twangueros
by Doug Lang
twangueros is the tune, playing in a bar just outside cerrolvo in nuevo leo,
mexico. we took a wrong turn and ended up here, a dead-end road leading into
the sierra madre range. we're maybe 120 miles south of laredo. the car is
overheating. it's late. we're hungry, but not sure this is the place to eat after we saw
juan basta bartolo take a piss into the water reservoir on the way in. el
serappe's floor show finished at one. strong girls came like tin moths to dance
carefully with us for eight cents, those men near the bar watching us with
nostrils flaring like the recently-used ends of pistols. now at last the sad old
tenor begins the deadly three o'clock show with its granite mexican music. we
hear a dull smash outside, know it's the side window of our car. it was too hot
inside anyway. then the sound of air hissing, and we know it's one of the tires
being punctured. it's the same the world over, the kids just don't have enough
to do. the old tenor has pieces of broken mirror on his wide hat, not enough to
try combing your hair in. the girls are asleep in the side booths. nobody's
wearing any badges here. some of drinks have more than one worm. i suppose
this is why we came. to end up on a road that no longer goes anywhere,
among people who must wrestle their hearts in order to feel anything, as
though it were unnatural. this is the place, all right, cletis says at last. billybob
nods, knows this is where you learn to flower by tightening. the other fellow
with them, he's studying the worms, reminded of scars he hasn't shown
anybody yet. he reaches in his pocket for more money, calls for another round.
a guitar pick falls out of the mottled rolls of bills. on the pick is inscribed a
single word. mazappa. halfway through the next drink there are gunshots
behind the place. let's roll on, buddy, says cletis. don't you roll so slow, says
billybob as they shift out into the parking lot. how can i roll, buddy says,
lighting a smoke and surveying the flat tire and punched-in window... how can
i roll when the wheel won't go? after five minutes of head shaking and lying
through their teeth about how brave they are, buddy and the mazappas go back
inside to have another shot, tip the old tenor, wake the girls in the side booths,
and once more be the straws that stir the drinks. it's just another day on the
tour. next time we'll take a bigger vehicle, bring the family.