Lettuce C.U.P
Oaxaca, Mexico
I AM HEADING to the airport in Oaxaca, Mexico with my taxi driver Oscar, a big burly man who smells of cigarettes and speaks very little English. It is 3 o’clock in the morning.
We approach the airport property where huge gates stretch across the road, blocking the entrance. A long line of cars and taxis are stopped outside this barrier. A sign reading Zona Federal and some other official looking declarations in Spanish are displayed prominently on and around the gates. Oscar hisses through his teeth.
I’m not sure what’s going on. Is it a roadblock, common in Mexico? Construction? A security breach? Oscar turns off the engine. When I ask how long we will be here, he replies, “Diez minutos,” ten minutes. I left the hotel with plenty of time to catch my 6 a.m. flight to Mexico City, so I sit back and relax. I have nothing to worry about.
Ten minutes comes and goes, and we are still in the long line of cars stopped at the gates. Another driver walks back toward our car and Oscar gets out to talk to him and smoke a cigarette. We have now been waiting 30 minutes. I ask Oscar again, “How long?” The answer is the same, ten minutes.
I have a big problem. I have to pee. I try to relax. I breathe slowly, rhythmically. I close my eyes and murmur the meditation sound “Om”. I tap my forehead lightly with my fingertips, then tap the top of my head. Nothing helps and I become increasingly anxious. I really need to pee. This is dreadful.
There is nothing around except these massive gates and the long line of cars. It is dark. There are no officials, no offices, no guard shack, just some dark warehouse-type buildings off to one side of the road. The other side of the road is covered in dense bushes and trees. I get out of the car and ask Oscar and the other driver, “Baños?” They look at me somewhat quizzically. Oscar raises his eyebrows and shrugs. I am worried that we will be in this long line for awhile. Is this usual procedure or some major obstacle? I don’t know how far away the terminal is. I need to use the bathroom. I need the baños.
Oscar and the other driver look at each other, look at me, then look at the brush by the side of the road. I think about climbing over the guardrail, but the ground slopes and it’s dark. Everyone else waiting in the other cars would see me struggle to climb over the guardrail, would see me disappear into the bushes to pee. What if there are snakes, poison ivy, mud? Or some weird nocturnal animal I’ve never heard of, lurking in the brush, waiting to bite me?
On the other side of the street there is a darkened building with a low metal sign in the parking lot. Perhaps I could go behind that sign? I point in the direction of that building and tell Oscar I’m going there. I can’t wait any longer. I’d better hurry, for what if the gates open and the line starts moving?
I quickly walk across the road, duck behind the rusty sign in the parking lot and squat, praying I don’t pee on my shoes. I hope no one sees me and my white butt, or worse yet, comes up behind me. I finish and dash back to the taxi. Embarrassed, I smile at Oscar and get in the cab. Promptly at 4 a.m., the gates open wide and we all drive toward the terminal.
My flight to Mexico City is on time and uneventful. I easily make my connection to Tampa, sitting in first class behind an American couple who attract my attention once we land. We all stand up, collect our bags, wait for the aircraft door to open. She is quite a bit younger than he, 25 years or so younger. She is beautiful, with perfect nails and hair, perfect makeup, a perfect figure. Her teeth are perfect, too. Her big breasts strain against her tight little low-cut top. They are obviously implants, as she is slender, has no body fat, and her breasts are quite large. I can’t help but notice.
He gets her bag out of the overhead bin and hands it to her. It is an expensive Louis Vuitton tote in colors I’ve never seen before, black with the signature LV initials in pale yellow. She has a cute little Louis Vuitton crossbody bag, light beige leather on a long gold chain. It is just darling. She loves LV, I surmise. He must love buying her LV.
As we continue standing in the aisle waiting, I notice the two of them looking at her left arm. I see him gently rubbing a reddish purplish 3” long mark on the inside of her arm, not quite a bruise but not a sunburn. She whimpers a little and I hear him say, “Well, at least you caught the biggest fish on the boat!” Ah, I think. They went deep sea fishing in Mexico. I wonder how big “the biggest fish on the boat” was. A marlin? A grouper? Then I see her wedding ring.
I have never seen a diamond like hers. It is immense. It is bright. It creates its own light. It is an enormous pear-shaped shard of carbon adorning the ring finger of her left hand. It is the size of an almond. It must be at least 7 carats! It is beautiful. Why would she wear such a ring in a Third World country like Mexico? And where did she put it when she went fishing? Did she leave it in the hotel room? Surely she didn’t wear her ring while holding a fishing rod, reeling in the biggest fish on the boat! I can’t take my eyes off her sparkling, glittering rock.
I bet SHE’S never peed behind a rusty sign in a dark parking lot in Mexico.