hawking the hawker

One of the most therapeutic aspects of writing is sharing tales where I do not come out well in the end.

We all cultivate a public personality in the hopes that people will believe the best we see in ourselves. And then reality barges his way onto the stage.

Late last week, I was walking past the new Kiosko next to the bus station in San Patricio. There is a bench out front where people can rest in the shade of a mahogany tree.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary -- except for one thing. A tall northern man was bent forward pulling things out of his pockets and holding them in the face of someone on the bench.

In a few steps I knew exactly what was happening. The person on the bench was one of the local Indian women who make a living on the beach. She had her lunch laid out beside her along with a soda she probably purchased in the convenience store with some of the money she had earned that day selling trinkets on the beach.

I could now hear the man. "Would you like to buy this? -- No? Then how about this? -- Don't eat! I am selling you something."

The young woman looked terrified, and glanced up at me. It was the young mother of the family who once lived next door to me.

I have always laughed at the cliché: "I saw red." What on earth does that mean?

But, I literally saw red. It was as if a scarlet curtain had been drawn across my vision.

This guy had obviously taken umbrage at the vendors who go from table to table at restaurants trying to make a living. It irritates some people. This guy was taking his irritation out in a parody of Aespoic proportions.

I was seconds away from cold-cocking the pest when I heard Valeria's voice from Conan the Barbarian: "Do you want to live forever?"

My cinema-besotted mind often conjures up exactly the wrong quotation for what I am doing. This one caused me to laugh and my sane self returned to Earth. Laughter works miracles that way.

Rather than deck the guy, I politely asked: "Sir, what are you doing?" (I seem to fall into the fake formal address used by police officers without a sense of humor in circumstances like this.)

I was not surprised at his response. "It's none of your business."

I corrected him. "It is my business. This young woman, her husband, and her two boys were my neighbors. They are now my friends. Has she done something that requires you to humiliate her in public?"

By this time, she had gathered her lunch and had crept away.

"I have been here for three days. At every meal, these people [Ah. There it was. The infamous "these people."] interrupt me and try to sell me things I would never buy. I wanted to let her know what it feels like."

I could tell that even when he said it out loud, he did not realize how foolish his little melodrama was. So, I tried a different tack.

"It bothered me, too, when I first moved here. But, have you noticed how the Mexicans handle vendors? They will look at the merchandise. Finger it. Praise it. Ask what it is made of. And then thank the vendor for stopping by. Nothing is purchased. But both walk away smiling."

"Well, that is not how we do it in [what I presume was his home country]. The owners would not let them in."

"But, that is the point, isn't it? You are not in [home country]. You are in Mexico, and this is how things are done here. In the process, we are offered the opportunity to learn a bit of patience."

My words of wisdom were not adopted. Well, not if I properly understood what he said, which was something I believe to be not only anatomically impossible, but sounds entirely uninviting.

I did not bother adding that if he was going to buy something to not spend a lot of time trying to barter for 5 pesos and then feel as if he had won the lottery when the vendor essentially gives him part of her sales for the day.

At least, I did not hit him. Nor did I tell him to go back to [home country]. I certainly felt like it. But I hoped he would see how he was cheating himself out of a pleasant visit to Mexico.

That evening, I had dinner at Papa Gallo's. As I was walking past the Kiosko benches, I heard a slurred voice call my name. It was the husband of the vendor who had been assaulted. With beery breath he hugged me and thanked me for what I had done for his wife. And then started one of those rambling conversations that drinkers seem to love.

I eventually pulled away from his verbal clutches. I only took one step before he asked me for 100 pesos. He had drunk up his earnings for the day and wanted to take at least 100 pesos home with him.

I smiled. Walked about 5 paces and instinctively side-stepped as a half-filled beer can whizzed by my head.

A couple years ago, I shared a quotation with you from one of Walter Kirn's books. It sums up  my feelings about how writers treat the people we get to know.

A writer is someone who tells you one thing so someday he can tell his readers another thing: what he was thinking but declined to say, or what he would have thought had he been wiser.  A writer turns his life into material, and if you’re in his life, he uses yours, too.

In this case, I am glad I do not have to hide the bad behavior I almost acted out. It was bad enough that I let my rage get that much out of control.

But, it is equally true that not every tale has a happy ending. Life is not that neatly tied up in bows. Maybe because in life, for each of us, there is only one ending. Everything else is merely transitional moments.

And that is fine with me.