Chapter 9: Smoothness

After that, I knew that Adalid would put up with my bad Spanish. Perfect. So I asked her if she wanted to go see a movie. I had noticed that the second Harry Potter movie was playing at the theater in nearby Atlacomulco (although a few months later than when it came out in the states, I believe). I ask Norberto if I can use the van. I am extremely hesitant to ask favors, as every time someone does me a favor I end up blowing it in some way. He is nice enough to say yes, but he warns that one of the tires is low and in really bad shape. I take the warning and the keys and sprint up the hill to the van. I pop it in gear and head up to Las Rosas where Adalid is working. I really don’t want to make a big deal about it, so I figure I’ll just tell her they want to talk to her at the hacienda. That way the other girls won’t give her a hard time about anything. In fact, I know that at the hacienda Norberto and Israel, as well as most people there love the gossip about the fact that I am taking Adalid to a movie so much that they won’t have a problem with her leaving work a few minutes early. I don’t know if they love it so much because they want their nice Mexican girls to get married to American guys, or if they are just suckers for romance. But I have a suspicion they like gossip. That seems to be the trend – people just like stuff to happen so they can talk about it. People love tragedy and comedy and fights and affairs and soap operas because it’s a great conversation piece.
So we are in the car, heading for Atlaco. Affecting factors include: I have been there a couple times but am generally unfamiliar with the road itself, this is the second time behind a wheel in Mexico, the first not in Mexico City. Oh, and I have a cute girl with me. I have no idea what time the movies start, nor end, nor an idea how I am getting her home. I cut one guy off, driving a little faster than should be, getting a feel for driving aggressively and probably yes trying to show off a little. I get to San Felipe where I take the correct turn onto the highway and take the highway all the way past San Miguel and into Atlacomulco. Adalid is quiet but smiling and mentions some things about her brother being in Mexico City studying. I nod trying to follow it all. Not having anything to add, we continue in silence. I ask what movies she likes, and she says probably “Life is Beautiful” or “Forrest Gump.” Taking the huge circling road to the right, we arrive in maybe 20 minutes, leaning into the parking lot of the mini mall and get out. I am careful to lock the doors and remember the keys and lights off.
Inside she suggests buying some candy before we go in. We goof around finding absurd items here and there. I try to explain things I find funny, such as “Cossack” brand premixed vodka drinks, and the terrible English on the back of a chocolate made in Cuba. I mention that the English is probably like what my Spanish sounds like but in written form. She thinks it’s funny how I don’t take myself too serious. I think a lot of people she knows probably take themselves too seriously. But I know nothing.
We walk over to where the movie is playing, which we see is going to start in 5 minutes. Sweet. She sees a poster of Bad Boys II and swoons over Will Smith even though I assure her the movie will be crap. I tell her I actually met Will Smith and she grabs my arm as if I had just told her I won the lottery. I tell her am joking and she punches me.
“Do you come here a lot?”
“I used to when I had friends with cars. Not anymore.”
“What have you seen here?”
…Is what I would like to be asking her. Instead:
“How many brothers and sisters do you have?” Spanish 1 questions.
“Four. One older brother who is going to school at the University of Mexico City, one older sister who is studying to be a teacher at the college in San Felipe. I also have a younger brother who is at the high school and a younger sister who is in the middle school.”
“When did you graduate high school?”
“Two years ago.”
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“Huh.”
She does thing where she straightens her skirt and pulls it down as if it’s riding too high. She has a jean skirt that goes just up to her kneecaps when she sits. We are on an ugly metal bench painted white. She has black boots that have a heel and close with a zipper up the side. They are only a few inches above her ankle, maybe to right about where her calf muscle starts. I don’t really like them actually but I don’t actually care. She has a jacket on over a sweater. It’s not like I’m looking, but I am pretty sure she doesn’t have a shirt on under the sweater. This strikes me as odd, although I am not sure why. I guess she wants to look skinny and so isn’t overdoing it with shirt, sweater and jacket. She looks straight ahead, smiling, but rarely at me. It doesn’t bother me in the least. In fact, I rather like the conservatism. It makes me believe that maybe she likes me for me and I can put away ideas of her being a gold digger or just trying to get a visa for the US or whatever. I wouldn’t think that of her, but it seems like a lot of girls down here are willing to go that road.
She undoes her pony tail, and then looks around like someone might be watching and puts it back up tighter, more comfortable. Maybe it’s reading into it too much, but it feels as if in little things like that she is opening up to me a little, letting me into her world. I know I cannot force my way in, I cannot talk my way in, I cannot slide in or caress my way in or impress my way in. I can just by myself because if I’m not she’ll see through me. I hope she likes who I am.
“Did you tell your mom you are going to a movie with an American boy?”
“Oh, no. No. No.” She shudders her shoulders and smiles guiltily. She tries out a fake conversation. “’Mama, I am going out with a boy to the movies…’ no no no.”
She is delicate. Firm, straight, smart, not weak, but delicate. If she does let me into her life, I will have to be careful. This seems to be a product of her family life, culture, and personality. My guess is that her conservatism comes from her family, which takes its cues from old traditions. It’s an educated guess, and I can’t imagine it’s not a true statement. Which is difficult, because when I look at the culture which includes social norms (not staying out too late and end up looking like a prostitute, not taking a taxi home by herself after dark, being polite to elders, etc), family relationships and ties (respect to all family members no matter how distant, absolute respect of parents’ wishes, etc), and general expectations (if you drink alcohol you are only drinking to get drunk, playing cards and pool are serious no-no’s, etc) it is sometimes easy to carelessly brush it off, assume that other people will conform to you. “Who cares what they think? I am going to do what I want and they can say whatever they want. They can just break out of that tradition silliness.” And these are just the things I have picked up so far. I am in her culture, and if she allows me to walk across the threshold, which I am not so sure she is going to, and at least not in the immediate future, she is going to look to me for support, answers, and guidance.
“Your eyes are nice.”
“Thanks.” Now its my turn to be nervous. She steals glances at me now and then.
“How come your eye brows are blonde but your hair is brown.”
“Grr. I don’t know.” Playfully.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you didn’t like it.”
“No, it’s just a lot of people make fun of me.” I want to insult her back just for fun, but I am not sure she might not take it the wrong way. Answering the previous question, “The same reason I have lots of hair on my body. God just made me that way.”
We go in the theater where the last movie is actually still playing, just finishing, on one of the two screens. We sit down and watch the last thirty seconds of some romantic comedy I never actually got the name of, the credits roll, and Harry Potter instantly starts. No previews, no ads, no intermission, just straight into it. And as the first words are uttered, I come to a terrible realization: the whole movie is going to be in Spanish. I have watched a couple movies that we rented at the hacienda, and they were always English with Spanish subtitles. On TV the movies are usually dubbed, but I just assumed it would in English. I think back to Taiwan where they explained that all kids movies were dubbed because how were kids going to read the subtitles when many couldn’t read at all? I hunker down and get ready for a rough two hours. The movie proceeds to make absolutely no sense whatsoever, and it finally ends after an exhaustive stretch of utter silliness. I am completely exhausted from translating for two straight hours coming at me like a freight train, a freight train that is just hitting me over and over and over again. She turns and asks if I liked it. I have nothing to say. I can’t even come up with an excuse except “I didn’t understand anything.” She says she didn’t understand anything either, which makes me feel better that maybe part of it was the plot and not just the lack of grasping the dialogue.
We get back in the van, everything in place, and it fires up ok. We see the time and she is nervous that she might not have a taxi home. So I go a little faster than I would like to. I get back on the highway heading out of Atlacomulco and try to get her to talk so she won’t worry about being late. As we reach the half way point into the village of San Miguel, I hit a huge pothole that I couldn’t see in the dark, going like 60 KPM. There is a loud bang and the van immediately pulls right. There is a large drainage ditch to our right but my arms lock onto the wheel and pull it up, trying to keep us alive. We dip forward and back as I hit the brakes, causing us to veer right again. I let it go right, finally, and we come to a stop in front of someone’s yard. I stop and breathe.
“Are you ok?” I ask. I have no idea what I am going to do now. I have never been to San Miguel before. I don’t know anyone. I can’t call anyone, I have never picked up a taxi or bus right off the road, and am generally terrified. She says she is fine, so we get out. I am jumpy. I don’t know what to do. I want to be a man and take care of everything, but I have to sit and let her get help. I have let her make the decision because I frankly have no ideas left. We wait as cars go past. A bus pulls up but waves us off and speeds past. We begin the walk towards the main intersection in town, figuring the chances of someone stopping would be better. I feel terrible. I am breaking all sorts of social rules already; I can’t help out, and I feel responsible. Finally a taxi stops and we get in. I breathe a huge sigh of relief (this all, taxis and buses and getting around, will become commonplace and simple later on. But the first time always seems the craziest) as we get moving back to San Felipe. In San Fe, I ask her what to do and she walks me over and gets me in a taxi heading towards the hacienda.
“Thanks, I can take it from here” I assure her, trying to rescue any sense of manliness I have left.
The taxi takes me right back to the hacienda where I go tell them what happened. They laugh and laugh and in the morning go get the van. It arrives in the early afternoon, to the delight of everyone except me. Felipe especially can’t let it go.
“How fast were you going? The tire looks like Cookie Monster took a huge bite out of it! Ha ha ha!” Ha ha ha.