Richard was about to concede the point when Monsieur returned with a suspicious bottle of Bulgarian vodka, three grimy glasses, and a jar of cocktail olives with a sell-by date of May 15, 2009.
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have any gin,” he apologized. “Most people here drink Gallo with lemon slices or margaritas, but for my new friends, we will make the martinis with vodka; that is, if you find that acceptable.”
Richard stared at him. “It’ll have to do,” he said.
“You won’t be sorry, my friend.”
“That’s all I’ve been since I got here.”
“Say again?”
“It’s great being here, really.”
Monsieur went to work immediately, mixing the vodka with vermouth, stirring gently, and plunking in the olives, three to a glass. To top it off, he added little cubes of e-coli laced ice and toasted cheerfully, “A votre sante!”
A Mayan woman with gold-capped teeth and a matching uniform served them cheese, crackers, and an endive salad with vinaigrette dressing. In no time, they were joined by what must have been the entire registered occupancy of the Fat Lady, which Richard was now calling, thanks to Vicodin and vodka, the “Dussel A.” This included a retired physics teacher with a pocket protector and lisp volunteering at a community radio station; two burly lesbians from New Haven adopting a pair of handicapped twins who could have easily slapped Richard around the room without breaking a sweat (the lesbians, not the twins); a gray-bearded “sniffer,” or computer geek hired by the Guatemalan government to find flaws in their communications system; an unbearable Bohemian couple that met on the Staten Island Ferry the night of the blackout and were drawn to each other by their mutual love of French film and Kafka; a dude on a surfing expedition to Nicaragua and El Salvador in search of “babes and waves,” not necessarily in that order; and two sinewy editors of a rock climbing magazine in Düsseldorf named “Hot Rocks.” They had to show him a glossy copy before Richard finally believed them.
By the time they finished the icebreakers (arranged by Isabel, who got on famously with the Kafkas), Richard was blitzed and checking out the smaller of the lesbians. Her name was Grace, although she appeared to have little of it.
Excerpt from The Gringo, chronicling Richard Mercurius’ wild trip to Guatemala and his framing by his own law firm. Order here and start reading it today. Feature mage by Christopher González on Unsplash.
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