Once Upon a Time in Reynosa Mexico

EDITORS NOTE: Who said a lazy winter afternoon in a Mexican border town can’t be exciting? For a pair of semi-retired Texas ‘good ole boys’, Stumpy and Red, who have for years enjoyed spending a day or ten across the river for a little “R&R”, a recent typical warm January afternoon quickly turned into Armageddon. In this little border tale, submitted through the email, our dynamic cross border duo discovered the meaning of the term ‘between a rock and hard place’. Oh – the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

A La Limite of Relaxation

By Edgar

Stumpy and Red worked their way across the International bridge at Reynosa just in time to

enjoy a quiet siesta in a back street cantina just off the main streets of this once thriving

border town. Where once tourists and locals milled through the crowded streets of this

Mexican hamlet, the town now had a sense of foreboding. Feminine laughter was rippling out

from a hole-in-the-wall cantina, and like pendejos, they followed the sounds of the sirens in

pursuit of happiness and bliss.

In the dark and dingy insides of the cantina they discovered the cacophony of voices so evident on the street outside actually numbered only three, though it had sounded more like a herd of senoritas at a baby shower. But for our perilous panchitos, three senoritas were better than none, and a little better than only two.

It was a typical visit for Red and Stumpy, a routine, in fact, that has been ongoing for

several years. Their dollars and prestige wouldn’t impress too many on the first-world side of the border, but on the other side, they had somewhat more credibility. Stumpy Comanch was from West Texas, though he wasn't a real Indian. Well maybe 25% or so, or 19%(as he claimed) if that's possible. He had roamed the frontera for decades and had successfully worked in radio and nightclub management and had managed to make a small fortune during the golden border days of the 80's when Mexico had high tariffs on almost every product imaginable. Mexican citizens could cross the border for products of personal use, but there was a limit on what they could bring back. There was also mordida. American companies, however, had little idea of how to reach these Mexican buyers. That's where Stumpy came in. He made the connections and managed to make thousands for his efforts, living the good life for a number of years. In those days it was easy to get a girl to move in with you. And she always had friends so why not make it threesome or foursome?

Of Course all good things must come to an end. The Mexican elite thought it was time to

consolidate their holdings, drive any competitors out of business, and loot their country and

drive the population into deeper poverty. So they collapsed the value of the peso as a sure

fire why to keep the natives at home. Soon the peso became next to worthless in the U.S.

Almost overnight, Stumpy’s accounts were cancelled and he gave up his riches for the rags on

his back. He never mad it back to the big bucks again.

Red, on the other hand, was a transplanted Hillbilly. On the wrong side of 50, he'd been on

the border too long. He knew he didn’t fit in with the east or west coast nabobs back home.

His attitude was often ‘the less you have the less you have to lose. That about says it for

him. He wasn’t a has been. He was one of the ‘could have beens’ -- that never was.

Now what our good old boys were doing in Reynosa doesn’t really matter. What happened

probably doesn’t matter either. But it can serve as a lesson to all who think that the world

is passing them by with little notice in their direction. Sometimes you don’t need to be

noticed to find yourself ‘in the thick of things’.

Most everyone who has spent any time at all in a border town knows that Mexicans love to

drink like gringos love to smoke. ‘They’ got booze from us and we got tobacco from them. But

in the bars of Reynosa you'll find as many sloppy American drunks and Mexican drunks. But the

girls will still dance with them. They’ve got the money and the girls have got the time.

Often a Mexican barman, or bartender, will run around to catch a slumping customer as he's

passing out, lower him to the sticky floor gently as a Mother would her sleeping child, and

when he comes back around, he’ll sell him another drink. As sure as Santo Muerte, he'll want

one. The pursuit of oblivion is relentless and enduring.

As any frequent American cross border visitor will tell you, law enforcement doesn’t much

bother with drunks, not unless there is money in it for them. By the time a guy passes out in

a Mexican bar, he doesn’t have much money left anyway. Mexicans can be merciless, but here

compassion may play a role. La vida es duro y hay muchas penas. Yeah, es cierto.

Any way, every customer in La Paloma Loca was half lit at least – in the middle of the

afternoon. There was an opening in the roof where the tin didn't reach the other side;

plastic chairs and only one brand of beer the only comfort to this self-imposed hell hole --

subservient, hostile, arrogant and precautionary service all rolled into one. (Might as well

tell it the way it is, right?) For our wandering duo it was time for a couple of peaceful

coronas, some platica, maybe a dance with one of the girls if she was worthy, then time to

beat it back across the border. At least that was the plan. Our heroes didn’t realize all

hell was about to break loose.

Outside there was the sound of screeching, squealing rubber, a rat-a-tat-tat that shattered

glass. Gunfire was coming from two different directions. Then the big 50 caliber opened up

from an armored car in the street: boom, boom, boom, boom. Chunks of building were coming

loose. There weren't any windows in this little bar. No one would have looked out even if

they could, but there were now plenty of holes in the stucco walls. When the grenade went off

outside it seemed to calm things down a little for a while.

Then the uniformed Mexican soldiers poked their heads back out from hiding at various places

along the narrow street outside like so many south-of-the-border ground hogs with automatic

rifles, and cut loose, returning a hailstorm of bullets at the Zetas, the drug cartel’s

expeditionary force, that apparently had decided to declare territorial war on the federales

in the middle of a calm Reynosa afternoon. The senoritas weren’t laughing anymore. The

bartender wasn’t helping the drunks get back up from the floor. The unexpected gunfire was

sobering – there weren’t any drunks anymore.

When Red raised his head from cover to look around the entire bar, except for he and Stumpy,

were desaparecidos. WWIII was still going on outside. As much military as was in the town

they knew the army couldn't lose – not this time. But the Zetas were ex-Mexican Army Special

Forces, and they weren’t going to give up ground easily -- and certainly not without a

fight.. They were as well armed as President Calderon’s federal troops, and better paid to do

their job.

Red and Stumpy immediately made the decision to find out who the winners and losers were in

next day’s El Manana periodico. They discovered a convenient ragged hole in the wall behind

what passed for the ladies powder room. Stumpy had followed the trail of spilled beer and

broken glass and was wriggling his way out the back. It exited into a callejoncito with all

the doors and windows barred. The federales were going to lock down several blocks soon, so

now were shooting at everything in sight in hopes of hitting one of the guilty parties. Our

heroes knew it was imperative to make tracks for the border without delay. But how? And where

did every one else go? The cantina was surprisingly empty. It's amazing how people can

disappear fast and not even lose their beer. A drunk might drop his shorts, but he's got a

death grip on that bottle of booze!

How they got over the wall in the alley no one could say for certain. Maybe it was because

the Zetas had now taken refuge in the cantina. The big 50 caliber was increasing the number

of holes in the wall of La Paloma Loca and there wasn’t time to figure out how to get out,

just the urgency to get out no matter what.

Back at the border:

"And what was the purpose of your trip to Mexico?"

“We thought we might relax a bit get away from the rat race for a while over there," we

replied to the border guard.

"Have a good day."

For Stumpy and Red, it was a good day just to be alive.

EDITOR’S NOTE: When the dust cleared the body count had exceeded 15 wounded plus two Zetas and three federal troops dead and departed for another world. The following day the Mexican newspapers graphically offered photos of the bodies lying dead in pools of blood. On the

other side of the border, Americans are much too delicate to see the horrible truth.