Mr. Maneuver Reflects On His Life Before Teaching

¡Ay, Que lastima! My 8th Grade Spanish students have been trying the upper limits of my patience, particularly one rather taxing teenager–Deb Webster (she has been acting utterly disturbed as of late, emotional problems perhaps?). It’s days like these that I yearn to revisit a simpler time, a time ten years ago when I made my pilgrimage from the suburbs of Indiana to the dusty caminos of Laredo, Texas* (see note at end). In Laredo, I spent my daylight hours laying bricks for the new post office, watching my face transform from milky pudding to tanned leather, as if held under the sun’s spell–a blend of blazing kisses and some strange old alchemy. When noon reared her caliente cabeza high in the sky, I sat on the curb with mi hombres in arms, noshing on corn tortilla & fresh papaya with lime, listening as the sidewalk sang to the distant beat of a silent mariachi band.

At 5pm the foreman’s whistle blew and we’d exhale in unison, our muscles relaxing and brows unfurowing in tandem with the shrill cry of our daily savior. I’d gather up the hose and rinse away the thin patina of powdery clay coating my arms, a ruddy film which I imagined was Laredo’s way of sheathing me with second skin–protection from the brutal rays of el sol. Down to the local cantina, Rick’s, I scampered–damp with honest living, giddy with reprieve. Once firmly entrenched on my favorite bar stool (near the end, closest to the Lady PacMan game in case i felt so inclined), I’d alternate between sips of cool cerveza and warm Cuervo, the froth mingling with the tequila’s bite, tingling down the length of my entreating gullet. Upon becoming sufficiently borracho-ed, I would mosey on over to the juke and proceed to play LaBamba on repeat. Eventually, Rick would unplug the juke or one of the locals would threaten to ’set my head straight.’ It was at this point i would decide to make my exit.

I’d allow my tongue to covetously rounded the rim of my foggy shot glass one last time, then I’d settle the tab and take to the dusky streets. I’d grab a greasey taco rife with indiscernible yet delectable meat.
“What’s up El Flaco Rubio?,” Ed the taco-vendor would say.
“Nada mucho, Ed,” I’d respond.
“Say, what’s your real name, El Flaco Rubio? Why you only let us call you El Flaco Rubio?”
“I’m building a mystery, Ed.”
“You okay in the head, El Flaco Rubio?”
“I will be, Ed.”

And with an eyeroll and a chuckle from the friendly cocinero, I would turn and amble on through the twilight, mouth full of succulent habañero and carne. While using my sleave to wipe the errant juices from my chin, I’d enter the warm-orange glow of my humble abode, welcomed by the tender sight of my dainty lover splayed out on our mattress, smoking and reading last week’s issue of TV Guide.

“Where’s my Scotch, you SOB?” she’d call. I’d hand the scotch to mi querida Abigail. Abigail Charles was the name of this gentle flor who I was lucky to call my own, to devour and be devoured by, if only for a brief time.

“And my lottery tickets. You shouldn’t have even come home if you forgot those, a*shole,” she uttered as she took a long drag of her Virginia Slim. Her voice was like velvet, velvet that had been put through a thresher and ripped to pieces, but still velvet nonetheless.

I gingerly placed the tickets in her pink palm, folding those delicate fingers around her new spoils, accidentally knocking off an acrylic nail.

“God*mmit, frigg’n retard,” she purred. “These are my expensive press-ons, sh*t on fire.”

No longer able to resist the promise of the bounty laying beneath her sensually tattered bathrobe, I eased on to our rumpled love nest, slowly nestling into her haunches, which were warm like oven-fresh pancitos. I rested my head, now throbbing from mucho libation and dehydration, on her terry-swaddled breast, to the left of a stain that i suspected to be related to the empty carton of boxed red wine on the nightstand.

“Move your head, I can’t see my shows.” She then put her cigarrete out on my pantleg, and I feel asleep despite the moderate stinging sensation, lulled by the opening credits of The Dukes of Hazzard.

Oh Abigail, hermosa Abigail. Ocasionaly I wonder what became of my mariposa. Have the years been cruel to her? I pray they have been kind. After a while, every fiber of my being ached to return to Swedshon Indiana and commence my Teaching-dream. I knew it was time to leave. I told her of my plans, offered her sanctuary in my arms, suggested we alight together to the midwest. With a heavy heart, she declined.

“Naw, I’ll probably just shack up with Rick.”
“You mean, Rick from Rick’s?” I asked.
“Yeah. I heard he’s hung like a horse.”

I could tell she was devastated. It pained me to leave her behind in such a bad way. But in the end, all I can say is that I’m just a soul whose intentions are good, oh Lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood (I think that’s from a song, no?).

I must get back to grading papers. I have only 20 minutes before my next class and would like to fit in some time to snack on some platanos and sip mango juice.

* I had my sights set on South America but, alas, ran out of dinero just before the Mexican border, although I tell people Laredo is located in South America because it makes me seem more legit as a self-professed, bonafide coniesseur of all things Hispanico.