Bad Hemingway

It has been several years since the last "Bad Hemingway" (to which it was irreverently referred) contest was held.

"The International Imitation Hemingway Competition is an annual writing competition begun in Century City, California.  Started in 1977 as a "promotional gag"^, and held for nearly thirty years, the contest pays mock homage to Ernest Heminway by encouraging authors to submit a 'really good page of really bad Hemingway' in a Hemingway-esque style."

"The competition, as created, had two rules: 1) mention Harry's Bar & Grill (the Venetian Harry's was long one of Hemingway's favorite watering holes) and, 2) be funny."

I will chronicle here some past entries, but also invite original submissions.

Have fun with it.

This was the winning entry in 1988, by Gordon Carlson of Anchorage, Alaska.

It was morning and he was in the bathroom shaving, shaving for the first time that day but not the last, no, never the last; the hairs kept coming, tiny hairs and black and there was nothing for it, nothing for it at all but shaving, razor bright-edged clean on skin and cutting through the hairs and the soap and the dead dried cells of epidermis in that clean, well-lighted place. There were the hairs and he was shaving because a man shaves. Main thing a man did. Made him into a man. No bloody hairs.

She came in then, rich and tall and American in that way they have, her face a picture of a face, an American face, and she leaned into Gibbs Adams in that way she had of leaning, and he looked away from her American face in the mirror and down at the sink where she had just dropped the matchbook, a matchbook from Harry's Bar & American Grill.

I like it.  I went to the movies today, and saw a trailer for a new Hemingway biopic, due out later in April.

"Papa: Hemingway in Cuba"

Old Pablo surveyed the battlefield before him.  In his mind's eye he could see his men scurrying to and fro, in the way a General might do.  He was not a General, but he considered himself to be one, in the way the Generals often do.  Being a Captain of men was not nearly appropriate for such a leader as it was too mundane and lacked the machismo that made men like Pablo long for glory, and battle, and power.  No, Capitan would not do, not do at all.  These were his men, this was his battle, and he was determined to prevail in the way a great General might do.

The battle before him was complex.  Pablo could feel the ebb and flow of momentum, like great tidal forces he had seen many years ago, from his seat at Harry's Bar on Calle Vallaresso.  He had been working on a tramp steamer which had called in Venice as it made its way around the Mediterranean.  It was work, hard work.  But it paid cash money and he got three squares each day.  That was long ago.

The battle had been waged all afternoon.  It had been long and hard.  But now he sat on the precipice of victory - fearing that with one wrong move, he would tumble to the bottom in ignoble defeat.  He saw clearly what had to be done, being a General of sorts.  A feint to the left drawing the opposition, and then he would send his strongest units into center, and split the enemy.  It would be glorious.

Then he began his demonstration on the flank.  It looked promising. It looked good.  It was a brilliancy!!  He would take some casualties, yes, but Generals did not keep count of their men.  They did not matter.  Only victory matters.  Only victory.

He sensed, though, that his opponent, a partisan known only as La Doña, was no amateur in arms.  Her reputation preceded her.  She was tall and red-headed, freckled and haughty.  "Muy caliente" is how she was described.  "Muy loco en la cabeza," thought the General.

"She must be from Galacia," he thought to himself.  "Yes, Galacia.  Those people have a bad reputation.  Probably Celtic blood.  No culture, no refinement.  They eat octopus, for Godssake!  And garlic soup.  That must be the stench I smell."

La Doña was known for her hit-and-run tactics, not a straight up set piece battle.  But here she was, dug in, marshalling her forces on the defensive.  Working interior lines.  Parrying each thrust. "She is riding waves of battle like a cheap whore from Malaga," as he spat on the ground.

General Pablo was becoming impatient.

"If I hit her right with my left, she will certainly take the bait.  She is no sort of General, as I.  Anybody can play a waiting game.  Where is the nobility in that?"  He knew that his was the superior intellect.  He was Cordoban man, and his aged skin was like Corinthian leather.  He had seen many such battles, and never lost one.

So El General began his combination: demonstration on his left, fatal blow into the center.  It was, as a plan, foolproof.  And the plan must be followed.

As he had expected, the feint had caused a flurry of activity from the enemy.  His plan was proceding.  He could see it.  Such were his powers. Then he started his strong reserve units, unused and unbloodied all day, into the center.  "The enemy must certainly crack!"

Suddenly, though, his center ground to a halt on La Doña's ramparts.

"Reinforcements!  Send in more men!"  Dutifully, more moved forward.

Then, with all his concentration on the middle did he suddenly notice the Partisan's cavalry picking it way through holes on his left.  Then again, a powerful Torre appeared on his right, with its lines of fire raking his position.  It did not take a general to recognize the forming double envelopment.

Pablo called for his Number Two.

"Go over there under a flag of truce.  Tell the Partisan that she has done well, but there is no need for further conflict.  I wish for a parlay.

Thinking to himself, "Perhaps this ruse will work.  I can not lose to this amateur, this Galacian, this woman!  Flattery will certainly work.  No one expected a victory from her.  An even contest will be seen as a moral victory for La Doña, but in no way a defeat for me."

He watched from afar as his Lieutenant crossed the battlefield.  He could hear mumbled epithets from all around his position.  Perhaps, after the contest, he could share a glass of his prized Amontillado with his opponent - let bygones be bygones.

His aide returned, ashen in color.  La Doña says she will allow you to retire from the field.  If not, it is mate in four.

Old Pablo, Captain of men, turned over his king, and hurriedly exited the hall.

Hemingway with a strong dose of Sartre!

I have had dreams like that before.  Or were they nightmares?   Does it matter?

Waiting for Dorado.

That's not bad Hemingway at all ... That is good Hemingway. ):-0

Interestingly, the scene reminded me immediately of "Casablanca."  I envisioned "Rick's" and the lost souls stuck there between the Vichy, Free French, and Axis powers.

No one knew who was coming for who (whom?)  (Haha)

I think Casablanca could easily have been fodder for Hemingway, had he stayed in Spain and France.  He went to Cuba instead.

Down the hatch!

I know what he was drinking.  Old Crow.

A bad Hemingway story - as a "round".  After each break (*) a new writer continues the story.

Chapter 1

Although the bulls have long cleared the streets, the young men were still sweating and leaping for the amusement of the beautiful spanish women. He walked among them lamenting his own lost youth. The evening quickly fell into clear night and all around the sounds of intoxicated voices wove around him like a school of minnows caught in a strong undertow. He pushed open the door to the closest watering hole and stood at the door for a moment before going in.

 His name was Fred.

*

It was a dark cantina. The cantina was dark like the night that falls swiftly during wartime in the Sangre de Cristo mountains. Fred had not thought about the Sangre de Cristo in many years. Maria had been there. Maria and many, many bottles of the sharp, crisp Catenza that the Mexican elders drink in the hot noonday sun.

Why, thought Fred, were so many of them named Maria?

*

Even some of the men were named Maria. And as bitter, worn men with a woman's name they did what they must. They fought with those that would taunt them.

For that is what men named Maria must do.

*

Maria Ibiza was one such man--a short, grizzly-faced man, front teeth permanently stained with the tar from years of smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. One afternoon he creaked open the door of his favorite cantina, The Tapista. His eyes soon adjusted to the darkness--the only light filtering through slats in half-rotten shutters. His heart began to pound...Enrique!

*

Enrique. The dark Enrique. Enrique had been drinking with Fred since the morning, and she clung to him like a drunk woman with a hair lip. For that is what she was.

Maria and Fred had fought over her when they were young men. Not to win her, for she had a hair lip, but rather to fight each other for the sake of the fighting and the winning. For in those days they were filled with the foolishness that clings to boys like sweat on a humid day.

In the end, Maria had won her, for Fred had often gotten their names confused, and a hot blooded woman like Enrique would not stand for it, hair lip or no.

*

They sat at the bar and motioned the barkeep to pour each a double and settled into their evening drinking poses, their ragged clothing touching. Fred showed them his knife which was 10cm long and shaped like the crescent moon they once shared over Turkey.

"I've news, Maria", he began.

*

"Fred," Maria mumbled, in a tone that echoed exhaustion, but with a hint of etiquette, "I know what your gonna say, and I don't think I can do it."

"Woah, not so fast... things have changed!" Fred insisted firmly. "And they're gonna keep on changin'"

Maria rolled his eyes, and pushed his hat towards the back of his head as beads of perspiration trickled down to the end of his nose.

"We've been through this before. Nothing changes, remember. Even you said that."

Fred stared into the bottom of the glass of whiskey and watched the last drops disappear as he tilted it back. Somewhere, he knew Maria was right, but like a stubborn old dog, he was not ready to accept this.

*

The defeat that rolls in your brain like bad whisky was not evident in his eyes. Fred smiled a somewhat wicked grin and said , "I say a lot of things. It's good to know you listen on occasion. One day you might actually learn something."

(TO BE CONTINUED)

http://www.badhemingway.com/chapter01.html

The Wahini

The old guy sat in his lounge chair, with a sly smile on his face.  The ocean breeze was keeping the patio cool and pleasant as the sun set over the Pacific.  Talking to no one and everyone, he remaked, "I first came here, back in '71 it was, there was nothing here but a shack for a cantina and an outhouse.  But there were miles of empty beach, broken up by a few rocky outcroppings,  and the nicest breaks you had ever seen."  His arm was extended and hand touched the horizon.

He wiped his forehead with a can of cheap beer, trying to jog his memory, as he turned to me.

"You know, amigo, I was told never drink Tecate.  Their water source is spoiled by sewage.  When they say it tastes like 'piss water,' they are not kidding.  My name is Jake."

"Pleased to meet you, Jake.  I'm Ernest.  So you remember the old days, before they started building all these condos and stuff."

"Oh, yeah.  I sure do.  The old days.  Old Baja.  It was quite a story, me getting here way back when."

"I'd like to hear it," I said.  "I'm a writer and I'm always looking for inspiration."

"A writer!  Hoo, boy.  That's something I've never done!  And I've done just about everything."  Jake let out a hoot and a husky cough, then tried to bum a cigarette.  "Got any smokes?"

"Don't smoke, Jake, but hang on a sec."  I went to the bar and got us another couple of beers - Carta Blanca - and slapped a five down to buy the rest of the bartender's cigarettes in his front pocket.  I grabbed some matches and hurried back over to Jake.

"They're prettier the less they wear, you ever noticed that?"

"Yeah, Jake.  Getting younger every year too."  That cracked Jake up.  I pulled out a ciggie and tossed Jake the matches.  "So tell me, what was it like here forty-five years ago?"

Jake lit his cig and took a couple puffs. Then the senorita came by with the ice cold bottles beers.  "You're a good man, Ernie."

"Well, it was like this.  I had cut out of work early on a Friday afternoon.  There was always work in the Navy shipyards in San Diego.  I cashed my check and grabbed the train for the border.  It was Viet Nam back then.  Bet you don't remember Viet Nam."  He said "Nam" like it rhymed with "lamb."

"Yeah I do."  Jake looked about 75 years old.  His skin was tanned and wrinkled and his face was covered in laugh lines. "At least, I read about it."

"Well, Ernie, the Base always had work, and I could do anything.  My union card allowed that too.  Anyhows, I went down the Agua Caliente race track, and like the idiot longshot-Louie I was, I blew most of my money on the ponies.  Hell, I knew the races were fixed when I saw the odds flip at the last second.  I was young and stupid.  I should have bet to show."

I knew the feeling, knew it very well.  The ponies we never good to me either.

"I walked out of that place hoping to catch a bus back to the border.  I flicked my cigarette into a trash can near the grandstand and walked away.  I guess I quit smokin' for the weekend.  As I ambled through Tijuana I ran across college kids in a Woodie, with surfboards bungied to the roof. I asked them if they needed help ... they looked lost.  Americanos!"

The driver, a young blonde guy, said, "Yeah we're looking for a store to buy booze and food, and the way to Highway 1.  Surfing safari for the weekend!  They had 'easy mark' written all over them.  Needed a guardian angel."

"I told 'em, 'I'm headed south too" (Well I was now!)."  Jake broke into a husky laugh. "I knew the way to Highway 1 and also where a mercado was.  We bought supplies - only essentials - beer, tequila, limes, eggs, tortilla, frijoles, chilis, and tomatoes.  I haggled in broken Spanish to get the price down."

"I had everything I needed in my rucksack, so I said, 'Give me lift where you are headed - I got the urge to wander - and I'll get you some gasoline."

"In those days, Pemex was dirt cheap," Jake told me, "So the guys huddled and told me to jump in.  I got these virgins headed south."

"As we drove away, I noticed huge clouds of smoke from behind us."

"We talked and they told me about a hidden beach south of Ensenada they heard about, where folks went to surf naked.  Crazy nortes! I told 'em I don't surf, but I do cook, so if they let me hang, they could spend more time in the water.  Deal!  Everybody was happy."

"We made it down here well before dusk and the boys sent up the tents.  I gathered some driftwood and made a rock pit fire while they surfed and dived for lobsters, to cook over an open fire.  There were maybe 20 folks on the big long beach that Friday night.  I cooked the lobsters and heated some frijoles in the can.  It was a great meal.  And after drinking some, we was all tired.  I pulled out my blanket and slept on the sand, near the fire.  The sky was crystal clear and the stars looked like my ex-wife's eyes ... on a good night."

Jake coughed again, and motioned for another cigarette, his left hand making a "V."

"A few more folks showed up Saturday.  In the morning, I was awake before dawn, I cooked some eggs and tortillas in a cast iron skillet, added some homemade salsa cruda.  I thought to myself, 'Damn, I forgot cilantro and avocados.'  Live and learn."

"The boys hit the waves early, and a few chicas joined them.  I slipped off my clothes, being the long-haired nature boy flower child I was (did I tell ya I was at Woodstock?), grabbed a screwdriver from the car, and went to gather some mussels and oysters and clams.  They had a metal washtub in the car, for icing down beers - we forgot ice too - so I used that washtub for the shell fish and a few crabs I caught."

"As it was, the cantina shack opened up for the weekend.  We were't going to run low on booze.  They had a gasoline generator, so had some lights and refrigerator, a radio, and a blender. It reminded me a little bit of Harry's.  I was so glad we did not drive back into Ensenda - that's Hussong's was a tourist trap, where they watered down the gin and padded the bill if you were to drunk to notice. Life on the beach was good."

"That night, I lined the washtub with seaweed and layered in the mussels and oysters and clams.  They had big clams in the sand, like Pismos, and if you were quick you could dig 'em out during low tide."

"Someone had a wooden lemon crate.  We poured some beer and seawater over everything and let it steam.  Some of the other Nortes chipped in to our impromptu clam bake.  The surfers and hodads (like me), danced to the music in various states of undress.  We were all singing too.  I remember 'Suzie Q' coming over a San Diego pop station.

"It was the best damn meal I ever had.  That night, a cute little wahini in half a bikini made her way over to me, hauling a sleeping bag and a bottle of Patron.  We retired down the beach a-ways, and made drunken love for hours."

"Damn, it was a good night.  Daaaamn!"

"Buy me another beer, young feller, and I'll tell you about the mess we got into on Sunday."

Elements of Hemingway, Firesign Theatre, and far too much silly juice!

I can imagine ... :-0

The Wahini, Part 2

Jake seemed like a nice old guy, though I wasn’t sure his story rang 100% true.  Just the same, it was a great way to spend a lazy evening.

“Sure Jake, let me get us a couple a more beers.  Was Carta Blanca okay for you?”

“Hell yes, Ernie!!”  Jake’s face lit up like on the tiki torches lining the walkways.

“Well, Ernie, dawn was just breaking on the beach and no one had stirred in the camp.  Everybody musta had a late night.“  Jake nudged me with his elbow.

“My little wahini was laying next to be in the bedroll.  Her beautiful wavy brown hair framed her face.  She was still fast asleep with a contented smile.  I’m not bragging or anything, but I wore her out.”

“Sure thing, Jake. Wore her out.” I said, motioning to the waitress for a couple more beers.  “Una vez mas, por favor.”

“She seemed so peaceful and inviting.  I started to nuzzle her on the neck and she let out a little moan.  I kissed my way down her neck into her cleavage.  Then I began to lick her pert little nipples. “

“Jake, whatcha doin’, honey?” She said, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

“After making sure her tits were well-abused, I went down on her and gave her love nub the same treatment.  She started panting and squirming as her climax built.  She could tell I was an insufferable tease and she was enjoying every second!”

“After a few minutes she shuddered and let out a howl of intense pleasure.  If we had been the only ones awake before, I was pretty sure we weren’t any more.”

“Anyway, we both got up and ran naked into the surf to clean up.  Following her to the water I could clearly see just a bit of a tan line on her fantastically shaped bubble butt and no tan line on her top.  I figured this wahini spent time sunning down at Black’s Beach.  I was going to have to get to know her better.”

“As I made my way into the surf for a quick swim, she splashed me, so I had to tackle her.  Damn, she was beautiful.  Couldn’t have been more than 24, 25 years old.  The Beach Boys used to write songs about girls like this.”

“’Sweetheart, you got a name?’  She told me it was ‘Cindy.’  I didn’t recall telling her mine last night, but the Patron bottle was empty, and hell, who knows what I said in the throes of passion?”

“When playtime was over I told her I was going to start to put some huevos rancheros together for us and the boys.  She told me she was going to go back to her tent and find her missing bikini top.”

“I had banked the main fire last night, so alls I had to do was throw more driftwood on it to get it going.  The mornings were still a bit chilly and I had just slipped on a pair of shorts.  A couple of the folks had grabbed their boards and headed out to catch a few waves before breakfast.  There was a little fish left over from last night that needed to be gutted and fried.  It would go good with the eggs.”

“I looked up the road and saw a headlights headed our way.  It was mid-50s Buick Roadmaster droptop slowly approaching our camp.  When it pulled up and parked, three bad-looking vatos got out and started walking around.”

“Amigo!” said one to me in English, “Can you spare a leetle food?”

“’Sure friend, come join us.  We have plenty.’  I could tell he had been out all night by his wrinkled clothes and the smell of booze.  A few more folks were making their way to the fire.”

“’And if you don’ mind, amigos y amigas, I’ll take your moany too.’  All three of them drew pistols, and the lead vato had a smirk on his face.  Easy targets, he must have been thinking.  Nortes stupidos.”

“Just then, I saw Cindy come open her tent flap and I heard four quick rounds.  Bap, bap, bap, bap!!  I knew that sound.  And I saw the two front tires on the Buick go flat, as the radiator started hissing steam.  I think the vatos just about shit their pants when she pointed her gun at them.  There was a guy in Raybans standing next to her, and they were both holding fully automatic war-surplus Lugers.  Probably Borchardts.  My God, she looked sexy in her bikini with a vintage firearm in both hands.”

“In perfect Spanish, Cindy told the bad guys to drop their weapons and lay face down in the sand.  They did not have to think twice.”

“I had a bad feeling about this.  Cindy and Raybans weren’t just two surf punks out for a weekend.  I hadn’t even see Mr. Raybans before.”

“Raybans patted them down and took their guns and their wallets.  I swear one of the Mexicans was crying.  Cindy told them to take off their clothes and toss them into the fire.  The sobbing bandito was pleading not to do this to them.  What did they expect?!”

“The whole camp was awake by now and I told the boys to chow down, because we were going to make ourselves scare in just as soon as we could toss everything into the Woodie.   Our surf camp was several miles from nowhere, and Cindy told the naked Mexicans to start walking up the road.”

“Get some food, you two.  We need to get out of here before the Federales show up.”

“Cindy said to me, ‘Jake, you’re going to ride with me in the Travelall, and my partner will go with the college kids.’  I asked her if she was Border Patrol.  No answer.  That white International 4-wheel-drive looked like it was right of the motor pool.”

“We’re going to head up to Ensenada to get gas, and play it by ear from there,” Cincy told me and Raybans.”

“It was a quiet drive away from the beach.  Only when we passed the vatos, who were covering their genitals with their hands, and jogging up the dirt road, did we wave and honk the horn. That helped the tension break.”

“That was pretty good shooting, Cindy.  Where did you learn how?”

“I’m trained, Jake, or couldn’t you tell?”

“So who are you with?  Defense Intelligence?  State Department?”

“IRS, ATF division.”

“Crap, I thought to myself.  I knew I was knee deep in it.  About that time we pulled up to a Pemex station where Highway 1 met Highway 3.  We filled up both vehicles, courtesy of the vatos, and checked out the Sunday newspapers.  Agua Caliente had burned down Friday night, and the police were combing the area for suspects.  A fuzzy San Diego radio station said they were look for a 1940’s Woodie and an American guy with a goatee and long hair, traveling with some surfers.”

“’Jake, were you at the track on Friday?’  I didn’t have to answer; the look on my face said it all.”

“Cindy, we aren’t going to be able to cross in Tijuana, Tecate, or Mexicali.  But I know a way which should be safe.  The two agents and me huddled.  I told’em, Take Highway 3 east to Ojos Negros, then cut up north on the back road.  It’s mostly paved and there won’t be much traffic on Sunday.  We will go north all the way to the unmanned crossing a Jacumba.”

“Raybans bought a couple of 5-gallon Jerry cans, and put on in each vehicle.  We were off, and it wasn’t even 8 AM yet.  Highway 3 was a pretty good road and we made it to the turnoff on less than an hour.  The road north was mainly used for agriculture, and for tourists going to one of the national parks up in the Mexican Sierra.  Slow, but steady”

“Cindy, we need to talk.”

“I’m all ears, Jake.”

“Look, all I ever did was drive loads north from San Felipe.  I picked up a deuce and a half at a warehouse there.  Stakesided flatbed, loaded with cabbages.  A Mexican fella drove in Baja, and I drove once we crossed, over to El Centro.  I heard things about what was being smuggled, but looked the other way.  I overheard that guns were being brought in from Central America.  We would drive 5 north to Mexicali , then cut over on 2.  The Jacumba crossing is where the braceros used to come over to hop a train west to San Diego, or hitchhike into the Imperial Valley.”

“Dammit, Jake, those guns were being sold to the biker gangs.  Do you remember what happened at Altamont?  Hells Angels and all that trouble?  Don’t play dumb with me.”

“I’m not, Cindy!  Keep your eyes open every couple of weeks in Jacumba, for an early 50’s GMC with a dark blue cab.  It will catch US 80 east to El Centro.”

“Why are you telling me this?  You think I’m going to cut you a break, Jake?”

“I thought maybe we had something going, Cindy.”

“In your dreams, Jake.  We better make this crossing unobserved, or we might all end up in a Mexican jail.”

The Wahini, Part 3

“The Ojos Negros Valley had water, so it had a few towns along the road.  Being Sunday morning, there wasn’t too much going on.  We could see the little parish churches had people, and a few places were open for business, but we were pretty much out in the sticks.”

Jake motioned to me for another cigarette.  I asked about his beer, but he said “Sure.”  I noticed we had gathered a few listeners for Jake’s tale.

I knew the area Jake was talking about, because they run the Baja off-road races around there every year.

Jake continued with his story, obviously enjoying the attention.

“Cindy was pretty quiet for most of the drive.  That San Diego AM station kept going in and out, and we couldn’t get any other strong English language reception.  We got KSL on the bounce, but they had no news about Caliente.  The scenery wasn’t too bad, but my mind was racing.  I was considering an ‘exit strategy.’”

“I have been following your movements, Jake.  We got a tip you were involved in the gun running.  You seem like a hardworking guy, no criminal record, so why the moonlighting?”

“’The adventure, I guess.  They paid me in cash, so the extra income didn’t hurt none.  When we got a load of cabbages, or onions, or broccoli into El Centro, I got paid – no questions asked.  If it was late, I’d get a few bucks extra to spend the night in a local hotel so I could catch the bus back to San Diego in the morning.  I could call in sick Monday morning.  It wasn’t unusual when half the workforce was hungover,’  I told her.  ‘I usually made it in before noon.’”

“’My guess is you didn’t report your cash income, did you?’  She had me there.  I was having visions of Al Capone.”

“We both got a little tense as we approached Highway 2, which was the main east-west highway on the Mexican side.  We had been on the road for 3 hours and our luck was holding.  North of Highway 2, I had to give directions to get to Jacume, an old ranch village on the Mexican side.  The roads weren’t paved, but they weren’t crap either, and the Woodie behind us seemed to be doing fine.”

“I knew the farm roads around there, and in a few minutes we drove up to a barbed wire fence.  It was the border!  I got out, thinking about making a run for it, but lifted up a loose fencepost and pulled it back, opening a path through for the vehicles.  We both drove through, and I replaced the post.  Home free, I guess.  Which was better?  A Mexican jail or an American federal prison?”

“I told Cindy to take a left by the old hotel, then go west on 80 and park in front of the Barbara Worth diner, by the bus depot.  I had a little money left and they had a good $2 lunch plate.  I was going to buy some more Camels, but I figured I needed to quit.”

I asked, “You quit smoking, Jake??”

He said, “Yeah, I took up Marlboro filters.”  The crowd around us laughed.

“So I bought the seven of us each a burger, fries and a coke.  I told the boys, ‘Listen, this past weekend never happened, okay?’”

Blondie replied, “’Jake are you nuts?!  We went on safari to Baja.  Surfed naked.  Dove for our own food.  Camped out on the beach.  Got drunk every night.  Got laid every night.  And watched a gun battle.  It was the best fucking weekend of our lives!’  The other three college kids,smiling, nodded in agreement.” 

“Alright, alright, I told them. Just make sure you never take that Woodie over the border.  You won’t get laid in a Mexican jail, at least not by anyone you know.”

“Cindy told the guys and Raybans to get home and that she would see him in the office in the morning.  She still wanted me to ride with her.”

“After a while, I asked her what she was thinking about.”

“I think you have given me enough to go on.  I think I can make this bust.  The good old boys in the office don’t think I’m capable.  But if I get this done, it will shut them the hell up.”

“I could see the determination in her eyes.  She knew what she wanted and knew exactly how to get it.”

“She drove straight to my place.  I didn’t have to give her directions!  I was so busted.  When she stopped the International to let me out, I walked around the front to the driver’s door and asked her to get out.  When she stood up, I embraced her with both arms, and gave her a long, passionate kiss on the lips.  A long one, with tongue, so she knew I meant it.  One to remember me by.”

“When I released her, she stuck a book of matches in my pocket and said, ‘See you around , Jake.  Keep your nose clean.’  As she drove away, I turned around and went inside.  With the lights on, I saw she had written a phone number in the inside cover of the matchbook.”

“Monday morning I went and got my hair cut and got my goatee shaved off.  I kept the ‘stache though.  The guys kidded me at work, but fuck’em, I had managed to stay out of prison … so far.”

“I tried calling the number a few times in the next couple of weeks, but never got an answer.  A few months later, I picked up the paper and saw Cindy’s picture.  She had made headlines with arrests of the gun smuggling ring.  Big news.  It was going to be good for her career.  I was happy for her.  I was happy she didn’t bust me too.”

Jake needed another cigarette.  One of the guys listening said he remembered that bust.  Jake just grunted in agreement. “Yep,” he said, “It made the networks.”

“A few times during the interim, when I got home from work, I saw Raybans in an unmarked car, parked across the street.  I nodded to him each time, and he nodded back.  I knew I was being babysitted.  I’m sure word of my haircut and homebody ways got back to Cindy.”

“So anyway, a couple of weeks after the big arrest, I get this phone call early Saturday morning.  It was like 10 o’clock.  I answered the phone and a voice said, ‘Hey, Jake, it’s Cindy.  Can you meet me a Black’s Beach around noon?”

“I told her, yeah, I had nothin’ going today – which was true, ‘cause I had no money!”  Jake cracked up again.

“She said, ‘Look for the Cinzano umbrella.  Bring a towel, and remember it’s clothing optional.’”

“I got there on time and found her, deeply tanned and stark naked on her towel.  I said, ‘Hi there.  I saw you’re famous.’”

“Lie down, Jake, I want to tell you a couple of things.  I did what you suggested and we surveilled the Jacumba crossing.  After watching a couple a more runs, and locating the warehouse in El Centro, we moved in and got everybody.  I mean the entire operation.”

“That warehouse stunk like rotten vegetables and if it wasn’t for your tip, we would have never found it.  I owe you, Jake.  So let me say, your name only shows up in any government reports as a dead end lead.  You’re clear.”

“I was r-e-a-l happy to hear that.”

“Then she said, ‘But until all the prosecutions are finished and the cases wrapped, I can’t be seen with you.  The boss already wrote me a commendation and put me in for a big bonus.  I’m not going to blow it now.’”

“Blow what? I said, smiling”

“You’re still dreaming, Jake.  We don’t even have a tent – I knew she got my drift.”

“’Rub some cocoa butter on me, Jake. ‘  I was happy to oblige.  In fact, I gave her a full body massage.”

“We enjoyed that afternoon, making small talk, listening to the surf.  Talking about family, where we were from, what we thought the future held.  She was an up-and-comer.  I sort of thought she was saying good bye. Ya know, tie up loose ends.”

“About 4, the sea breeze began to pick up and Cindy slipped back on her bikini and sarong.  That sarong accentuated every womanly curve she had.  She packed up her towel and folded her umbrella, and gave me a nice kiss on the cheek.  I was prepared for the worst.”

“Then she reached in her beach bag, pulled out a room key, and handed it to me. ‘I got a suite at the Coronado.  I’m going to go take a bath now.  Go clean up.  Meet me at 7 and we’ll order room service.  Sound good?”

A couple of the ladies listening to Jake’s story sighed.  Another guy got the next round.  Then the crowd slowly dissipated.

About 20 minutes later an older woman, maybe in her 60’s, came walking toward us carrying a tote.  She looked good for her age.  I could see in the light of the tiki torches she had wavy brown hair, streaked with a little gray.   And had a great figure under that sarong.

Jake got up and approached her.  “How’s my little wahini?” he said.

She replied, ”I picked up a bottle of Patron and a couple of rock lobsters.  There’s a bonfire on the beach tonight.”

Jake motioned for her to put the tote down, took her in a tight embrace, kissing her hard on the lips as her arm hung at her side.  He then took one of her hands in his, and picked up the tote.  They turned and slowly left.

Jake stopped for a sec and looked over his shoulder at me.  “Thanks for the beers and smokes, Ernie.  You’re a good man.”  He gave me a big smile and winked before walking into the dark, hand-in-hand, with his little wahini.

The Running of the Bulls

It was a little after 1:00 PM when I strolled out on to my balcony.  I could see people beginning to line either side of the road below.  There was clearly a nervous energy pulsing though the mass of flesh.  And considerable anticipation.

In the distance I could hear .... no ... I could feel an ominous rumble.  It both terrified and excited me.  Some of the people below me were laughing.  Others began to sing a refrain of "Ole, ole-ole-ole."  It almost seemed festive.

In what seemed like an eternity, I eventually saw the charging Bulls.  I could hear their bellows and grunts and they surged down the street toward by viewpoint.  I saw foolhardy young men jump into the Bulls' path, baiting them with great elan.  Most of the boys were able to jump out of the way, and received hearty congratulations from their comrades.  But sadly, a few got caught up in the stampede, and were gored or trampled.

As the spectacle proceeded away from my location, the aura became eerily quiet.  The silence was punctuated only be a keening wail of a mother who had likely lost a son.  And a small child, clearly frightened by events which has just passed.

Tonight, at Harry's, I will toast to the lives of those who gave their last full measure of devotion.  Tomorrow we have time enough to mourn.  In the end, the Bulls ruled the day ... As they always have.

The crowd began to disperse.  I was reminded of my own youth in Pamplona. The stock market had hit 20,000, and Wall Street would never be the same.

Ah yes, Grundono. I knew him well. Just make sure you got your hubcaps back.

I'm sorry if none of this makes any sense.  We lost quite a few posts.

A tragedy.