Bruno\Blog - True Fiction

One afternoon over coffee my friend Rafael was telling me about his experiences growing up on a farm in San Antonio. Rafi speaks English perfectly, as a result of having lived in Chicago for fifteen years as a young man. It was there that he lost one eye in a knife fight, but he favors keeping his glass eye in plain view rather than wearing a rakish black eye patch.

"When I was out in the fields with my uncle, I got bit by a scorpion," he said. "I've had lots of scorpion bites after that, but they don't bother me now." I found this rather intriguing, despite my discovering that the lobster-sized black scorpions I imagined to find in Mexico exist only in my nightmares. But I had been told that the little one and a half inch brownish critters one occasionally finds crawling around here can inflict a rather painful and inconvenient sting.

"How come it doesn't affect you?" I asked.

"The Mexican cure is to eat the scorpion," He replied. "So my uncle made me eat the scorpion, and I didn't get sick. Now it doesn't matter if they bite, because I ate the first one."

"Wow, I suppose that makes sense," I mused in my best one-semester-as-a-pre-med tone, "I suspect that by ingesting the scorpion the immune system creates antibodies against the poison, like a vaccination."

"Yeess, that must be it," Rafi affirmed amiably, "but when I got bitten by a cow, I couldn't eat that, at least not right away."

"Ha ha, Jeeez, you got bitten by a cow too?" I finally got the joke but first pictured him camped out in the fields with his uncle, eating nothing but steaks night after night at the campfire.

"Sure, I've been bitten by almost everything: cow, dog, spider, snake, cat, rat, bird, even a horse bit me once."

"Oh man Rafi, that is amazing!" I was really impressed. "God, you've had all those kinds of bites, and here you are to tell the tale."

"Well, I guess none of them killed me." He said.

I thought about for a minute. "Of all those bites, can you tell me which one was the worst?"

"The worst?" Rafi reflected momentarily. "The worst bite was woman." Then he rolled back his sleeve and showed me the souvenir scar from his ex-wife's bite in Chicago. Rafael came back to his hometown of San Antonio Tlayacapan ten years ago, and I'm glad he did.

The mind of an enlightened human being is flexible and adaptable. The mind of the ignorant person is conditioned and fixed.

-Ajahn Sumedho, “Seeing the Way”



There is an establishment in San Antonio which has a reputation for great food and even greater alcoholism. I had the misfortune of lunching there today with three gringo couples. At first I took in the scene as if observing a time-warped landscape: A pretty Mexican barmaid swayed in front of the jukebox, punching in the familiar 70's anthems - Jumpin' Jack Flash, Tambourine Man, California Dreamin' - while grizzled hollow-cheeked men sat hunched at the bar, hands cupping their drinks in front of them, stroking the frosted sides with lovingly gentle fingers. They shared the vacant stares of the already dead, stretching tight smiles as a worn out blonde in a short skirt started to sing along with YMCA. I marvelled at my own narrow escape from the interminable Hell, this place somewhere between there and nowhere, when my table companions began their familiar three Cervesa conversations about restaurants, maids, home repair and dogs, or gossip about other less fortunate alcoholics, each opinion more expert than the next, chortling guffaws a hairsbreadth from actual fisticuffs. As the beer bottles began to stack up in front of them, stout little brown statues cluttering the pervasive emptiness - the early afternoon's homage to shared nothingness while the sun shone brilliantly just steps away, I was suddenly blessed with a hypoglycemic episode. Mopping my clammy brow and rapidly downing two glasses of orange juice, I put 100 pesos on the table and excused myself with an insincere gesture about having to go home to recover. I think I may have exaggerated just a bit, but being a good actor, I'm sure I pulled it off.

After a year and a half without cell phones in Mexico, my wife sufficiently pleaded her case to get me in the door of the Telcel office in Ajijic. "What if I have a carload of real estate clients and break down somewhere like upper Jocotepec?" She asked. "How can I get in touch with you?" Despite the fact that the two recent flat tire incidents were resolved quickly by very friendly and helpfull locals, without the appearance of Banditos or drug lords, I figured that any motivation to get her out more was OK with me. So off to Telcel we go, me with skin crawling memories of Cell One, Singular, Verizon and AT&T; she with latte-fueled happiness anticipating pink fashion phones and what not. An hour later we emerge with our new cells, and much to my surprise I was beaming. It turns out that cell phones and minutes in Mexico are very inexpensive, and we get to call each other and nine more Telcel owners virtually for free, without subscription plans and twelve page contracts. And thanks to the abundance of local coffee shops, I'm looking forward to whiling away countless hours playing with my new phone's menus and features. Ahh, once again I am productive, just like I was back in the States, with the exception that here I will be drinking jet fueled latte's under the palm trees, idly gazing at beautiful flowers or fountains while the occasional senorita smiles in passing. Check back in a year or so to see if I've actually spent more than ninety percent of my cell phone time holding for "Customer Service" the way I used to, drinking mediocre Starbucks coffee and staring at SUV grilles.

THE TRUTH IS LIKE A CACTUS: PERFECTLY FORMED, BEAUTIFUL, DANGEROUS.


THE UNINVITED GUEST

Wednesday mornings in Ajijic are my solitude times. First I drive my wife to her real estate office where she finds real happiness in the weekly staff meeting and associated Brayathons. I leave the car parked on 16 Septiembre for her, and walk three blocks to the gym, which is usually quiet and almost empty at eight-o'clock. The Beatles and Stones in techno-trance urge me to pump it up and sweat, before it hits me all over again that I am a middle-aged man, looking for a new way to look at myself. But the Endolphins start to flow after a while, and I feel pretty good about things later when I grab my gym bag and emerge on the dusty Carreterra, headed for an outdoor breakfast cigarette and eggs at a popular restaurant near the open-air market.

I like to sit by myself, smoke, think, look at the sights and plan my future. Last Wednesday a burly gringo named Ralph asked to join me at the empty table for four, and I aquiesced, only to discover moments later that I had made a mistake.

"Why don't these god-damned Mexicans have any Lite Syrup on the tables," he announced. "They can just go over to the frikkin' store over there and buy some, for crissakes, I know they have it there, I seen it in the syrup aisle."

Fifteen minutes later I had heard all about what was wrong with Mexico, Ajijic, his tenants, the traffic, and a criminal gringo from Chicago. "The Feds just picked up this asshole for helping his son murder his wife," Ralph expounded with an air of inside know-it-all, since he was originally from Chicago himself. Murder at that moment sounded good to me.

"How interesting," I replied half-heartedly. My breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast and bacon, had already lost it's appeal, but when Ralph launched into the glorious story of his stock market day-trading acumen, I signalled quickly for the waiter to bring the check. This was worse than any breakfast at McDonald's during my Death Of A Salesman days, when on the the road for Sears selling windows and siding as a way of doing penance for past sins. I extended my hand and lied with utmost sincerity. "It was great to meet you, Ralph. Adios!"

CUT TO: This Wednesday morning, popular restaurant near the open-air market.

Based on last week's lesson with Ralph, I wait for the small table for one - the one against the window set for a single diner with only one chair. A few minutes later it becomes available and I sit down, comfortable in the knowledge that if another Ralph were to present himself, there would be no place for him to sit. I light a cigarette, order the breakfast, and observe the adjoining tables for four: one is full; another has three occupants; the third is shared by two gringo men; and the last is where a fellow approaches the couple who are about to leave, picks up a chair and plants it down in front of me at my table for one.

"Mind if I join you?" He reminds me vaguely of Jack Bauer's evil father from "24," as he grins expectantly into my reflective sunglasses.

"Actually, to be honest with you I would prefer not," I say without thinking, almost reflexively, like a trapped animal, memories of Ralph flooding my consciousness.

"What?" His eyes go wide in shock and awe, raising a hand, half questioning, half threatening.

"I really prefer not to have any company right now," I say by way of explanation.

With a "Go To Hell!" wave of the upturned hand, (I think he actually said "Aw, Pshhawww!") Mr. Bauer Sr. defiantly takes his chair back to the table for four which is soon to become a table for three. He and the couple exchange meaningfull words after he sits down. All three shake their heads in disbelief.

My breakfast arrives. I eat and enjoy. Oh well, I'm sure my uninvited guest is the greatest guy you could ever meet in Ajijic or anywhere else for that matter, and probably would have remembered me in his will - in fact would have named me sole heir to his sizeable software fortune. But I had great thoughts to think at my table for one.

Sometimes people ask me: "Why did you move to Mexico?" Or if they are very busy and important, they might just say "Mexico?" I could talk about the perfect climate in Lake Chapala, the lower cost of living, a stress-free lifestyle, the opportunity to live in a culture rooted in ancient mysticism, and...




Because I was tired of doing my own laundry?

"No, really? That can't be it. Why did you move to Mexico?"



OK then. I moved to Mexico because of the coffee.

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Craig inspected the neat rows of jars, cans and boxes in his pantry. It always made him feel better in the morning, after he pressed the button on the gleaming Braun programmable machine, to take a look at their supplies of non-perishables. He liked the way it all fit together - extra rows of Campbells backing up the College Inn and Knorr gourmet selections; the jellies and marmalades with their little doily tops, and of course the three or four extra jars of Beluga Caviar.

It was important for Craig to know exactly where everything was located. He flicked on the widescreen in the adjacent family room using the remote as he poured his first cup of imported coffee. He liked the way the handmade pottery mug made a secure "clawk," just loud enough to carry authority with good weight, as he set it down on the granite counter-top. A pretty blonde gazed evenly directly in his eyes from the family room wall, in muted tones letting him know about the latest death toll from IED's, followed by a brief report on new diet tips for the holidays.

He looked away, out the kitchen window at the 17th fairway - one of the signature holes at Ashley North. A demanding tee shot over the ravine to a narrow fairway, followed by an accurate long iron or hybrid to a tightly bunkered green. Someday, he mused. But with winter's frosty coating it would be several months before Craig West could make another attempt at this monster. He winced at the thought of countless Titleist Pro V-Ix's he had teed up perfectly, only to look up early, catching the last of their tailspin into the underbrush. But it had not always been like that - he used to love golf and in his prime was a four handicap, an excellent golfer who unswervingly made a smooth swing and sunk crucial putts.

West had worked hard to get where he was today. As a popular stock broker, his business had been brisk during the 1980's and 90's. Craig's friends gave him a lot of portfolio management work, and would often chide him about the title on his business card: "Vice-President, Financial Consultant," replacing the words with "President of Vice, Financial Insultant."

"Hey Craig, how's the market today?"

"Great, fantastic!" he would answer, looking up from his basket of practice balls. "Up, down, sideways - doesn't matter, as long as you guys keep following our advice." Then he would thump another 3-iron with a perfect little draw.

Twenty years ago, Craig was unbeatable on and off the course.

It made the retailing moguls and asphalt manufacturers feel good, playing with Craig on their team, with their twelve handicaps, attributable mostly to "local knowledge" and a sharp close game. He was always the guy who came through with the crucial long iron to the green when it mattered most, and usually sank the "money putt" for the win. That was when it all fit together: the stock market, the Country Club, and endless rounds of golf with the attitude only a Master of the Universe could muster.

One day in October 1987 had changed everything:

The colorful Massachusetts fall landscape whipped by as Craig eased the lumbering Mercedes Diesel onto Route 128 at Waltham, heading towards Boston. Industrial parks with artificial ponds, announced the technology revolution. Behemoths of hardware and software emblazoned their corporate identities in logo language, the conquerors of the future.

The big Mercedes felt supple and responsive under his gloved hands. West liked the way the classical music shut out the traffic noise, complementing the scenery.

He always wore a three-piece suit to work, with a carefully chosen tie. It felt good to have a corner office in the marble and glass tower of a major Boston financial institution. Craig greeted the pretty receptionist and settled in for a day of moving and shaking.

On Mondays he reviewed his largest clients' portfolios, gauging the psychology of market news to find areas where positions would have to be "rotated" in and out of industry sectors. By scattering these adjustments over an array of portfolios, his clients did not mind the two and one-half percent commissions generated by each trade. After all, they were too busy running their own businesses, and Craig always had the best research at his fingertips to back up his suggestions.

West was about to make his first call at 9:35 when George Martin, stuck his head in the door.

"Market's off 150 at the bell," George spoke through his unlit everpresent cigar. "Better tell your guys to fasten their seat belts. This is going to be a rough ride."

"How bad?" Craig saw how serious and tense his manager was.

"When the institutional sell programs kick in this afternoon," George shifted the cigar around, looked at it thoughtfully, "We could be looking at a 500 point haircut on the Dow. Get your guys out of the big caps and into bonds; sell safety today like it's Grandma's life on the line!"

Craig was ready with his latest Safety In US Government Bonds research reports.

"That's history, baby." The door clicked shut.

Craig hit the speed-dial for his biggest client, Peter Herzog. Peter had recently installed a mobile phone in his Porsche.

"Craigster, what it is?" Herzog picked up on the second ring.

"Have you heard.."

"About the end of the world as we know it?" Peter interrupted him. "Yes I have."

"Well, ha, maybe not quite, we have a terrific program in Government Coupon Bond's..." Craig looked at the ticker. The Dow was off 200 points.

"Tell you what to do," Herzog continued. "Get in that big Mercedes and I'll meet you at Ashley North in an hour."

The Dow was off another 50 points. Down 250.

"You can't be serious," Craig said.

"Why not?" Herzog eased his silver coupe into the passing lane on Route 128.

"Because the market is crashing, my friend!" Craig finally blurted.

"So it is the end of the world?"

"No, but we need to look at where to lighten up and get into bonds before all of this is really in the fan..."

"Let me ask you a question," Herzog's connection crackled and hummed. "What is the worst thing that could happen?"

Craig knew that anything he said would be met with a better answer, but he told his client that he might lose a greater percentage if they didn't put in sell stops right now.

"So if we sell now, how much will I lose?" Herzog was relentlessly direct and indifferent to West's rising anxiety.

"Hang on," Craig fiddled with the computer keys and loaded his 'Preferred Client Advisor' module, then calculated sell orders at market for a quarter of Herzog's positions. "It's about eight-hundred-fifty to lighten up on the big positions."

"OK, so I lose eight-hundred-and-fifty-thousand if I sell into the slide." Herzog could have been reading the dry-cleaning bill with the same tone of voice.

"Right"

"OK, and what if I sell ten years from now instead?"

"Huh? I can't hear you?"

"I said," Herzog passed a white BMW 630csi, winking at the brunette behind the wheel. "What if I sell in ten years, and right now go play golf instead?"

"But the sector rotation..." Craig was dumbfounded.

"Tell you what to do," Herzog continued. "We'll play a quick eighteen. Low net makes the decision, then you can still go back to your marble office and make lots of money off your other clients. See you at Ashley in forty-five minutes."

Craig heard the line click dead. He stared out the window, where a few wispy clouds lingered like twenty-thousand-dollars in commissions before drifting away into the crisp blue New England sky.

Black Monday in October, 1987 was the last time Craig could swing a golf club without flinching and choking. After a beautiful tee shot on the first hole, Peter Herzog teed up his own ball and easily outdrove Craig by twenty yards.

"Tell you what," Herzog said as he picked up his tee, "Ten years from now we'll play another round. Then we'll see who made the right decision."

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