It was an old building with whitewashed clapboard walls and a tin roof. Several large lights hung from the ceiling. The lights added to the oppressive heat. From the walls to the center were low wooden tiers that descended to the center, each tier only five or six inches higher than the next inside. The tiers were occupied by a folding chairs, some metal, some wooden. I made certain Bob got us metal chairs. The wooden ones were old and I had no desire to get splinters in my backside.
The center of the building was roughly octagonal. It had a sand and sawdust floor.
Bob and I sat about a third of the way down. Over half the audience were like us, turistas. Most of the Americans were college boys, but I was surprised to se several couples. Bob alone in his thinking. Seeing the women made me feel a little better about being here. The rest of the audience were Mexican and all male. Among us, boys in dirty clothes moved selling bags of peanuts and cans of beer.
I was wondering what I was doing here. This was Bob's idea. After my niece's wedding, Bob had suggested a trip into Mexico. He told me to dress casually. While I changed, my husband called a cab. We had a rental car, of course, but it's always risky driving across from Texas to Mexico. Mexican drivers and traffic laws can be intimidating.
Bob had spoken to our driver in Spanish that was too quick for my understanding. Then he settled back with in the seat and pulled me close for a little pitching and woo. When we got to the international bridge and the Border Patrol officer looked in the back of the cab, he had to get his hand out of my pants. The driver explained that we had hired him for a three hour trip. The guard just nodded and waved us through to the Mexican side. Getting out of the country was easy. Getting back in might be something else altogether.
Once past the bright lights of the crossing, the city of Nueva Laredo looked much like it's sister city in Texas. Neon lights advertised restaurants and night clubs and the people on the sidewalks were well dressed. The appearance changed as we got farther away from border. The buildings and the people were shabbier. The streets were rougher, the streetlights less frequent. Dirty pre-teen boys came out of the shadows at each stop sign to try to sell us gum or cheap pens or religious trinkets. Our driver kept the cab windows up and the air conditioning blasting against the hot night.
Through a maze of narrow streets he took us. We were about fifteen minutes into Mexico when he pulled up in front of the building. It had a painted sign under a large wattage bulb but the paint was faded so I couldn't read it. The walls were decorated with sun breached posters for boxing or wrestling matches. There was a ticket booth at the entrance and an old man with one leg sat beside it to take the purchased tickets.
Our driver turned to look at us. I knew he'd been watching us in his mirror as Bob and I made out like horny teenagers.
"Thees ees" he told my husband "an hokay place for the gringa hermosa. Ver' safe. The woman who sells the teeckets, she weel say seventy-five pesos for one. Tell her no, you weel pay five dollars American for the both of you. She weel look sad, but she weel agree. You have pesos or American dollars?"
"Both."
"Pay in dollars. Eet weel be cheaper. The peso, eet ess not so good right now. The legal exchange ees about seex cents to the peso. The cerveza, eef you want eet, weel be good and cold. Muy frio. Any food, not so good. Do not buy eet. The banos weel be behind the arena. They weel be sanitary but not so much clean." I wondered at the distinction
"I weel peek you up een two hours. He held up two fingers. "Hokay?"
"OK," Bob agreed after glancing at his watch. It was a cheap sports watch. His Rolex was locked in the room safe back at our hotel. He opened the car door, got out and turned to help me. I took a few seconds to adjust my clothing and joined him in the street. I felt momentarily self-conscious until I noticed there were a smattering of women with the men filing past the crippled man at the entrance. Many were about my age and similarly dressed.
The taxi driver leered at me, tipped his dirty chauffeur's cap, and drove away.
Bob took my arm and steered me to the ticket booth.
"This is crazy."
"You'll love it," my husband insisted. He haggled briefly with the ticket seller. He's good at it. Maybe in a former life he worked in a Turkish bazaar. Personally, I hate haggling. I don't do it at the grocery store and see no reason to do it anywhere else. Our driver was right, though. The elderly woman exchanged two tickets for a $5 bill. The one legged man - I think he was the ticket seller's husband - took the tickets and an opportunity to pat my fanny, returned our stubs, and waved us past.
The arena was filling nicely.
Bob said, "I want to get a good spot."
The "spots" such as they were, all looked the same to me. It wasn't as if we were choosing a box for the symphony.
Still, he led us over to our right and about a third of the way down Bob offered to buy me a beer. I asked for a Diet Coke, but that wasn't available, so I accepted a Modelo Negro. It was ice cold. In the heat of the arena, it tasted good.
Two stage hands brought in a brass bed and it's stained mattress. They set their burden down dead center of the floor, gazed over the crowd, and left. I didn't need to ask what the prop was for. To hear my husband tell it, he'd spent every weekend during his college years in Nueva Laredo' Boys Town; he was an expert in its entertainment.
A man in a fancy caballero outfit, all black with silver buttons and gold designs came out. He took off his broad brimmed sombrero and bowed. He wore a bandito style moustache and was dark complexioned. He spoke at length in Spanish. Again, it was too fast for me to do more than catch a phrase here or there. I did catch his name, Tomas. It sounded like he was describing three acts. His voice was loud and clear. At the end of his speech, he switched to English.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to you for tonight's entertainment. We start our program with
Lorena and Bruno.
He made way for a black haired plump woman and her partner. It was a performance that wouldn't have played well in Mayberry, USA, or even Peoria, but it got the crowd excited. Some of the men were jumping and crying out in encouragement as the act ended. Even Bob had been caught up in the fervor. He put his arm around my shoulders and let his hand drape over my boob. Maybe I was being a prude, but if this was going to be the standard of the entertainment, I'd rather wait in the taxi.
After Bruno had removed himself from Lorena and they had departed the stage, the two stage hands came out. They flipped over the used and abused mattress and departed
One of the men sitting behind us leaned forward, inserting his face between us. He said, in surprisingly good English, "That was very good, no? Bruno, he is muy fuerza."
Maybe very strong, yes, but not my idea of a sexual partner.
The Mexican, he had surprisingly blue eyes and a long face with a very thin equally long scar down one cheek that made him look dangerous, passed forward a clear bottle with an elaborate label. Inside the bottle was a honey colored liquid. "A taste?"
"Sure," Bob said, the silly ass. He uncorked the bottle and took a pull. His eyes got bright. "That stuff came from the right cactus. Honey?"
"No thanks." But I took the bottle anyway and passed it back to the man behind us. He certainly was a handsome devil, I decided. Was this where he came for kicks? Or did he pick up women here? That hardly seemed possible. Single women didn't come to a place like this.
I told Bob I wouldn't mind another beer, though, and he waved a boy over. My husband bought three and handed one to his new best buddy.
I took a drink and to hell with my hips, I thought.
Tomas came back out. He brought with him two long legged women in flowing gowns. One woman, barely twenty, was slender. She was pale with red hair. The other of about the same age, had more meat on her bones, and was black. Tomas introduced them to us as Bambi and Jemima. He pronounced the last name Spanish fashion, 'Hay-mee-mah." Despite his variation in pronunciation, it was the most unlikely name for a black girl in this day and age I could imagine. But then, I really didn't believe the willowy blonde was named Bambi.
He spoke in low tones to the duo and stepped away from them. Immediately, they went after each other. Screaming. Clawing. Cursing each other as they grappled. The gowns were quickly rent from the sweating bodies as they wrestled in front of the crowd.
The fighting didn't last long, however. Soon after they were naked, the slaps became caresses, the bites became kisses. The catfight had obviously been just a diversion to get them naked. They fell together on the bed.
