"Well, what do you think it is?" I ask taking another toke of the thick, but poorly rolled joint.
"I can't remember."
"I'm telling you; it's his dick."
"No, it's not. It's like an arrow or something. I read about it when I was a kid, but I'm fucked if I can remember what the hell it's supposed to be."
"Look." I move over to the left side of my recliner so Al can follow my finger more easily and point out the pattern of stars. "There's his bow, and his arms; down there are his legs, and that's his belt. So, what's that hanging down there? That, my friend, is a penis."
"I think you need some serious help for your Freudian obsessions." He grabs the joint, takes a long puff, and then examines it carefully. "Especially considering the way you rolled this thing."
"Like you can do any better."
I lay back on the recliner to enjoy the effects of the pot as it slows down time and amplifies the constant drumming of the waves. We had spent most of the evening drinking at a bar down the road. When we got back, we brought the plastic recliners from house down here to a small concrete patio on the beach to enjoy the sound of the surf. We also brought a cooler of beers, a pack of cigarettes, and a decent amount of marijuana.
Our friend Dennis is letting us use his beach house for the weekend. We've been planning this vacation for months. Our El Salvador reunion. Now that I'm married and living in Canada again, and Al has moved down to South America with a serious US State Department job, our lives are much calmer and more sober than they used to be. Most of our expatriate friends have moved on and are living in other countries now, but we decided that this was still the place for an extended weekend.
Al had been in the region for most of the week travelling up through Guatemala City and Antigua by bus before returning to El Salvador. Last night, Wednesday, we spent in the capital, drinking at our old Ex-Pat club. The same bartender was still there, but he seemed much older and more fragile than before; it was a strain for him to read the receipts from the till.
Being Semana Santa, the week when most people go away on vacation, the bar was pretty dead except for the new regulars who didn't seem eager to talk to us. We reminisced about old times and played a few games of darts and snooker. Around one in the morning, we stumbled out of the place and staggered down the street looking for a cab.
"Guess the whores are probably home with their families too," said Al.
"It is Easter," I replied.
"There's got to be someplace open. Let's see if we can find some trouble."
I can't say that the thought didn't appeal to me. I was tempted by the thought of drinking with scantily clad young women, any of whom could be mine for half an hour. When I was single, I was notorious for my sexual encounters; I was voracious, sometimes dating two or three women at the same time. I'm not saying I was particularly moral or decent; nor, am I saying that I'm particularly good looking. But I've always known what women like to hear and when they want to be listened to. And, I've never really had any qualms about lying.
Those were the qualities of a previous life, however. A couple of years ago I fell in love. I promised myself that I would be loyal. I wouldn't lie and I wouldn't cheat. And I didn't want to put that promise to the test. Simple as that.
We arrived at the beach late this afternoon, just in time to watch the sun setting over the ocean.
The house itself is decent, but not a mansion like so many of the other places along the coast. The beaches of El Salvador are peppered with concrete and stone houses designed for show that are, in fact, hardly ever used by the people that own them.
Dennis bought this house back in the early nineties just as the civil war was dying down. He got it for a steal and kept it immaculate for a decade. But personal problems forced him to leave the country last July. He tried to rent the place out but there were no takers and his friends who said that they would look after it for him became bored of the job by Christmas. No one has been here in months. At least that's what Carlos, the caretaker, told us when he handed the keys to us.
"Seems more like years," said Al.
The pool is in disrepair and the kitchen needs new plaster. The concrete barbecue pit is eroded from the weather and fallen off to one side. We had to spray the beds with insecticide as a precaution against lice. The air conditioning was only working in the master bedroom so we moved a cot in there. I claimed the real bed, but we both know it will go to whoever decides to go to sleep first.
"At least the cooler's working," I joked after our initial inspection. I pulled out two cold bottles, opened them, and gave one to Al. We sat at the side of the pool dangling our feet in the warm water and feeling the salt wind on our shirtless bodies.
Later we went down the road to a dinner of fresh fish and pasta followed by more than a few drinks at one of the local bars.
So here we are, the steady drone the waves hissing like static on a television set; the wind pressing against our faces; the white froth of the surf gleaming in the light of the full moon; the waves themselves a dark seething mass in the night. On the horizon are the blinking lights of shrimp boats, clinging to the edge of the world.
I lay back, drinking it in, a beer bottle in my hand, my hair still wet from the ocean.
"How are you feeling," asks Al. "Recovered?"
"I guess. A couple of more tokes and another beer would help."
I pull a Pilsener from the cooler. The beers are really cold now. My teeth hurt a little as I guzzle about half the contents. So, was it a near death experience? I see stuff like that all the time on television; I was damn well nearly a case study for the Darwin awards, presented every year to the individual or individuals who help enhance the gene pool by removing themselves from it in really stupid ways.
After returning from the bar, we somehow decided that playing in the surf while intoxicated beyond belief would be an enriching and spiritually rewarding experience. "We'll just go in up to our waste," I said. Smart. The Salvadoran surf is difficult in the best of conditions. The first wave picked me up and plopped me down hard on the sand, I didn't know if my head was in the direction of the house or the direction of Hawaii. I hadn't even realized that Al had gone back to the house for more beers. I stood up and ran back into the water, diving head on into a breaker which spun me around for a second time. When I recovered from the tumble and my head broke above the surface of the water, I discovered that I couldn't touch bottom. Then another wave broke over my head, and a third before I could come up for air. I can't remember if there were two or three more waves after that, but they came in such a rush that I thought that that was it. I was gone out to sea, and in the darkness there was no way I would find the shore again. The sun would come up tomorrow and the coast would be nowhere to be seen.
Then I found myself splayed out once again on the hard, wet sand of the beach. I felt around to figure out which way the slope was inclined, and crawled up a few metres to get myself farther away from the water. I just lay there catching my breath, until I saw a pair of men's shoes standing beside me; they belonged to a tall man his face high above me, lost in the darkness. My vision was blurred from the salt water. When it cleared, all I saw was a dog running down the beach.
This image comes back to me as we are laying here on our recliners, looking at the man coming up the beach toward us. It seems as if he has just emerged from the ocean itself. At first, we didn't notice him, the darkness of his silhouette only slightly more opaque than that of the teeming background of the water. In fact, Al and I watched him for a long time before we even realised that it was a human figure.
Living in Central America can be dangerous. A man can get himself killed just by being drunk and sitting out on the beach. It's happened before. Both Al and I have known people who have paid for drunkenness with their lives, at the hands of "ladrones" looking for twenty dollars. Life is cheap here. Twenty dollars cheap to be sure. And somebody who knows they are not going to get caught doesn't place a high value on the lives of others.
The shadow grows before us as it approaches.
"Do we run?" I ask.
"Where?"
"I don't know, the car?"
"Is he alone?"
"I think so."
I scan the beach, while keeping one eye on the man before us, to see if I can find anyone else. Only the lights from the houses farther down the coast, and disembodied music drifting on the wind hint at any signs of life. He moves silently; any sound he could be making is drowned out by the surf and the wind. The effect is as if we're watching a shadow floating over the ground, only the powder wisps of moonlit sand prove that his feet are actually touching the earth. As he comes closer, we notice that he has a cane in his hand, swinging it in front of his legs as he walks.
"Permiso," he says in a voice that seems remarkably young and boyish for his hulking figure. "?Tienes un cigarro?"
"Si, nosotros tengo," replies Al in his poorly conjugated Spanish. He stands up to greet the stranger.
Despite the tense nature of the situation, I have to laugh. Seven years in Latin America and Al still hasn't learned to conjugate basic Spanish. He isn't self-conscious about it though. It just isn't in his personality. Here he is, welcoming this stranger as if he were an old friend, pulling a cigarette from my pack and lighting it with my Zippo.
Salvadorans, those that have obvious indigenous blood anyway, tend to be people of smaller stature only slightly larger than the average Guatemalan. This man was easily six foot five.
He taps his cane against the concrete block of the patio. It's only at this point that I can see his eyes. The left has a black patch over it. The other just stares straight ahead. It appears to glow. I tell myself that this is simply an eerie effect of the moonlight.
"Can I have a seat?" he asks already making a motion to do so. He slaps his leg twice to call over a dog that has been playing in the surf.
"Sure." I look at Al and give a shrug. What can I say? The man is already sitting down, and besides he has been walking along the beach at midnight, blind. Al takes another look to see if this guy is the first volley in some kind of two-pronged attack. Satisfied that there is nobody else out there, he returns to his recliner. For the first time we notice that the stranger's clothes are damp and smell of the sea. Patches of dark, wet sand cling to the fabric like mould. How old is he anyway? Men here tend to look much younger than they are while women age quickly, the effects of a lifetime of hard physical labour under a hot, unforgiving sun.
"So, where are you guys from?" he asks in his boyish voice.
"I'm from Canada," starts Al, preparing to embark on his favourite 'Canada should be the fifty first state' story just to tick me off.
"What brings you out so late?" I interject.
"I like walking on the beach." He takes the joint, inhales and savours the sweet grassy taste. I decline when he holds it out to me. I'm already stoned enough and, although I have this Canadian paranoia about being polite I just can't bring myself to suck on the same paper as this man. Instead I pull three more beers from the cooler and offer him one. He takes it and drinks greedily.
"My father was a fisherman," he says. "All my life I have loved it, walking on the beach at night. Now I come out and walk along with Ronaldo, here."
He takes another drink from the beer and wipes the moisture from his lips with his hand. Grinning, he slaps the concrete and turns toward me. I can see his glass eye glowing yellowish green, reflecting the light from the dim bulb hanging over the patio. The eye doesn't move but I get the distinct impression that it is looking at me, through me.
"I could only afford one," he jokes noticing my stare. "Until I can buy another eye, the patch will have to do.
"A lot of people around here still blame gringos for what happened to us during the war and with the gangs." He motions toward his eyes with the beer bottle. "The gangs did this to me. Put gasoline on my house and burnt it to the ground while I was still inside. These kids who came down from the US, from Los Angeles."
What could we say? I'm always at a loss for words when people bring up stories like this. 'How are things going today, Bill?' 'Got fired from my job after being diagnosed with cancer this morning and, oh by the way, my dog died.' 'Sorry to hear that, Bill, take care of yourself now, eh?'
Instead I just light up a cigarette and take a swig of beer waiting for him to go on.
"That sounds pretty awful," says Al. He leans forward to demonstrate his interest in the man's story. It is a simple gesture and ultimately ineffective of course, but genuine. "Why were they after you?"
"I kidnapped their girlfriend. She was my girlfriend first though. She was fourteen and they took her into their gang, gave her a tattoo, and dragged her up to the city every Friday and Saturday to work as a bitch on the street. She was fourteen and she was earning money so they could buy their drugs. I went up to the city one weekend and brought her back. I hid her in my mother's house.
"About a week later, they figured out where she was staying and came at night to our home. They shot me in both my legs so I couldn't do anything, and then poured gasoline all around the house. They raped both her and my mother.
"Then when they were finished, they burned the house down. The fuckers. Both my girlfriend and my mother died in the fire. Now I stay with friends, but it is not my home."
We give the guy another beer. Al rolls him a joint and puts it in his pocket.
"For later, guy."
"Thanks. My name is Guillermo." He reaches out and shakes our hands, then sits back down on the concrete. He turns to face the ocean as if he is looking at the lights of the boats on the water. "I love the sea at night. It is so pretty." He drinks the rest of his beer in one long gulp, stands up, and walks away. "Thanks hombres," he yells back.
I turn to Al. He's holding something, a thin chain, up to the light.
"What's that?"
"I don't know. He left it behind. Maybe it fell out of his pocket."
I turn back to see if Guillermo is still in shouting distance, but he has already disappeared into the night.
All in all it's been a quiet day, the morning and afternoon spent with house repairs. Carlos helped us re-plaster the kitchen and went down the road to get a fresh tank of gas for the stove. Al and I went through the bedrooms cleaning dust and looking for unwanted rodent droppings. We used some rocks and wire to fix the barbecue pit. As we were applying a fresh paint of coat to the picnic tables, Carlos shimmied up the palm trees to cut down some coconuts with his machete. "He's like a spider," mused Al. Later Carlos showed us how to trim the fresh green shells; he skinned an end of each nut so that one only had to pierce the soft inner membrane to gain access to the nectar within. I love fresh coconuts, the juicy flesh and the sugary water is rich and glides down your throat, especially when you drop in a couple of shots of rum before drinking it.
When we finished the chores, Al and I took some special coconuts up to the roof of the house where we could see over the wall out onto the dirt road. Families have been out there all day with flowers, coloured rocks, and dyed dirt. Making murals on the hardened sand for Easter.
The drawing in front of us appears to be Jesus giving food to a group of children. His skin is made from the sand on the road and his hair and beard are done with darker sand from the beach. From this distance, the artwork appears sophisticated and detailed. It's hard to believe that it is made with rocks and flowers rather than paint and canvas.
There are other murals laid out, up and down the road, all depicting an individual family's interpretation of the crucifixion and the nature of Christ.
"It's pretty incredible that the world's largest religion is composed of a bunch of ghost worshippers," says Al.
"I mean, it was Christ sacrificing himself on the cross that defined the modus operandi for how Christians are supposed to act, right? Letting the world flay you, turn the other cheek, and all. And those people who actually try to get ahead in life? Well, let them. Unless, of course, you're Charleton Heston. Then you just need a couple of former lepers in the family and an NRA membership and you can keep your big house and everything will turn out okay in the end."
"I've never seen past the chariot race."
"Forget about it man, it's not worth wasting three hours of your life on, no matter what people say-kind of like Gone With the Wind."
"I liked Gone With the Wind." I hold my coconut out at arms length before me. "I will never go sober again."
I seem to have caught the attention of two young Mary's standing on the road beside the mural. They are dressed in blue, their heads draped in towels. I smile and wave. They wave back, giggling with their hands over their mouths. 'Crazy gringos' they must be thinking.
"Guess the rum is taking hold," I say much more softly.
"Here, take a toke of this," whispers Al holding out a cigar coloured joint.
"Jesus, man, these people are starting their Good Friday procession thing. I'm not going to get high in front of them."
"No problem, these J's are special. They taste like chocolate and don't have any smell at all."
"That's okay; I'll stick to my cigs for now."
"Suit yourself." Al takes my Zippo and lights up the joint for himself.
"So what's your point, about the ghost worshippers?" I ask.
Al pauses a few moments, either trying to remember what he was going to say or simply holding the smoke in waiting for the effects to hit him.
"Well, the crucifixion is all fine and dandy, but the thing that makes the religion is that He rises on the third day. What is it? He appears to Mary Magdalene and some Apostles, and based on their testimony, and only then, does he really become the Son of God. Sure, there've been some apparitions and such since then. Like poor Juan Diego up in Mexico seeing the Virgin Mary. But what happens if the average person today says that they have seen Christ or the Virgin appear before them? They're shipped off to the asylum.
"So there you go; a religion of ghost worshippers."
The evening's Good Friday procession begins to march up the street. There is a man carrying a cross that is light enough that he can lift the entire thing off the ground without too much effort. About thirty others carry candles or pictures of Christ with them as they walk solemnly down the road. The two girls dressed as Mary join the procession as it passes by; one of them looks up and smiles at us before putting on her sombre face for the group's mini-pilgrimage. Certainly not as complex or showy as I've seen elsewhere, but the serenity and honesty of it is touching, making Al's humour and pseudo-philosophizing all the more blasphemous in the presence of such devotion.
It's amazing how the laws of time seem to change when you are at the beach. I can't even begin to fathom where the hours have gone since I woke up this morning. I remember going for a swim when the ocean was at low tide and the current wasn't strong. I remember breakfast and lunch and sitting around the pool drinking Cuba Libres, reading old copies of the New Yorker and Sports Illustrated. But for the life of me, I can't seem to recall enough activity to fill the hours of an entire day. How does Jack Bauer find the time to save a President? Or Mrs. Dalloway plan an entire party? Definitely fiction. That kind of time just can't possibly exist.
It's about eight o'clock and Al and I are driving back from dinner. The restaurant where we ate was on the waterfront overlooking the ocean to the right and with a view of the pueblo to the left. People were playing in the surf-women swimming with their blouses on and kids kicking soccer balls on the sand. This is the beach for the locals; the wealthier members of Salvadoran society would never be caught setting an unshod foot on that sand let alone in the water, unless they were surfers. Surfers live a lifestyle that transcends economic barriers.
Tonight, we're searching for a specific bar that is tucked in with all the other restaurants on this stretch of road. Al's fondest memory of the place is this guy who sold him some of the best weed he had every smoked; mine is of the incredibly hot girls. We both remember cold, cheap beer.
"There it is," I say.
A young parking attendant who might be all of eleven years old directs us into the parking lot, running up to the car to open the doors and lead us into the building. In its day, the bar must have been grand, like many of the other places along this stretch of beach. Three stories tall, built right on the water. Unfortunately over the years the shore eroded leaving the basement level unusable. Tonight the waves lap up over the sides of the building and splash onto the lower balcony. Even in the dark one can see that the concrete walls are chipped from the elements, and in need of a good paint job.
Inside, the restaurant on the second floor is packed with both locals and people from the city. We appear to be the only foreigners, however. Mariachis and Trios are wandering amongst the clientele trying to drum up some business for a few songs, before the party music begins upstairs.
We walk up to the third story, a traditional bar with tables scattered around a dance floor and a small stage to one side. It's still early. There are only a couple of groups of people here. One is composed of young, rich, teenage guys, making their way through a few "jarras" of beer. The other consists of several unkempt men, obviously local guys; empty bottles of Regia, Salvador's discount beer, are scattered around their table. A drum set, keyboard, and a couple of guitars have been set up for the night's performance but the band is no where to be seen.
Al and I sit at the bar which is built a little too high for comfortable seating. "What the hell," I say. "We're North Americans. We sit at the bar."
Al orders a couple of beers, but I stop him.
"Too much beer today. I want something else."
"You want a soft drink, soda boy? The hard stuff too much for you?" He turns to the guy waiting behind the bar. "Una cerveza para mi, y una gaseosa para soda boy!"
"No, I didn't say that either. Una agua por favor."
"Water? Man you really are out of practice."
"Y una Cuba Libre," I say to the bartender rising to the challenge like some teenager at a Friday night party. "Just tired of the beer."
"Water sounds good though. Dos, por favor. Gotta re-hydrate the system you know."
I laugh at Al going into party mode, then, realising the consequences of Al's 'party mode', brace myself for a long night.
We sit, enjoying the evening, the last of our vacation. We order a second round of drinks, and then a third before the band finally starts. I am really feeling the buzz and hardly noticed when they walked in. Surprisingly enough, they are a rock band, opening the set with Hotel California. No matter where you go in the world, no matter what language the people speak, everyone knows the chorus to Hotel California. The guitarist is great, easily moving through the classic closing riffs of the song and ending to much applause. The bar, nearly empty an hour ago, is buzzing. Every table is full and people are sitting on stools or leaning against the railing built into the patio that looks out over the ocean.
The band plays through songs by Santana, the Beatles, Soda Stereo, and Juanes as more people pile into the bar.
"I don't know," says Al, "what do you think of the structural integrity of this place? All this dancing and shaking is making me a little nervous...and kind of horny too." He is watching a group of young girls who have just moved out onto the dance floor.
"Have another drink, fraidy-man," I say imitating him. "Nobody else seems to think it's a problem."
The band moves into a set of Latin Rhythm dance tunes. I catch Al still eyeing the girls on the other side of the dance floor. They're obviously locals out for a Saturday night. Looking sexy, and sending glances in our direction.
"I'm going for a dance," he says. "You want to join me?"
"I'm married," I reply holding up my ring finger.
"Come on, the ladies love the married men."
"I think I'll stay here. Keep our places saved."
"Suit yourself, married man." Al makes his way across the dance floor.
Hoping their boyfriends don't walk in, I turn back to the bar to grab my new drink. Sitting on the other side of me is a young girl. Pretty, with perfect olive skin. So tiny that her legs barely reach the rungs of the stool. She's wearing faded jeans and a red halter top that hugs her tiny breasts and reveals a generous portion of smooth flesh. The most remarkable thing about her is her light, pearl-like eyes. She looks at me as if we're already close friends.
"Hola," I say, awkwardly.
"Me gusta tu sonrisa," she replies.
I'm kind of shocked and flattered by this woman who has the appearance of a teenager but whose expression reveals worldliness and experience. I feel a tenderness mixed with sadness within her that it draws me closer. 'You're not doing anything wrong,' I tell myself, 'just having a conversation at a bar.'
"Would you like a drink?" I ask.
"I'd love a Pina Colada," she replies.
I order the drink and offer her a cigarette. She pulls one from the pack with fingers so tiny it is hard to believe they belong to an adult. She's wearing a ring that bears a design of a scorpion. As I hold my Zippo up to light her smoke, I notice that she wears a pendant around her neck-made of stone-which bears the same scorpion design.
"I like your thing," I say, searching for the Spanish word for pendant.
"My ex-boyfriend gave it to me. I'm a 'Scorpio'. Do you believe in astrology?"
"I don't really follow it, but it interests me."
I lie. I have absolutely no interest in astrology, haven't even read a daily horoscope for as long as I can remember. I light my own cigarette.
"I'm a Taurus," I say as the drinks come.
"Ohh, Taurus." But she doesn't elaborate if this is good or bad. Instead she sits back and sips her drink, holding the straw between two fingers as she surveys the room.
"Your friend is having a good time."
I look back, and there is Al, jumping up and down to "Light My Fire", waving his arms around madly, doing the white man's dance. He's holding one of his chocolate flavoured, odourless joints, right there in the middle of the dance floor. He passes it to the lady he is with. She kisses him on the cheek, barely interrupting his pseudo-rhythmic hopping. He looks as if he is having as spasm amid the Salvadorans who are spinning each other around, dancing with their hips and feet in the skilled manner that Latinos grow up with. Like mastering the accent of a language, learning the nuances of the dances is one of those subtleties that I have never been able to pick up; it remains elusive to the blood running through my overly white, Canadian veins.
"Don't worry," says the girl, "I don't want to dance with you."
"Oh," I reply, relieved.
"I'm happy just to talk." She puts her hand on my knee, laughing as she does so. It is only a moment, but the sensation lasts much longer, running up to the pit of my stomach and back down to my scrotum. As intense as if I were still nineteen.
"You're cute," she says.
"I don't even know your name."
"It's Diana." She extends her hand for me to shake as if we were just meeting. When I take it she leans over and kisses me on the cheek. "So why are you here?" she asks.
"I'm on vacation."
"Where are you staying?"
"Oh, just up the road. We're here for the weekend."
"Be careful," she says holding the scorpion around her neck, "even though it is Semana Santa, El Diablo is out this weekend."
"Really, how do you know that?" Superstitions in this area are as common as chickens, so I've learned to take them in stride.
"He comes out when the moon is in this stage. A couple of nights a month, he walks along the beach looking for lost souls."
"Have you seen him?"
"No, but my mother has. She told me about him when I was young."
"Did he have horns?" I know that I'm heading into dangerous territory just entertaining this story, but she is far too lovely and sweet. I want to take her back to the house and convince her to swim naked in the pool.
"No, my mother said that he just looked like an ordinary man, and he talked to her. But she could tell that he was trying to take her away, into the ocean where she'd drown and he could capture her soul."
"Then how did she know he was the devil?"
"It was his eyes. They were gone. El Diablo has cat's eyes, so when he talks to people he has to hide them. But he can still see you."
"Is your mother as beautiful as you?" I ask trying to change the subject, but she starts crying, tears welling up in the souls of her eyes.
I grab a serviette from the bar and give it to her to wipe her tears. Then, standing up, I go to her side and put my arm around her. "It's okay, it really is."
Suddenly she is a child. I feel old, mature, wondering how I could ever have thought about taking advantage of this girl. I think of my wife in Canada, and about how we've talked about having children. In my mind, I see myself years in the future comforting a daughter. My sexual feelings are gone, replaced by something fatherly and benign.
"I'm sorry," she sobs, "I'm sorry. I really shouldn't be here. I didn't tell my mother where I was going."
"Hey," shouts Al, just as the band ends a song. "Tranquilo man."
I turn to look. A young man pushes Al. It's one of the Salvadoran teenagers that were here when we walked in. Al is doing the smart thing, holding up his hands defensively and apologizing. But the drunken guy obviously has a pistol under his loosely tucked shirt. Although, it is fairly common for people to carry pistols concealed in their clothes or in discrete bags, it doesn't make me feel any better. I walk over and step between them. Luckily, these are kids from the city, as much foreigners here as we are.
"Calm down, guys, what's the problem?"
"He's a gringo."
"No he's not; he's Canadian, like me. We're not looking for trouble."
"He wants a fight, I got a fight…"
At this point the drunken guy's friend decides to step in.
"Hey sorry," he says in heavily accented English, "He's just drunk man; you know how it is. Let me get you guys a drink."
"No," I say, relieved that the incident ends here, "let me buy you one." I go to the bar and order four beers and a glass of water for the drunk guy. My young lady friend is not there. 'She's gone to the bathroom,' assures the bartender, 'she'll be right back.' He gives me a wink and the thumbs up sign.
Al and I sit back down at the bar and order a couple more drinks, but Diana has not yet returned. I'm beginning to get the distinct impression that she's gone for good. The band blows through Satisfaction, Money, and a couple of other classic rock tunes before the guys at the table send us another order of drinks. I sigh, hoping this mutual generosity club won't go on all night. Relief comes shortly when I see them paying for the bill. They say good night to us and apologize once again as they walk out, but their friend stays behind, shaking our hands. First mine, then Al's, then mine again, telling us how happy he is to have us here in his country, his voice still retains a touch of drunken anger and resentment. One of his friends comes back to collect him.
"So," says Al, so drunk that he's slurring his words, "I thought I saw you with a little lady friend earlier. I was hoping you were going to get lucky. Where is she?"
"Oye," I say to the bartender, "Donde se fue la chica?"
"Que chica?"
"La que estaba hablando conmigo antes."
"No le vi a usted con una chica."
Great, I think finishing my beer. What does he mean he never even saw me talking to a girl? I could have sworn that he told me earlier that she'd be right back?
"Come on Al, let's call it a night."
We leave as the band begins playing American Pie. The entire bar is singing the chorus as we pull out of the parking lot and onto the highway.
It's getting to mid-day. Al and I are sitting in the truck sucking down huge bottles of Gatorade to fight off our hangovers. Empty paper wrappers that used to hold aspirin are lying in the ashtray instead of cigarettes. The sun is pouring down outside, but we have the windows closed; the air conditioning flows through the cabin at full capacity.
The way I feel right now, I'm glad that the weekend is over. I'm getting too old for this kind of lifestyle. In my heart, I know it will be a long time before I come back this way again.
We woke up less than an hour ago, packed our gear, and helped Carlos close down the house. Paying him for his inconvenience, we headed out the gates and down to the end of the road. We stopped here at a tienda to pick up the Gatorades and aspirins and to say good-bye to the ocean.
"A sword," says Al.
"What?"
"A sword. Those three stars that hang down between Orion's legs are his sword. Not his penis. I can't believe it took me so long to remember that. It's been bugging the hell out of me all weekend."
"A sword? Well, it's still a phallic symbol."
Al manages a grin through his hangover. I turn to look at the surf breaking over the beach. A lone figure sits on a log, his back to us. Long, scraggly hair completely obscures his face, but the cane resting beside him gives away his identity. He's smoking a poorly rolled joint and seems to be watching the ocean.
"Hey," I say, "it's Guillermo." Part of me is relieved. Last night, I found myself half believing Diana's El Diablo story.
"Yeah, I've been watching him." Al's voice is scratchy. I feel good knowing that even he has his limits of hedonistic debauchery.
"Should we go over and say good-bye?"
"I'm not sure. He dropped this chain the other night. I should probably give it back to him."
Al pulls an object out of his pocket and shows it to me. Glinting softly in the sunlight that seeps through the tinted windows of our pick-up is a coloured, stone scorpion pendant, resting lifeless in his hand.