“Excuse me pumpkin, would you happen to know where the bathroom is?”
¿Donde está el baño, querida?
“Yes ma’am, just down the hall, first right, then second left. It’ll be the one with a slender woman on the door.”
“Thanks a lot for— Hey, wait a minute pal. Are you trying to call me fat?”
¿Soy una vaca? Debo dejar de comer?
I looked down at my feet and watched them wiggle. There was a chunk of huitlacoche on my right foot. Puta.
“Are you listening to me mister?”
She was screaming at my nose as if it were a small child – in the classic, patronizing Leave It To Beaver manner.
In that moment all I could think about was huitlacoche and the last time I actually got to eat some. There was that trip down to Mexico a few years back where I ended up drinking far too many passionfruit-agave margs with oiled up nitwits. That damned trance music and the constant thud of Jägerbombs was surprisingly in sync. It always went thud-thud-boom-boom in double repetition, but never boom-boom-thud-thud. Sort of like We Will Rock You sans the leading gay man. This time it was hair gel that replaced spandex bodysuits.
The trip’s mission was comidas exóticas. Cabo Wabo Reposado, Monte Alban Mezcal, J. Cuervo, Asombroso Anejo, Señor Patron, Señorita Sauza – all were fair game. I had a listed itinerary of what I needed to accomplish. I think it went something like: Drink, Drink, Bamboozle, Drink, Meet the Locals, Meet the Visiting Europeans, Meet Anyone At The Poolside Bar, Tan, Pass Out, Taqueria, Drink, Drink. It was very straightforward from the get-go and I was surprised at the lack of Axe bodyspray within the baggage claim terminal.
Most of the time the percentage of sunglasses worn on the back of the head, upside-down, versus on top of the head or even the jejune style of resting them on the bridge of one’s nose was 80, 15, 5. But this time – this goddamn time – everybody was doing it. So while I’m trying to soak in the fresh air of Meh-hee-co, Snookums right here is rubbing up on hubbub with the flip-flip Oakleys.
I never looked up to see if the fat woman was still there. I just kept staring at the huitlacoche. Dinner was getting cold, and someone was at the door, so I made a quick dash back through the dining room. I’m sure the dear pumpkin of my heart found her way to the powder room, even if it meant being stared down by a regularly-sized woman on the door. I bet she took an extra look at herself in the mirror after cleaning up at the sink, glancing at the side shot, the over the shoulder shot and then the straight-on-put-both-hands-on-my-waist shot.
It’s not that she was a vaca at all – no, no. She just needed a bit of control. So I let her have it. And why not? I’m a squash kind of guy anyway.
