ANOTHER DAY IN THE CANTINA


              "Good! The gang's all here!" the man they called maestro, exclaimed, inside the one room adobe establishment. It was the only place in the neighborhood, that served liquor. It was a small drab, fetid environment, with cracked walls, from previous earthquakes and a wooden bar, that had been painted, who knows what color, a long time ago. There were two, small, worm eaten, wooden tables, that contrasted with the new, plastic chairs, which served the patrons. It was not a pleasant place, but it was a second home for these men. They referred to it as "The Office."

             "Please come in maestro and take a chair," a man declared with sincere respect, standing up to vacate his seat.

             "Than you," the other replied, with accustomed gravity, as small bottles of ninety percent alcohol, were passed around the two tables.

         There were six of  them, including the maestro. One was a bus driver, another an electrician. Another young man cut firewood in the mountain, for a living. Then there was the thief and the guy who sold marijuana. They were all between twenty and thirty years old, and were remotely interested in what was happening around them, in the so called, global village. Lemons were squeezed and the first swallows from the Styrofoam cups, preceded the first question. It was posed in general, by the electrician;

              "Do you think the gringos will invade Venezuela?"

              "The Russians won't let them!" the woodcutter pronounced, with fierce conviction.

              "They did it here in the revolution of 1944; didn't they?" the bus driver affirmed, with a stab of wisdom.

               "But it's not the same thing today," the electrician insisted, "The Russians are better armed and they both are determined to take the oil."

               "The big fish eats the little ones," the maestro tried to explain, as the discussion began to become heated by alcohol fumes.

             He was not really a teacher, rather a metal worker. He had lived in  Mexico, and there they called each other maestro. That's how he got his nickname. His metaphorical reference to the workings of nature and man, made everyone pause as another round of bottles were passed around.

                 "Yes," the electrician finally agreed, breaking the silence,"and the big fishes today are the Gringos, the Russians and the Chinese.They all want to control the world energy."

                   "This is my energy!" the thief exclaimed, as he gulped down what was in his cup, with a pleasant smile of contentment.

                    "What a beautiful asshole you are!" the marijuana salesman proclaimed, hugging him on the shoulder, while all the rest broke out with laughter.

                This called for another round of drinks, with each one contributing their share for he common good. The cups were measured so that everyone would get a fair share. The political insights seemed to stimulate their consumption, making them feel like they were part of this big wheel of global fortune, and not the little clog they really were. They were all feeling quite comfortable when the thief explained:

                    "I guess you all know that sometimes a thief gets caught and has to spend time in the can. That happened to me one time in Texas."

                    "What did you steal" the woodcutter asked.

                    "Nothing. In fact I was working but since I didn't have papers, they deported me."
                    "That's easy enough," the bus driver shrugged.

                    "Yes, but first they put you to work in jail for a month."

                    "And how was it?" the electrition asked.

                    "No bad. The food was good and I had a nice bed. I worked in the laundry. so it was only a few hours a day. They even paid me a dollar an hour."

                     "That's more than I make!" the woodcutter lamented.

                     "So what you're saying is that if you have to live under another government, the Gringos are better than the Russians or the Chinese," the maestro stated.

                     "I was never in their jails, but I don't think I would like to try them out," the thief replied, with lamentable sincerity.

                      "Now that marijuana is legal there, maybe I can get a job. That's my field of business!" the salesman volunteered with pleasure.

                      "Forget it! They have better stuff than you and deliver itt to your door, like a pizza!" the thief exclaimed.

                       "Are you serious?"

                       "Definitely!" the other proclaimed, downing his drink to seal the pronouncement.

                  He was the one who ordered the drinks this time, since he had recently sold some religious relics he had stolen from the nearby Catholic church. Things became a little more blurred, as the drinking continued, while the distant reality faded into a tangible indifference. After all, this was still Latin America and just another day in the cantina