Last Dance In Dumb Town...

By DUARDO PAZ-MARTINEZ
The Paz Files

BROWNSVILLE, Texas - Some obscure punk band from Mexico waltzed into town the other day, bringing noise no one here needed. "It's a stab at life," said an outbound bus driver at the downtown station. "It can't be tortillas and beans everyday, man. You gotta dance sometime."

It isn't, of course.

Brownsville rocks to its own vicious sounds, dancing to a combination of midnight sexual yelpings and morning screams at the inattentive Gods. Here, going to jail for drinking while driving is a badge of sorts. Even the politicians know that walk, one covered nicely by the tired newspaper and blared the Hell out of proportion by the sensationalist blogs. Not drinking is the oddity, although you can find some of those residents if you go and get a bit nitpicky, something never recommended when you're down & out along the harsh Mexican border.

I popped into a downtown cafe and moseyed over to a corner table near a dusty jukebox that played an old, old song by Jose Alfred Jimenez, Mexico's Neil Diamond, that reminded me of a woman from my days in El Paso. That one had given her all, but sometimes even that is not enough. I sat back heavy and then dropped my copy of The Brownsville Herald on the table while a soft-necked waitress ambled over. I knew what I wanted.

"Tacos with egg and bacon," I said, holding up two fingers. "Plus a whole avocado sliced neatly and flanked by pico de gallo. Bring me that and get yourself a nice tip, doll."

She wrote it down on a palm-sized pad and pivoted a well-hipped retreat chased by some mumbling that sounded as if she was not a happy camper at work. If you ever get tired of people being nice to you, come to Brownsville. They wear bitching proudly here, better than they do in Beirut or Bogota. Arrive with a northern attitude and see the avalanche of cursing fall on you in Spanish. It's that kind of a movie, one with a sick plot, horrible actors and an ending that never comes.

Last Dance In Dumb Town, starring a cavalcade of do-nothings and mumblers solely interested in getting credit and getting paid. Don't ask for the best tacos; they serve what they want and that's that. There is no prime rib in town, not even a good T-bone. Those are trucked over to McAllen some 60 miles to the west, where chef's know the drill and waitresses know the score. Here, a Jack-In-the-Box taco will do when the wallet is thin. Here, the mayor will spring for a round of booze if the votes are in. Here, women pine for rough, full-depth sex, but get shorted most of the time. Dancing, then, is the outlet for those ragged bedroom emotions.

I see my breakfast being walked toward me.

"Here," the waitress says in the manner of a junior high dropout.

"Thank you, sweetheart," I say, nonetheless.

"Will there be anything else?" That subservient, yet annoying tone.

"Red Sox or Yankees," I throw back. "The pennant, I mean."

"Rangers," she tells me, smiling like a real worthwhile bordello slut. "World Series champs this year. Bank it, dude."

I smile and she smiles and then three fat cops sucking menudo at a nearby table lift their pig heads to smile before the entire cafe crowd bursts out in laughter not heard around here since blogger Jerry McHale was writing high school sports for the local daily.

There's nothing worth a damn in the newspaper and I tell myself these poor buggers need some sort of brain rubdown, and they need it soon. Much has passed this town by, and now, under a new mayor who is more at ease with a croissant than a taco-de-trompo, much more threatens to zip by as if to punish the most whipped town in America. It rained here the other day and the church said it was God crying.

The two tacos went down nicely and I got up to leave just as a song by Phil Collins burst out of the old jukebox and what followed was the needle scratching the Hell out of the record. Figures, I told myself, wanting, but not wanting to make a scene.

You walk carefully in this town.

Every sidewalk is an eggshell...

- 30 -