“No, no, that’s not true, not by a long
shot!”
“Why do you say that? Is true. I have,
myself, seen this!”
“I don’t give a dog’s ear for a toothpick!
You’re nuts amigo! So was that old priest! Too much tequila, Peter. You drink
too much!”
“Stop calling me Peter! My name is Pedro,
like the blessed saint!”
“Peter, come on, I’ve told you this before:
Peter is the same guy as Pedro, just said differently.”
“Yes, but is not correct. The Spanish way
is the right way to say it.”
“What? Do you think Saint Peter spoke
Spanish or something?”
“No, he speaks the Latin, which is the most
holy of tongues.”
“You’re such a Catholic drone! You probably
think Jesus Christ himself spoke Latin, huh?”
“Ah, what else would he speak?”
“Hebrew, Greek or Aramaic, in the least,
but not Latin by a long shot!”
“Ah, this coming from a man of no faith.”
“And this coming from a man who owns a
cantina, a place of drunkenness!”
“There is no drunk peoples here under my
roof!”
“I’m drunk!”
“No, you are not, you think you are, so you
can swear more.”
“Peter, I have been coming to this dirty
little hovel for a few months now and have stumbled from your bar here, right
from this stool that I sit upon, wasted beyond belief!”
“Ah, well, you must be very good at not
showing. I have never thought you as drunk. And another thing: what is hovel?”
“I don’t know, something like a shack or a
hut.”
“This is NOT a shack!”
“I know, I know, I’m just saying that you
own a bar where people get drunk, so you’re not so holy yourself!”
“People come here to eat, my wife is best
cook in district! Is not for solo drinking! Ah! What is this? Why are you
lighting another cigarette, amigo?”
“What? Is smoking not allowed here
anymore?”
“No, is just that I think it very bad to
smoke as much as you do.”
“Only a pack a day or so.”
“So much?”
“Yeah. Doesn’t matter anyway.”
“You say this all times, it does not
matter, life is so sad, poor me. If it was another of my friends, I would be
worried, but you are lazy amigo, you will never do it.”
“I can and will do it.”
“You came here first day in Mexico City,
whining of your sad times, telling me that you were to kill yourself. That you
come here to make the suicide.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So?! You are still here! You have talked
of killing yourself for long time, amigo, and you have put it off many times
now. At first time I hear you I was concerned for you, but now that we are
friends, I know I have nothing for fear of you killing yourself. But those
cigarettes will kill you.”
“I will kill myself when I’m good and
ready! I came here to test the idea of it, not necessarily do it!”
“You tell me first time when you come to my
bar that you had come to
Mexico City to kill yourself!—and even when
you try this at a little villa de la playa, you can only come back and tell me
of this.”
“Well… I… was delayed.” I smiled with wry
lips curled. It was true: I was delayed merely. I had tried, as of yet, only
one time and failed in the most embarrassing of fashions. It had happened in a
little town only a few hours’ drive from Mexico City.
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