Read Bitter Drink for Free Online Page B
Authors: F.G. Haghenbeck
me. Sometimes she would disappear fordays at a time, and I would try to forget her blonde hair with the help of three extra martinis.
The weather was hot and humid. Whenever tempers ran high among the stars, that same selfish God would send rain our way to cool things off. I imagined He didn’t want those puny Hollywood actors spoiling His paradise.
When the rains came, the filming was put on hold and the entire cast returned to the “big city” of Vallarta. There, Huston and Stark wallowed in card games and Ava Gardner wallowed in someone’s bed. Richard Burton wallowed in his bottle, and Liz Taylor wallowed in strawberry shortcake. The rest of us spread out to various cantinas.
One of those first nights the rain had driven us back to Vallarta, I put on my best rags—a black, long-sleeved guayabera, clean and stain-free, a pair of black cotton pants, and shiny new huaraches I bought from an old man in the market for less than three pesos—intending to visit one of the cantinas.
I walked down the seawall. A lighthouse illuminated the water that was covered in a layer of fog so dense it resembled an opium den. Several local couples were out strolling. Gorgeous girls tittered and shot me coquettish glances as we occasionally crossed paths. I could hear some tone-deaf American journalists singing Sinatra from a nearby cantina.
On the corner where Morelos Street intersects the seawall, where the old Spanish Customs building was located, a noisy cantina caught my attention. If I were a smoker, I would havetossed my cigarette into the street and entered the joint with all the aplomb of a leading man. But I’m not. So I lifted a piece of pineapple taffy up to my mouth in my best Bogart style and pushed through the door.
The jukebox was playing one of the latest hits by Elvis. On the heels of the King was our own pop-chart singer Angélica María, less blonde than Doris Day but just as virginal.
I pushed past tables chock-full of news seekers from around the world, stagehands from the San Fernando Valley, and curious locals. I felt like I was in some bar during World War II, where beautiful Frenchwomen were only too glad to show their appreciation to US soldiers. For them, and for beautiful Vallarta women as well, it was a one-way ticket out of a constrictive family.
I ordered a gimlet from the bar, but I knew the cocktail wasn’t going to be any good coming from a bartender dressed in a kitchen apron. This was a drink that required a professional touch; an amateur could turn it into a major disaster. Still, I wasn’t feeling too picky tonight, so when the drink arrived, I finished it in one swallow.
“How is the circus going,
soldado
?” I heard a voice say.
To my surprise, the old gringo from Mazatlán was sitting beside me. I don’t know what startled me more: the fact of his being there or that he was still wearing the same dirty T-shirt from before. Only now it bore fresh stains.
“Hey, mister! You really do know where all the fun is,” I managed.
“Billy Joe
viva
in town. You are
el forastero
.”
“What? You only go to Mazatlán to pick up your Russian vodka?”
“I got other business there,” he replied cryptically.
He raised his ruby-colored glass. A Jamaica flower floated between the ice cubes.
We toasted, the glasses clinking like a servant’s bell, both of us glad to see a friendly face. For some reason, I liked the old man, despite the fact I found him unnerving. Unnerving but agreeable. Like a little lamb with two heads.
“So you live here?” I said. “Nice place to forget about the war. If you miss wars, come with me one day to the Mismaloya movie set. You’ll see some Britons who are trying to rip the guts out of some Americans. Better than D-Day.”
“I can see you’re not really happy,
no feliz
. What, you can’t lead your own mission? That’s a VIP place for generals.” Cantina philosophy, cheaper than a shrink and always accompanied by ice cubes.
“Hey, how did you
The weather was hot and humid. Whenever tempers ran high among the stars, that same selfish God would send rain our way to cool things off. I imagined He didn’t want those puny Hollywood actors spoiling His paradise.
When the rains came, the filming was put on hold and the entire cast returned to the “big city” of Vallarta. There, Huston and Stark wallowed in card games and Ava Gardner wallowed in someone’s bed. Richard Burton wallowed in his bottle, and Liz Taylor wallowed in strawberry shortcake. The rest of us spread out to various cantinas.
One of those first nights the rain had driven us back to Vallarta, I put on my best rags—a black, long-sleeved guayabera, clean and stain-free, a pair of black cotton pants, and shiny new huaraches I bought from an old man in the market for less than three pesos—intending to visit one of the cantinas.
I walked down the seawall. A lighthouse illuminated the water that was covered in a layer of fog so dense it resembled an opium den. Several local couples were out strolling. Gorgeous girls tittered and shot me coquettish glances as we occasionally crossed paths. I could hear some tone-deaf American journalists singing Sinatra from a nearby cantina.
On the corner where Morelos Street intersects the seawall, where the old Spanish Customs building was located, a noisy cantina caught my attention. If I were a smoker, I would havetossed my cigarette into the street and entered the joint with all the aplomb of a leading man. But I’m not. So I lifted a piece of pineapple taffy up to my mouth in my best Bogart style and pushed through the door.
The jukebox was playing one of the latest hits by Elvis. On the heels of the King was our own pop-chart singer Angélica María, less blonde than Doris Day but just as virginal.
I pushed past tables chock-full of news seekers from around the world, stagehands from the San Fernando Valley, and curious locals. I felt like I was in some bar during World War II, where beautiful Frenchwomen were only too glad to show their appreciation to US soldiers. For them, and for beautiful Vallarta women as well, it was a one-way ticket out of a constrictive family.
I ordered a gimlet from the bar, but I knew the cocktail wasn’t going to be any good coming from a bartender dressed in a kitchen apron. This was a drink that required a professional touch; an amateur could turn it into a major disaster. Still, I wasn’t feeling too picky tonight, so when the drink arrived, I finished it in one swallow.
“How is the circus going,
soldado
?” I heard a voice say.
To my surprise, the old gringo from Mazatlán was sitting beside me. I don’t know what startled me more: the fact of his being there or that he was still wearing the same dirty T-shirt from before. Only now it bore fresh stains.
“Hey, mister! You really do know where all the fun is,” I managed.
“Billy Joe
viva
in town. You are
el forastero
.”
“What? You only go to Mazatlán to pick up your Russian vodka?”
“I got other business there,” he replied cryptically.
He raised his ruby-colored glass. A Jamaica flower floated between the ice cubes.
We toasted, the glasses clinking like a servant’s bell, both of us glad to see a friendly face. For some reason, I liked the old man, despite the fact I found him unnerving. Unnerving but agreeable. Like a little lamb with two heads.
“So you live here?” I said. “Nice place to forget about the war. If you miss wars, come with me one day to the Mismaloya movie set. You’ll see some Britons who are trying to rip the guts out of some Americans. Better than D-Day.”
“I can see you’re not really happy,
no feliz
. What, you can’t lead your own mission? That’s a VIP place for generals.” Cantina philosophy, cheaper than a shrink and always accompanied by ice cubes.
“Hey, how did you