La Casa De Las Borrachas
3. hoyo y pescado
One summer in Hawaii, my cousins came to visit. These three kids are/were absolute geniuses. It wouldn’t surprise me if they ended up with multiple doctorates and being on the board for Mensa while speaking four languages. Their visit was supposed to be all summer, but they only stayed six weeks. My parents, at their wit’s end with parenting seven kids in one household, got us a new computer game to tide us over. And by us, I actually mean the formal “me,” because I was always the one spiraling out of control.
The game was called “Pepper’s Adventures in Time.” It was about a girl who winds up in her mean uncle’s time machine and gets sent back to the 1700’s. Due to the mean uncle’s attempt to change the course of America’s independence, history is altered a bit. Ben is a hippy who would spend his afternoons soaking in a jacuzzi. In reality, the author, scientist, and great inventor was known to resort to taking what he called an “air bath,” in which he would open his window and stand naked in front of it, a la Alanis Morissette in her “Thank U” video.
One of the things I learned in this game, besides Miss Benjamina Franklina being a great inventor, was an adage I still think about to this day. “Fish and visitors stink after three days,” I said this once aloud in front of my cousins, oblivious to its meaning.
As we grew up, we kept our distance from these cousins because they often liked to pick a target child and manipulate their surroundings to isolate them from the group. This target child happened to be my sibling. Board games were their specialty because it required strategy. During a game of “Sorry!” they communicated to one another in French, plotting how to keep my sibling’s game pieces off the board. When my sibling got upset, the cousins reminded them, “Don’t get upset; this is a game of sweet revenge. It says so on the box.” When my sibling left the game, they continued playing, laughing as they called my sibling a “sore loser.” I couldn’t lash out, because then they would exact their tactics onto me.
I guess that’s where the inner sanctum to my anxiety lies. Somewhere in the realm between peace and scheming chaos. I wanted to lash back, but they would calmly keep their wits about them, knowing their tactics would only get a rise out of me too.
I often resorted to my computer game. In it, Pepper finds a series of secret love letters that she gives to different people across town, one of whom helps Benjamin Franklin meet his future wife. Each time you traded a letter, you got an additional point in the game.
At this time, my cousins and I were attending our weekly church teen youth group. We would spend our weekends on the beach, where I learned one of my cousins had a crush on a guy named Troy. Inspired by Pepper’s outreach in the game, I encouraged her to write letters to him.
“He would never read them.” She admitted.
“Then write to him as if he would never read them. Tell him how you feel.”
She wrote multiple letters to him and kept them in her diary, next to the pile of other letters addressed to her mother where she ridiculed our family in French.
After that game of “Sorry,” I took the letters and left them in Troy’s Bible. The next week, in youth group, Troy asked the crowd if anyone knew who left the letters for him to read. Seeing her handwriting in Troy’s hands, she quietly asked one of the pastors if she could call my parents and ask to be picked up. Since my mom would not make two trips, we all left together. She cried all the way home, screaming at me. I may have been grounded for a month, but I had no regrets. The cousins stopped their mind games with my sibling and my anxiety fizzled away. Two weeks later, our cousins returned to hell from whence they came.
Where is the line drawn between hospitality and enduring one’s company, especially after they’ve hurt the ones you love? My guess, especially at the Baja Craftsman, was after they’ve had a couple of rounds of seltzers and shots.
At this point in the trip, both the fish and tourists were definitely rotting. For example, hearing Chuck plea, “Is no one going to do a shot with me?” before he slumped into a corner on the couch. In another corner, Trevor was asked to refrain from using derogatory words that were offensive to women. Meanwhile, in a nook near the billiard room, one of the guests admitted they voted for the 45th president, twice. It was like some messed-up version of 4 Corners, no matter which corner you found, trouble was afoot.
Back on set, the cameras focused on the tension between Chuck and everyone seated at the tables. Chuck stood in front of Benny, defiant and yet determined to take control.
“You can’t be the moderator, Benny. You’re always choosing Johnny’s side.”
“That’s my husband.”
“Exactly. So you can’t be impartial. That’s why I should take over.”
“I think you’ve pulled enough focus, Chuck.” Johnny growled. “Or did you forget why we all went to Baja in the first place?”
“Please, you invited me because without me, you all would be having an ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ moment. Borrrring!”
“Don’t you think that’s why we wanted a getaway?” Benny asked. “To get away from all of that drama?”
“Not on my show.” He said, right before charging towards Benny.
Back in Baja, our chef placed the leftovers in the fridge before turning in for the night. Benny, Ella, Ari, and I helped clear the table. Johnny, Sam, and Trevor washed, dried, and returned the plates to their cupboard. Oh, where was Chuck, you ask? He was still sulking on the couch, on Grindr.
“I think I could get someone to pick me up.”
“Isn’t it a bit late for you to be looking for dick?”
Chuck didn’t bother to look up, not when the nearest guy was probably 10 miles away.
“It’s eight o’clock. That’s like peak hour for the gays.”
“How about you set up the fireplace?” Johnny offered.
“You never let me have any fun.” Chuck huffed, getting to his feet with seltzer and phone in hand.
We all watched him exit, almost relishing the moment. As we continued to clean, we watched Chuck lazily toss wood into a fire. There was no strategy, no method, just a haphazard pouting throw.
“Benny!” Chuck called out. “I don’t know how to start the fire!”
Benny walked in with the last of the utensils. “John, you wanna go help Chuck with the fire?”
Johnny grumbled as he dried the suds from his hands. “I’ll be right out.”
He kissed Benny and stepped outside. “You guys go out and join him.” Benny proposed. “I’ll finish up and get the cake ready.”
The girls and Trevor went back to grab their jackets. Ari and I stepped out to join Chuck and Johnny. The two were laughing,
“I am not cockblocking you, Chuck!”
“Then why can’t I go out?”
“I can’t believe I’m quoting my mother when I say this, but don’t you have plenty of dick waiting back home?”
“It’s not like he’s far! Just, like, ten miles away?” Chuck reasoned.
“Isn’t Rosarito like an hour just to return to the beach?”
Yes. SouthofMyBorder⬇️69 lives fifteen miles west along the coast.
“Okay, delusional. It’s not that far. Besides, he offered to pick me up.”
“Then don’t let me stop you.”
“Well, now I don’t want to go,” Chuck pouted, tucking his seltzer into his side.
Benny, Sam, and Ella marched out with a cake lit. They shuffled their feet as they presented it to Johnny. All of us sang Happy Birthday while Johnny blew out the candles.
In hindsight, I don’t think anyone ate the cake, mainly because of what followed moments after Johnny got the first slice. Chuck was still brooding over feeling cockblocked, imprisoned by this snoozefest of a party. Plus, he let Johnny have the last word, so Chuck decided now was the right moment to give Johnny yet another unplanned birthday present.
“Speaking of delusional, why are you going around town telling people you’re a bartender?”
“Because he is,” Sam rebutted, “every Friday night.”
Chuck refused to look in Sam’s direction. His gaze was focused on Johnny. “I’ve gone to Les Bros when you’re working, Johnny.” He explained. “I have never seen you bartend.”
“That’s because you work Thursday nights, right when I start, actually.”
“Your husband’s a bartender. You are a server.”
“Who died and left you in charge?” Ella interrupted, reaching for Sam’s hand, “Johnny introduced us at the bar. That’s where we met. He is a bartender.”
“Call it what you want. I’m just saying, until he starts bartending on the weekend, he’s just some wannabe fill-in.”
And, just like every single finale in every Housewives franchise, that’s when Johnny set his cake down on the table and stormed into the Baja Craftsman.
Everyone on set was on edge. Steadicam operators look towards the producers, who gave them a nod of approval. Just keep rolling. Their eyes assured the crew, seething at the good content that will create quite the buzz when it airs.
All of us on stage got up from our seats, certain Chuck would tackle Benny from his chair and start a brawl. Instead, Chuck snatched the cards from Benny’s hand, but not before Johnny shot up and pushed Chuck to the ground.
“Keep your hands off my husband.” Johnny roared.
“You know you can be a real dick, Chuck,” Ari growled.
Chuck stayed on the ground, scoffing at everyone's choice of taking Johnny’s side. “Well, was I wrong? Like, I don’t know what the big deal is.”
“I think the better question is why even bring up Johnny’s job? And right after we cut his birthday cake?” Sam and Ella asked.
“Because I don’t want him lying to his friends to make him feel superior.”
“But I wasn’t! I am a bartender!” Johnny exclaimed. “And yet here you are again, pulling focus just to get more screentime! Does it ever stop for you? Don’t you ever grow tired of always wanting to be the center of attention?”
“Do you carry the burden of a whole show on your shoulders? No, you keep quiet. Hiding your face in that stupid phone. There’s a whole world out there, and yet you would rather share pictures of food from your travels, like anyone gives a shit.”
Chuck stumbled to his feet. Wardrobe rushed to set to adjust his red hood. “What’s funny is I’m just telling it like it is. I didn’t say anything wrong by calling him a server.”
Chuck flipped through the stack, scanning each card while we all jumped to defend Johnny.
”Because you just want to be heard. Regardless if the words you said hurt a friend’s feelings.” I replied. “Do you remember what I asked you that night?”
“You don’t even know me! You think you can spend two nights with someone and you fucking know them? Please.”
Chuck returned to the cards; that is, until one card caught his eye. “Oh, this is good. Hey Pablo…you spoke with Johnny one morning about intentions. Why don’t you tell everyone the real reason why you are here on this trip?”
“You really should go over and apologize.” Sam advised Chuck. “You didn’t need to say all of that.”
“I don’t know why he got all upset.” Chuck reasoned. “All I said…”
“Right, but you’re Johnny’s friend, right?” Ari added. “I think you should go apologize.”
Chuck shook his head. “Besides tell the truth, I did nothing wrong.”
“How about we change perspectives.” I offered. “How would you react if I told you that you were horrible at sex? Or, better yet, bad at being a bartender?”
“You just met me.”
“Hillcrest is a small town, you know. I’ve heard stories where you got fired for doing exactly what got you into this mess. You bully people just so they back down.”
“So you think you must out-bully the bully?”
“It's more like show him to see the error of his ways. Who knows, maybe you can be more cautious of what you say.”
“But you still don’t get it, I said nothing wrong. God, you are insufferable.”
Chuck popped another seltzer and looked around the fireplace. “Wow, can you all just back off my dick? Your stares are literally suffocating me.”
“So you only understand what a bully is when you’re the victim? Nice.”
“Yes, you were out of line and said some mean things to your friend.” Sam reminded him.
“Welp, I wasn’t expecting a gangbang of bullies.” Chuck stormed off the patio. Once inside, he cracked open another seltzer and sat in the living room, in the dark. “Can’t get dick and certainly can’t speak the truth here.”
“You know, I’ve read your last series of essays.” Chuck explained. “The truth is, nothing really happens. It’s just you swinging from one existential crisis to another. People only read your stuff because they want a scandal. Everyone wants you to spill the tea on everyone at the bar. Instead, all you deliver is disappointment.”
“My essays aren’t about that. I want people to feel welcomed, not like they’re some character in some essay.”
“But they are. I mean, that’s why I’m here, right? To shake things up.” Chuck’s words casted an acrid weight into the air. “Now that I am, things are going to be a lot different here.”
I remained quiet. The cameras fixed between Chuck and I.
“I was there that night. You thought you were alone, but I saw it all happen. Crying at the store, then going back to the bars after dropping off your groceries.”
“Chuck, stop.” A voice in the background warned.
“I would say,” Chuck continued, “Benny has quite the knack for pairing up travel buddies. Because we aren’t too far apart, you and I. So, why don’t you tell everyone why you wanted to getaway?”
I fought the tears in my eyes, afraid the moment I admitted the truth, not just to the group but also to myself, that everything would spill out.
It’s funny how some people react to criticism. Some people become oblivious to the consequences of their actions. They excuse it as nothing more than a “real” moment in the hopes that others share that same delusion. But that’s all it is, really. Lies we tell ourselves to demean our actions we throw upon others.
It is as I realize this that I must call out some of my own. It’s the reason why I waited until now to bring up my pit. Some that might even be waiting for me the moment I get back home. Oh yeah, the meaning of this trip was not just to make roots, but it was space to escape what awaited me back in the States. In six hours following the outburst in the Baja Craftsman, we must return, back to the van, across the border, into the place where it all fell apart.
“See, even when I’m here to shake things up. You remain quiet. Do you think that’s how you move past it? By pretending it’s not there? Just like Johnny.”
I shook my head.
“On second thought, nah, this cast sucks. Time for my own spinoff. Y’all couldn’t appreciate this even if you tried.”
Chuck stepped away from the stage. The LED lights resorted to disclaim the signal was lost in the feed. Story producers, even steadicam operators stopped recording. As Chuck exited, each one of the stage lights turned off, one by one. With the strike of each light, one person, one prop vanished the stage, until all that was left was just me.
It’s always been me. This whole fever dream was my own creation. No one ever commandeered it. Much like the main character in The Others, Mr. Robot, Cruising, the enemy they were supposed to fear is not the intruders, the leather-chapped guys at the bar; it was always themselves, the monsters within.
I stare down at the pen, the keyboard, the words, the monsters I create, knowing that they may not entirely be all fictional. Like those Pixar villains or a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure series, my choices determine the story.
