The earthen colors of autumn leaves are more bountiful than a 4th of July fireworks show. The show is short-lived though, the final scene opens when the flowers of spring, wither, surrender, falling end over end to the earthbound silt of fall.
It’s September 1986 in New York City, Henry, Lucia, and Summer Wynd, have been camping in The Dream Suite of the Chelsea Hotel for 3 months.
Henry’s wife Lucia had lived most of her life in Cuba. She hated snow and cold air paralyzed her.
She began harping on Henry in the middle of September to book plane tickets to Key West.
Anticipating the cold season tortured her.
Of course, she could choose to protect herself from the cold by bundling up when she went outside and isolating in heated ventures such as— malls, museums, theaters, restaurants, and so on.
Or, she could take up winter sports— ice skating and the like, attempting to embrace the spirit of the season. But, she flatly refused to give winter a chance.
Henry is sitting at the hotel room desk typing a story as the phone rings. Surely it's his editor Dave Spleen. He has a dark feeling his last story, Pink Tacos & Heat Seeking Missiles was panned by the readers of HEADBANGER Magazine, so he doesn’t answer the phone.
He knows godamn well what Dave will say, and he doesn’t need a pep talk. He's aware his days at the rag are numbered if he doesn’t pen a hit soon.
A recently hired upstart, with a name akin to a strain of thistle, Franklyn Farkleberry was stealing Henry’s fire.
He figured every new story was going to be a hit. But, he was wrong 9 out of 10 times. He had no idea what his reader's thought of his work because the only feedback he bagged was from Dave Spleen.
Luckily, his Uncle Victor Lucowski had left him some money, because writing and selling dope were the only hustles he knew.
Henry nicknamed his family the tribe—Lucia, Summer Wynd, the Chihuahuas Che and Mia, and Pedro the woodpecker. The animals were presently staying in a luxurious pet hotel in Key West, with a swimming pool of all fucking things.
The walls of the tribe's midsize room, which the Chelsea Hotel bogusly labeled a suite, were closing in on him.
Walking the crowded streets of New York City or riding on a standing room only subway wasn't mind-expanding.
It was time to get out of The Big Apple.
Lucia’s taking a bubble bath. The bathroom's full of lit candles, giving off an aromatic scent. She’s luxuriating as she smokes a joint. Henry walks into the head and she says,
don’t bother me, I'm mind traveling.
He turns and walks out, leaving her to mind travel, wondering where she was traveling too?
He reckoned her mind traveling in the bathtub was testament that the tribe needed a change of scenery.
Summer Wynd's contract with the New York City Ballet was up in a day. She had danced ballet since she was 4 and her body was giving out, consequently, she was ready for anything, except ballet.
Henry would book multi-destination tickets, flying to Mexico and then Key West. Just for fun, he wouldn’t tell the girls they'd be flying to Mexico.
Lucia’s Cuban passport would expire in a few months, so the time was right for her to travel. In that Mexico only required IDs to enter the country, she could use her passport as an ID.
The couple decided she would apply for US Citizenship when they returned to Key West. Henry had a high powered Miami immigration attorney on retainer, one Lieb Skolnik.
Lucia had finished bathing and she was moving about the room in a thong, she asks Henry,
when are we going to Key West darling? He answers,
tomorrow at 10 AM,
as she jumps up and down, his eyes fix on her large natural boobs, wobbling sexually. She exclaims,
maravillosa bebe, I’m so happy!
At 7 AM Summer Wynd, who’s done-in, walks into the suite announcing,
My days as a ballerina are over, ballet is slowly killing me! I’ve danced my last ballotté and fouetté. Lucia who’s enraptured runs and hugs her, saying,
mi amor, we’re going to Key West tomorrow!
The gals leap for joy, holding each other tight, radiating waves of happiness! It’s a serendipitous moment.
Both girls wanted to make a run for it and the why of it was peripheral. One thing for sure though, the act of fleeing turned them on in a big, big way.
New York, the city Milos Foreman once said,
looks better in reality than on postcards,
Lately, the city looked like a postcard of a bum bowled over in the Bowery to Henry.
He reckoned deep breathing Mexican sea breezes and tropical air would fire him with the oomph he needed to write a hit story.
The girls are sitting in bed painting their toenails cherry red.
It’s 8 PM and Lucia hadn't dressed yet. Her body was statuesque, people told her she looked like Sophia Loren. Folks at the beach eyeballed her when she wore her thong bikini. Often she took her top off exposing her rotund breast to the world and the gods above.
Henry picks up the handset of the phone, lifting it to his ear and dialing room service for a snack and some booze,
hello, room service, we want ah, 3 meatloaf sandwiches on Wonder Bread with mustard, a pint of vodka, a pint of Kailua and a carton of fresh cream, send up Ricco the wop!
In 20 minutes Ricco is at the hotel room door, Lucia opens the door in her bra and panties, the 19-year old kid wheels the trolly in and says,
Miss Lucia, yous sure have a nice a body, Henry says,
you like that Ricco? She’d rock you ragged man, you'd walk bow-legged for a week.
They chuckle and Henry gives Ricco a 20 buck tip, going on to say,
we’re checking out early tomorrow, we'll be back next summer, see ya then kid!
Ricco wheels the trolly out, whistling the Sinatra tune Mam’selle, turning his head for 1 last glimpse of Lucia's body.
The tribe sits at a small table eating meatloaf sandwiches and drinking White Russians. After the snack, they quickly pack, throwing their clothes and the rest into carry-on bags. Henry places his Packard portable typewriter in its case.
They wake at 7 AM, showering and then dressing casually. Then, schlepping their bags to the old sliding-gate elevator.
After a short wait, the door slides open, they go inside and Summer Wynd hands Franky the junk a 20 dollar bill saying,
see you next summer, Franky.
In the lobby, Henry settles the bill and asks the clerk to call a taxi.
Standing on the sidewalk, they wait for the cab in front of the Chelsea Hotel, the hotel's their home away from home when they're in New York City.
A Yellow Cab shows and the driver gets out, loading their bags into the trunk. Inside the taxi, Luca negotiates a fixed rate to LaGuardia Airport speaking Spanish with the driver who is Puerto Rican.
It’s a 30-minute ride on FDR Drive to the airport. The hack is busy chatting with Lucia in Spanish, who’s sitting next to him in the front seat. The 2 are howling, laughing about something. Then, the hack lights a sweetly scented joint, passing it around.
The tribe is sanctified, living proof that good vibes attract magic happenings and opens doors.
The cab double parks in front of the American Airlines terminal. The hack hustles to the trunk of the taxi, opening it and pulling out the threesomes bags, then giving Lucia a long hug, she had a rare effect on people, an open-armed charisma.
Henry takes care of the ticket work at the counter and the girls wait, clueless they're going to Mexico City, not Key West.
It's a long truck to gate 78, bushed they sit in the waiting area, Henry has the boarding passes. It's 25-minute wait until boarding and the girls chat a mile a minute nonstop.
At boarding time, Henry flashes the boarding passes and the tribe walks through the aerobridge into the plane, their seats are in the last aisle. They sit down, buckling their seatbelts. As the payloader pushes the jet out to the runway, the Captain says over the loudspeaker,
Welcome aboard American Airlines flight 357 to Mexico City, our flight time will be approximately 6 hours, and so on. The girls look at Henry and Lucia says,
Jesucristo, we're on the wrong flight, we're fucked, he hoots with laughter saying,
nevermind, let's go to Mexico, the girls roar excitedly and Summer Wynd says,
jokes on us, we didn’t have a clue. What a happy surprise, thanks baby, we love you! Then Lucia says, pulling Henry's chain,
I nearly had a stroke, pendejo!
With a powerful swoosh, the 747 flies upwards into the heavens, leveling off at 40,000 feet. The burning jet engines sear more than a few angel wings. No, bother though, commercial flights took precedence over celestial divinity.
As the seat belt sign is turned off, Lucia who's sitting in the aisle seat, jumps up, hustling to the head. On the way out she bumps into a Mexican stewardess, they converse in Spanish and chuckle.
When Lucia returns to her seat the Mexican stewy is behind her, carrying a plastic bag full of assorted miniature bottles of booze, a barf bag full of ice and some plastic cups, placing the goodies on Lucia’s open tray.
The tribe sucks down the booze, an hour into the flight they’re boozed up and pie-eyed.
50 minutes from Mexico City International Airport, the sexy Mexican stewy signals with her hands to Lucia, mouthing the words,
come on baby!
The 2 quickly walk into an unoccupied head, locking the door, doing what women do when they get it on.
The seat belt sign lights, signaling a slow descent and landing in Mexico City— a city way below sea level that could collapse into an ogre sinkhole any minute.
Lucia who's disheveled after lady screwing with the Mexican stewy in the head returns to her seat and buckles up.
The threesome are the last to exit the 747. The Mexican stewy's at the doorway leading to the aerobridge, she grabs Lucia and kisses her, Henry wonders,
What the hell? How did the stewy get away with it, giving us free drinks and shtupping Lucia in the can?
As they walk through the aerobridge Lucia tells him,
Her Padre is the richest man in Mexico, he owns mucho shares of American Airlines stock.
The gang breezes through customs, carrying their bags outside the airport where they stand in the taxi queue. 70% of the cabs are Volkswagen Bugs and the rest are Toyotas.
A green and yellow cab stops in front of them, the driver gets out and opens the trunk, which is in the front of the VW Bug. They place their bags inside. Lucia sits next to the driver, talking to him in Spanish saying,
chico, take us to the Zocalo Hotel en El Centro Histórico Distrito! He answers,
150 Pesos, señora, she answers,
vamonos!
The cab double parks in front of the Zocalo Hotel. It’s a simple but elegant 6 story neoclassical hotel built in the 1890s, overlooking Zocalo main square. The walls of the hotel are covered with white marble and the floors are made of wood. The lobby is uncluttered, Zen-like.
At the front desk Henry books a room with a kingsize bed for a night. In the morning the tribe will travel to Acapulco or Puerto Vallarta.
The Elvis Presley film, Fun in Acapulco, was filmed in Acapulco, and, The Night of the Iguana was filmed outside of Puerto Vallarta.
Henry adored The Night of the Iguana, having seen the play and the film. He was a big, big fan of Tennessee Williams, who he reckoned was singularly America’s foremost playwright and a fervent truth-sayer.
As for the film Fun in Acapulco, he figured Elvis was coerced by the Colonel, his manager, to play an aw-shucks good ole boy in all his films, because the Colonel was a country cousin square.
The tribe settles into their room, 603. The room has wood beams on the ceiling, and the kingsize bed is covered with a bright-colored Mexican falsa blanket.
At 8 PM the gang cleans up, braiding and oiling their waist-length into single braids. The girls wear faded jean shorts, tank tops, straw cowboy hats and rubber flip flops. Henry puts on a pair of khaki shorts, and a white t-shirt with lettering which reads,
DRINKO
DE
MAYA
They leave the Zocalo Hotel, walking in the soupy night air for what seemed like 100s of blocks, eyeballing everything the streets served up— markets full of shops, hookers, street performers, taco stands, beauty shops and much more.
They pause to pay homage to the Estatua al Perro Callejero, a large bronze statue of a mixed breed dog honoring Mexico City's street dogs. The girls place a dozen roses on the doggie memorial.
As they continue to walk they see an old cantina, The Opera. There bushed, so they go inside, sitting at a table.
The Opera’s a bonafide piece of woodwork from yesterday’s antiquity. It’s a 143-year-old Mexican Cantina where Pancho Villa once sat and drank tequila. You can smell the cedar bar and the carved wood floral ceiling is trimmed with gold paint.
An attentive waiter, wearing a buttonless white cotton shirt which hung over his black trousers comes and takes the tribes order. Sumer Wynd orders,
howza bout, 6 shoots of Anejo Tequilla, a pitcher of Negra Modelo, and 3 combination plates?
By the time the plates of authentic and scrumptious Mexican food are served, they are rolling drunk again.
As Summer Wynd pays for the late diner they decide to walk, thinking the city air would sober them up.
Near Estatua al Perro Callejero a hooker comes on to Henry, rubbing up against him saying,
hola bebe, I got some sweet pussy for you! He smiles saying,
I got more women than I can handle! Lucia lays into the hooker in Spanish saying emphatically,
beat it puta, take your nasty coño down the block!
They take a taxi back to the Zocalo Hotel, going to their room, getting undressed and pass out in the kingsize bed.
One thing you could take to the bank was, only the gods knew what storm-tossed peril waited up the road for the tribe in Mexico. Their life was a runaway train and they liked it that way.
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