Of Pisco and Peru: Mancora
Pt. 4
Shaking off the negative vibes, I shuffle past the assortment of bamboo tables. No one appears to be home, save for a white fluffball of a cat curled asleep into a ball on the rump of a mermaid statue in the corner.
My attention turns to the clamshell décor bar area with a menacing crocodile skull hanging overhead, but no bartender.
Rrrrrrreeeeaaahh! I follow the scratching sound to my left. In the cubby hole next to the pickup spot, a burly figure fidgets at a small table, scratching what looks like a large protractor against a chalkboard.
The voice of a pack-and-a-half a day habit: “Ova’ ‘ear.”
He’s dressed like a disgruntled theater groupie that got bounced from the set of ‘Peter Pan’ for passing around quaaludes and inappropriate touching: A jizz-stained pirate’s hat; a drooping right eye patch; a goofy, oversized shark tooth necklace; a fake parrot on his shoulder and a blunt in his mouth. A younger, Rubenesque Peruvian woman, adorned with a red and tan, textured bohemian poncho, is perched rigidly to his right, avoiding my gaze.
I try my best poker face. “Hey, there.”
The burly pirate sizes me up. “Da name’s Pirate John. Welcome ‘board.”
“You fuck with Pirate John, you fuck with the best! Waaaaaak!” the bird croaks.
Christ, it’s real.
I offer my right hand for a handshake. The pirate pauses, then pulls up his arm from under the table. A hook. Surprised, I fumble switching hands. He reciprocates with his left. Another hook.
“Uh, what can I do ya fer?”
“Um. . .”
I sneak a glance at the woman staring into space like a puffy-eyed mannequin like she’s still in shock from being sideswiped by an emotional bus ride. Could be crying? Could be something stronger than a midday cocktail?
Spying a blotch of white powder over Pirate John’s upper lip, I rub mine.
He snarls, “Powdered donuts fer breakfast. What’s yer pleasure?”
A squawk. “My coke! My coke!”
“Uhhh. Um. A Cuba Libre.”
He smiles and nods. “Good choice.”
Pirate John strokes his right hook through his beard and lifts his chin. “Arrrrrgg! Mahhhhlly! Git yer butt ova’ ‘ere, boy!”
Racing footfalls. Molero dashes around the corner, bearing an armful of linens. He places them carefully on the nearest table, then stops spread-eagle next to me as Pirate John lays into him, cussing him out in gringo-fied Spanish.
I wince and watch as Molero bows his head, staring into a hole in the floorboards beneath the buzzing flies nibbling at his sandals. Probably wishes he could disappear into it.
There’s been enough vile tripe posing as managers, mid-managers, and lead stupervisors in my day to know the deal. A public lynching and all-around castration to let everyone know just who is boss.
Molero opens his mouth, then thinks the better of it. Ignoring me, he dashes behind the bar to whip up the concoction. Good job. Act attentive. Play busy.
The pirate relaxes, flashing a wide, toothy grin like all is right with the world again. “’Ow long ya wid us?”
My mind pops back from bad work memories. “I think three days. My. . . uh, my friend actually booked us. What is there for a tourist to do here?”
The parrot beats its wings and croaks. “Stick your head up your ass? See if it fits. Waaaak!”
“It’s da beach.” The pirate shrugs, then wrinkles his nose like I smell of sulfur. “Ya don’t look much da surfer. Ya could go ta Nuro and swim wit’ da turtles. Thar’s horseback ridin’ on da beach ‘ere. You an’ yer ‘friend’ could go ta Mancora an’ drink ’til yer blue in da face. Ya fish?”
“Not for quite some time.”
Pirate John gasps, struggling to grip the joint in his mouth with his left hook. The woman is still catatonic, a small nervous twitch her only reaction. Molero hands me my drink. Are those cigarette burns on his arm? I want a better look, but he flies off like an elite Tarahumara runner being chased down by wild dogs. Shakin’ that bush, boss.
Finally, Pirate John manages to clasp the joint with both hooks before spitting it to the floor and hocking a loogie. “Some a da best fishin’ in da worl’ is ‘n Cabo Blanco, jus’ down da way. ‘Ell, ‘emingway caught a nine-hundre’-poun’ marlin thar’ back in da fifties. S’where ‘e came up wit’ da Ol’ Man ’n’ da Sea.”
“Haaaah!” The woman blurts out what starts as a laugh, but trails off into a series of progressively weaker coughs.
For the first time, Pirate John looks at her, glowering. His mouth opens, then he changes his mind and turns to catch me transfixed at the sight of his left hook scratching his beer belly.
The doorbell sounds.
“Waaaaak!” The parrot takes off up to perch on the wall as Pirate John rises.
Holding out his arms as if he’s being crucified, he bellows out, “Op’rashun Urgen’ Fury. Eighta-Three. ‘El’copter shot down in da battle over Fort Rupert. Both han’s sheered right off in da instant.”
A male voice yells from over by the ‘Serenity By the Sea’. “Cut the bullshit, Shrödinger! Don’t make me come over there!”
Pirate John’s unfazed. “Na’ ya’ won’!”
“Yeah, Fuck you! Waaaaak!”
Pirate John sneers, scouring my face for any signs of disgust. “War is ‘ell. But we kept da world’s supply of nutmeg out da ‘ands of dem commie Grenadan bastards ’n’ saved Christmas fer da whorl damned free world’. Earn’d da Triple Cross a Courage fer dat ‘un.”
“Haaaah!” The woman looks at me, then stares straight ahead.
Pirate John sits down and scowls. “Thank ya ‘ery much.”
What is this?
He turns to her. “More yum yum, please.”
No reaction. “More yum yum, Adriana.”
A gravelly snarl. “I says ‘Give Daddy ‘is foockin’ yum yum!”
Adriana hesitates, then produces a lighter and a joint from underneath her poncho and turns to Pirate John, avoiding his eyes. He curls a smile. Trembling, she places the joint between his lips, then flicks her thumb on the lighter, yet fails to produce a flame. As she keeps trying for a spark, Pirate John leers and pulls her towards him with one arm. Stifling a sob, she manages to get the joint lit. They lock eyes and he inhales, the embers glowing an intense, deep red. Then, he blows a puff of smoke in her face, chortling as she pulls away.
I feel dirty all over, like I need to purge myself in a bathtub full of Drano. Are we doomed?
Pirate John scowls as a mousy, nervous laugh squeaks from my mouth.
Before I can reply, the puffball cat jumps on the table, leaning its face into Pirate John’s gut. Its back arches as it stretches and purrs while he gently rubs his wrist behind its head. Adriana is still as a statue.
Pirate John fawns over the beast. “’Eeeees. Datsa’ goods quyoootsie.”
Looking back at me, Pirate John manipulates the joint towards the side of his mouth. “Ma therapy cat. Miss Whiskers.”
He glares at Adriana. “Ma most prized possession.” Nodding down, he allows Miss Whiskers to rub her head all over his face as he makes baby talk. “Yes ya are. O’, yes ya aaaaaare.”
Adriana hasn’t the slightest reaction. Nothing.
His gold tooth glints as he smiles at me. “Ya got pets?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.” Pirate John flares his nostrils like he’s caught me ripping a squeaker from a deviled egg sandwich lunch. “Pets. That’s where da shite is at. Don’ listen to dem parents ’n’ thay kids horseshite. Compared ta da responsibility of feedin’ ’n’ takin’ care of a cat o’ a dog o’ , ‘ell, even a chinchilla, raising a decent chil’ is fookin’ nuthin’. I’m here ta tellin’ ya’ right now, pet ownership. Is the mos’ awesome responsibilit-eh dat God eva’ gave a man o’ woman in dis life. Well, dat ’n’ maintainin’ an incredible nuclea’ first-strike cape’o’bilit-eh.”
Pirate John launches a big rope of spittle that lands mere inches from my feet. “Ya should try it sometime. It’ll make a man outta ya’, ya’ pencil-necked geek.”
My neck cranes at Auntie M wandering around. Behind her Molero leads a Peruvian couple with three children across the grounds.
“Doug? Dougito?”
Waving my hands like I’m hailing a taxi, Auntie M changes course. As she rounds the corner in her straw cowgirl hat and oversized aviator sunglasses, I secret a nervous smile. “I think this insane guy’s the owner.”
She smiles as her eyes dart from side to side, appraising the couple. “Hola.”
With his hooks hidden under the table, Pirate John perks up and performs a well-studied smile. “Hi.”
All attention shifts to Adriana, still slumped over, peering down at the tabletop. Pirate John jabs her arm with his elbow.
Adriana pauses, then meekly replies, “Hola.”
A screech from above. “Say hello to my little friend. Waaaak!”
Auntie M sets her sights on Pirate John. “My room es full of the ants.”
Adriana breaks down, crying. Pirate John ignores her. “Molly. . . Molero will git right on dat. Git some ant traps from da town.”
Auntie M looks around like she’s touring the Louvre. “Gracias. Nice place you has here.”
“Tanks. Ya should try our ceviche. Deee-lish!”
His words trail off into an awkward pause.
With that, I step away “Yes. Well, that sounds like quite the plan. Uh. . . it’s been enchanting. Chau. Chau.” I wave goodbye, then give Auntie M a gentle nudge.
Auntie M pulls away from my grip and whispers. “Aye. ¿Que pasó?” She looks me dead in the eye. “They eh-seems likes nice people.”
Pirate John cheerfully waves a salutary hook. Adriana starts sobbing.
Returning the smile, I whisper to Auntie M. “Really?” Then, shrug of my shoulders in disbelief. “OooKaaaay. I’ll be in the jacuzzi if you need me.”
The prattle of Spanish slowly ebbs away as I shuffle off, destined for the pool area.
Shiver me timbers!
Auntie M is a trip. Her personality is amazing.