Flowers and Jalapeños

I wrote this memoir piece years ago and only recently found and revised it a bit. Hope you like it. 

         I was walking down the hallway of our hotel, feeling pretty good about myself. ‘Hey, I’m in Mexico... I’m in the tropics…’ I said to myself just under my breath, ‘Everything is cool.’  I checked to make sure no one was around, then did a little hip-shimmy in my wildly flowered dress.  My flat, gold sandals clicked to a stop in front of Cathy’s door and I knocked the ‘shave and a haircut’ knock, then spoke into the crack of the door, “Helllooo... it’s me…”

Cathy answered the door wearing shorts, a T-shirt and espadrilles.

‘Look she’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt’ said that annoying little voice in my head. ‘You’re going to make a spectacle of yourself, Melinda.’

‘Shut up,’ I told it. ‘If she wants to wear shorts, that’s up to her. If I want to wear a dress, that’s up to me.’ But I held my short white jacket tighter, just the same.

“I brought a jacket, just in case the air conditioning is cranked up really high. You know I’m always freezing…” my words trailed off lamely while she stuffed some money in the pocket of her shorts and closed and locked the door to her room.  We headed down the open air hallway to the front of the hotel so we could catch the bus to…

“Jalapeños, right? I mean, you don’t mind listening to reggae, right?” she said.

“No, it’s fine, really. Reggae’s OK.”

“I just feel like dancing to some reggae, you know?” 

 I was not a huge fan of reggae, but I did know. She seemed to have absorbed some of the mood I was in before I got to her door, her eyes moving around from one clichéd tropical site to another until they finally landed on me, and she said, “YOU look very nice tonight. I think we’re going to have to beat Mexican men off you with a stick.”

“Haha, yeah, right,” I said. 

I should have brought my long, black sweater instead. 

Fifteen minutes later, we hopped off the bus and ran across the highway to Jalapeños where a flock of taxi drivers hovered, waiting for some action. 

“Whoooooeee, pretty mama,” I checked out my sandals as we walked past them. Some Spanish accented whistlers called out a greeting and I could not help but look over to see if they were talking to us.

        “Nice dress…”  I heard.  I looked up briefly.  Yikes, yup, I was the only one wearing a dress.  I shouldn’t have looked.  I tried my best to ignore them. Although it was uncomfortable to be cat-called, it was even more weird that they were paying no attention at all to Cathy. Why didn’t she get dressed up, too? If she had, I wouldn’t have been the only one in this situation. I did my best to turn on my ‘selective hearing.’  I pretended not to hear them, even though I could hear the sound of traffic coming down the highway a mile away.  Suddenly I was clammy and wishing I wore something else entirely - something that provided me with more cover. I put on my white jacket and pulled up the sleeves.  Cathy, whose sarcastic wit picked up the most finely detailed of personal flaws, seemed to have missed these men loitering around the outside entrance of the club. Were they all cab drivers waiting for a fare? There was no time for us to talk about this though, because she was a woman on a mission.  She strode into the club with such single-minded purpose that she left me trailing in her wake, hop, skip and jumping along behind her in an effort to keep up, while simultaneously lengthen the hem of my dress. 

Inside, we were surprised to see a bar less than half full of people, even though it was way past 10:00 pm, and the band was working diligently through its reggae set. We approached the first empty table and Cathy said, “do you want to sit down and get a drink first? I don’t want to dance yet. Nobody else is out there.” 

“Yeah, that’s fine.” I grabbed a chair and lowered myself into it, trying to look inconspicuous as everyone stared at us. 

  A waiter rushed over almost immediately with his order pad and a large smile on his face. “Good evening señoritas. Can I get you a drink?” 

“Yeah, uh…”  Cathy and I looked at each other.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the waiter leering at me. Good lord, I’m not Helen of Troy, I’m just some girl in a flowered dress.  I decided to use my selective vision as well, and tried not to meet his eyes.

“Vodka and cranberry” she said.

‘I’ll have an extra-large cloak of invisibility with a hood, please’ is what I wanted to say but instead I said, “I’ll have the same, thanks.”

The waiter left to get our drinks and we looked silently around the room and checked out the one or two couples who were on the dance floor.  After a few more minutes a some more people made their way one to the dance floor to sway in time to the music. Still trying to make the most of my evening out, I thought hopefully that maybe soon they would turn down the lights on the dance floor so I could go out there and dance and no one would see me.  Hmmm it’d probably have to be a lot darker than this, though.  I was still staring, hoping for this eventuality when a thin, long-faced man with a thatch of dark hair and a mustache approached our table.  He looked like figure on a Mexican souvenir  - tall and lanky, slightly hunched at the shoulders.  He perfectly matched this tropical setting.   He leaned towards me so close I could see the dampness under the arms of his burgundy polyester shirt. “Would you like to dance?” he asked.

My brain said, ‘WHATT?’ and a I squeaked out, “Oh, no thanks, I just want to sit and listen for a while.” My eyes darted around the room, landed on him for a split second and darted off again.  

The long-faced man retreated in silent disappointment and I noticed an amused grin on Cathy’s face, but she said nothing.  Shit, I thought.  Now I can’t dance - I told that guy I just want to sit and listen.  Long-faced man ordered himself a drink.  I imagined it was tequila.  

The waiter returned with our drinks and we sipped them for a while, passing the time checking out the decor.  Humanized jalapeño peppers complete with wings and mustaches cavorted among a heaven full of clouds painted on the ceiling.  A neon green jalapeño and some of his red buddy chili pepper pals formed the logo on one wall. There was some lighting behind the band, and behind the bar, but other than that, it was pretty dark in there. I guess it was no good hoping it would get darker so that I could dance.  I looked over at Cathy. She was checking out the band. 

“I really want to dance, but this really isn’t good reggae,” Cathy said finally.  

Oh, it doesn’t matter, I thought. I shouldn’t have worn this damn dress, and now I told that guy that I don’t want to dance, so how can I just get up now and start tearing up the dance floor?   

“That’s ok.  It sounds fine to me.  Really.”

Our smiling waiter returned and asked if we wanted anything else.  We declined and he retreated to observe the band from the walk space next to our table. We watched the band, too, and I suspiciously kept an eye on the waiter, wondering why he was still standing right next to our table.  Another waiter walked over next to ours and the two of them started chatting, occasionally pointing with their chins in our direction.  

Our waiter and his grin returned for an encore performance, “Would you like to dance?”  For a second, I was stunned.  He’s WORKING, I thought.  Is he allowed to dance on the job? Are the rules that different in Mexico? 

“No thanks,” I said and looked away quickly but this time, smiled sweetly so that I didn’t look like a complete bitch.  Better, I said to myself.  The waiter, unfortunately, didn’t seem to think so.  “Why not? It looks like you want to dance so come and dance with me.” In my 26 years, I had never run into this sort of thing.  How was I supposed to answer that? ‘No, buddy, I might consider dancing, just not with YOU.’  Yeah, that probably wouldn’t go well.  

“No, really.”  I said, and shook my head no.  “Thanks anyway.”

I suddenly noticed that the tequila drinker was watching us closely.  MIND YOUR OWN DAMN BUSINESS! I wanted to scream.  

Cathy was wearing that smirk again, and I widened my eyes, trying to convey that that I could use some help.  She looked back at the band.  

The waiter leaned over me, his hand on the back of my chair and tried a new approach, “Come on… You’re on vacation.  You’re supposed to be having FUNnnnnnn…”

“No.”  I said. My voice took on a harsher tone, but sounded to my ears, just a tiny bit desperate.  Leave me the fuck alone, so I can enjoy my night, I thought.  

“Do you want to go?” Cathy asked. The waiter, who seemed to have forgotten all about her, turned back to look at her.  

“Yeah!”  I said, with enough enthusiasm to convince anyone except for this idiot that I really did want him to get away from me. I put some money on the table for the drinks but when we stood up to go, the waiter grabbed my arm and started walking toward the dance floor.  

“No,” I said, “I don’t want to dance.  We’re leaving now.” I silently cursed my God-damned dress.  Why did I have to wear it? Why are these men such blathering assholes? 

“Where else are you going to go?” the waiter asked.  He then had both of my arms and was trying to steer me away from the door and back toward the dance floor.  “Don’t you want to hear reggae?”

My temper bubbled up like steam in a kettle. “No.  I want to go back to my hotel and go to sleep.”  While my statement sank into his thick skull, I wrenched free first one of my arms and then the other, then headed for the door with Cathy following behind me, who still managed to keep her eyes mainly on the band even as we headed out the door. 

I strode to the parking lot and hailed a taxi to take us back to the hotel - the first taxi with a driver who looked old, and happily married, and grandfatherly.   We got in the cab, and as soon as he pulled away from the curb, I gave voice to my livid thoughts.  

“How obnoxious!”  I ranted.  “I can’t believe they wouldn’t cut it out and leave me alone.”  

“Well,” she said, “You wore that dress, what did you expect?”