“I’m finished” sighed Teresa as she put her fork down. She’d manage to decimate (in our modern slang, not in the classic Roman Empire tradition) her huarache al pastor. I was cleaning up the remaining flotsam and jetsam left on mine. We’d been studying for a Statics exam, cramming all possible information regarding bearings and loading beams, and solving the class exercises. Our teacher was nicknamed Chicharrín, and he was infamous for falling asleep on a school trip to the USA. He didn’t disembark in LAX like all of us, and woke up in Malaysia. Allegedly.

I shook the can of fizzy water, as if I could generate a few extra droplets from what obviously was an empty can. Teresa offered from his Mango Boing, asking to use a fresh, clean straw. May my filthy mouth never touch her soda pop.

Not a euphemism.

We wondered if the overcast skies were finally going to drop the mother of all storms; the whistling and hooting of the wind rumbling through the shaky cafeteria windows. A gust flew a few bits of rubbish, nothing fun, just the usual casually discarded bags of crisps (Adobadas, of course), and coke cans.

MTV Latino was in full blast, perhaps as a way to boost morale during exam week. A lonesome, playful sax started playing. Children were sitting and a trio entered. Bass, drums, and sax. Nothing else. The vocals were interesting, a “what if Tom Waits lubed his vocal chords with spicy honey and dramamine”.

“Makes a man or woman, miss out on the night life”crooned Mark Sandman.

Teresa raised her eyebrow. She wasn’t  amused.

“A band that rocks…without a guitar.” I muttered as Morphine’s Early to bed finished. I moved myself in the sofa as I felt as it was going to swallow me hole, just like Artax got swallowed by the swamp of sadness. Teresa bobbed her head once she recognised that cheeky riff from Smashing Pumpkins’ Cherub Rock. Kevin Kerslake’s trippy video was pure psychedelia, but I remember Billy Corgan saying he hated it. Oh, well.

Teresa tutted after looking at her notes from our study session. She whispered “not gonna worry, not gonna worry” a few times as she craned her neck and moved her head backwards. A small “crick” noise was heard and I winced. This day was near the time I lent her the Foo Fighters album. You know, the one I had to go to Pachuca to pick up? We talked about Morphine again as she tapped her foot and bobbed her head to Stone Temple Pilots’ Big Bang Baby.

“Morphine are good, aren’t they?” I said.

“Good musicians are terrible roomies.”

“How so?”

“You know Olmecas Escamados*?”

“The ones who sing Ruta 100 a tu corazón?”

She rolls her eyes so fast they might even generate the fictitious centrifugal force.

“Those fuckers. I knew one of them. The bassist.”

No wonder she winced at Mark Sandman.

I take a sip of an orangeade I had on my backpack, waiting for her to continue the story. She just looks at the boxwood bushes outside the cafeteria swaying with the wild March winds. She sighs and looks at me:

“How was Guadalajara? The geeky trip with the math group last week?”

As inept as I am with social interactions, I take the hint.

“Bit of a disaster.”

“Oh?”

I look out the window, kinda wanting to pay in kind. On my peripheral vision, I see her head go a little askew, draw a wry smile, and fierce daggers shooting out her eyes. I’m not strong enough for this and I yield.

“Well, my mom made a quiche for the entire bus to eat on the way there. Turns out no one wanted it. Uncouth nerds. They were mad at me as they expected me to bring VHS copies of the normal Star Wars editions, the ones untouched by Lucas, not fancy french savoury treats. I forgot the tapes and they half-joked that they wanted to drive by my home and pick them up. But it was late and we had to arrive early for the Math conferences.”

“So what did you watch on the way there?”

“Nothing. Since they thought I would bring the entire trilogy, they had no tapes. No music, either.”

“Aw, shit. If they didn’t eat your quiche -not an euphemism- what did they eat?”

“Sandwiches with smelly jalapeño slices, bags of cazares, and frutsis. The usual, you know?”

“Cornerstones of nutrition, no wonder you get along with those geeks. So, no entertainment?”

“Good thing is that those math teachers can really sing, so most of the way there they sang. Ranchero, Norteña, pop songs, you name it.”

“Even El Caifas?”

“Yeah, turns out he belts out a decent imitation of Jorge Negrete, so yeah, at last we had that going for us. His wife does a mean Rocío Dúrcal impression too.”

“What did YOU sing?”

“Uh, nothing good.”

“Sam…?”

“Well, since they wanted sing alongs, I couldn’t sing any of the songs I really like. So I sang one from that I heard on public transport so many times, it’s a fucking earworm.”

“And it was…?”

“Teresa, c’mon…”

“C’mon yourself, mister.”

“Arjona’s Si el norte fuera el sur.”

Teresa’s cackle reached the same decibel levels as the winds outside the cafeteria. After wiping her tears, she asked:

“And then? You got to Guadalajara, nice hotel, I guess. Doubles, right? Who did you get paired with? Anyone not too geeky?”

“Well, I got paired with Dandy.”

“Dandy? That fucker from Tepito? Jesus, that guy barks at every tree with a miniskirt**”

“Snores like a motherfucker too. So situation was: too much quiche on tupperwares, a failing air conditioning situation, and a snoring roommate. None of my relatives in Guadalajara answering the phone. Then the conferences started early the next day. We arrived late.”

“How so?”

“Bus driver got lost. Turns out he didn’t know how to get to the campus. So we half made it to the highway to Michoacán, which…”

“…is the other direction.”

Teresa belts out a big laughter. Back then, the sun set and rose with that laughter.

“The conferences were great and we really had a ball. I learned so much about calculus and physics. Met a dude who is this bonafide, Ian Malcolm-level of mathematician who flies helicopters for CFE on his spare time. Superfriendly too!”

“Your kinda geek, Sam.”

“We had all the typical dishes from Guadalajara. Not so keen on tortas ahogadas, they’re just okay.”

“Hype is a killer!”

Teresa’s mood seems cheerier. She plays a little with her fork and knife, prods the leftover huarache and eats a few morsels.

“Indeed it is. We went for this joint, ah, fuck…what’s the name? With the clay jars and really bad tequila?”

“Tlaquepaque?”

“That’s the place.”

“Can’t imagine you enjoying it.”

“I didn’t. But I think everyone else did. I tried calling my relatives who live in Zapopan, at least to say hi, but couldn’t a hold of anyone. After the show was over, we took a stroll while waiting for the bus and there was a police truck nearby. No one in it.”

“And?”

“Cop truck. Open windows. No one around.”

“The fuck y’all did?” – she asks, pretty much picturing the scene.

“We took a picture of all the math teachers as if they were being arrested, and then just hanging around. I’ll give you a copy one day.”

“That I need to see.”

A small silence. Radiohead’s Karma Police*** on the TV, that loud crescendo near the end. Shivers.

“You still not getting a photo from me, you know?”

“I’ve given up since last semester, lady.”

“Good man.” She keeps taking fun size bites off the huarache. “What happened to the quiche?”

“Mold. On the second day. All the colours. White, orange, green, black. Broke my heart to chuck it away as my mom always slaved away to make it. Never gonna forgive those mariachi singing geeks for not eating it.”

“Did you ask her to make it?”

“No, she just did it. She does these things out of her own volition.”

“She’s kind.”

“I know, I try to follow her lead. Dunno if I’m doing it right.”

“You shouldn’t worry. Worry if you reach her age and you’re not doing things out of kindness to strangers.” She nods and draws a short smile, the fledgling crow’s feet near her hazel eyes folding in that particular way.

Odd shit to notice, but that’s where my fidgety mind goes to. We go silent and watch tv. The wind intensifies and one of the eucalyptus trees rocks so hard I’m afraid it’s gonna topple. I swear that creak sounded like a death knell.

“They got me kicked out of my apartment.” Teresa sighs loudly, no smile on her face, the day turns into night.

“Sorry?”

“Olmecas. They were bed surfing in my apartment. All of them. Instruments and shit.”

“Oh.”

“I just moved from Pachuca and I knew one of them through a gig. We got on well.” She lowers her eyesight on the last part.

I don’t inquire anymore.

“Anyways, a good six months in, they came from band practise and lit up their fucking jazz cigarettes. No money for rent or services, right? But all the fucking dosh in the world for cheap cannabis that smelt like cat pee. Then it was booze. Cheap one like, so panalitos and all that crap. They got loud, they plugged their instruments. Neighbors rightfully complained, we got evicted. Landlady called the cops and they took us all into their patrols.”

“Ah, fuck.”

“They did drug tests. I told them what happened and they let me go back to the apartment and pick my shit. Olmecas spent a couple of days in jail because one of them got rowdy with the cops. My now ex-landlady had thrown a lot of my stuff on the streets and everything of value got stolen. So I had a few ratty clothes, two plastic bags with assorted legumes, and luckily, my car keys hidden inside my bunny pantoufles. So I moved as far as I could from that area.”

“Is it safer now?”

“I live with my aunt, and she’s strict about visits.”

“Don’t worry lady, I know the score. I still don’t get why you don’t like photographs.”

“I just don’t like being photographed, Sam.”

“I know, I know…”

“Do you…?”

“It’s no skin off my back.”

The wind intensifies, the light goes out, and a guy way on the back of the cafeteria shouts “Emilio, ¡paga la luz!”. Emilio was the principal, “paga la luz” means “pay your energy bill.”

“Teresa…”

“Yeah?”

“You own bunny pantoufles? You? Who wears capa de ozono boots, hard rock café t-shirts and flannel?”

“Motherfucker, they are cutesy brown rabbits with pink plastic noses. Of course I own them, and keep giggling like a schoolgirl, you’ll see how fast I can kick your fat ass back to Satélite.”

A branch from the eucalyptus tree fell and I got startled. I was still looking at the branch flapping on the ground when I saw reflected on the window Teresa’s hand raising towards me, then retracting. I pretend I never see it, and turn my head until I’m sure she’s dried hey eyes.

We talk for another good half hour ’til the wind situation calms down. She offers me a ride to Valle Dorado, where the buses are cheaper to my gaff and I wave goodbye****.

-Sam J. Valdés López

*Names, song names, and band names changed to protect the identities of the parties involved.

**Typical mexican phrase.

***See? This is how you know this story was manipulated, Karma Police wasn’t a single in spring of 1997.

****Happy birthday, Teresa. See? I remember after 30 years!*****

*****She’ll never read this post.