Strong Mexican Men & Strong David

Thursday, July 3, 2014

Today I am grateful for strong Mexican men. . .and strong David.  Let’s re-cap the posts from the last few days.  My friend David and I are in Mexico after renting a truck to help move my husband back from a consulting job in Texas.  We have purchased more Mexican jim-cracky than we knew existed, including tons of pottery, furniture (sets for each of us), sculptures, blankets, pottery stands, Kahlua and vanilla.

Our time in Mexico was limited.  Good thing.  Before stumbling out of Eduardo’s “free” margarita joint I asked how we would get the furniture to the truck?  “There is no place to park near here because the truck is big.”  He asked where it was and I told him two blocks away.  He said, “When you are ready, you come here and I have my men carry furniture to you.”  Okay.  Sure.  Had to be at least 20 big things, probably much more.

The morning we were packing and leaving was even hotter than the other days had been, only now we were not only pitching a sweat, but it was laced with rim-salt, tequila and lime.  We drove to the pottery place and had them help us strap down the big pieces with cardboard tucked between them.  Then we parked back in the dusty lot where there was room to figure out where things would go.

I left David in the “oven” in the back of the truck.  He was moving, shifting pottery and muttering while I went to tell Eduardo we were ready.  So picture this.  I’m sweating so much my clothes are sticking to me like I just got out of the pool.  Eduardo sees me and starts clapping his hands, not with joy like I prefer, but to summon the same tiny minions who had provided the margaritas.  Are you kidding?  These little guys?

Six short, amazingly strong young Mexican men, each with thick, black, wavy hair, bare-chested and buff, start pouring out the door carrying our heavy furniture over their heads.  Yes, over their heads.  Shiny brown, young, but not illegal young, ripped chests.  Are you picturing it?  I thought they’d have to turn the fire hose on me.  Whew!  “Which way missus?” they asked.  “What?  Who, me?”  I giggled like a virgin in a brothel.  With me as the Pied Piper the gorgeous, half-naked (did I say that already) buff-Matamoros-rats, followed behind as I led the way, on the sidewalk. . .for two blocks.  We looked like we were in a Michener novel.  Each man had a huge piece of something, carrying it either on their back or over their head, their sweaty muscles rippling with every step.  It was hard leading the way walking backwards. . .so I could watch them.  I wish I had actual pictures, besides the ones in my head, which distract me sometimes.  Whew.

David, nearly passing out from the heat in the back of that truck, waved like he was bringing in a plane, when he saw us turn the corner.  They yelled, “Si, Mister.  Si!”  They plopped a few pieces on the bed of the truck. . .as much as David could manage at a time, then went back to the store for more.  It took over an hour to pack that truck.  No shade.  Not a cloud in the sky.  No rain.  Just blazing sun and wringing humidity.  Our furniture and crap decorated the entire parking lot.  I would help hoist something to the back and David would jam and wiggle and squeeze it in so it wouldn’t rattle and would leave us as much room as possible for John’s stuff, which was the purpose of the truck in the first place.

David was sweating from pores he didn’t know he had.  I threw him water bottles which he devoured in one gulp, but he should have been hooked to an IV.  Even his shoes were soaked.  Every time he turned with another piece of pottery or furniture, the sweat flew off of him like a golden retriever who just gotten out of a lake.  Streaks made rivers through the sticking dust, down his chest and arms, bending through the forest of soggy hair.  Same with me, but I don’t have as much chest hair.

We got it strapped and packed and finessed into place then threw our suitcases in and we’re off.  I was so grateful for the strong (half-naked) men as we waved at them on our way out of town. They were grateful for the peso’s I slipped them.  I think there is probably a plaque someplace in Matamoros.  “Here two gringos saved the economy of our humble town!” Now we just had to get across the border. . .