I looked back. They sprinted directly at me. I readied and as the first closed in he reached back to punch me. When he swung I noticed a softball-sized stone in his hand. I ducked at the last second and the stone glanced me behind the ear. I stumbled forward into him, gathered and cracked him with a short right cross. He crumbled to the sidewalk. I went to kick him square in the head to finish him off but I was so drunk I missed. My foot sailed over his head. I slipped on the stones, flew up in the air, and landed flat on my back right beside him. The other one rushed at me as I jumped to my feet. The lady screamed. “What are you doing?” I yelled in her face. “RUN!”
The other one windmilled both his fists at me. The blur of wild motion threw me off. I caught his hand as it swung at me. Something sliced deep into the pad of my palm. Wet electricity splashed inside my fist. It didn’t click that he was cutting me. He hopped back and swung his other fist. I grabbed his hand in midair. Something sunk deep into my palm in almost the same spot. He yanked his fist away and what I assume was an ice pick stuck and pulled my hand with it. I unhinged my hand from the pick. His starved, yellow, junkie eyes told me he’d kill me if I let him. He lunged at me desperately and hit me in the ribs. I countered it with a left hook that crashed into the side of his head and wobbled him out into the center of the street. My cowboy plaid shirt hung off me in long ribbons. He’d sliced it to shreds. I ripped what was left of my shirt off. His friend got up and fumbled with the big stone. I lunged at him and he gave ground. The chick screamed at me: “Why are you fighting!” I turned and screamed in her face: “RUN! We’re getting mugged, bitch!” I’m not bleeding much. He didn’t get me good. The one with the box cutter and ice pick stopped staggering. I laughed at them and screamed, “I’m from Chicago, motherfuckers! I will fucking beat you both to fucking death right now!” They backed up. They argued with each other, then the one with the big stone came at me tentatively with the stone cocked and ready. I gave ground to him, waiting for him to swing that thing as the other guy grabbed at the chick’s purse. Finally he swung it at me. I dodged it and slammed him facedown into the stone curb. I rained down savage punches through his flailing arms; his head bounced off the curb. A whiny girlish scream poured out of him. I laughed and looked back at the chick. She wouldn’t let go of the purse! The guy finally gave up and rushed at me. I stood. Again I backed them down the street, taunting them maniacally. They argued with each other until one of them pulled a three-foot chain out of his pant leg. Really! How many weapons do you motherfuckers got?!
I sighed, shook my head, and said, “Let’s go, you motherfuckers are gonna have to fuckin’ kill me.” They glanced at each other, thought better of it, turned and ran away down the dark street.
I inspected my hand. The ice pick caused a puncture wound beside my lifeline. The box cutter left a two-inch slice along the bottom pad. I picked up my plaid cowboy shirt; it dangled in unrecognizable strands but there were only superficial scratches on my chest and stomach. We got the car and came back. I had a pack of Marlboros in my shirt pocket. I looked around and found them on the sidewalk. I laughed insanely and screamed, “You motherfuckers didn’t get a fucking thing!” Then I lit a smoke. Back at her place I realized that the guy had stuck me in the ribs with the ice pick. It’d gone in at a lucky angle and didn’t hit anything, but it could have easily popped my lung.
My bad karma didn’t end there.
Banged that crazy white lady and that led to a two-day drunk where I didn’t write a fucking thing. She just kept telling me I should help her write her memoir about marrying a matador. When I finally did get home I sat down to write and spilled a full cup of hot coffee on my keyboard. The screen went blank. It sizzled and smoke lifted off the keys. When it wouldn’t turn back on I realized I’d lost 40,000 of the best words I had ever written.
After I stopped screaming at myself, I wondered why all of this was happening. In a moment of clarity I found myself thinking about Enid. I realized I was deeply in love with her. She’d blown wind in my sails, she’d made me laugh like no other girl before her, and let’s face it, the sex was incredible. She was a city girl and all her sensibilities matched mine. She was in love with me too, and the power of that love had driven us apart.
I contemplated all of this as I drove around with the crazy lady to different bars; murderous stares targeted me each place we went.
Something kept telling me, what are you doing with this skank? You love Enid.
I’d been a coward in the presence of the purest love of my life, and all this darkness was the consequence of my cowardice. So I went to find Enid. We talked for a long while in the back of the gallery. I confessed I loved her and she did the same. A couple weeks later I ran out of money and we said goodbye with a kiss and my promise to return.
Luckily I salvaged my novel off my fried computer. Found work that winter and I came back to Mexico, but now Enid was in Mexico City. She helped me get a cheap apartment in a very dangerous section of La Neza in Mexico City. In the film Amores Perros, the assassin lived there.
The first night in La Neza, Enid and I bought a quart of Victoria and climbed way up to the roof of my building. The bright lights of the city spread around us and ascended the mountainsides that surround D.F. like a cloud of pulsing lightning bugs. Enid was more beautiful than ever with her short black hair, dark skin, and big full lips. I marveled at how I’d found this gem of a girl and ended up in this monstrous third world maze as we passed the quart back and forth. Some neighborhood kids began to call up to us and talk shit from down on the street. So I poured some beer down at them and called them “little motherfuckers,” playfully. They just giggled and repeated “Motherfuckers! Motherfuckers!” and before you knew it we were exchanging lessons on swearing in our respective languages and swiftly becoming friends.
I wrote every day and hung out with Enid at night. This family that lived down the block from me befriended me. They were six kids from about eight to sixteen years old; a few of the boys were there for the welcoming party swearing lessons. They wanted to learn more English, and after I’d written all day they’d come and knock on my door yelling, “Willians” (they thought that was my name) until I came downstairs. They’d take me to go play soccer or play video games at the arcade; they taught me Spanish and I taught them English. I thought I’d have a check coming from home but it never came, and I was extremely low on money. So I survived mainly on Ramen noodles. When they found out I didn’t have money for food they began to trick me into coming to their home to eat dinner. I would refuse to go, but their mother would ask me to come and eat. The generosity of these people was just heartbreaking. I only was ever in their kitchen/dining room but the last day I was there one of the kids brought me into the bedroom to see something. Ignorance made me assume the house was big, but when I stepped into the other room I saw that they all slept in the second room. This just magnified my gratitude; they were so poor and had given me so much. I finished the book, ran out of money, and went home in early February.
Worked, saved, and came to be with Enid that June. Luckily I had money this time and gave the family a letter thanking each and every one of them for all the wonderful fun we’d had. I put a couple hundred bucks in the envelope. Knowing they’d give the money back, I told them not to open it until I left. I’d still go to visit those guys, but they moved away and we lost touch. Afterward I took Enid to a small town on the beach in Veracruz. I asked her to marry me on a little dirt road down the street from the house we’d rented. She said yes. I promised her that I would be a better man and I’ve striven every day to be that. We made crazy plans for our future. Our dreams filled us with astonishing hope.
BUFFALO
Returned to Pamplona that July. I’d stayed in contact with Graeme Galloway. He offered for me to come and work for him in his travel group, the Pamplona