Word somehow got out that I was in the market for an Igloo. You know, a cooler. In my case a fridge. A dime a dozen where you live, but a coveted money maker here in the tropical frontier. Expensive buggers so I have found. I’ve come to admire them in a whole new light actually. I can’t imagine how many perfectly good Igloos, you know, coolers, are going unused and unwanted in the USA. You would never, and I mean ever, spot a cooler going unused here in Puerto Escondido. No way Jose.
He drove up beside me in his 1982 Ford F250. The windshield was so cracked that you could barely see through it. This beater wouldn’t last 15 miles in The States before being given a fixit ticket or impounded. He said he needed a favor. I had a full, hot coffee in my hand. His dog and daughter were both in the front seat. He told me to get in anyway. He said he was low on funds and was looking to “sublet his Cooler” The cobbled road that led us to this cooler was bumpy. I protected my coffee.
There it was. I was told that this Igloo has seen 20+ years in Puerto. Used for weeks upon months at the most secret surf spots, under the most gnarly conditions imaginable. He then went into a story about a two week trip back in the 90’s to Barra de la Cruz. Blocks of Ice. 1000’s of beers. Hot Dogs. Burgers. The whole 9. I was like “Yeah Yeah, how much?” I got the ‘You’d be doing me a big favor’ spiel one last time, and then he said 800p. It was a fair price, so I paid it. Included delivery.
He showed me his teeth. The ones in the jar. The ones he pulled.
I observed them real closely. I asked if it hurt. The ones he pulled.
I went home that night and smiled extra wide in the mirror, admiring how nicely my teeth had aged. I wondered whether, when I became an old(er) man, if I would be the guy that walked the Bridge which connected the Crown that was hiding in the Root Canal, OR was I going to be the dude that just yanked the fuckers out when I couldn’t take it any longer. I thought about the tooth fairy and how that might affect her bottom line. I thought about how many years removed it might well have been since I had gone to the dentist, had that dentist not been the commissioner of my fantasy football league. I thought about the insurance companies skimming the top, middle, and bottom. I thought about how long I would have to bare the pain before the tooth would be rotten enough to where it could be wiggled free with a pair of needle-nosed pliers. And of course I thought about why we call them pairs of pliers OR pairs of scissors, when we really only mean one pair. There, I did it again.
I knew it was bad. I was close to shore luckily. I covered it with my hand and waved over Papa Chango. He hadn’t been surfing this particular morning, but thankfully was on the beach. I can’t imagine the circumstances had he not been there. “How bad is it?” “You’re going to need stitches,” he said. Shocking to hear those words come From him. I had never been hurt down here. There was blood everywhere.
Somebody apparently had called an ambulance. When PC saw them coming towards the scene, he whisked me into his Honda Element, and sped away the other way. He told me that I wouldn’t have wanted to go with them because they wouldn’t have any clue what to do for me or where to take me. Not entirely true. They’d want to know where I lived so that they could first get the money to cover their $400 Gringo charge.
So we sped away. He took me to my room and dropped me off. He wanted me to deal with it on my own. He suggested I take a shower, put on a dry bathing suit, and then get a taxi to the place that our “buddy” suggested on the beach. A little more expensive, but well worth it “if you’re flush on cash.” I looked in the mirror. It was bad. A blow to the head from my board with enough force to gash it wide open. ok, here we go.
I grabbed all my money. I bought a 20 cent bag of ice at a tienda. I crushed the mini ice block on the pavement, wrapped it in my shirt, and compressed the gash. I hopped in a taxi. This is a taxi run town. More taxis here than in New York City. Swear to it. I sat in front. So it was a gash on a huge lump. I felt my age. I told the guy to take me to the top of Avenida Oaxaca, next to Conimar. I had the shock thing going.
The 19 year Oaxacan Boy dressed in ALL whites sat with me quietly as I waited for The Doctor to arrive. 30 min. later, she came in with likely her husband. He probably chauffeured her. She had short hair. She was in a tight blouse. Short skirt. High heels. She carried a Doctors Briefcase. she put on surgical gloves, and wasting no time, whipped out her 3in needle and gave two juicy squirts to the forehead. It was on!
Ten minutes, and $125 later, she was done with me. I walked across the street and bought five days worth of antibiotics for $14. And that was that. I came to find out that I could have gotten away with paying only $40 and $6 for the antibiotics, but there was the modeling career to consider. She handled the situation so very pro. I’d still be filling out paperwork had this of happened in the United States.
I removed my sunglasses out of respect for what I was about to hear. I didn’t want to take them off, but did it anyway. The middle aged man was about to tell me that when he died, he wanted to me to guard his 360 gig hard drive. I gave him that look. He was serious. I was thinking about the title to this blog. He told me it was going to contain compiled information that could possibly change the course of our universe before the course of the universe becomes unchangeable. I gave him that look. He was dead serious. I asked him to give me a little more info. He told me that he has been compiling very important information, much of which can be found on the internet,(if you knew where, and dared to look) and much of the information is conclusive evidence that he has personally documented based on his compulsive compiling Efforts. “much of it is in video form,” he said.
Obviously, my next question was, “What am I supposed to do with this hard drive, and what am I supposed to do with this hard drive when it is MY turn to die?” He wanted me to guard it with my life, and that if I was still alive in 2060, which we both determined was easily possible, [and no sooner], I should bring it to either Jon Stewart or his predecessor. “But Aaron, this is very crucial information that needs to be shared with as many human beings as possible.”—“And you want Jon Stewart to have this information…Why him?”—“I’m akin to his delivery. He will be able to make perfect humor of the certain demise that will be plaguing and crippling our species,” the middle aged man replied. I just sat there jaw open. The grey haired man offered up some Kirkland Mixed Nuts. I spotted a pecan, and made that my first nut. I began to think about climate controlled hiding spots.
An agreement got made in the Big Blue Ocean between myself and Big Jim. We agreed that I was ready to blindly go where so many white men have tried to go before; Out on my own, to find my own way. Looking back, the shield that he had graciously provided by allowing me to oversee his hotel in the GringoLandia section of Puerto Escondido was a beautifully orchestrated eye opener. I’ve been coming here for many years, each year with a different sort of set up,(treehouses, water towers, plantation estates) and each visit found me under someones wing. Big Jim, being six six, has had the biggest wings of them all. And still does. He’s a Lion in Puerto. I’m his little cub. We are both hobo surfers that is for sure.
But it was time to get off the tit even though I ain’t really truly off it at all. For instance, if God forbid I ever got myself in a real jam, I wouldn’t have the slightest clue as to how to make it go away. That is to say, I still need enabling, just not as much as in years past. So after a couple of trials and errors, I settled on a nice and safe concrete box in a half finished hotel, on the poor side of the highway, half way between Gringolandia, and Very Real Mexico. The owner of the hotel knows just one English word. That word is HolAron. I bought a fan, a blender, a burner, a cooler, some pots & pans, a coffee cup, a couple plates & utensils, a plastic folding table, a bicycle, some WD40, and a few other nicknack paddywacks.
Neither of them had shoes on. She couldn’t keep her tongue out of his mouth. He didn’t have a shirt. They were both darker skinned. They could have been any brand of human. My only guess is that they were not from Oaxaca. He had dreads. Plenty of tattoos. She was gorgeous. Probably 20 years old. Perfect complexion. He wasn’t much older than she. Chiseled. Very cool. Boxers showing. They were both in front of me in line at Super Che. She had a loose top on. No bra. Tons of jewelry and tethers hanging all over her wrists and ankles. They were a good looking, young couple, without what seemed like a worry in the sky. Together, they purchased like six limes, some cilantro, and maybe a few other herbs and what not.
I couldn’t get this guy out of my mind. For that matter, the girl either. But the guy was like somebody I had seen a dozen or so times. For weeks I tried to put my finger on it, but couldn’t.
A fourth stoplight found its way to Puerto Escondido during my six months back in The States. Like the other three, this stoplight is also on Hwy 200. It’s at the entrance to The Adoquin. I guess The Bare Footed Blow Torch Juggler decided to give up his post at the Main Stop Light located at The Crucero for the new stop light at The Adoquin. And he upped his ante to christen the new stop. Now he does his act on a six foot step ladder. Light turns red–He runs out there and performs, timing it as such so that he has maybe 20 seconds time to ask the captive audience for their handouts. It’s an incredible display of talent and desire. I’m dying to meet the guy. So next time he’s in line in front of me, I hope to have the courage to introduce myself.
Everybody I know, and/or know of, and/or associate with, be it athletically, professionally, mentally, physically, spitefully.., family, friends, fringe friends and the like, past and present readers and haters, and the rest of you, whoever you are, I am finally certain that by now you can’t help but wonder what could possibly be happening in P.E, Oax., MX, that has me annually spending six odd months of the year (t)here.
“He’s too young to be an Ex-Pat, and too old to be traveling around aimlessly on Daddy’s dime. Does he have a senorita or two that he’s hiding away?, and is she Pregnant? Hasn’t he come to realize that he’s not going to be able to surf the waves at Main Beach like he had hoped he would when he first visited in 2005. Hmmmm. Curious if he’s running from the law? He’s probably just working on his bloody tan!”
I drove up the nice hill to the nice house with the nice driveway. Before I even got to the nice door to meet the nice lady, I already knew that the stain on the concrete porch that she was referring to was hot chocolate.
I rang the doorbell. She seemed surprised to see a guy like me. I was dressed about as stylishly dysfunctional as imaginable. I guess she had formed a different impression of me during our 45 minute phone conversation.
She asked me again if I thought it was possible to remove the coffee stain. I told her with conviction that it wasn’t coffee. She asked how I knew. I told her that I am The King, and that I knew things about things.
She was impressed, and paid me $200 cash upfront to remove the stain. An hour later I gave the money back to her because I determined that it was a Mocha. She offered me up a four course breakfast for my honesty. I was spent.
I did the unthinkable this spring and summer. Mentally, Physically, and Spiritually. I went to a deep dark place, where Shawshank Redemption and The Karate Kid got played over and over and over. And I was over it.