LOS DIABLOS ROJOS

There are three things I hope to accomplish before I return to the border in August: I want to flatten my stomach, improve my Spanish and watch my new toe nails grow. I won't have to hide my feet in shame anymore although I do have to hide the rest of my life in shame.

I have been reflecting on my 75 years on earth. There have been successes and there have been failures. As a result of a huge failure I am hunkered down in Mexico City waiting for the next earthquake or thug to open fire in a shootout with another gang. It's not that bad, but with the advancing years the wariness no longer remains on the periphery but begins to stalk your every move. I have so many political enemies in Brownsville from my writings that two nights ago I couldn't sleep because I imagined one of these politicos hiring an assassin to kill me. With Trump in power and Putin his hero, journalists shot dead on the streets may become a common sight. It isn't uncommon in Mexico.

I have disappointed some of my followers because I'm not writing a modern version of Ernest Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises. It is a merry tale of spoiled men and women living out their empty lives in a pre-Franco Spain with much sex, boozing and fly-fishing. My followers want me to tell a similar story about wicked women, hard-drinking nights and bull fights. I have written my Ode to Decadence in the three novels that comprise the Tommy Tamaulipas Trilogy. Not even Henry Miller or Charles Bukowski studied decadence with such reckless abandon as I did and the terrible toll it takes on the anti-hero. And the prose is fat-free of adjectives and adverbs.

It was a typical day in the colonia. Since I must eat a substantial breakfast in order to keep my metabolism active to burn fat, there is a Denny's like chain down the street from the gym that's called Vips. Before entering the restaurant, I walked another two blocks to a metro stop to buy the newspaper. I cannot relish a meal alone if I'm not reading and at every opportunity I jump at the chance to learn more Spanish vocabulary. 

There are a number of booths selling food. I stopped at a stall that had cocktail size glasses filled with fresh squeezed orange juice. I asked the lady in charge the cost of an orange juice and she replied, "Ten pesos." The restaurant charges 41 pesos for a glass half the size. Easy decision, but there are risks eating on the streets. I told the waitress about the price difference and she replied in a confidential tone, "But they add tap water." Hell, I'm used to Brownsville water.

Adela runs a cell phone company with her two sons in the middle of the historic district. I am alone most of the day. It has its advantages. There is no tension. For those unhappy relationships of which I have experienced my share, there is nothing worse than after a day of anxiety dealing with the ups-and-downs of a job to come home and upon crossing the threshold of your front door you can cut through the tension with a machete. It is good that you don't have that machete in your hand when you come face-to-face with your former best friend who has transformed herself into your bitterest enemy.

In a city as huge as Mexico City the baseball park is less than a 15-minute cab ride. I went two consecutive nights to watch Los Diablos Rojos host the Tabasco Olmecas in the sweeping new stadium recently constructed. The capacity is 20,000.

The field is a jewel. With the regular rains and the temperate temperatures, the grass resembles a putting green and the diamond is manicured cleaner than a fresh haircut. Besides Mexicans and a few gringos, there are a number of Dominican and Cuban players. The owner of Los Diablos Rojos is also the owner of the San Diego Padres. Most pundits agree that the Mexican League is the equivalent of the Triple A leagues in the states. It's good baseball. I loved baseball as a kid and worshipped Sandy Koufax and the Dodgers. Now I find the game boring, another relationship gone south.

But I can dig the action. My first outing I lasted three innings and a hot dog. The weather turned cold and I didn't bring a jacket . The second night I lasted six innings. I go early to the ballpark, an hour before the first pitch. I like to watch the players go through their pre-game rituals, observe the fans as they slowly find their seats and chortle as the vendors scurry through the stands selling everything from tacos to pizzas with most the adults chasing down their food with micheladas. 

There is an overhang that extends from first base to third base. I can only imagine if a earthquake brought that mass crashing down upon the spectators. The seats are nailed to a concrete block so there is no cover to protect oneself from the collapsing debris, but I take a stoic view of the situation. I tell myself that I'm not going to die tonight nor will there be an earthquake either.

Last night I roamed the colonia on my own, stopping at my favorite restaurant--Mi Tierra--for spaghetti prepared in butter and garlic. I had two glasses of wine. Moctezuma told me about a new place that had just opened around the corner from Mi Tierra. Called Mi Pueblito, it is a karaoke bar. It is a hangout for youths a third my age, but I felt myself in one of those drinking moods--four beers and two tequila shots. 

There was a screen directly above me. I know Mexican music, but not the modern versions. I divert myself reading the words to the songs. I was still steady on my feet and on my walk home I passed an Argentine restaurant with a band. I stopped for a Cuba, but I didn't spot any prospects. Once home, I took two miligrams of Xanax and slept until the next afternoon. It's the life I'm living. I'm looking forward to Los Diablos Rojos returning home after a long road trip.