Dispatch 007: THREE BLACK AND MILDS

Dusk approached as we parked on the border in El Paso. We walked on the footbridge over the Rio Grande into Juarez. We had spent many nights here before but Zila took the lead.

“Before the Derby, let's hit up the Kentucky Club for margaritas. They make the best,” he told us.

Zila was half-Korean. Older than us yet often carded while in Juarez. He knew everyone though it seemed few remembered him.

The sun brought light to the brown desert dust that never settled against the broken concrete. Metal cages ready to be rolled up and down. Men waited outside for the evening to begin. Women waited inside for the day to end. Dogs roamed.

The Kentucky Club was a few blocks beyond the border. An unassuming bar you would pass on any street.

“They claim to have made the first margarita,” Zila informed us as we entered the small establishment. Hand crafted wooden tables and chairs lined the decadent wallpaper as photos of the city through the ages hung above. Margaritas came in a heavy glass, one for a scotch neat.

"It is fine," Yonko told us. He had slicked back black hair, held in place with hairspray. A fitted leather jacket with jeans that had a cut on the outside bottom inseam, and boots meant for a motorcycle that never saw more than a runway.

"I haven't had anything in months," Junkin said, holding his empty glass up to the bartender. Junkin was a man built from the husky section of a JCPenney catalog.

“How was Balad?” Zila asked Junkin, as we waited for the next round,

“Shit was crazy. Always gettin’ hit with mortars," he replied. I anticipated a Tim O'Brien recount but he spoke in fragmented episodes. "Dumb ass people would never take cover." He continued in between sips. "Had to pull a few in behind the barricades." He got up to stretch his legs. "They'd leave their helmets.”

He set the glass down on an adjacent table as he walked towards the door, a declaration of his freedom. I went with Junkin to walk while Yonko and Zila went to get something to eat.

“We will meet y'all in an hour outside the Derby,” I said.

Dust, invisible in the night sky, grew into a film along the skin as we strolled aimlessly through the city.

“Fuck man. This is Harrisburg, where I grew up," Junkin spoke to himself as we went along the mangled sidewalk. "You can see there is no way out.”

Men sat outside store fronts hidden behind black curtains. Cigarettes idle as they read the paper, lit as they scanned in both directions. They appeared busy with unseen customers. A few lined every street. Open air grills woven through the blocks. Spice in the air.

A woman wearing a short skirt and crop-top with heels meant for the streets but never for walking stood outside an apartment building. She motioned for Junkin to come over. He went. I could not hear their conversation.

A few minutes passed. He said, “I am going upstairs with her.”

He followed her, and I him through a narrow, short door. We walked upstairs, and she opened the door to a one bedroom apartment. It sat in the corner with an open living room and kitchen. Clean and organized. A few plants accented the fading red painted walls.

They closed the bedroom door. There was an open balcony for one with a street view below. A few people walked with heads down. A motorcycle and a car parked opposite one another. Gray buildings without light.

I turned back towards the apartment, contemplating the couch for a moment, before deciding to sit down. The floors were swept but a few bugs crawled. A rat hugged the far wall, as its nails rattled along its path. I looked around. No pictures of people or anything personal.

The bedroom door opened.

“I know she does that many times a night but that was the best blowjob I have ever had. You have to get one from her. I'll pay the twenty dollars. Get one man,” Junkin said with a grin across his face.

I laughed. “I can’t right after you.”

We opened the front door, leaving her in the bedroom.

I never saw her come out.

We walked in quiet solitude to the Derby as the night established itself.

People stumbled out of bars into the streets as we turned onto the main strip. Neon signs: Drink and Drown. Car horns with exhaust billowed. Food stalls opened. An off-center canvas hung above two heavy stained wooden doors on a drab concrete building: Tequila Derby

“Where’d you guys go?” Zila asked while waving us down with Yonko.

“I got a blowjob,” Junkin responded with a smirk.

“You schmuck,” Yonko said with a laugh and a shake of his head.

“Juarez life!” Zila exclaimed and gave a high-five to Junkin.

“Let's go in,” I motioned to them.

“My boy is coming. I told him we'd be upstairs with a table,” Zila told us before we went in.

We paid our ten dollars at the door. Junkin and Yonko got a table, while Zila and I went to get drinks. We slid between people slick with sweat and spilled drinks.

“Let's start this off right!” Zila said to me.

He spoke to the bartender, gave him two dollars and rubbed his hands together, excited. I watched the bartender pour two beers into glasses and shots of dark rum. The bartender pulled a lighter from his pocket.

“You ready! Flaming Dr. Pepper!” Zila yelled.

The shots were lit on fire and dropped immediately into the beer. Foam started to rise as I watched Zila down his in one gulp. I followed his lead. We slammed the glasses down.

We asked the bartender for sixteen pony Coronas and eight shots of 151 rum. We walked up the stairs to a haze of smoke and bass with plastic tables and foldable metal chairs.

We passed out the drinks. Zila introduced his friend.

“This is my boy,” he said as he raised a shot. “For us!”

Everyone raised their shots, and took them. No one kept a straight face as the 151 went down. We drank and swapped stories. I noticed Zila's friend pull a small bag from his pocket. He poured the white powder onto the table and began arranging it.

“You want to do a line with me?” He asked me.

I waved my hand, finished my beer and got up to head downstairs.

The cocaine was still on the table.

I could feel the filth accumulating on the bottom of my shoes from the concrete floor and decided to step outside.

Steam and grease rose from grills stationed in front of a brick wall across the street. Small crowds formed. I made eye contact with a man, and walked over.

"Hola, ¿que tal?" I greeted him.

"Bien, gracias." He smiled back.

I observed the depth of the salsas. The bright green of the cilantro. The white of the onion. The heat radiating in the 2am sky. Then I looked down.

A young boy in sorry navy athletic shorts, a stained white shirt, and flip-flops a size too small. Grime covered his skin.

"Hola, niño pequeño. ¿Quieres comida?" I asked him.

A gentle smile came over as he nodded.

"¿Cuántos quieres?" He held up two fingers.

"¿Podemos tener cinco tacos por favor? Tres para mi y dos para mi amigo. De carne de cachete, si tiene." I said to the street vendor.

The tender fat of the cheek meat was a delicacy, no, a luxury.

The owner handed us our plates. The toppings and salsa were out of reach for the boy. I tapped his shoulder and pointed to the black containers, starting with the salsa on the far right. The boy shook his head frantically. The owner and I laughed. I moved further left, and he eventually nodded. I placed a teaspoon onto each taco for the boy while I added the far right onto mine.

The boy looked at me concerned.

I smiled at him, raised my corn tortilla. He followed suit with a brief pause before our first bite. An intense heat overcame me. A burning in my chest, my throat, my mouth. A fire like no other.

I had spent the last of my money on our meal. My pockets had nothing but three Black and Milds.

"¿Puedo un coke para tres cigarros?" I asked the man as sweat accumulated.

He laughed, nodded and gave me one. I sipped in relief and handed the boy the remaining coke.

My friends found us, standing, eating our meal together. We walked to the footbridge as dawn approached. I saw the boy slip into the crowd, his hand in the air for me.

"Gracias, adios.”