To Eat La Cantina de Miseria y Hambre
Arcangel sat alone at a table outside the Cantina de Miseria y Hambre. It was a cantina like any other, but he had chosen it for its name, Misery & Hunger—perhaps not an auspicious one for such a business, but perhaps not inappropriate. All day and night long the tables and chairs of the Cantina of Misery & Hunger were filled with people. Of course, some were miserable, some hungry, some miserable and hungry. They saw the sign from a distance as they crossed the street, wending their way through life’s travails to a place of commonalities. As such, it could be construed as a miserable and hungry place, filled with miserable and hungry people, but it was in fact bustling with life. It was as life is: spilling its guts and filling its belly, endlessly.
The waiter came with his plate of nopales. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” the waiter asked.
“Where were you born?”
“Near San Cristobal de las Casas, in Chiapas. My people have worked an ejido there for three generations.”
“You were born in the cornfields?”
“How did you know?”
“How old are you now?”
“Almost twenty.”
Arcangel nodded, “Has it been that long?”
The waiter was baffled and took the liberty of sitting down while Arcangel began to fill his mouth with forkfuls of the steaming and slightly slimy nopales. “So it’s true that I know you then?”
“I think so.” Arcangel scrutinized the puzzled young man. “Yes, but you’ve changed a bit since I last saw you.”
“You have not changed at all,” the waiter said, “but I do not know how to explain how I know that.”
Arcangel shrugged and pointed at his plate. “My compliments to the cook.”
“Perhaps you would like a beer?” the waiter suggested.
“Perhaps.”
“It’s on me. For old time’s sake.” The waiter returned with a can of Bud Light.
“Beer in cans? What’s this?”
“Bud Light.”
“What other sort of beer do you have?”
“We have Budweiser, too. Schlitz. Hamms. Michelob. Coors. Miller. Miller Lite. Samuel Adams.”
“You don’t think it strange?”
“Strange? That I remember you from my birth?”
“No. About the beers. All American beers. But we are in México, are we not? Where are the Mexican beers?”
“Perhaps you would prefer Coca-Cola or Pepsi?”
“Perhaps I would like a hamburger, Fritos, and catsup.”
“It is our special today.”
It was true. Arcangel looked around at all the hungry and miserable people in the cantina—all eating hamburgers, Fritos, catsup, and drinking American beers. Only he, who had asked the cook the favor of cooking his raw cactus leaves, ate nopales. He scratched the rugged stubble in the hollow of his cheek and ran his fingers across his chin. “The cantina is very full today. Is it always so?”
“We do a good business. But today, even better. Most of these people are on their way to the cockfight.”
Arcangel left with the crowd, their prizefighters hidden in sacks, resting in the dark before their perhaps final events. He followed them to a small arena, watched the owners groom their proud birds, sun glancing off the satin sheen of their black and emerald feathers and the terrible glare of the knives at their heels. He watched the money exchange hands, the excitement of the deal, the glint in the eyes of both men and birds. He wondered when his time would come, when he would be forced to spar with knives at his heels, to meet the final destiny of those with wings. The slain bodies of the most elegant, well-fed, and trained roosters were carried sadly away. The victors who remained strutted the ring, seemingly boastful, but only the owners were foolish enough to be truly boastful.
Now it was Arcangel’s turn to strut to the center. Unseen by anyone, he had transformed himself into a motley personage: part superhero, part professional wrestler, part Subcomandante Marcos. Ski mask in camouflage nylon, blue cape with the magic image of Guadalupe in an aura of gold feathers and blood roses, leopard bicycle tights, and blue boots. Someone shouted, “It’s El Gran Mojado!” Instant recognition. An awe-struck murmur ran through the crowd. Could it be? Indeed the man going north had appeared. “El Gran Mojado, what are you doing here?” someone in the crowd wanted to know.
“Fool. He is going north, of course.” Everyone knew his story. His manifest destiny.
“Ah,” said El Gran Mojado, lifting a can of Budweiser, “But for the moment the North has come South.”
“Haven’t you heard? It’s because of SUPERNAFTA!” someone shouted. “While you are busy going north, he’s here kicking ass. And he’s saying we are North, too!”
Another said, “It’s all hot air what he says. What’s the good of being North when it feels, looks, tastes, smells, shits South?”
“That’s right! If Martians landed here, they would know. They would swim nude in Acapulco, buy sombreros, ride burros, take pictures of the pyramids, build a maquiladora, hire us, and leave.”
“El Gran Mojado! Stay here and save us! Why do you want to go North and save those bastards up there?”
“He’s afraid of SUPERNAFTA! He hasn’t got the balls!”
“GRRRRR!” El Gran Mojado roared. He strutted to the edges of the crowds, gesticulating. Everyone backed away. “You can spread rumors of what you have heard, but it is what you see and hear for yourself that matters. You can see me! I have come to you! But who has seen this SUPERNAFTA anyway? Anyone?”
A murmur ran through the crowd. No one had actually seen the wrestling giant. “We have seen his picture. His posters are everywhere. They say his silver clothing is made of titanium. His hair is on fire, and he has the power to duplicate, even triplicate, himself. And he is twice your size. You are a skinny old man compared to him!”
“A picture can be made to look like anything. That’s why you never see pictures of me, yet everyone knows El Gran Mojado. I,” he beat his chest, “am a vision in your very minds!”
“What good is a vision up against something like SUPERNAFTA? When he appears, where will you be? In our heads?”
“I have made a challenge to this super-fake no one has ever seen. If he is indeed the fighter his posters declare, then he will find me. Me, El Gran Mojado! He will come to where I am, like a true warrior, and fight to the death!” El Gran Mojado gestured widely. His voice reverberated everywhere even long after he was silent. The cocks shifted in their canvas bags or crowed like crazy from their cages. No one could mistake the intention of his words. He continued,
Have you forgotten 1848 and the
Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo?
With a stroke of the pen,
México gave California to the gringos.
The following year,
1849,
everyone rushed to get the gold in California,
and all of you Californianos who were already there
and all of you indígenas who crossed
and still cross the new border
for a piece of the gold have become
wetbacks.
My struggle is for all of you.
El Gran Mojado derives his great strength
from the noble hearts of his people!
Let’s see if this SUPERSCUMNAFTA is not a
coward!
He is only concerned with the
commerce of money and things.
What is this compared to the great
commerce of humankind?
His challenge is doomed to failure!
So be it!
He will know where to find me.
All of you,
his finger threatened the crowd,
will point the way.
The crowd and its menagerie of birds parted a path northward, and El Gran Mojado disappeared.
“It will be the greatest battle ever witnessed!” The declarations were immediate and exaggerated.
“Imagine! Two great champions to the death!”
“I will wager everything on El Gran Mojado!”
“But I have heard this NAFTA has a secret hidden weapon. It will not be a clean fight.”
“This NAFTA will draw blood.”
“A fight not to be missed!”
“A historic event.”
“If I see nothing in this life, I will see this fight!”
In a moment a great turbulence had been created. Already, it was being billed as the Greatest Fight of the Century: El Contrato Con América. And the others would also be there, superheroes and supervillains alike: Super-Barrio, La Chingada y El Gran Chingón, Super-Migra, Super-Ilegal, Super-Chicano, Super-Gringo, and La Raza Cósmica.
And the crowd, lusting for battle and blood, moved North with its Latin birds and American beers.