Fistful of Reefer

Fistful of Reefer: scene one

Cantinas on either side of the border fascinated Chancho—such important frivolousness. He cupped his shot of tequila, a Reposado rested in American oak, in the palm of his hand while listening to a collision of conversations. Not particularly fond of enclosed spaces, he shut his eyes.

Slurred English came from the direction of the bar only to be drowned out by Tejano-flavored Spanish. The tang of mohair and sweat, exaggerated by the closed confines, rose in Chancho's nostrils prompting him to drain his glass. Anise gently burning his nostrils and caramel resting on his tongue, he thanked God for giving Mexico the agave.

He opened his eyes and wiped his mouth, the conversation at hand grabbing his attention. "What did you just say?"

Vicente, a goat herder from a neighboring ranch, held his hands up defensively. "I'm not accusing you, I swear."

"Sorry," Chancho tried again, "can you repeat—" 

Another man sitting at the table cut him off. "It's just a superstition. Catholics."

Vicente hissed, "Dead goats are not a superstition. They had tiny holes on their necks," he pointed to his own neck, "right here." He turned back to Chancho. "But I'm not saying that you—"

"No. No. For the love of God, stop yammering and go back. Did you say, Chupacabra?"

Vicente looked puzzled. "Yes." He nodded. "That is what they call the demon."

"El Chupacabra, the monster that feeds on goats and lives in the Catholic Hills? My Catholic Hills?" Confused, Chancho rubbed the back of his neck underneath where his floppy sombrero rested. An uneasiness settled over everyone at the table.

Vicente shrugged. "I was wondering if you'd seen it."

"Seen it?" Slowly Chancho turned his head from side to side as he adjusted the leather strap that had risen uncomfortably around his throat. A prickling sensation caused him to glance over his shoulder toward the bar, a quick movement fleeing from the corner of his eye. Two dusty gringos sat on stools. One of them clearly the source of the loud, slurred English.

"What Vicente is trying to ask is whether you are the demon's caretaker or his captor."

"Huh?" Chancho whipped his head back around. "What? Like in the story? The immortal guardian of an infinitesimal evil chomping at the chance to devour all good in the world?" He forced a laugh, but no one else was laughing.

"I suppose I'll have to make acquaintance with a couple of Indian witch doctors next?" He wagged his finger. "No my friends, I suspect you've been dipping your ladle in the wrong pot, confusing the outhouse for the inn." He wondered what parts of the conversation he'd missed. Why hadn't he been paying attention? "No, if there was a demon living in my hills I would know about it." He looked each man in the eyes. "It's just a story."

"Damn right." A man whom Chancho recognized as Vicente's cousin, Raul, joined the conversation for the first time. "What there is, my friends, is a whole field of marihuana. The Catholic Hills are not full of demons, they're full of marihuana." Raul spoke loudly, and the way he kept saying the word "full" hinted strongly he felt there was enough to go around.

The narrow cantina seemed to close in on Chancho as he cursed himself for choosing the diversion in the first place. The tequila, however delicious, had not been worth a fight—which at this point Chancho doubted he could avoid. He rubbed his missing notch of earlobe while smiling enthusiastically. Despite the three sets of eyes directly in front of him, he felt most keenly aware of eyes boring holes into the back of his neck. "Look, my friends—" 

Raul continued. "The goats didn't die from demon curse or fright, they died from colic—from too much marihuana."

Chancho held a wavering smile. He did not know these men well, but didn't wish to create ill will with neighboring ranches. His whole intent in crossing the border into Texas two years earlier in 1916 had been to start fresh. He felt hot and cramped.  What had been a din of mingled voices and creaking floorboards moments before now seemed like an isolating silence, as if everyone listened for his next words.