Category: A Short Story

I showed up at ArcoIris fashionably on fire.  I had bet Southern Fried Frank that the Niners would beat Atlanta, and advance to their first Big Dance in quite some time.  That chance made me 200 pesos happier.  I walked into the restaurant, and two things three things immediately caught my attention.  First, there was a huge table set up over to the left with a beautiful looking vegetable spread, pizza slices, waters and sodas, and a couple dessert cakes.  I also noticed that there were super colorful, exotic paintings all set up on individual easels throughout the dining area.  The other thing that stood out was that there was some person in a full-sized, green iguana costume that was pogo dancing on the wooden dance floor.  I went up to the bar and ordered a patron margarita on the rocks no salt.  I drank it pretty fast because it was gooooood.  I looked around to see if there was anybody that I recognized. 

The place was packed.  Damn near wall to wall.  It seemed like there were two converging parties.  There was obviously some kind of art show, and I guess there were a lot of people there for Irene’s Bon Voyage.  I was amazed that Irene had met as many people in three weeks, as I had met in seven years.  I saw Toothless Jerry.  Hogan was there.  Israel the Mechanic.  The Swiss Baker’s Wife.  All the Girlie Girls from the Yoga Studio.  I recognized Crab, Dingo, Singapore Sharon, Toyota Tommy, The Hula Hoop Girl, and Gringo Gary.  I also noticed that all the paintings had an Iguana Theme.  That explained The Dancing Lizard.    

I ordered another margarita, and went over to the Scoobie Snack section and put a bunch of jicama, beet strips, and carrots on a small plate.  I piled about six slices of pizza on top of that.  I grabbed a water.  I walked around the room pretending I was interested in the art.   I remember standing in front of one of them with my legs spread far apart, nodding my head up and down as though I was being affected.  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed The Iguana Guy coming towards me.  

“Hey Man.”

“Scratchy?”

“In the Felt!”

“What the Fuck Guy?  When does it end around here?”

“Killer Grub.  Have you tried the Chorizo Pizza?”

“I was about to.  Is somebody paying you to be in that iguana suit?”

“Vera the Artist asked if I would do it.  She is giving me one of her early Originals as compensation.  Not a bad gig.  Have you talked with Irene? 

“No.  And Scratch…I know it was you.  I figured it all out.  You organized the intervention.  Tino sent out the orders, and you made it happen.”

“Pretty slick, eh?  Close call in the mountains Bro.  I had your Girl all set up at Prospero’s Cabañas.  When i got word that you missed the stop at San Mateo, I had to pull a rabbit out of my butt to re-situate her up at Don Memo’s. 

“We can talk about all that shit later Scratch.  What’s important is that it worked out.  Thanks for all your hard work Buddy.  That Girl really earned her stripes.  You know I owe you.”

“No, thank YOU man!”

“Thank me for what?”

“Irene didn’t tell you?

“Tell me what?”

“Oops.  She was supposed to tell you.”

“Tell me what Dog?” 

“She’s pregnant.”

“Who’s pregnant?”

“Irene.”

“Come again?”

“Yeah we just found out today.  Irene skipped her period.  She then started feeling funny.  Her hand went numb.  Her eye kept twitching.  Yada, Yada, we both went into the lab together, and Bob’s our Uncle.  

“What is she like four days pregnant?

“Almost.”

“Holy Crap Scratch.  Congrats.  She’s a real score.”

“Thanks Man.  Hey you haven’t told Irene anything about my…..”

“Not a thing.”

“Good.  And Hey Man, with your blessing, we want to name the baby after you.”

“Seriously?  What if it comes out looking more Chinese than White?  You can’t name a Chinese looking baby Aaron, or Erin.”

Love Shack by the B52’s began pumping out of the speakers.  Scratchy excused himself and jumped out into the crowded dance floor and began pogo dancing in his green iguana suit.  I found a small table in the corner and sat down and began eating my free food.  I finally spotted Irene on the other side of the room.  She looked great.  She was surrounded by all sorts of people that I had never seen.  They were laughing and carrying on about this that and the other.  She was probably breaking the news to everyone about her being three days pregnant.  Nutty place this Puerto Escondido.

It was now 11pm.  The crowd was thinning out and I was just about to do the same.  I thought about quietly slipping out the back door like I am known to do, saying goodbye, nice to meet you, and thank you, to only the people that come between me and my direct path to the exit door.  That’s exactly the moment that Irene and Perfect Ass Paula came over to me.  I got nervous.  I’ve been seeing Perfect Ass Paula for years, but have never had the courage to say anything to her.  Leave it to Girl Friday I thought. 

“Hello Aaron, this is my good friend Paula.  Paula, Aaron.  Aaron, Paula.”

Paula was wearing a bathing suit top, and a skimpy little yoga bottom of some sort.  She was barefoot.  Her black hair was in braids.  She wore a skull and crossbones necklace.  She had a small stud in her right nostril.  She wore a Livestrong bracelet, and had a tattoo of Wilma Flintstone on the inside of her left bicep.  I put my hand out and kissed her on the right cheek.  I told her that I have seen her around for years, and that it was really nice to finally meet her.  She smiled.  I could tell that she had consumed her share of alcohol because she just kept giggling at nothing in particular. 

Irene vanished before I could congratulate her on becoming pregnant.  Paula put her arm around me and whispered something in my ear that sounded like, “Do you want to go skinny dipping in the ocean?”  I guess because her ass is so damn perfect, she figured that my answer was going to be yes, and so she just turned her back and started walking down the stairs towards the beach without me.  I didn’t know what to do.  Part of me began thinking about Jaws.  The other part was thinking about her Perfect Ass.  Part of me was wondering whether this was a good time to perform ‘The Takeaway’.  The other part was thinking about that Ass.

I pulled a 10 peso coin out of the pocket of my bathing suit.  Heads I go skinny dipping with Perfect Ass Paula, and tails I don’t.  It was tails.

THE END

The last time I flew out of the Puerto Escondido Airport was March 2, 2012.  I burro(ed) home some baby clothes that The Maestro’s son had bought his new baby niece,(they live in Watsonville) a rare brake pad for a 1981 Volkswagon Bus, and a letter that Scratchy wanted me to drop in a mailbox once I got home.  Two times per year, I am reminded that I will always be a burro until I move to Puerto Escondido for good.  Puerto Tax.  Burro duties to The United States are typically much less taxing than the ones coming back.

A few days after I got back in the Cruz, I finally remembered to mail the letter.  I vaguely recall noticing that it was addressed to some Asset Firm. Somewhere in Cohasset, CA.  The reason I still remembered the name Cohasset was because I had never heard of that town before.  Struck me as odd.  Like maybe Scratchy had meant Cotati or Coalinga.  I’ve logged a ton of bicycle miles in and around this great state, and evidently the city of Cohasset had slipped through the maps.  So it went noted for sure.

Point of the story, and I forget exactly which site it was, maybe MyLife, or LinkedIn, or ClassMates, or some other governmental tracking device, (drum role please) but I saw that this Jasper pimp lives in Cohasset, CA. 

Case Solved.  Scratchy done did it.  Period!  No two ways about it.  For shits & giggles, I continued my investigating to see what else I could learn about the guy.  Like the fact that he was a heavyweight with AOL before cashing out everything in 2004.  Owns 3% of Clifbar.  Married without Children.  Loves Almond Butter.  I found no reference to his “Hey Man” nickname.  

So here’s what’s up.  And don’t tell anyone that I told you this.  Over the past four years, Scratchy has confided some very personal information with me that I swore I would never reveal.  And for the great most part, I have kept my promise.  Backup.  The reason he told me these secrets, or this secret, is because he wasn’t having an ounce of fun living a complete lie.  A partial lie he reasoned, was a different story.  He figured that if he told at least one person the truth, then the truth would at least be out there.  Once he put the truth out there, and again, even if it rests with only me, then this Big Fib takes on a whole new creative life of its own. As twisted as this probably sounds about now, I am just going to come right out with it:

Scratchy is fucking loaded.  Gobs of Green.  The guy made a cool mint.  He was like fifth dude on board at Mapquest.  Chief Map Guy, or Vice President of Mapping.  He never said.  I do know that in 2001, AOL purchased MapQuest, and Scratchy was relocated to AOL’s corporate headquarters in Denver Colorado.  He lasted exactly 71 days after the merger before throwing in the towel.  He told me once that he was too cold to care about plotting maps or making money.  So he cashed out and moved to the tropics.  And the secret?  I’m almost embarrassed to say.  Bless his heart. He personifies, or carries himself around Puerto Escondido as though he ain’t got a peso to his name.  Always broke.  Always complaining about costs going up.  Always looking for the best deals on flights when he has to go back to The States.  Always pointing fingers at greed & wealth.  Always fumbling for his change.

He has everyone in town fooled.  He looks the part, dresses the part, acts the part.  It’s amazing what he does.  The things he comes up with, and the roles that he plays out to the end, are Oscar worthy.  You can’t even dream this shit up what he does.  You’d have to see it, AND know his secret to believe it.  And I have, And I do.  Will Hunting and Burgess Meredith don’t have a thing on Scratchy.  He doesn’t owe anybody money. He doesn’t beg for handouts or run out on dinner bills. Nothing like that. He basically just keeps to himself and lives his lie life.  Draws maps when he has to.  Surfs from time to time.  Reads a lot.  Rents himself a humble little cement room.  Eats simple.  Doesn’t drink or do drugs.  I am almost certain that I am the only one in Puerto that knows his real story.  

Before I forget.  I should tie in The Hand Guy and his relationship with Scratchy.  This is a more formidable story to explain.  For starters, The Hand Guy is a Trust Funder, and everybody in town knows it.  The reason they know it is because he has told everyone.  It was his way of making friends.  You know, buy a round of drinks every night sort of guy.

Scratchy told me that The Hand Guy came to him about five months ago and asked for his help.  He asked Scratchy for any ideas how he(Hand Guy) might go about reversing his “Rich Kid” reputation.  He(Hand Guy) followed that up by saying that he wanted to determine who his real friends were.  Scratchy told me that he told The Hand Guy to fake a sickness of some sort.  Start getting ill, and be sure to act the part at all times.  Don’t let your guard down.  Don’t blow your cover. Not even once. If anybody asks you for anything, just tell them you’re sick.  And be sure to tell them that it’s costing you all your money to figure it out.  Become yourself a victim.  Should work.

So The Hand Guy decided that his sickness was going to be his hand and wrist injury that he suffered during that one basketball game last spring.  Hasn’t been healing well..gone on to see numerous specialists..had numerous operations..costing a fortune, blah blah blah.  Most days, The Hand Guy wears a sling.  Other days he has it wrapped in like 10 meters worth of gauze so that it’s the size of a women’s purse.  Some days he has branches of Arnica hanging out of the gauze.  Other days he has it wrapped in a banana leaf.  On Sundays, he usually has his whole arm and wrist exposed, but he tints his wrist purple with Microdyn to make it look all gnarly.  Last week I saw him with the wrong hand wrapped up.  Swear to God!  His good hand!   That my friend is a tough act to follow right there.

I sent Irene an email suggesting we spend the afternoon together at Carizalillo.  Outside of spotting her a few times with Scratchy, I really hadn’t seen her too much in the three weeks she had been here.  She never disturbed me during nap time.  She never popped over to my place with any questions.  I never spotted her in my Secret Comedor.  Make no mistake about it, This Girl was taking care of business, I just never really saw her in action.  I sure did feel her presence though.  Boy did I feel it. 

So yeah, her time in Puerto Escondido was winding down, and I really just wanted to spend an afternoon with her to let her know how much I appreciated her work.  I also owed her some money.  Two days prior, tucked nicely away in an envelope in the basket where she has the guys deliver my fruits and nuts, she had left a stack of receipts that I needed to pay back.  So there was that bit of business.  And while we were at it, and now that I had some flip-side information of my own, I figured it would be a fine time to link together this chain of command that put she and I together in San Jose Del Pacifico on Christmas Day.  

We agreed to meet at 2pm at the top of the steps that lead down to La Playa Carizalillo.  Carizalillo is a small little cove like setting just on the other side of The Marinero.  To get to this beach, you have to endure like 500 steps that zig zag their way down the cliff.  You’d have to see it to believe it.  Pretty blue lagoon-esque.  Great for swimming and snorkeling.  When you finally get to the hot sand, all ya gotta do is choose a palapa and pretend you are completely somewhere else.  A place where time shares are not sold.  A place where people don’t showboat their money.  A place where you are free to be, so long as you patronize the beholders of your precious shade. 

Irene really appeared to be in a good mood.  Maybe it was because she was leaving for home in a couple of days.  More than likely it was because Puerto Escondido had made its way into her heart.  As I’ve said before, this place can be infectious for the soul.  Within minutes of finding ourselves a shady home, she was out in the ocean.  She spent a good hour out there at least.  I sat in the shade and got to page 22 in Cannery Row.  I ordered up some fresh fish which came with a salad and french fries.  A Cold Beer as well.

By 6pm I would say that I got to know my Girl Friday pretty well.  At least better than I had.  I learned that she was born in Oroville, CA, but that her family moved to the Bay Area when she was young.  I learned that she was brought up in a home with a single mother, and an older sister.  I learned that she somehow made it onto The Price is Right when she was 18 and won herself a car.  I learned that she also won a full ride to SF State on a swimming scholarship, but chose instead to attend Stanford and pursue her academics.   

After the sun had set, we walked back up all the stairs and decided to have a coffee at Cafecito – A popular restaurant and bakery along The Rinconada.  That is when I asked her the questions I had been stewing on since my private little meeting with Tino the Great.  

“Irene, you’ve been a blessing.  Really & Truly.  Heaven sent.  Strike that.  Actually not heaven sent, because if you were heaven sent, then I wouldn’t feel I owe it to myself to find out Who Done It.  But Irene…Seriously…I’m sort of dying to know what you might know?”

“About?”

“About who set you up to be my personal assistant?”

“It’s a long story.  Do you really need to know?”

“Not really, other than there is a void in my short story that needs a little plotting.”

“You’re writing a short story?”

“…long story.”

“Well is it a short one, or is it a long one?”

“That’s what she said,” I said.

“Ha Ha”

“Look…Irene…Isn’t there anything you can tell me?  Like how did you hear about me?  Was it actually Tino that personally called you?  I’m just dying to know what I’m sure you know.  Tell me something!  Anything!”

“No, nobody called me.  I came home from studying for my winter exams one evening, and my mom said that my services became urgently needed in Mexico, and that it would meet all the criteria needed to fulfill my Masters Curriculum.  Four days later there was a flight itinerary in my mailbox.  Round trip tickets.  Per Diem Allowance.  It all unfolded pretty magically.  I was stoked!  On December 23rd I flew from San Francisco to Oaxaca.  The next day I hopped a morning van to the mountains.  That’s where I met you.”  

“Slow down, slow down.  So at some point, you must have told your mother to keep her eyes and ears open for a unique opportunity that met whatever necessary requirements were required. 

“Something like that,” she said.

“What’s your Mother’s name?”   

“Daisy.”

“Tell me about her.”

She then went on to tell me that her mother Daisy is a jazz musician, and that back in the budding days of her music career, she was in a duo with Kevin Bacon’s brother Michael, and that..(Insert Massive Interruption)  AH HAH!!!!!  I KNEW IT!!!  It’s that stupid fucking Degrees of Kevin Bacon Separation Game that I always hated and never understood!! “Anyway,” I said.

“Anywayyyy, because my mom and Michael have both made careers out of their music, they have sort of remained in contact over the years.  You know, with Facebook and all.  I know for sure that my mom mentioned something to Michael about my schooling requirements, thinking that he knows people who know people.  He’s pretty well connected.  He’s like one degree to Kevin Bacon you know.”

“Good One”

“Thanks”

“Is that all you know?” I asked.

“Pretty much.  Well the only other thing I know is that I heard my mom mention the name Jasper “Hey Man” Wilkens one evening while I think she was Skyping Michael.  I’m not 100%, but I think maybe Jasper is Kevin Bacon’s asset manager or money middler.  “That’s all I know Mr. Bossman,” she teased. 

Girl Friday went away to use the restroom.  It was Deja Vu all over again.  I started to break it down in my head.  I just learned that Irene’s Mom Daisy got in touch with Michael Bacon, who, regardless of whether or not he talked to his more famous brother, Michael was successfully able to pass the baton to some fellow named Jasper “Hey Man” Wilkens.  

(Still doing the math and thinking quietly to myself) I had Yukon Sue, Big Wave Don, Hand Guy, Daisy Burgstrom, Michael Bacon, and Jasper “Hey Man” Wilkens.  Including Tino and Irene, that made eight people.  Nine if you include me.  Where could I possibly be going with this.  I was confused.  I wondered if the game was called eight degrees to Kevin Bacon, or seven degrees to separation.  I wondered why it even mattered what it was called.  One thing I do know…I was figuratively in this God Damned game, and that can never be taken away from me!  You can not deny that I was a real life player in some sort of real life Kevin Bacon game.  Whoa!  What are the odds of that?   

So here’s what I did. (Still doing the math and thinking quietly to myself) I discarded the names Tino and Irene which left me w/ six.  Three people were on one side of the middle, and three were on the other.  My intuition suggested that there had to be a catalyst that connected and enabled the two sides.  It couldn’t work any other way.  Make sense?  Well it does to me, and I’m the one trying to wrap this bitch up so I can get on with my life.  Still with me?  So simple math suggested that there was little to no chance that this Jasper character can connect directly to The Hand Guy without a catalyst or an enabler.  And….Not only A catalyst, but THE catalyst.

Irene returned from using the bathroom.  It was now dark.  We split a cab back towards both our places.  On the way home, that’s when Irene told me about her Bon Voyage Party she was having for herself on Saturday Night.  “A big group of us are getting together at ArcoIris Restaurant after the 49er game. Perfect Ass Paula said she was going to be there, wink. Don’t blow it boss,” she said.  The driver pulled off at The Vaca Loca.  I kissed Irene on the right cheek and got out of the cab.  She continued on towards La Punta.  When I got back to my concrete hideout, I took a cold shower, cut open a medium sized papaya, and turned on my computer.  I was on a mission.  In the long & skinny, rectangular box, I typed in the words Jasper “Hey Man” Wilkens, and hit Enter.

It’s rare that I hangout or hideout in The Comedor during the afternoons.  I should try and do it more often because there is a lot more good action going on in the afternoon compared to when I am normally there.  Many of the women from across the street are fueling up before a long night ahead.  Many of “The Fellas”, after a long, hot day in the work saddle, are in there as well.  Tino’s lovely wife keeps a spotless kitchen and all the food is made by hand.  Tino keeps his refrigerators one degree Celsius colder than anywhere in town, and only charges 10 pesos for a Cold Corona.    

So it was 3:30pm on a Monday, and I’m in there.  I was packing my pocket dictionary which is customary.  After my third Ice Cold Corona, I decided that I wanted to talk to Tino about his role in putting me together with a particular Irene Burgstrom.  Normally I would never engage in conversation with Tino because I can’t understand one fucking word the guy says.  I take that back.  When he sees me, which is just about everyday, he always smiles and says Arrrrroooooooooooon.  That I understand.  But seriously, I’ve tried and tried to understand his dialect, and it’s of no use.  All the Mexicans seem to understand the guy just fine, which is why I know he is talking Spanish.  But still..

In Spanish, I told Tino that I met a girl named Irene Burgstrom that said that it was you(I pointed at Tino) that sent her to help me.  “Es Verdad?”  Tino nodded up and down and rattled off like an eighty word sentence.  Or just one extra long word.  The nodding up and down I understood.  Most everything else was a wash, although I did hear him say Yukon Sue, and Big Wave Don early on in his answer.  And towards the end, he mentioned The Hand Guy.  I most definitely picked up on the words Yukon Sue and Big Wave Bob.  That I do know.  Final Answer.  And am pretty sure I detected the word ManoGuey at the same time he grabbed one of his hands.  Yukon Sue I know pretty well.  Big Wave Don and I are familiar strangers to one another.  The Hand Guy I just know of.(Hand Guy wouldn’t know me from Adam)  All three characters linger in and around Puerto.

Tino put his arm around me.  I didn’t know what to make of that.  It would have been easier to make something of it if I knew what he was telling me.  For all I know he could have been telling me that he wanted to put his finger up my butt.  Or telling me that I need to find myself a new private hangout.  Though I am pretty sure he was just telling me how much he loves having his personal Gringo Toy around and that he was(is) just looking after my best interests.  It was a moment I will never forget.  I shook Tino’s hand and said, “Gracias Amigo.”  He smiled and said, “graciandalepuesalevaleteveodiosuhhuhuhhuh”  I took that to mean, “See You Later Alligator.”  

I left The Comedor thinking I was well on my way to uncovering this meaningless mystery.  So apparently Tino was feeling my pain, and wanted to do something about it.  He must have mentioned something to his longtime Gringo Friend from Canada named Yukon Sue.  And I will assume that Yukon Sue must have told her on again off again squeeze named Don, who must have mentioned something to The Hand Guy.  

It didn’t make complete sense that Big Wave Don would pass this baton to The Hand Guy, because, although at one point in their lives the very best of friends, it was Don that clotheslined The Hand Guy during a drunk game of One-on-One basketball at The Rockaway last April.  Evidently, The Hand Guy fell hard on his hand and wrist, and supposedly has seen like ten doctors, and nobody can seem to fix it.  He still walks around town with a sling.(more on that later)  So it’s sort of a stretch that Don and Hand Guy are talking again, but much stranger things have happened in Puerto Escondido, so I was going to run with that.

Iburg had done it again.  She somehow arranged a Yamaha Scooter for me to use at my disposal between 10a and 12:45p everyday.  And only then.  She knew I needed it apres surf, solely for the use of darting over to play chess with The Legend.  The Legend had moved south east of town, and because of the 1.5 mile distance between us, our chess time had suffered a huge hit.  His nickname for me is Columbo.  He calls me Colombo because I like to mumble and murmur his thoughts and my false strategies during our matches.  Peter Falk style.  He’s constantly telling me to Cool it Columbo!  

Having the scooter has been really nice.  The Warden uncovered this pretty decent bike that needed some minor work; New battery or maybe a starter.  Maybe both.  Who knows?  New rear view mirrors.  Stuff like that.  I think she convinced the owner to lend it to her and she would make all the repairs, get the thing tuned up real nice, etc..  She told me it would only cost me 1000 pesos, and that I could use it until I went back to The States. 

I guess she had to promise the owner of the scooter that she would also visit him a couple times a week and have Spaghetti dinners with him??   That seemed weird to me, but Friday insisted that Todo was Bien, and that I stay out of it.  Truth is, the spaghetti dinner promise wasn’t a cause for alarm or query.  You haven’t been in a deal, until you’ve been in a Puerto deal.  I apologized for meddling.  And she was right.  I just wanted the scooter to align myself again with some A-Level chess.  And that’s precisely what I got.  And that’s precisely what I did.

A whole week had gone by, and I was really beginning to feel the difference that Irene was putting on my day to day.  Immediately there were ideas set in motion, arroyos being swept, servers being worked on, groups being joined, struggles getting addressed, arrangements being made, food & water being delivered, etc..  She had even gone next door and kidnapped released the barking dog that was short-tied to a tree.  Apparently the dog followed her into the taxi and back to her room at La Punta.  Did you happen to see my dog?  You mean the unhappy and annoying one that barks all day because it wants to be given a second chance at life?  Yeah that’s her.  Nope, haven’t seen her.   

Irene was also finding time to find her own flow.  On my walk today after having made my first appearance at the newly formed chess club, I spotted Irene and Scratchy surfing The Beach Break.  This was now the second time in as many days that I had seen them together. Yesterday I saw them both heading into the 6pm yoga class at Vida Yoga.  Interesting.  I hadn’t remembered introducing the two, and began to wonder how they could have even met.  Regardless, I was stoked to see them both out there enjoying a magnificent blue bird of a morning.  Like was yesterday, neither of them noticed me.  

I headed over to Flor de Arena for a shot of E.  That’s where I ran into Eggman. It’s rare that I see Eggman out of the water.  He doesn’t know I call him Eggman because I disguise it by calling him Dog.  What’s up Dog?  Yeah Dog.  Later Dog.  But in secret, I call him Eggman.  I should call him Chicken.  Dog looks like a Chicken because he eats a lot of Eggs.  Sixty per week.  The big Six Oh.  That’s a lot of fucking eggs.  At least the eggs here don’t need to be refrigerated like in Your Town, USA.  He said he’d cut his consumption by half if they needed refrigeration.  

Speaking of fridges..that reminds me.  I have another friend in Reno, NV named Eggman.  He was already Eggman when I first met him in 1996.  Had I grown up with this Eggman on Long Island, I would have pegged him as Eggman by Kindergarten.  He’s Gregg.  With two G’s.  It’s a no brainer sort of a nickname.  Especially if you know him.   Supposedly his Pops played ball for the NY Jets, but that doesn’t have a damn thing to do with any of this.  

My Eggman is Eggman because I did my research on his egg eating habits.  Therefore, that’s a well carved out nickname.  Anyway, my Eggman is pretty lean and mean.  Tan.  Blond receding hair.  Pointed beak.  Bird Legs.  The whole nine.  A committed surfer for sure.  Lives a very humble, structured sort of existence.  He’s ten years my junior, and an East Coaster.  He’s been posting up in Puerto Escondido for about two years now.  He said he grew up on a farm.  Probably around lots of chickens.  He’d say Californians like me are the most bizarre brand of people on Earth.  One of his claims would be that we don’t follow College Football on Saturdays.  Exacto!

        

Attempt to fix the issue with my God Damned Internet at my hotel.  Something just isn’t configured right.  Sometimes it works great.  Other times it doesn’t even recognize the network.  Pisses me off!!

Buckle up a storage arrangement for all my shit while I am back in The States.  I will pay as much as 500 pesos per month for the right setup for my valuables.  Of course I’d prefer to pay nothing.

Convince Big Jim to neuter Rocky.  Let him know I found an online outfit that makes both Nylon, and Genuine Leather Nut Sacks that he can buy and have fitted and made to appear as though his dog is still packing a sack.

Dispose whatever animal has curled up and died near the top of my broken down arroyo.  This arroyo is crucial to my flow.  The smell is foul.  Third time in as many months that a dead smell has appeared.  Might have something to do with The Giant Iguana and The Tractor Tire.

Educate the beautiful people of this region to embrace the idea that dogs and cats are not only worth having around when they are puppies and kittens.

Find a reliable kid to buy and deliver one Pineapple, One Papaya, Four bananas, twelve small oranges, and a 10p bag of Garlic and Salt Peanuts every Tuesday and Friday.  I will personally show you where each one of these items can be purchased.  You in turn find someone to fill your shoes when you go back to school.  I know exactly what it should all cost, give or take a banana.  I will leave the money on my patio, PLUS an additional 50 pesos for the service.

Ground my hotel.  The owner’s son is Samuel.  You won’t be able to understand his Dad which is why the son is a good starting point.  You can tell them that I can’t play my keyboard without being shocked.  Tell them that I am not a happy camper.  The word for ground is Tierra.  Probably a job for an electrician.  Lots of information can be found on the internet.(Reminder: Fix Internet)

Have my drinking water delivered to my door on Monday mornings.  Train the boys to come before the sun comes out, and to please leave new(er) bottles.  Be sure to teach them how to leave the water in the shade.  Make sure they understand that I am willing to leave a few extra pesos as a token of my gratitude.  But be sure that you train these kids.  Training is the key.  Don’t assume anything around here.

Investigate into the current status of Rebel Soccer in Santa Cruz County.  Once a potential dynasty, team management decided to throw it all away for a pathetic brand that rewards the player that yells for the ball the loudest.  It’s pretty disgusting!  Anyway, see what you can find out.  The team captain’s email is funbunch@hotmail.com. 

Join the Puerto Escondido Online Forum through your laptop computer, and under an alias.  You choose the alias.  Make it kind of girly like BikiniBabe7.  And then make a few innocent girly posts from your computer.  That’s all you gotta do.  Be sure to leave me w/ the password and username before you leave. 

Keep your eye out for a deal on a scooter.  I’d rather not buy one.  Prefer a Honda over an Italika.  It doesn’t need to be legal, and don’t let anybody fool you into believing it needs to be legal.  I really just need one until about noon everyday.

Like my friend Scratchy on Facebook.  You’ll meet him one day.  He only has a couple dozen FB friends.  Bit of a loner that guy.

Mop the tiles on my patio once per week.  Mondays are best.  I keep a mop and a bucket in the stairwell area.  Fabuloso of course.  Any flavor works for me.

Nap time for me is 1-3pm everyday.  Just an FYI.  I ask that these two hours of my day remain uncontested.  Nothing is that important where I would need to be bothered during that time.

Orchestrate my living arrangements for when I return to Santa Cruz.  Your best bet is to get in touch with a fellow named The Vaird.  The guy owes me big time for all the work I’ve done on his compound over the years.  Plus he stole my 25 year old rubber tree.  Offer up free piano lessons as a last resort.  Tell him I’m broke.

Poke around the premises where the Christian Surfers have set up their “shop”.  I smell a rat or two.  You can Pretend you are interested in their movement.  Give them a few bucks.  Be sure to report back to me. 

Quietly go about your business.  Never give out my name, or tell anybody where I live.  Got that?!?!

Return a bottle of Soy Vey to Super Che.  I’ve attached the receipt.  As you can see, it was very expensive.  It was also opened and had a rank smell to it.  If an Indian woman cuts in front of you in line, tap her heel twice.  Make sure you do it twice.  Once could easily be deemed an accident.  Not twice though. If that doesn’t work, Then whisper English in her ear.  She’ll get the message.

Sweep the broken glass out of the broken down concrete arroyo.  Again, this is a crucial beach access way for me.  98% of the time I am barefoot.  I think there are now six different parts that need sweeping.(see map) 

Tip-Toe real stealth-like over to the barking dog that is short-tied up to a shade tree on my neighbors property to the left of my hotel.(if you’re facing the ocean)  Please don’t get caught.  I can’t figure out for certain if the dog is saying get me out of here, OR I’m glad that I at least get food and water.  Untie the fucker and see what it does because I can’t take it any longer.

Untie the 14 dogs within the mile radius of my room(see map) that are probably short-tied up for life.  Start by reasoning with the owner(s).  Offer up some money if need be.  Last resort is to offer money AND take the dog.  I’d prefer you not take the dog, but do it if it’s necessary.  I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

Vibe all those that have entitlement issues.  Brazillian Surfers, Italian Dickheads, Mean Ol’ White People on Vacation, and Light Skinned Mexicans are some of the bigger culprits.  Get em‘ Good.

Write a letter to the Stockholders of Coca Cola and let them know that they are profiting off of poisoning an entire country with their product and that 9 of 10 of their plastic bottles are being burned instead of recycled.  But be sure to also mention that I love an Ice Cold Coke out of a Glass Bottle from time to time.  Nothing like it.

XX Amber is much better than their Lager.  Trust me on that one.

You need to be sure to stay out of the sun between 11am and 4pm.  Go to bed early and get up early.  Your future is at stake.  Don’t fall into the puerto trap.  It makes for a long, unproductive day..

Zip over to Reno’s Swiss Bakery(see map) on Saturday mornings, and pick me up two Chocolate Volcanos and a fresh baguette.  Get there early!

We spent the rest of New Years Day under the rooftop ramada at Big Jim’s apartments.  It took until about sunset to discuss all of The Puerto Lowdowns.  Not true.  It took about three hours, which included debriefing.  Around 4pm, we agreed on a little break.  We strolled down to the beach, sprinted over the scalding sand, and had a nice swim.  Having the warm Pacific Ocean at your fingertips provides unparalleled joy and refuge.  As the skydivers fell out of the sky, Irene and I ducked for cover under a seasonal beach palapa.  We each had a cold coco and pulled up a hammock.  Irene was loving it.  She had gone from one cold environment to another, but was now feeling the unfiltered warmth of the Mexican Tropics.  By 5pm we had walked back on the rooftop.   

The Job Description read like The Alphabet.  In no particular order of importance, I had made a list of things that I needed Girl Friday to attempt to pull off.  Scratchy told me(actually he drew me a map) where I needed to go to have this list laser printed and laminated.  I kept it to one page.  Had to bring the font down to Eight to make it all fit.  So there was lots to it.  Well thought out and researched.  A to Z sort of accuracy.  Just as the green flash appeared, I handed Girl her syllabus.  Timing can be everything.

We agreed to meet again in the morning at Los Tios for breakfast.  “It’s situated right in front of the main surf break.  Can’t miss it,” I said.  I told her that I’d be there around 10ish.  I asked that she study her syllabus, and come to breakfast prepared with any questions.  She asked if we could push the meeting back to more like Noon.  She said she would need tomorrow in the am to study her assignments because the light switch in her room wasn’t working.   

“But it’s all Good,” she said.  “I’ve got A Guy coming over to fix the light situation.  He’s also going to look into why the water pressure in the shower is so low.  And deliver a toilet seat too.  Oh and at 11, I am teaching a yoga class at Healing Hands.  Is Noon Cool?”

“You’ve been in Puerto for 27 hours and you’ve got a Guy?”

“Yep”

“And you are teaching a yoga class too?”

“Yep”

“Are you getting paid to teach?”

 “Yep”

How cute I thought.  She thinks she has a Handyman Guy coming over to help her and that she is teaching a class and getting paid for it.  A belly laugh was brewing.  “Well, sorry to hear about the minor inconveniences in your room.   At least you have a nice new bed,” I said.  “You mean that 15 year old piece of shit mattress wrapped in plastic?” she replied.

   

 

On New Years Day Morning, I met Miss Burgstrom down at the beach in front of Guadua.  Guadua is(was) a fancy restaurant halfway between Playa Zicatela and La Punta.  I’ve eaten there a few times.  Tasty food.  When hurricane Carlotta came to town this past June, Guadua lost its million dollar palapa.  I got word that it really only looked like a million dollar palapa, but that they cut out many of the costly corners that would have helped with fending off 100+mph winds.  Sounds more like it.  Their once gorgeous palapa disintegrated.  Gone.  No roof.  Poof.  I think the rebuilding process has been slow.  It appears that they are back open for business.  I couldn’t be 100% sure.  I couldn’t care less either.  

Irene showed up five minutes early.  I should know because I got there early to stretch in the shade that the lifeguard tower makes from the sun.  We began walking the shoreline towards Zicatela.  I began with the ‘lowdowns’ in order of importance.  I wanted to get all the ‘lowdowns’ out of the way so that I could segue into more the nuts and bolts of her apprenticeship.  Tasks, chores, responsibilities, public relations, that sort of nonsense.  During the ‘lowdown spiel’, Irene appeared to be wide eyed with fear.  Her left eye began to twitch.  She wanted to know if the lowdowns were true.  I didn’t understand what she meant.  She then asked what would really happen if she looked a stranger in the eye or walked around Puerto in bare feet too much.  I told her it depends on which stranger, and whether or not she can walk and chew gum at the same time. 

From about 100 yards away, I could see two surfers walking with their boards.  I knew one of them, which meant I knew them both.  Seeing The Surf Mutt really caught me by surprise.  He didn’t see me because he’s a fucking mutt.  I stopped and explained the story real quickly to Girl.  I labeled it an unforeseen lowdown.  I told her a little bit about our pseudo friendship, and that last year we parted on strange terms.  She naturally wanted to know what happened.  I told her that he apparently got sick & tired of me changing his nickname, and decided to walk right out of my life.  I explained that I didn’t try to get to the bottom of it because, although I liked his harmless company, and his chess prowess, he had never really proved that he was any sort of real friend.  “Plus his favorite word is Hitler,” I said.   

But there he was.  The Big Nazi and his boy J the BV from British Columbia.  I was unsure what to do.  The old me would have let them get in the water and dealt with it later, if it even came to that.  But with some mild encouragement from Girl, I just walked right up to both of these maggots, and made like nothing had ever happened.  Played the reverse differential card.  Outfoxed em.  At first they didn’t recognize me because I had extra long hair.  I said my hello’s and kept my words nice and tucked.  I let the Surf Mutt and his dumb dumb boy toy do all the cackling.  Friday ran a mean interference, and the whole encounter was a piece of cake.

All winter long, the water has been real warm.  Not Cabo warm, because that would be cold.  Not Puerta Vallarta warm, because that too would be cold.  I’m talking about 82 degree temperatures in the dead of winter.  Pretty Nice.  The surf has unfortunately, by Puerto’s standards, been less than desirable.  And it’s the small, less than desirable surf that can actually be more dangerous if you can believe that.  Any lifeguard around here will say that most of the accidents and surfing mishaps at Zicatela occur in small, junky surf.     

Michigan Mike hates it when it’s small.  Just fucking hates it.  Always bitching about it too.  “I should’ve stayed in bed,” he’s always saying.  He’s a big boy.  He rides a big, heavily glassed board with glassed in fins.  His strength is that he isn’t afraid to Go.  Gotta give him props for that.  I bumped into him eating breakfast at my secret spot on the highway behind the five mature ficus trees.  He lifted up his shirt to show me the fin gashes on his back.  They weren’t perfect slashes that warranted stitches or anything like that.  These were heavy impact contact between (his)back and (his)board.  He said his board is in the shop because two of the three fins had been snapped off.  He was pissed. 

On the brighter side of All Things Ocean, not only has the water been warm all winter, but it’s also been quite clear as well.  Especially this past two weeks.  And the bird life knows it.  Boy do they know it.  Especially The Pelican.  Puerto happens to be a pelican hot spot in the winter.  Especially at La Punta where the shallows are littered with fish that range in size from one inch to one foot.  Millions upon Hundreds of them.  So The Big Birds of the sky fly in these enormous, rotating echelons, combing the shoreline with needlepoint precision.  Flying High.  Flying Low.  Huge and Healthy.  Maybe they are Hungry.  Maybe they are full.  Either way is Win-Win.

These Giant V formations in the air are quite the spectacle.  I saw one echelon with over 100 birds all told.  I began wondering whether or not every bird takes its turn at the front, OR maybe just the powerhouse, mature birds do the great majority of the pulling.  Lots to the hierarchy I’d imagine.  Pelican Omerta you can be sure.  I would bet the answer can be found on the internet.  Whatever the answer, the pelican is just downright impressive.  Pelicans are not like any of their ocean contemporaries.  You would Never see a pelican digging through trash at Trader Joes or Burger King.  That’s Seagull work.  Pelicans eat strictly fish.  They don’t need any free handouts.    

I was running the beach towards La Punta yesterday when I came across three living Pelicans standing on the shore.  My initial thought was that something was terribly wrong.  Pretty out of character for a Pelican to stand on the sand and rest.  Pelicans rest on jagged rocks covered with pelican shit.  Typically at or near a spot called Pelican Point.  If a pelican isn’t resting on Pelican Point, it will rest in the ocean itself, much like a duck would do on a lake or a river.   

So here stood these pelicans on the warm sand near the shoreline.  Standing pretty stoically.  And it just wasn’t right.  No more than a half hour later, on my return from La Punta, all three pelicans were dead in the sand.  Big Jim would claim Red Tide.  Not me.  I wondered how much time they spent pulling their weight at the front.  I knew one of the lifeguards would have a huge hole dug by sunset.  RIP.