Warriors in Paradise (3 page)

After lunch, I left the house and walked to the gym. The light drizzle didn’t bother me. After lifting weights in the gym for two hours, I walked back home in the same light rain, took another long shower, and dressed in a loose, light-blue short-sleeve shirt, white pants, and white canvas shoes without socks. I felt good and irresistible.

Now I was ready to hit the town. My first stop was going to be Acaquila, a popular nightclub among young adults, boasting the best tequila not only in Acapulco but also in the whole wide world. All their tequilas were 100 percent agave.

Night promises

A warm rain slanted down on the Costera. Water was coming down from the hills with mud and trash. The avenue looked like a shallow river.

The steady stream of honking cars, Volkswagen beetle taxis, and artistically decorated decrepit buses made their halting way toward Avenida Escénica. Traffic was bumper to bumper. Taxis and buses would bully their way through, stopping in the middle and far left lanes to pick up and drop off passengers. They ignored the angry horns of the motorists.

It was 8:00 p.m. when I hit one of Acapulco’s unexplained deadlocks.

Venus’s “Beautiful Days,” Manu Chao’s “Me Gustas Tu,” Katey Sagal’s “Son of a Preacher Man,” Franky Perez’s “The Times They Are A-Changin’,” Silvio Rodriguez’s “Ojalá,” and Pet Shop Boys’ “Love etc.” sang with me diligently and patiently until the deadlock cleared.

I finally got to the nightclub an hour later, after what should have been no more than a twenty-minute drive. I parked my car a block away from the nightclub. I don’t like the parking lot attendants to drive my white Honda CR-V. I keep it immaculate and clean. It is the 2005 Box model, but it looks new. My mother passed it down to me after she got her black Honda Accord, a car more suited for a lawyer, she said. A girlfriend once told me that my car was a phallic symbol for me, meaning that I treated it as an extension of my penis. I answered that if she believed that, then she could rest assured I would treat her very well in bed. Of course, we didn’t have a chance to prove my theory.

Who knows? Perhaps tonight I would get lucky.

Acaquila and good tequila

It was 9:00 p.m. when I went in. Acaquila was already full, with a few empty seats at the bar and some very nice-looking locals and tourists. I sat on one of the stools and ordered a Bohemia (the best Mexican beer) and a Herradura Reposado (according to me, the best tequila). If you drink good tequila, you don’t wake up with a headache.

The music drifted softly to my ears, “Endless Love” by Diana Ross and Lionel Richie. I was looking to my right, at this attractive Mexican brunette with the largest soft brown eyes this side of paradise, when two very large gringos, one white and the other one black, sat down next to me, blocking my view. How ridiculous could I have been? I should have sat closer to her, but when I had arrived, the girls to my left both offered a very good rear view. I shouldn’t complain; they were two guys chatting up one girl, whereas I had double the trouble all to myself.

“Where are you from?” I asked the girl closest to me. She was an attractive twenty- or twenty-one-year-old blond tourist with large baby-blue eyes and a smiling face. She had been talking to an attractive Eurasian girl of about the same age with a small mouth and sexy, thick lips.

“We are from Toronto.”

“So, how do you like Mexico?”

“All we have seen so far is Acapulco. We flew in directly from Toronto. And, by the way,” her baby-blue eyes sparkled with mischief, “even though you look like a nice person, we would like to keep to ourselves, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course I mind. You are both very attractive. But I understand,” I said smiling at her. “Sorry for the intrusion.” So much for that fantasy!

I ordered my second Herradura Reposado. As the bartender was bringing it to me, I heard the Mexican brunette raising her voice at the two large American guys next to me, saying in a grouchy voice, “Where do you think you are? Why do you talk to me like that?”

“What’s wrong with you?” asked the white gringo, somewhat irritated. “We were trying to strike up a friendly chat. No need to become offended!”

A damsel in distress

I couldn’t help myself, so I told them, “Look, guys, the lady has already made it clear she doesn’t want anything to do with you. Why don’t you let her be and find another place as far away from her as possible? After all, she was here first.”

“Who the hell are you to tell us what to do?” the tall white American asked me in an aggressive tone.

“I am nobody, just a concerned gentleman who doesn’t like vulgar foreigners disrespecting a lady,” I responded.

“We will move when we decide we should move, not when you tell us to, little man.”

“Well, this little man is inviting you to step outside to see how little he really is.” I was already angry, and my testosterone was doing its macho work by making me feel invincible.

“By all means,” said the tall white gringo. “Let us show you how little you are, you little shit.”

I put two two-hundred-peso bills on the bar counter and walked out the front door. Both Americans followed close behind me. It was still raining, but a little harder now. I turned and told them, “We should walk over to the side street. Too many people here.”

“Let’s do that, little man.”

I knew he was trying to get into my head, and I didn’t care. He would soon find out what little tricks I had up my proverbial sleeve.

We walked to the side street and all the way to the end, where there were no people. We were already soaked.

I fought the white gringo while his black friend stood on the sidelines. He outmeasured me by at least three inches and was built like a rugby player. I had to take him down as soon as I could grab an arm or a leg. He had a longer reach than I did, but I knew that in close quarters, that would work against him.

***

Street fighting is simply that: fighting according to the rules of the street, which is no rules at all. You don’t know whom you’re fighting against, so your only purpose is to try to end the match as soon as possible without any injuries to yourself. No matter how good you are, you never fight fair in a street fight. A street fight, without referees and judges, calls for a different mindset than competitive fighting. In a real fight, anything goes. You fight to survive, and the key to survival is to fight dirty. The most common weapons of street fighting are the sucker punch and the kick in the groin.

Very early on in school, I learned the hard way that “he who strikes first wins.” Later on, I learned in the violent streets of Mexico City that a kick in the balls was the second-most effective weapon in real fighting. A good kick or knee to the groin usually disables your opponent long enough for you to finish him off.

After landing a good blow (head, fist, elbow, kick, or knee), you don’t just stand there. You keep striking until your rival is no longer a threat. If your adversary goes down or he is groggy on his feet, you finish him while he is still vulnerable.

On the street, you don’t fight nice. You fight as if your life depends on it, because it actually does. You’re fighting to save your skin and live another day.

***

The gringo reminded me of Mick Jagger’s song “Old Habits Die Hard”: “You see I bounce back quicker than most.” I gave him all that I had, and he gave me back as good as he took.

We went at it for what seemed a long time. I brought him down twice, but he was able to slide out of my holds and stand up quickly. We were tired. My arms felt like molten lead, heavy and slow.

The black fellow watched and shouted encouragement. Grudgingly, I had to admit to myself that I actually admired these guys.

After I elbowed him hard, I stood back and asked, “Have you had enough?”

What a gringo! He actually laughed and said, “Is that a Mexican standoff? Talking yourself out of losing fight? OK, I am bored of kicking your sorry ass. Why don’t you take on Caleb now?”

Caleb was about my height, perhaps an inch taller. He also looked athletic and strong, like a track-and-field athlete. He had a deep, rumbling voice and a quiet demeanor. He looked reliable as a friend and dangerous as an enemy.

I said, “I admit that I am a little weary and there’s no clear winner, so, Caleb, why don’t you meet me here tomorrow at the same time to do the honors?”

Caleb looked at me, smiling, and said, “It’s a date. We’ll be here, but I doubt you will.”

I smiled and answered, “Well, we’ll see tomorrow who comes and who doesn’t.”

We left it at that and went our separate ways.

Friends in Paradise

Friendship does not conform to nationalities, religions, or races. Friendship is chemistry, a feeling, a willingness to share, give, and receive. It is loyalty, attitude, laughter, sharing tears. In a single word, it is FRIENDSHIP with capital letters. You don’t choose your family, you’re born into it. Friends, you select. Friends are your extended family.

That was the way I felt after fighting Charlie and challenging Caleb. I had a feeling of satisfaction, enjoyment, and fulfillment. I would probably be at Acaquila the next night right on time despite the bad weather, and I was hoping they would be there too.

I closed my eyes and breathed slowly and calmly. No hurry. I was enjoying the memory. The banter, the blows—everything seemed natural, predestined. A series of actions already prescribed. Charlie and Caleb were different—different nationalities and different races, yet the same. The three of us had the same look, the same bravado, the same confidence—or the same idiocy, depending on how you looked at it. I felt as if I had found two kindred spirits. I would be there tomorrow and either beat them to hell and back or become friends. I would enjoy either outcome.

I walked to my car and drove home. I opened the garage doors, parked the car, and turned off the ignition. I was closing the large black metal doors when Sandra came out, looked at me, and screamed, “What in the world happened to you? What’s wrong with your face? Did you get into another fight?”

“Madrina, nothing happened to my face. I just had a little misunderstanding with some gringos, so I had to discipline them.”

“Well, Santi, it seems the gringos disciplined you back, and hard!”

I guess not only Storm Manuel and Hurricane Ingrid would be colliding; Charlie and I also did some colliding of our own.

Chapter 2: A Rainy Rematch

Morning

I
woke up sore and disoriented. The right side of my face was swollen from Charlie’s kicks and blows. My arms were full of black-and-blue marks all the way up to my shoulders. That damned gringo sure packs some punch! I thought.

I put on my shorts, a T-shirt, and running shoes and went out for a jog. To start, I stretched for a couple of minutes and then started walking, gradually picking up the pace until I was jogging. It was still raining. It had been raining for two days almost nonstop.

At the start of my jog, for the first couple of minutes, I was stiff, slow, and uncoordinated. But little by little, I started finding my rhythm and running faster. After ten minutes, I was sweating freely and jogging smoothly. After half an hour, I was back at home, all sweaty and wet but feeling a lot better.

I felt good enough to do ninety push-ups, sixty squats, and ninety sit-ups in three sets, resting between sets until my heart rate went below eighty. Then I swam for twenty minutes in the sea, still under the persistent rain, letting the salt water work its magic on my sore body. I knew that swimming in this storm was not smart, but then again, nobody could accuse me of being clever. There was a pounding surf and there were riptides, but nothing I couldn’t deal with. I could hear some faraway thunder. A thunderstorm was coming in, but it was still several miles away in the open sea.

Santi’s flashback

While I was swimming, I remembered an incident about a year ago. I had invited a friend to spend Easter with us in Acapulco. He arrived with his girlfriend; his older brother, who had recently divorced; and the brother’s fourteen-year-old daughter. One morning, as I was going down for a swim, he told me that they wanted to come. I told him that swimming in the open sea, in Boca Chica, was not a good idea because there were strong currents in the spring, and you had to be a very good and strong swimmer. He insisted. He told me they’d been swimming regularly since they were children. I asked him if they were sure. He said, “Yes one hundred percent.” Intuition must have guided me, because I grabbed a pair of flippers just before we all walked down to the sea.

Our house hugs the steep cliffs on the southwest point of the city, close to where the famous cliff divers once made a name for Acapulco and far removed from the tranquil beaches along La Costera.

We all jumped into the sea off the jetty. After no more than three to five minutes, my friend’s girlfriend said that the current was too strong for her to swim back to the jetty. I swam to her and asked her to grab me around the neck and allow me to tow her back. She was calm, and she did as she was told. Afterward, when both of us were standing on the dock, my friend started screaming hysterically that the current was taking his niece into the open sea. I put on a T-shirt and the flippers and dove back in.