My aunt wasn’t rich. She was clever enough to get by with her paycheck as an anesthesiologist and then as an A&E doctor for the graveyard shift at Ciudad Madero’s Red Cross. It was a tough time, as money was scarce and the nightmares she saw during those  hours, whether accidents or crimes, stayed with her.

Still, she was as strong willed and brutally honest as they come. She hated the word “aunt” and would rather have you call her by her name. So for the two weeks or so that I used to hang at her home during holidays, I’d try to help in whichever way I could. My dad would give a little extra dosh to help out, my mom would send supplies, whatever could help.

Summer of ’96 was particularly brutal for both heat and emergency stuff and although she hid it well, my aunt was emotionally and physically exhausted. On my usual jaunts to the city centre -and beyond- for videogames and endless walking, she would just tell me to come back at a certain time if I wanted to eat. One thursday, just as I was ready to leave to catch bus 74, she told to me wait. She opened a little beaded purse and gave me a few bills. “Get a coffee and lemon pie at VIPS. My treat.”

I felt bad taking her money, but if I didn’t, she would just say “no seas pinche mamón” (translation not available). So after hitting the arcades at Tampico’s city centre, I took the other bus that would drop me at Blanco, the big supermarket, and I would do my usual mosey down to play Golden Axe: Death Adder’s revenge at another arcade joint. A few metres from VIPS and its spacious toilets and magnificent AC.

Grabbed a seat by the window and watched the traffic go by. Bottomless coffee, sourced from Orizaba, and a tangy enough slice of pie. I wondered why my aunt sacrificed some of her money for something as frivolous as me getting a treat.

That particular VIPS had cable TV. Satellite dishes were still a thing and you could get a “fixed” decoder for all the USA channels for dirt change. The music was strange but hypnotic, and the singer wasn’t rapping, wasn’t singing, and wasn’t entirely talking. Primitive Radio Gods, Standing outside a broken phone booth with money in my hand. With a title like that, I was going to remember it, no problem. That fucking B.B. King sample, man, it’s gold. I’ve been downhearted baby indeed.

I don’t remember Cable Guy lasting long in Mexico’s cinemas, so I missed out on that. A sin in some circles. You gotta realise how big was Jim Carrey back then but I never bothered with the flick and I really don’t remember watching it completely at all. It just never grabbed me. The soundtrack, however, oh boy, fucking little gem of alternative stuff. Jerry Cantrell, Cracker, Cypress Hill, Filter, Toadies, Silverchair. I do skip Carrey’s Queen pisstake.

I went back to my aunt’s gaff a little later than usual. She warmed up the food she made that day and we spent the afternoon watching movies ’til it was time for her to leave for the graveyard shift. I thanked her again for the pie and coffee and she said “sin pedos”. I haven’t thought about that moment for decades, just came back as I started typing about this song.

-Sam J. Valdés López