Tuesday, November 3, 2009

More on The Fireman

The Fireman is a recovering neo-nazi supremacist and I have the Mexican flu.

Perhaps I should partially explain:

My mom arranged a special outing for me and The Fireman. I was okay with this. I will see town, I thought. I will go to Mexican bars. I will experience a bit of la vida loca. Si. Se puede. I am okay with this.

Of course, within five minutes of sitting down on the Jesus bus into Vallarta, I know this is a mistake.

"Man, I remember once," starts The Fireman, "I totally lost my friend for, like, three months after a night out."

Oh. Hmm. I cross my arms.

"We were crazy, you know. Fuck shit up crazy. And he did two 8-balls."

Like pool?

"You know, California 8-balls."

Like cocaine?

"No. Man. Where are you from again? Like California 8-balls are the eight drugs that are supposed to kill you if you combine them. So he did that after we poured liquid acid and PCP on the White Widow, and man, I didn't see that guy for three months."

Did he die?

"Dang no, did he die? Takes more than 8-balls to kill a marine. He just showed up with a baby next time I see him."

A baby? In 3 months?

"Okay, not a baby. But this knocked-up girl. Same thing."

Yup.

And so begins the Mexican date with The Fireman. Thank goodness for Mama's good choices.

Don't get me wrong - he seems like a very nice guy, this Fireman, though perhaps not quite the guy for me. Maybe it's because I have no prior personal knowledge of the Californian 8-ball of death, nor no pressing need to gather any additional information on that front.

Or maybe, just maybe, it's because he confided in me that he used to be a neo-nazi in all the neo-nazi gangs.

Yes, maybe that's it.

"I told this kid who comes into the EMT, cause I'm working the EMT, I tell him, what the fuck do you have on your chest? You think you're tough shit. You're part of a gang? I'm part of the biggest gang there is, I tell this kid."

I'm along for the ride, now, Fireman. Do tell me, what biggest gang is it that you're a part of?

"I'm part of the Fireman gang."

Oh, thank God, I think, imagining we are out of those proverbial woods. Smokey the Bear has shepherded us from the danger zone once again.

But wait.. he's still talking...

"...and White Power."

White Power?

"You know, neo-nazis."

Can we talk about the Californian 8-balls again?

"Like white supremacy."

So here I sit on the Malecon in Puerto Villarta, after midnight with a complete stranger who regales me with stories about murderous marines ("He shot this Mexican guy at a gas station three times and floored him. But the Mexican, he pulled out a gun first. All on camera. So my marine friend, man, he gets off free. In fact, to his friends, man, he's a hero.") and former racist collectives ("Never used a knife, though. Brought it out, but never used it. And I'm over it. It was stupid. We were young. And the Fireman are a better gang anyway.").

It has taken me 26 years to decide Mama does not know best. Mama knows a killer neo-nazi Fireman. And Mama has left me in the middle of a third-world country with him.

So I politely stand up, my two-liter "Day Off Cocktail" hardly touched, and yawn.

Yes, I am so tired. I'm sorry. I'm getting so, so old. I think I need to go back to the hotel.

And wouldn't you know it, the Fireman is the perfect gentleman. He calls a cab, we head back to Costa Sur, say goodnight, and I'm finally home, safe, alone in my room.

Then the incredible Mexican flu sickness starts.

Ah, vacation. Yes.

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