Chainsaw

1: Cantina

As he stepped off the bus, Stuart looked up at the yellowed schedule to get his bearings--Hidalgo del Parral, Chihuahua Mexico. Far enough into nowhere, he thought, and walked towards the open-walled cantina that the driver had suggested. Inside he approached the bar and scanned the bottles shelved in front of a grimy mirror. A few other customers were sprinkled around. Another older American, close to sixty, unshaven but not bearded, sat at a small table closer to the open side, reading a well-thumbed paperback through reading glasses. Before him stood a large glass of beer a third full and an empty shot glass.

The new customer cleared his throat. "Um...yo desiro una tequila y...um...jugo de naranja...pero usted tiene...um...que dice...agua mas frio pero agua ... pure?" The younger American looked at the bartender and shrugged. The bartender smiled back, amused. "Comprende por favor?" pleaded the American, "No desiro agua locale que contaminado. Shit, how do I say this?"

The older American said, without looking up from his book, "I assume you mean you want a Tequila Sunrise with ice from bottled water, is that right?" as he peered over his glasses.

The American smiled and nodded, "Yes, thank you. Can you tell him?"

"Guillermo, do you have any ice that isn't from the piss water we drink here?"

"No, Mr. D. What you think I run here, the fucking Adrianna Hotel? You lucky the beer's half cold."

The younger American looked from one to the other in surprise. "You mean he speaks English, I mean, you speak English?"

"Sure, better than you speak Spanish, but I liked hearing you try. What ice I got is from the water here. Which isn't much good. The electric is good, so the beer is cold, and maybe I got orange juice cold, too. So you want cold beer or tequila and almost cold orange juice?"

"Is the orange juice fresh squeezed or from concentrate?"

"It's in a jug from the Oxxo. How do I know?"

The younger man looked to the other American, who looked up from his book and shrugged, "It's likely okay, if he hasn't let it turn. Nobody shits in an orange tree, if you were worried about that 'eating fresh fruit' thing. How long have you been down here?"

"About two weeks, but I had the shits bad once already in Campeche and don't want it again. Can I get you something to drink? You want another beer?"

"I'm still working on this one, but another shot might perk me up. If you go for beer, he claims it's Negro Modelo in that tap, but I suspect the barrel is Leon."

The bartender scowled. "What do you know, you old gringo fuck? Your tongue's only good for talking bullshit." Turning to the other, "My beer's just fine and I got bottles, too. Just let me know what you want."

The younger American smiled. "Muchas Gracias. In that case, I'll have a Dos XX. And a shot of Tequila. And a shot for him, too."

The bartender uncapped the beer and poured a shot of yellow liquid. Then, nodding toward the older man at the table who was scratching his side as he read, put his finger to his lips, winked and, reaching for the Cutty Sark, hesitated and shook the forefinger back and forth as he turned his head and smiled. He then quietly pulled an unmarked dark bottle from below the bar, removed the cork, and poured a shot of dark liquid. "There you go, my friend. I give you a new customer discount and welcome--four pesos please." He took the five peso note the younger man produced and held out a coin in return.

The American drained his shot, smiled, then raised his chin as he picked up the bottle and the other shot. "Thanks. Maybe I'll look for that orange juice another time." He approached the older man's table, "You mind if I join you? I don't want to disturb your reading."