Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen

“Reservation for Rockwell”

“Oui monsieur, a table for two in an intimate corner I see. Come this way.”

We follow the maitre d’ through the elegant dining room of Le Bec-Fin. If it’s not Philly’s finest restaurant it’s the most elegant by far. I wouldn’t normally spring for a $300 dinner on the first date but I’ve been lusting after Marsha for months while I gathered the courage to ask her out. I figure I’ve got this one shot, why not go for it.

“Will this table be to your satisfaction Monsieur Rockwell,” the maitre d’ says as he pulls out Marsha’s chair from this wonderfully decorated and beautifully set table for two.

“This is excellent,” I say as if I have a choice.

We order a cocktail and begin with all of the normal small-talk that kicks off every relationship. Where’re you from? Cheyenne, Wyoming. Where’d you go to school? Penn. What do you do when you’re not working? Go to the gym, work out, jog and just hang out. What’s it like in finance? Blah, blah, blah. I’ve done this mating ritual so many times I could put it on tape. Anyway, Marsha’s a sweet girl and I enjoy chatting with her even over these $16 a pop martinis.

We were taking a third sip of our martinis when the maitre d’ leads Bill and Hillary Clinton to a table not four feet away from ours. Bill looks at me and nods and gives Marsha a lecherous little wink. Hillary ignores us and goes immediately to her menu.

We don’t know what to do. The Clintons can obviously hear everything we say and we’re both too intimated to say anything. I fumble with the wine list and Marsha just stares off into space as if she’s afraid to make eye contact with our famous dining companions.

Thank God our waiter comes by and breaks the silence. “Have you chosen a wine, monsieur?”

“Yes we’ll have a bottle of the Dupont-Fahn 2005 Bourgogne Blanc with our appetizer and a bottle of 2004 Vin de Pays d’Oc, Le Roc, with our main course.” I say loud enough for the Clintons to hear as if I’m seeking their approval.

“Excellent choices, monsieur, would you like the Bourgogne Blanc now or would you prefer another martini.”

I figure a second martini will calm our nerves enough so that we can get on with our dinner without being intimated by the once most powerful man in the world and our current Secretary of State. How would you address Hillary anyway? Madam Secretary I think.

Half way through our second martini we overhear Bill when he says to Hillary, “I think we need a better policy for Pakistan. They’ve either been harboring terrorists or at least looking the other way while Al-Qaeda has been digging tunnels in their mountains for years now.”

“You know it’s our policy to diplomatically encourage and financially support Pakistan’s war on these terrorist enclaves. I was just there and I feel that they’re trying.” Hillary says in response.

“Yeah but is it working? I think not. I think we should quit playing patty-cake in Afghanistan and put our own troops on the ground in Pakistan. Give me the 1st Marine Division and I’ll have bin Laden swinging from a tree and our terrorist problems solved.”

“Bullshit, you don’t know what you’re talking about. You had your chance back when and you didn’t do a damn thing.” Hillary says in an elevated voice.

Marsha and I don’t know what to do in the middle of what is becoming a heated foreign policy argument. Our appetizers and the white wine are served and we dig in with our ears turned towards the Clintons.

“All I’m saying is we should take a much harder line with Pakistan and if they resist we should do it ourselves.” Bill says rather sternly.

“Fuck you Bill! You don’t know what it’s like in Obama’s cabinet. We’re all on pins and needles afraid that we’re going to pull a Biden and say something we’ll regret. I’m managing our Pakistan policy exactly as I’ve been led to believe I should and in some cases as specifically dictated to me by Barack himself.” Hillary retorts almost shouting.

I’m sure this is the first time any of us have ever heard America’s number one diplomat say fuck you to anyone let alone our ex-President.

“You know Hillary, I liked you better when you were a Senator, at least you were of your own mind and not off implementing some foreign policy that deep down you don’t agree with.”

“And I liked you better back when you were getting blow jobs in the oval office. At least you weren’t so critical of me then.”

There was total silence in the restaurant.

The Clintons looked as if they had declared a peace and were well into their entrées as I paid our bill and stood to leave. I glanced at Bill as I was pulling out Marsha’s chair. After ogling Marsha for a second he turned to me and winked as if saying, “Way to go Bob.”

The story of La Llorona was such a frightening part of my childhood that she still haunts me today. I remember lying in my bed, shaking with fear knowing that if I uttered a peep or made the least bit of noise La Llorona would mistake me for one of her drowned children and take me away to my death in the river. My mother didn’t care that our nearest river was miles away; she had grown up with this old Mexican fairy tale and she was going to pass it on to us, river or no river.

Mom taught us that La Llorona (Spanish for the weeping woman) wanders the rivers of the southwest in her long flowing, white gown searching for children to drag to a watery grave just as she had her own many years ago. Why she drowned her own children was never really clear to me. Some say it was because she desired the love of a man who would not love her back because she had children. She put her children into the river to earn the favor of this man and she mourns that fateful decision to this day. Her curse is to spend eternity wandering the shores of our rivers searching for her lost children. Why she preys on kids today was never explained to me.

Mom used the fear of La Llorona to threaten and control my brothers and me. She could make us stop crying in a heartbeat by telling us that La Llorona would hear our crying and take us away.

All of that is long past and I hadn’t given La Llorona a moment’s thought — until recently. Something happened that I can’t explain. Here’s my story. I’ll let you figure it out; I can’t.

Bob, my husband of almost 50 years, and I were driving back from Denver to our home in Deming, NM. We stopped in Socorro to tour the old Spanish colonial cathedral and spend the night. We enjoyed exploring the old church very much and found a comfortable motel on the outskirts of town near the river. The girl at the desk recommended a Mexican restaurant with good food and a small mariachi band. The band held our attention way too late into the evening and well into our fourth … or was it fifth … margarita.

We climbed into bed without needing our books to lull us to sleep. Bob was already snoring when I finally dozed off. It seemed as if we’d only been in bed a few minutes when I was awakened by what sounded like a cat screeching outside of our room. I covered my head with my pillow to block out the sound but that didn’t work. Finally, I rose, slipped on my slippers, and went to the terrace door to chase that damn cat away. I didn’t have my contacts in so you can question what I saw a few feet away from our bedroom door. Squinting through my near-sightedness I saw a tall, thin woman with her long black hair blowing in the gentle breeze gesturing to me.

I was afraid to unlatch the door but somehow I felt compelled to. I opened the door and took a couple of steps toward this ghostly creature, then froze, too frightened to speak. She spoke in low throaty Spanish, “Senora, you must help me. Please help me find my boys. Come, they can’t be that far away.” She turned and grabbed my arm with her cold bony fingers as if she wanted to lead me. I followed her.

We hurried north along the west bank of the Rio Grande, me at a jog and her with her eyes glued to the river. Every so often she would stop, drop my hand, face the water and yell through cupped hands, “Miguel, Juan, Miguel.” When no answer came she would grab my hand and continue to hurry along. I’m not used to running, let alone in my slippers. Finally, I had to stop and catch my breath. She stopped with me and I stood there panting while she scanned the river in the bright moonlight. I stepped on something sharp, bent down and picked up a crucifix. I examined it in the moonlight. It looked old. My ghostly companion turned and grabbed my new-found treasure from my hand. She held the crucifix to her heart and began to wail in that mournful screech that my mother had described so many years ago.

“Mi Dios, mi Dios, this is Miguel’s cross! I gave it to him for his last birthday. Come they can’t be too far away.” She thrust the cross back in my hand, turned and disappeared into the brush.

Exhausted and terrified I turned and bolted back to the motel. I heard her haunting voice again, as she screamed for her sons one more time while I climbed the riverbank to my room. The door was still ajar. I slipped into bed next to my sleeping husband and fell into a troubled sleep.

I woke early the next morning not knowing what to think about last night. Did I dream about meeting La Llorona, did this setting along the Rio Grande trigger my old childhood memories, or did my imagination run amok from too much tequila? It was then that I uncurled my left hand and a dusty mud-caked crucifix fell to the floor.

©2009 by Bob Rockwell

The worst two times of the day for me are the two 4 o’clocks. I hate 4 o’clock in the morning; it’s too late to go back to sleep and it’s too early to get up and I loathe 4 PM; it’s neither afternoon nor evening. Take a look at what bugs me about these two tedious times of day and I know you’ll agree:

4:00 AM

4:00 is the image I dread most on my nightstand digital clock. If I wake and see an eerie glowing 4:00 I know I won’t be able to go back to sleep and it’s too damn early to get up. What are we supposed to do? The paper’s not here yet, there’s nothing on TV and NPR hasn’t begun their day yet, even in our time zone. If I turn on my lamp to read I know I’ve unconsciously begun my day, it’s way too early and I’ll be asleep by 8 PM tonight. Is this any way to live?

Let’s look at our options at 4 AM:

1. You can lay in the dark with your eyes closed and try to fall back to sleep. I find that my mind races, I toss and turn and I’m unable to find a comfortable position. The odds that I will actually go back to sleep are about a hundred to one.

2. You can get up and begin you day. And do what? Take a long hot shower, surf the internet, read you’re email, work a puzzle. Whoopee! You’ll get through the morning alright but your chin will hit the soup tonight at dinner.

3. Try to rouse your partner for some hanky-panky. Although this is a desirable option it won’t fill the amount of time you have on your hands. If you succeed, and I seriously doubt you will, what are going to do at 4:03?

4. Turn on the light and get back into the novel you were so engrossed in just 6 hours earlier. This works except the outcome is the same as option 2. You’ve actually begun your day, just at a somewhat slower pace.

4:00 PM

Way back when I used to earn my living this was the clock-watcher’s hour, too early to go home, yet too late to do anything. You were too mentally burned-out to tackle anything hard so you just sat and stared at the clock or in today’s world your computer screen. Now that I’m retired I find I’m faced with same dilemma. It’s too early for cocktails, too early to start dinner yet it’s too late to go anywhere or do any of those chores I’ve already postponed. I hate this time of day and I can’t figure out what I‘m supposed to be doing.

Our options at 4 PM seem to be:

1. Declare 4:00 PM to be cocktail hour or the official start of the cocktail time of day. This is the option I most frequently exercise. It fills the time but I really piss off my wife when I’m too tipsy to barbeque or to enjoy her thoughtfully prepared dinners. Also, I’m asleep by 8:00 PM, and will wake up at 4:00 AM the next morning perpetuating this endless cycle.

2. Take a nap. I haven’t learned how to do this yet. I want to put on my jammies, brush my teeth and curl up under the covers when I go to sleep. Just sleeping ad hoc in your clothes without a full commitment to a night’s rest seems wrong to me somehow.

3. Watch Oprah. I’ve done this and I’m now positive that this option facilitates option number 1. I’ve tried Oprah sober and I’d rather have a root canal than deal with her. She’s a high-maintenance diva trying too hard to convince her viewers and herself that she’s just a simple country girl from Mississippi who somehow stumbled into the big time. What a hypocrite! Oprah is definitely not an option for me.

4. Channel surf. Try to find something interesting on TV. Cable and satellite service providers have given us hundreds of channels of totally boring and bad stuff. Your job, if you are to accept it, is to try to find something interesting, educational or amusing on TV at this time of day. I’m an expert on this option but I always end up re-watching reruns of Anthony Bourdain on the Travel Channel. But, with remote in hand, I’ll keep searching for something better, one channel at a time.

I know I’ve not been of any help to you with solutions to this pressing issue nor have I presented any viable options to solve this problem I’m now calling this the “4 o’clock doldrums”. Maybe we should form a task force and get some Obama stimulus money to study and finally and answer this really important question … what the hell are we supposed to be doing at 4 o’clock?

©2009 by Bob Rockwell

My feet sho do hurt an my back be sore too. I be marchin’ damn near every day fo a month. We drag our tired butts in da Fort Cummings after a whole month on da trail fum Fort Union, 400 miles ter da north. W’at a God-awful place dis Fort Cummings be, it be da loneliest most desolate place I ever be in in my year in dis damn army. Maybe dis be da end of da line atter forts Riley an Harker in Kansas an dat long-ass march ter Fort Union. I bet we walks da whole damn Santa Fe Trail.

I be William Cathay, a private in A Company, 38th U.S. Infantry Regiment, one of da colored units formed durin’ da war tween da states. I signs up in November, 1866 in St. Louis wid a big secret because I wants ter make my own livin’ an not be dependent on my relations or friends fo a livin’. A Company be 76 Negro privates, mostly fum Georgia, an a handful of white NCOs an officers. We be out of Fort Harker, Kansas just in time; da whole damn army be comin’ down wid cholera by da time we hit da trail fo Fort Union. Fort Union be easy duty; it be da supply center an da major fort in da whole damn territory.

Dis fort ain’t much; it got high doby walls an good water. Dat be bout it. We got big mean red ants, scorpions, rattlesnakes an lots of Apaches. All of dem things will kill you an dey be everywhar. I put da legs of my bunk in buckets of water ter keep dem damn ants off me at night an cover da ceilin’ wid a tarp ter keep da scorpions fum sleepin’ wid me. We be on da lookout fo rattlers all da time an we post guards ter scare off da Apaches. I can’t wait ter go on patrol an shoot me some Apaches.

Duty at dis fort sho beats marchin’. We drill fo a couple hours, clean up da barracks an da grounds, spend a lotta time lookin’ fo, cuttin’ an stackin’ firewood an be on guard duty all da damn time. Every now an den we go on a patrol lookin’ fo Apaches. I ain’t seen no Apaches but I heared da sentries yell at dem da udder night. Dey be all around da fort but dey be really sneaky. Dem Apaches de hangs out at da springs at night just waitnin’ fo someone ter git some water. You kin hear dem wid dar coyote calls as dey sneak ‘round in da dark. I ain’t gittin’ no water at night.

Soon as we be settled some of dem farm boys fum Georgia be talkin’ bout mutiny. Dey goanna kill all of da white officers, take all da horses an supplies, make all of da officer’s wives slaves an den w’at? Nobody ever splained ter me w’at we gonna do next. Whar we gonna go? Ef we stays at da fort we be run out of supplies an den w’at? I thought dis be a dumb plan an I told those farm boys w’at I thinks of dar “kill da whitey” plan.

Da next mornin’ we be told ter fall out wid no rifles fo da pay master. As soon as we open da doors ter our barracks we seed dem two big cannons aimed right at us. All da white officers an NCOs be lined up wid dar side arms. Da commanding officer give us a little speech bout da penalties fo mutinous conduct, an den announces ter us dat our plot be discovered. He demand da immediate surrender of da ringleaders.

We runs fo our quarters expectin’ ter git our rifles. Da doors ter our barracks be locked an white 3rd Cavalry men be in da windows wid dar carbines lookin’ at us as ef dey be ready ter shoot. W’en we turn we see dat our officers did draw dar guns an be pointin’ dem at us.

I fall ter my knees as do da udder privates. Everybody be beggin’ fo mercy an cryin’ dey be innocent. We be so scared dat everybody blowed on da ringleaders. Da officers an da guards jump on da mutineers an drag dem ter da guardhouse. We later heared dat da colored maid had blowed us ter da officers.

Everythin’ be normal again except we hear dem mutineers scream an beg as dey be bucked an gagged in da guardhouse. Bucked an gagged be da punishment most used in da army on da Negro private. A piece of wood be tied in da prisoner’s mouth an his knees be pulled up ter his body wid nother piece of wood run through his legs. He be tied up like a trapped rat be. I sho be glad I not git blowed on.

We just be at Ft. Cummings a few weeks w’en I be assigned ter a firewood party. We done loads a wagon full of wood an be headin’ back ter da fort w’en we comes around a bend on da ole Butterfield trail an we did run face-ter-face wid a whole mess of dem Apaches. We races down da trail towards da fort while da Apache runs in da udder direction. We just be scared of each udder an runs away. My first meetin’ wid da Apaches an we just runs away.

One day da sentry in da tower done see dis wagon train off ter da east be attacked by Apaches. He shout ter da fort, “Apaches, Apaches.” Da cavalry race ter da wagons an scares off da Apache. We done save dar asses. Dis be da best we kin do fo des poor folks.

Bout da worst duty here be guard duty on da midnight ter four watch. You be freezin’ yo’ ass in da wind an dem damned Apaches be sneaked right up on you. I be in da watch-tower lookin’ out in da moonlight w’en da udder sentry pokes me en points ter some shadows down da wall ter da right. We looks an sees two Apache stringin’ lines over da wall. I aim my carbine an fire. I see da sand fly near one of da Apaches an dey run off in da night. My shot wake da whole damn fort an soon dat mean Sergeant Rockwell be yellin’ in my face.

“What the hell are you shooting at, Cathay, ghosts?”

We opens da gate an walk down ter da place I seed da Apaches. Sgt. Rockwell has a lantern an we see da footprints in da sand an a rope throwed up over da wall. Rockwell pulls down da rope wid a big stone at da end an pats me on da back an sez, “Nice work, Cathay. You saved some stores and maybe even someone’s life. Now get back to your post.”

I feel real proud. Dis be da first pat-on-da-back dat mean ole Sgt. Rockwell ever give me.

Dar be nothin’ ter do w’en you ain’t got no duty. We sit in da barracks, play cards, sing sad ole slave songs an git in da fights over da dumbest things. I be afraid ter git in da fight. I got a secret nobody knows nothin’ bout but me. Fightin’ might blowed my secret. W’en whitey git mad at us fo gamblin’ dey git some poor private an march his ass about da garrison wid heavy planks tied ter his back wid da word “gambler” marked on it in chalk.

One mornin’ Sgt. Rockwell picks me an 5 udder privates ter go on a grave detail. We take da wagon west on da trail fo bout 2 miles an find a burned wagon, two dead horses an five bodies. Da bodies be two white men, one white woman an two little boys. It be easy ter tell w’at dey be ‘cause da Apache done stripped every stitch of clothes off da bodies. Da soldiers just stare at da naked white woman. She be pretty ef she be alive. We roll da bodies in blankets an stacks dem in da wagon an head back ter da fort. Diggin’ five graves be more wuk than any of us want ter do. Maybe Sgt. Rockwell give us some more help ter dig dem graves. Nobody talks on da ride back ter da fort. Da killin’ of dem white folks by dem damn Apaches make us sad an ef we be honest, scared too.

One cold, cold mornin’ in January I go ter da hospital wid a bad case of rheumatism. Da doc he done put me in da hospital but after three days he send me back ter duty. Two months later my rheumatism be actin’ up again an I kin hardly stand straight or walk right. Da doc puts me in da hospital fo three more days. Dis doc can’t fix no rheumatism.

Early in June we march 47 miles ter Fort Bayard in two days. Fort Bayard be a pretty place wid trees, grass an no ugly-ass wall. I wonder how dey keeps da Apaches out of da fort wid no wall. One week later I be back in da hospital wid dis pain all over my body. Da doc calls it neuralgia.

I be in dis hospital fo one month w’en dis doctor he done pull down my drawers ter feel my belly. He jumped like a scared toad w’en he discover da secret I keep fo goin’ on two years now. I be a woman called Cathay Williams.

Author’s note: This story is based upon the real life of Cathay Williams. She was the first African American female to enlist, and the only woman documented to serve in the United States Army posing as a man under the pseudonym, William Cathay. She was born a slave near Independence, Missouri around 1844 and enlisted in the United States Regular Army on 15 November 1866 at St. Louis for a three year engagement, passing herself off as a man. She was stationed at Fort Cummings from October 1, 1867 as a member of A Company, 38th U.S. Infantry Regiment until their march to Fort Bayard on June 6, 1868. All of the events in this story are taken from the pages of Annals of Old Fort Cummings, New Mexico, 1867-8 by William Thornton Parker M.D. published in 1916. It was only after she had grown weary of military service that she feigned illness and her gender was revealed to the post surgeon. She was discharged from the Army on a surgeon’s certificate of disability on October 14, 1868. She died in Trinidad, Colorado in 1892.

Will this day ever end? I’m so tired my eyes burn and my feet are killing me. If I could only sit down for a couple of minutes I’ll get my second or will it be my third wind. Ten hours a day of mounting circuit boards and connecting cables on Panasonic’s plasma TV assembly line here in a Maquiladora (NAFTA sweat-shop) is taking its toll on me. I’m only nineteen years old and I don’t have the energy of an old lady. My abuelita (grandma) at home has more get-up-and-go than me.

It’s been eight months since I arrived here in Juárez to work and send money home to my parents in their village of Zaragoza in Tamaulipas, a hundred kilometers or so from Ciudad Vitoria. Why I ever let them talk me into this I’ll never know but what is there for me at home, a marriage to Pablo and a life of never having enough to feed my hungry children. I miss Pablo so much. Will he ever forgive me for running out on him? My abuelita said in her last letter that Pablo is still single and poor with emphasis on poor.

Finally, the shift whistle blows. I don’t have the energy to walk back to the lunch room. I could sleep right here on the floor. Come on, get going, it’s only Thursday and we’ve got two more days of this before Sunday, our one day off. My friend, Maria looks as exhausted as I feel. Maybe we can drag each other to the bus.

“Hola, Maria how was your day?” I mumble to my best friend.

“Shitty, same as yours.”

“Let’s get on the bus before I fall asleep in this hell hole.”

Our bus ride is only 30 minutes to our so-called rooming house. It was a hotel years ago and Pancho Villa probably slept there before they converted and condemned it. Its only redeeming quality is that it is a women-only rooming house with strict rules about male visitors. I share a little bedroom with Maria and we share a bath at the end of the hall with 12 other girls.

Everyone in Mexico has heard of the murders of over 700 young women in Juarez. I’m scared and live by the three rules my abuelita insisted on when she put me on the bus to this God-awful-place: Do not trust any man; do not go anywhere alone; do no go out after dark. I have to cheat a little on the third rule, in the winter it’s dark when we get off work and we have to eat.

Delores and Tita stop by our room and invite us to have dinner with them at our usual spot, Morales’ just around the corner. We’re too tired to move but too hungry to say no so Maria combs her hair while I put on a warm sweater. Morales’ food is Northern ranchero style and not very good but it is filling and cheap. I miss my mother’s cooking so bad I’ll never complain about her soggy tamales again.

Tita wants to go down the street to a gaudy, loud cantina for a drink; just one drink she promises and maybe even a dance or two. Delores and Maria are undecided but I’m positive, it’s only Thursday, I’m exhausted and the alarm will sound at 6 a.m. tomorrow. They all agree to go so I walk home alone. It’s not far and it’s still early.

I kneel, as I try to do every night, at the side of my bed and say a small prayer for the health and safety of my family. As usual, my abuelita answers me as if I’m on a party line and she has been listening in on my brief one-way chats with God. I’m used to my grandma’s advice by now. I don’t know if she is really talking to me or if I am just remembering something she’s told me in the past. Whichever it is, I find my abuelita’s words comforting.

The 6 a.m. alarm bell must have been the fire alarm when this place was a real hotel. It’s so loud the entire block must hear it. As I rise I notice that Maria’s bed is still made. She didn’t come home last night. I’m worried; she’s never done this before.

A very sleepy-looking Delores admits that she, Tita and Maria had lots of drinks after I left them. They met some guys and danced and laughed until past midnight. When Delores insisted they go home, Maria said she was going to stay with this guy and she would see them on the bus tomorrow. Maria is not on the bus.

Maria was not at work or in our room when I return this evening. No one has seen her since last night. I ask Delores to walk with me to the cantina where they were so I can talk to the bartender. He doesn’t know anything. Yes, he remembers the girls last night but that’s all. I’m really worried now but I don’t know what else to do.

The days go by and we all assume that Maria is gone, gone forever. I stuff her suitcase with all of her clothes and put it under my bed. That night during my prayers my abuelita tells me that Maria es muerta and I should tell all of the girls to be especially careful and never go near that bar again. I’m too embarrassed to tell anyone that my grandma talks to me at night so I don’t say anything. Everyone already knows or suspects what has happened to Maria so nothing needs to be said. What an awful place this is.

Late Wednesday afternoon one of the big managers, one that I’ve only seen but never met, comes up to me on the production line and hands me an envelope with my name on it. He smiles and tells me to be sure to attend. I open the letter thinking it has something to do with my job, maybe a raise or a promotion. I unfold a beautifully printed page that reads:

Dear Srta. Elena Montoya,
The friends and family of Señor Emilio Estañan are pleased to invite you to a party honoring Señor Estañan’s 60th birthday at 8 pm on Saturday evening. A coach will pick you up at your residence at 7:45 pm. Formal dress is requested.
Respectfully,
Sergio Rodríguez

PS Sr. Estañan has requested of your employer that you be excused from work on Saturday the 14th. You will be reimbursed for a days pay. As a special treat a bus will pick you and the other invited ladies up at 1 pm at your residence to take you shopping for your dresses, shoes and accessories followed by a stop at Juárez’s finest beauty shop. All expenses will be paid by Sr. Estañan as a small treat for your attendance at his party.

I can’t believe that I’m actually being invited to some rich guy’s birthday party. Should I go? I’ve never had a party dress or fancy shoes for that matter. I wonder if we get to keep them. I feel like Cinderella going to the ball. Sure, I’ll go. This could be the most exciting night of my life. But, what about my abuelita’s warnings? I’m going with a group of girls, it’s at night and I’m sure there will be men there, why else would they invite a bunch of young women. I’ll ask my abuelita tonight in my prayers.

On the bus everyone is talking about the party. It seems that only the attractive and sexy girls got invitations and I’m proud to be included in that group. No one even suggests that we not go; everyone is thrilled by the promise of new expensive dresses, elegant shoes, fine wine, wonderful music and rich, rich men.

I’m so excited about the party I can’t think of anything else. As I get ready for bed I drop to my knees and say my evening prayer. “Dear God please give me the wisdom to make the right decision about the party and if you let me go I want to be safe, have fun and act like a lady my abuelita would be proud of. Please look after my mother, father and my abuelita. Amen.”

Before I could rise my abuelita speaks to me, “Hija, I’m so happy for you. Remember your host has ulterior motives and you must be the lady I raised you to be. Be very careful with the alcohol and be pleasant but firm with the men and all of their romantic advances. I wish I had taught you to dance a little bit better but go and have fun.”

Sixteen of us girls assemble in the lobby a little past noon. You can feel the excitement as we all giggle and jump around like a bunch of schoolgirls. A mini-bus arrives promptly at 1 p.m. and we all hurry aboard ready for what will be for many, if not all of us, our first real shopping trip.

We are greeted at our first stop, a lovely dress shop in a part of town none of us have ever been in before, by an elegant lady who introduces herself as Señora Gomez and says that she will help each of us choose our dresses and accessories. She shows us to chairs arranged in a semicircle around what must be a draped dressing room. Soon after we are seated a tall elegant model struts out wearing the most beautiful long, flowing gown I’ve ever seen. Sra. Gomez rises, holds the hand of the model and says in her really proper Spanish, “Who of you ladies would like this dress for the party.” Three girls raise their hands. Sra. Gomez asks each girl to come forward and make a model-like turn before she announces that this dress would be perfect for Gloria. Gloria and the model return behind the drapery for what I assume will be her fitting. You can hear gasps as another model comes out in an even more stunning gown. Sra. Gomez asks for a show of hands and so it goes until each of us has the dress of our choice and Sra. Gomez’s approval. I choose a tight fitting red dress with a slit and a wonderful lacy bodice. I have never seen myself so beautiful. I stare in the mirror at what must be a movie star.

We all get a pair of shoes, hose and the sexiest underclothes I’ve ever owned. I’m not going to tell my abuelita about my new lacy red bra and tiny little panties.

Our trip to the beauty shop is almost as much fun as shopping. My mother has always cut and styled my hair and I’ve never really thought about wearing it any differently. The stylist looks at me from all angles and says he will do something special for me. He cuts, combs, brushes and sprays without saying a word. He aimed my chair so that I can’t see myself until he is finished. He turns me around and I’m taken back. Is this me, Elena? Am I really the woman in the mirror, the woman with this beautiful hair?

A little after seven the girls waltz into the lobby adorned in their new gowns and a bit unsteady in their new heels. We look like a bunch of sorority girls preparing to go to some rich-girl’s ball. Our mini-bus arrives right on time and we are all so nervous that there is total silence on our ride. Twenty minutes or so later we pull into the courtyard of a mansion; the biggest and most beautiful house I have ever seen. A handsome young man in a tuxedo stands at the door and helps each of us down the steps and into the courtyard. We can hear wonderful music coming from somewhere in the house. Our tuxedoed escort leads us all through a massive door and down a hallway to a large sitting room. We pass though the room and out French doors onto a patio that looks like a Hollywood set with a swimming pool, an orchestra, a bar and lots of beautifully decorated tables. The music is wonderful, not Mexican that I can tell, maybe classical of some kind.

We all are just standing there with our mouths agape when this distinguished looking older man comes over to us and introduces himself as our host, Señor Emilio Estañan. He is handsome in an old-man sort of way. He introduces himself to each girl. He seemed to know where each of us is from and he makes a comment or two about our home towns. He doesn’t know my village of Zaragoza but he speaks favorably about Ciudad Vitoria. It is clear that he is a man of great wealth and importance. He invites us all over to the bar and tells the bartender to serve champagne all around.

The champagne is delightfully tart and bubbly. I’ve never tasted anything as wonderful as this. The music changes to salsa dance music and some men come over and ask us to dance. I’m unsure about what to do with my champagne and my little purse if someone asks me to dance. Do I set them on a table or give them to the bartender? My abuelita never taught me what to do at a rich man’s ball. Soon a very handsome young man in a beautifully tailored dark blue suit asks me to dance. I look puzzled until he says, “Here, let me take these things for you,” as he takes my purse and champagne flute and sets them on a table-for-two next to the dance floor.

I don’t know if it is my handsome partner, the music, the champagne or the beautiful patio but I feel like I can actually dance. Not just move to the beat of the music but dance gracefully like a ballerina. He holds me in his arms ever so lightly and somehow I follow his steps.

“We have not been formally introduced, my name is Ramón, Ramón Ramirez and you are?”

“Elena Montoya,” I say as if I am ashamed of my peasant name.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Elena. You dance as if you are a professional. Tell me, are you a dancer at some nightclub in town.”

“Ramón, you flatter me. I am just a small-town girl at her first big party and I’m trying as hard as I can to follow you.”

“I love your honesty but regardless of all of that, you look and dance as if you’ve been doing this all of your life.”

“You must say that to all of the country girls you meet. Does that sort of flattery really work?”

“I’m sorry if I offend you. I am only trying to make conversation and tell you how beautiful you are. If I sound slick or trite, please forgive me. I only mean to compliment you.”

I say “You are forgiven,” just as the music ends. Ramón leads me to the table where he had placed my purse and immediately orders two more glasses of champagne. We talk and dance and laugh and drink well into the evening. He is the most handsome and interesting man I have ever met. I know it’s too early to say this, but I think I’m in love.

We dance, talk and drink until our tuxedoed escort announces that the bus is leaving for the women’s residence. Ramón walks me to the door of the bus and as I am ready to climb the first step he turns me and we kiss a warm passionate kiss. I climb into the bus feeling giddy and totally in love. There are only 9 girls on the bus for the ride home.

I hang my beautiful dress with special care and kneel at the side of my bed. “Dear God, thank you for this wonderful evening and thank you so much for introducing me to Ramón. I pray that he is as good a man as I feel he must be. And, God, please look after my mother, father and my abuelita. Amen.”

My abuelita comes right back with, “You were a good young lady at the party tonight and I am so proud of you. I like Ramón too. Be careful mi hija, I don’t want to see you with a broken heart.” Somehow, having my grandma’s blessing, if that’s what it is, feels reassuring. I fall to sleep the happiest I’ve ever been.

Work is work. I get up early, ride the bus to work, work all day, ride the bus home, gobble down a couple of tacos and fall asleep remembering my wonderful night with Ramón.

After work, three days later, I’m dragging myself out to the bus when I see Ramón leaning on the door of this beautiful car. He’s wearing casual but very stylish clothes and looks even more handsome than I remember. He waves and calls to me.

“I came to take you to dinner. I know you have to be up early tomorrow so I thought we would have an early dinner. And, I bought you this dress. It’s not as nice as the dress you wore Saturday but I hope you like it. Sra. Gomez helped me pick it out.”

I don’t know what to say. I just stand there grinning like some shy schoolgirl. Ramón opens the passenger door for me and I climb in without having said a word. He drives to my rooming house in this most magnificent car. He asks me about my day but what is there to tell? I’m sure he doesn’t want to hear about how many TVs I assembled today or what a lousy lunch I had.

“I’ll drop you off so you can freshen up and change. When you’re ready, join me at that cantina over there,” he says pointing to the bar where Maria was last seen.

“I won’t be long,” I say as I hop from the car and race into the lobby.

My new dress is stunning; not as formal as my red dress but chic and stylish and it goes well with my one pair of high-heels. I feel like a lady of substance having a drink with the most handsome man in the cantina wearing my new dress and my sexy heels.

We have dinner at a really nice restaurant, the nicest I’ve ever seen. I follow Ramón’s lead on what utensil to use and when. All in all, I think I do pretty well, especially for a girl who was raised scraping beans from a bowl with a tortilla. My abuelita taught me table manners using sticks and twigs for the silverware we never owned.

We talk and talk. I am falling deeper and deeper in love with this wonderful man. Ramón is vague about what he does for a living and his relationship to Sr. Estañan. He only says that he is a business man and that Sr. Estañan is a very important man in not only Juárez but throughout Mexico and the U.S.

Ramón has me at my front door a 10 p.m. sharp. He double parks and walks me to the door and we kiss a long and lovely kiss. He grabs me as I turn to open the door and we kiss again. Mi Dios, what a man.

After hanging up my second new dress in less than a week I kneel to say my prayers. “Dear God, I pray that Ramón loves me just a little bit. Take care of my mother, father and my abuelita. Amen.”

Grandma is quick to comment. “Hija, I am so happy for you. You are in love with a rich and wonderful man and I think he loves you too. I wish you knew more about his business but I am convinced he is a good and honest man. Sleep well mi hija.”

Friday at work I am paged for the first time over the intercom system. “Señorita Montoya, please come to Señor Herrera’s office for an important telephone call.” I run to my manager’s office afraid that something must have happened to my family for me to get “an important telephone call” at work. My hands are shaking as I hold the telephone. “Bueno,” I say in a quivering voice.

“Elena, this is Ramón. I’m terribly sorry to bother you at work but I called to ask you for a date tomorrow evening. We will go to dinner and then dance the night away. I’ll pick you up at 8. Wear your red dress. Okay?”

I am too shocked and relieved to answer but I mumble, “Yes, I’d love to. See you at 8.”

“Great, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bye.”

I walk back through the plant in a daze with all of the girls staring at me. I can almost hear their gossip as I pick up my tools and go back to work. That night after saying my prayers my grandma speaks to me as she seems to do almost every night. “Hija, You have a big date coming up tomorrow. I believe that this date is crucial in determining where your relationship with Ramón is headed. Follow your heart and remember that I am cheering and looking out for you. Have fun and be yourself.”

We dine and dance in the most elegant nightclub. This evening is the best night of my life. I’m in love and Ramón seems to be in love also. Around 2:30 he suggests we have one more glass of champagne at his house. Anxious to see his house and to be alone with him for the first time I eagerly agree.

His house is lovely, not a mansion like Sr. Estañan’s but very, very nice. We sit in front of the fireplace watching the dancing fire but I can’t decide whether to look at the lights of El Paso through the window, the romantic fire or beautiful Ramón in the amber glow of the fire. We share a glass of champagne and cuddle on the sofa. After many kisses Ramón picks me up like he’s lifting a bride over the threshold and carries me to his bedroom. We make the most wonderful love so many times that I lose count before Ramón falls asleep in my arms.

We wake late on Sunday to a beautiful breakfast in bed. After two sips of juice we decide we would rather make love than eat. Breakfast can wait. Later as we rest in each others arms Ramón tells me that he will have a package delivered to my rooming-house later this week. I am to hide it until he tells me it is the time for us to open it together. It’s something special for us.

He drives me home early Sunday evening. I have never felt so much in love and so happy and full of life as I do now. I say a short prayer and for the first time in a long time my grandma never chimes in. I fall asleep as soon as I turn off the light.

Back to work and the same old grind. Tuesday evening a young boy delivers a box addressed to me. I hide it under my bed as Ramón asked me to do. By Thursday I am worried. I have not heard from Ramón. Did our weekend of love not go as well as I thought?

Friday in the lunchroom Tita asks if I’ve seen the morning paper. She shows me an article about some recent drug cartel violence. Four senior members of the Juárez cartel were assassinated gangland style in a restaurant on Wednesday night. I can’t figure out why she wants me to read this story until I see the names of the victims. Ramón Ramirez’s name jumps off the page. I scream and drop the paper. Is this my Ramón? I pick up the paper and look over the story again. Killed was Emilio Estañan, the head of the Juárez cartel, and three of his lieutenants, one of which was identified as Ramón Ramirez. My God, it is Ramón.

I put my head down on the table and cry and cry. The other girls go back to work but I just stay in the lunch room and sob. Why God? Why did you take Ramón from me? Why? Why? Why? My abuelita answers in a very sober voice, “Hija, I am so sorry. God must have a plan for you; he would never have let you enjoy Ramón’s love for such a short time.”

I sob all the way home. Tita helps me up the stairs and to my room. I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling when I remember the box that Ramón asked me to hide. I pull it out from under my bed. After cutting the tape I open the box flaps and see an envelope addressed to me. I hastily rip it open and find a single page of handwritten text:

Dearest Elena,
If you are reading this it means what I feared might happen has happened. I put this together for us to share and enjoy. I pray you will think of me and remember our short time together as you enjoy this, my last gift to you. I love you,
Ramón

Finally, my tears slow enough for me to see again. I open the box wide and peer into it for the first time. Stacked neatly are banded bundles of U.S. $100 bills.

©2009 by Bob Rockwell

Assignment: Write a paragraph that begins with: The cat didn’t come home last night

The cat didn’t come home last night …
… and neither did my wife. The whore ran off with that Amway salesman again. Damn her. I woulda gone after her but my car wouldn’t start and I’m laid up with the swine flu, an abscessed tooth and a prostate the size of a grapefruit. I don’t miss the cat much but I shore do miss my old yeller dog. She got runned over by a garbage truck last week on the same day I got fired. I’ve got to talk to the bank about the foreclose on my trailer as soon as I post bail for my junkie, gay hooker son. I’ll get to it right after I’m through with this damn IRS audit. Fuck the cat.

My wife and I attended a beautiful Christmas tree lighting ceremony in Bethesda, Maryland. As the ceremony was beginning a bourgeois, middle-aged volunteer (you know the type) appeared and asked with her snooty “I’m more socially important than you,” attitude “Do you have any questions?” I couldn’t think of anything unanswered about the tree lighting ceremony so I asked: “Why is the sky blue? Is there a God? And, what is the true meaning of life?” Needless to say the snooty bitch left us alone to enjoy the holiday festivities. This prompted me to worry about some of these really hard questions in life. I don’t know the answer to most of these things, but for what it’s worth here’s what’s keeping me up at night:

Is yawning contagious and if so, why?
Ever yawn in public (at the theater or in a restaurant for instance) and immediately look around to find someone else yawning too. What’s up with that? Scientists tell us yawning is definitely contagious but they don’t have a clue as to why. We know what it isn’t however. It isn’t an unconscious response to other people’s behavior like all of our others. Apparently the urge to yawn bypasses the brain circuitry we use for consciously analyzing and mimicking other people’s actions.

It seems like somebody should be able to figure this out.

Why is the sky blue?
Okay, most of you know the answer to this but I’m not sure I believe it. My junior-high science book says: As light moves through the atmosphere, most of the longer wavelengths pass straight through. Little of the red, orange and yellow light is affected by the air. However, much of the shorter wavelength light is absorbed by the gas molecules. The absorbed blue light is then radiated in different directions. It gets scattered all around the sky. Whichever direction you look, some of this scattered blue light reaches you. Since you see the blue light from everywhere overhead, the sky looks blue.

Do you really buy this “absorbed by gas molecules” baloney? If this effect were based upon the shorter wavelengths the sky would be violet not blue.

Why can’t we cure the common cold?
We’ve cured polio, small pox and most of the childhood diseases that plagued us as kids but we haven’t made a dent in the common cold. Why is that? Science tells us what we already know: The common cold is a viral infection of your upper respiratory tract — your nose and throat. A common cold is usually harmless, although it may not feel that way. If it’s not a runny nose, sore throat and cough, it’s the watery eyes, sneezing and congestion — or maybe all of the above. In fact, because any one of more than 200 viruses can cause a common cold, symptoms tend to vary greatly. Does this sound like we’re on top of this important health concern?

How should we cope with this incurable ailment? Here’s the best advice I could find: Colds are caused by viruses, which are notoriously difficult to treat. Despite massive efforts to find a cure, the best treatment is to avoid infection in the first place.

That’s great! The best way to deal with a cold is don’t catch it in the first place. Thank you medical science.

Who dreamed up this hat size thing and why do we put up with it?
So your hat size is 6 ¾. Do you know how that number is derived? It’s the diameter of your head if your head were a perfect sphere. If it were you’d look like Charlie Brown but that aside, there’s no easy way to measure the diameter. You can measure the circumference and divide by pi. That’s 3.14159265358979323846264338327950288… if you’ve forgotten. Okay, now your size of 6 ¾ is really a circumference of 21.205750411731104359622842837133… inches.

Got it?

Why do the Brits and the Japanese drive on the wrong side of the road?
You’d think progressive countries like the UK, Australia and Japan would get with the program and drive on the right side of the road. Forget about India they drive mostly on the shady side. Here’s the propaganda they’re putting out trying to justify their being wrong: In the past, almost everybody traveled on the left side of the road because that was the most sensible option for feudal, violent societies. Since most people are right-handed, swordsmen preferred to keep to the left in order to have their right arm nearer to an opponent and their scabbard further from him. Furthermore, a right-handed person finds it easier to mount a horse from the left side of the horse, and it would be very difficult to do otherwise if wearing a sword (which would be worn on the left). It is safer to mount and dismount towards the side of the road, rather than in the middle of traffic, so if one mounts on the left, then the horse should be ridden on the left side of the road.

Okay, if you apply this logic then the people in Detroit, MI, a feudal, violent society, and Tombstone, AZ, an old horse and buggy town, would all be driving on the wrong side too.

How do the airlines calculate fares?
Have you ever found out how much the guy sitting next to you paid for his airline ticket? Probably less than half of what you paid. How can that be, you’re a consummate shopper? The price of a seat on an airplane is determined by whatever the airline thinks they can get away with after screwing the business traveler. Some expert tried to appease me with this: Airlines determine the price of most airfares through computer programs that calculate how many passengers are likely to book seats on any given flight. In addition, airlines might offer discount fares to avoid flying with empty seats, and they charge more for flights and schedules that are likely to be used by business travelers. Ticket prices may also be affected by competition with other airlines that offer discounted prices. The result of all of these things is that passengers on the same flight could be paying as many as a dozen different fares.

It’s easier to buy a carpet in a Mid-East bazaar for a good price than find a decent fare to Philadelphia.

The moon, tides and other gravity related stuff
We were all told that the moon’s gravitational pull on large bodies of water creates the tidal effect, but do you really believe it. This whole gravity thing is like religious faith; you just have to believe it. I know some really smart guys like Galileo, Isaac Newton and Albert Einstein spent restless nights worrying about and trying to explain this gravity stuff to smucks like us. I think they couldn’t figure it out either so they just made this up. My textbook says: Isaac Newton defined gravity as a force—one that attracts all objects to all other objects. And we know that Albert Einstein said gravity is a result of the curvature of space-time. These two theories are the most common and widely held (if somewhat incomplete) explanations of gravity.
Is this the best we can do?

If gravity has you buffaloed look into how shoes are sized
I wear a men’s size 10 in the US, that’s a 9 in the UK, a 43 in most of Europe and a 28 in Japan. Here’s a serious international issue that needs to be addressed. I have enough trouble converting Pounds, Euros and Yen to dollars without having to deal with this shoe size nonsense. Of all of the sizing systems ours here in the US seems to be the dumbest and least understood. Shoe size in the United Kingdom is based on the length of the last, measured in barleycorn (approx 1/3 inch) starting from the smallest practical size, which is size zero. An adult size one is then the next size up (8⅔ in or 22.01 cm) and each size up continues the progression in barleycorns. The calculation for an adult shoe size in the UK is thus: adult shoe size = 3 x last length in inches – 25. Our US system is similar to English sizes but we start counting at one rather than zero, so equivalent sizes are one greater. So the calculation for a male shoe size in the USA is: male shoe size = 3 x last length in inches – 24. Got that?

What’s up with a barleycorn being a unit of measurement. No wonder the British Empire has fallen on tough times.

How big a problem is Erectile Dysfunction, anyway?
Okay, it’s a really big problem if it affects you but how about the rest of us? If you watched the last Super Bowl or damn near anything else you’d think that America is in the throes of a major epidemic, an epidemic of seriously limp peckers. Viagra, Levitra and Cialis commercials domainate our air waves. I can’t believe that this ED thing is as predominant as the number of commercials would suggest. And what’s up with that holding hands in two separate bath tubs scene all about?

©2009 by Bob Rockwell

A story about another special girl written especially for Xenya by her Pop-pop

Once upon a time in a land far, far away lived a pretty young girl named Maria. Maria was 11 years old and lived in a small village with her mother and father. Maria was a good student but she didn’t like school because the other kids always made fun of her. They teased her because she was different from all of the other kids. She had one really big, big toe.

Maria couldn’t wear a shoe on her foot with the big toe so her mother made her a special stocking which made her look like she had a big clown’s foot. She was so embarrassed by her big toe that she hid her foot whenever she could and ran as quickly as possible when she couldn’t.

The only person she could talk to about her toe was her grandfather. Grandpa told her that she was special and her large toe was a gift, a gift that God had given her and only her. He made her feel good about herself and when she was with her grandpa she forgot the ugly names that the kids called her at school. The only time she was really happy was when she was with her grandpa. She loved him very much.

Maria ran to school every day. She never walked. She learned that if she ran her stocking foot wasn’t that visible and the other kids couldn’t say bad things to her. At school she sat at her desk with her leg tucked under her hiding her foot under her dress. Maria never got out of her desk, even when the other kids went outside to play she sat alone and studied. One day her teacher asked Maria to come to the front of the class to read a poem she had written. What was she to do? She had to get up and walk to the front of the class and stand there while everyone stared at her big clown-foot stocking.

She got out of her chair and walked up the aisle. She heard some giggles before her teacher scolded the class. She got to the front of the class and began reading her poem. When she looked up she saw that everyone was staring at her foot and fighting back their giggles. Maria began to blush and tears soon formed in her eyes. She could no longer see her paper so she recited her poem from memory. She ran back to her desk in tears.

She ran straight to her grandpa’s house as soon as school was over. He lifted her to his lap and dried her tears. “Maria, your classmates are just curious because they have never seen anyone as special as you and they are all jealous because they have ordinary old toes and not a super toe like you have. I know they hurt you but you must forgive them for their ignorance and cruelty. Let’s have a soda and I want to hear your new poem.”

The next afternoon Maria was running past the ball-field when Delores called out to her, “Hey, Maria come play with us. We’re one girl short and we need you for the game.”

Maria had never played soccer before and no one had ever asked her to play. She stopped running not knowing what to say or do. She would love to play with the other girls but would they make fun of her? She decided she would play and hoped that the other girls would forgive her for not knowing how.

She ran out on the field and the game began. She was in good shape and could outrun all of the other girls but she had no experience moving, passing or shooting the ball. Her first attempts to handle the ball were clumsy but not any more so than the other girl’s. She knew that her large stocking was a problem when she made contact with the ball.

Should she take off her stocking and play in her bare foot? No one had ever seen her toe other than her family and her doctor. Okay, she was going to do it. She ran to the sidelines, pulled off her stocking and ran back into the game. Everyone was too busy playing to notice her extra large toe.

She stole the ball from an opposing player and drove it down the field for an easy goal. Her teammates cheered and gave her her first pat-on-the-back ever. The game continued and Maria was the star, dominating the game and scoring four more goals. At the end of the game Delores and the other girls from both teams all cheered, “Maria, Maria, Maria!” They begged her to join the team. No one looked at her big bare toe and no one said anything bad to her. In fact, they only talked about how well she played soccer. What about her big, big toe?

The next morning Delores stopped by to walk to school with Maria and soon they were joined by three other girls and a boy from her class. When she got to her desk she sat with both of her feet firmly on the floor. She didn’t need to hide her big clown-foot stocking anymore. Maybe it wasn’t a clown-foot after all?

She now knew what her grandpa was talking about. She was special. And, she had a gift, a very rare gift.

©2009 by Bob Rockwell