “as he was rushed to the hospital earlier in the day.”
  Yep, that’s when my daddy had hemorrhoid trouble.
  I can talk about my father’s hemorrhoids because he’s done gone “on to Glory” so I don’t reckon he cares much now.   How I knew about his hemorrhoids amazes me, what with me not even being 10 years old when it happened.
  “I found an article about a convention dad went to in the 60’s,” I was telling my brother. “Now I know exactly when he had hemorrhoid trouble.”
  “What?” said my brother. “Dad had hemorrhoids? I didn’t know this.”
  “You weren’t there, man,” I said. “You were off to college.”
  “How did you know dad had hemorrhoids?”
  “Mom told me he was in the hospital back then,” I said. “I asked her why and she said he had hemorrhoid problems.”

  Flash back to 1966.

  Mom gets off a phone call that seems to concern her.

  “Who was that, mom?” I asked.

  “That was your father.  He’s in a hospital in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania.  His hemorrhoids burst while he was walking down the street.”

  “Hemorrhoids.  That’s what Preparation H is for.  I’ve seen it on TV.  What ARE hemorrhoids anyway?”

  My momma gave me a look of a few seconds.

  “It’s when you strain too much when you’re having a BM.”

  In all my life I never heard anyone else refer to going “number 2” as a BM.  That was my momma’s code term for “bowel movement.”

  “So dad was straining while he was walking down the street?” I asked.  I didn’t understand.

  “No,” she said.  “It’s too much to go into right now.”

  “Why didn’t he just use Preparation H?” I asked my mom. “Like they say on TV, it’s for hemorrhoids.”
  “Oh honey,” said my momma, “This was a very serious problem, that’s why he’s in the hospital.  He’ll tell you about it when he gets home.”
  Well I figured my dad wouldn’t be around for a couple of days and I still wanted to know what hemorrhoids were, ‘cos still didn’t  understand,  so I asked my buddy Catfish’s mom. Catfish’s mom was a nurse and she knew stuff.
  But she wouldn’t tell me.
  She said I should wait for my dad to get home.
  Days later when my dad came home he got all upset that I knew he had hemorrhoids.

  “Why didn’t you take Preparation H?” I asked.

  This is when my dad got into his preachy pronouncement voice thing he did.  My sister called it pontificating.  I had to look that word up.
  “My doctor told me that crap is absolutely worthless!” he said, his index finger jabbing the air.

  Years later I would learn that Preparation H is made from shark liver oil.
It made me sad to think of all the sharks that died just so’s humans could have less butt pain.

  Years later I would need Preparation H.  I thought the stuff worked pretty well.