Como Un Buen Tequila

I've had the same dream every night for the past five days. I'm actually looking forward to sleep to see where this dream leads me tonight. Hopefully there will be a sixth night of this dream. There has to be a reason for the dream I thought as I finished the last bit of tequila I had been slowly sipping for the past hour. Jose Cuervo Gold. OK, so it wasn't one of the new top shelf tequilas that are in vogue, but I liked it and with the economy as it is, I felt I was doing my part. 

As I lay my head down this night and pulled up the covers I immediately went from wakefulness to that state of semi sleep, hypnagogia I think it's called, and with like any sleep, it blanketed me without my knowledge, and I was once again visited by Hypnos. On cue the same dream began evolving and I was cast as a player into the scene.

Looking around the tiny smoke filled cantina I could spot a few patrons in boots and cowboy hats playing pool. An attractive senorita was sitting alone at a table near the front door talking on her cell phone, and Jesus Christ was the bartender. "Uno Mas Tequila por favor," I called out as Jesus reached for the top shelf and took down a dust covered bottle of Jose Cuervo.  As he filled the shot glass to the rim he said, "This is your last call Cowboy." As I sipped the golden nectar from my glass I could hear Marty Robbins singing El Paso on the jukebox.  Damn, this is cool I thought as I slowly drank the last swallow of  tequila and lit a cigarette. As soon as I took my first drag of the unfiltered Lucky Strike, Jesus said, "It's closing time partner, you want me to call you a cab?" Before I could answer, the attractive senorita who was sitting by the door got up and offered me a ride home. "No thanks, I can drive", I said. "After all I'm immortal, right Jesus?"

"Yeah, you're immortal Cowboy, whatever you say.  Hey guys let's tie all these loose ends up.  I need to close this bar, if I don't my dad will be pissed almighty." "OK", I said. "I'll see you tomorrow same time, same place. Hey and if you don't mind, could you get rid of that cheap crap you pour and invest in a bottle of Patron?" Jesus smiled and said, "Hey cowboy, do you remember that story you wrote about me once, Dieu Est Un Poisson?" "Yeah, I remember, why do you ask?"  "My Dad thought it was freakin awesome," came Jesus’  reply.

I awoke that next morning with a realization that God has a wicked sense of humor.

On the seventh night, the dream was gone. I could finally rest. God rested just like the Bible said he did. 

The seventh day was made for rest.

Si, Jesus es mi mejor amigo...si.

New Year's Cowboy

The last day of 2014 arrived with a brisk cold wind and bright azure skies.  The weather report said to expect an arctic blast sweeping down from Canada later in the evening.  As always the weather lady reminded us to observe the four P's.  Take precaution with your pipes, plants, pets, and people.  It was like a nursery rhyme in my head that I couldn't quite shake.  I found myself saying it even during the summer months.  Someday I'm going to write that weather lady and tell her to stop with the damn cute comments, but for now I had bigger plans to attend to.
You could say I'm in the golden years of my life.  I spent the last thirty years married to my job.  My business card read:
Jackson Hunt
Senior Petroleum Engineer/Technical Advisor
Gallant Oil Company
Houston, Texas
Working fifty to sixty hours each week as a petroleum engineer left me little time to become attached to anyone.  I had passed up the chance for any long term relationship in exchange for a demanding job.  Working my way up the ladder of success from the oil boom of the early 80's in the Texas panhandle to earn money for an engineering degree and finally retiring as senior engineer for a large oil company based out of Houston left me a single man.  I had done well, made incredible money, but here I am lying in bed on the last day of 2014, and not wanting to crawl out from under the blanket and open the curtains to let in the morning sun.  I realized soon after retirement that I wanted, actually needed someone to share my world.  I longed for someone to love.
I thought about the weather report and the cold blast of air coming down from Canada, and for an instant almost talked myself out of plans that I had begrudgingly made for later in the evening.  I really didn't like social gatherings, but I had promised Ray Porter, an old friend, that I would come to his New Year's party and stay over the night.  Ray had done very well for himself in real estate, and he and his wife Barb owned a beautiful oceanfront home in Galveston.  It would be nice I thought to celebrate the new year overlooking the Gulf of Mexico, albeit no love interest to share it with.  Well, enough with self pity I thought as I crawled out of bed and made my usual breakfast of coffee and cinnamon toast.  At that moment the telephone rang, and I could see from the caller ID that it was Ray, probably calling to remind me of the party tonight.  "Morning Jack, how are you this fine day?" "Ray, I was just thinking of you and Barb.  How is your beautiful wife?"  "Oh she is fine Jack, she just wanted me to remind you of the New Year's evening bash we are having for a few of our closest friends tonight.  You are coming aren't you?"  Now was my chance to back out, but I thought that the least I should do would be to show up  and greet the new year in style, so I replied, "I wouldn't miss it for the world Ray!  By the way, you mentioned there were going to be other closest friends invited, that doesn't mean you and I aren't best friends anymore , does it?"  "Oh, no Jack, it's Barb's friend from California.  She recently divorced and she and Barb have been emailing each other lately and reconnecting.  She was actually Barb's roommate for a couple of years when she attended the University of Texas in Austin.  I thought I had mentioned her to you before Jack.  Well it doesn't matter; you'll get to meet her tonight.  I'll see you at seven, and remember you are our guest to stay over for the night."  "OK Ray, I'll remember to bring my teddy bear and blanket, I'll see you at seven."
The drive from Houston to Galveston was quicker than usual.  Not much traffic I thought, most offices were closed, families at home with loved ones. There I go again feeling sorry for myself. Arriving at the residence of Ray and Barb's I was impressed with the elegance of the Spanish architecture all the way from the private gate past the carefully manicured landscape, and up to the veranda of the grand home.  Barbara met me at the door with a big hug and a kiss and called to her husband, "Raymond, some old cowboy dragged himself up to the door looking for a drink.  You better get down here quick because he looks awful thirsty!"  I couldn't recall the last time I had been kissed by a beautiful woman, and it reminded me of an empty space in my life.  No time for melancholy moods I thought as I saw Ray coming down the stairway.  "Hey Jack you old roustabout, come in and make yourself at home.  It's been a long time, too long.  Let me take you out to the back deck and show you a view of the Gulf that will leave you breathless.  Oh, and by the way, there's someone I want you to meet."  Barbara giggled with delight as she followed both of us outside.
"Jack, let me introduce you to Ms. Sophie Ribault.  Sophie is the owner and operator of her own French bakery in San Diego...what is the name of your bakery Sophie?  Oh yes, I remember now, 'La Patisserie'.  Sophie, this is Mr. Jackson Hunt, the infamous Jackson Hunt!"  Sophie took my hand and with a big grin said, "Jack, may I call  you Jack?  I have heard so many wonderful things about you from Barbara; I am so pleased to finally meet you."  Sophie looked like an angel, with an elegance and ease that endeared me to her from the moment she said my name.  All I could do now was not say anything stupid.  "Sophie, please do call me Jack, and I am honored to make your acquaintance. Barbara tells me how much you mean to her, and any friend of Barbara's is a friend of mine.  So tell me Sophie, what brings you to Texas if I may ask?"  Jack, it's a long story of me needing to be with those who care about me.  Barb and Ray always supported me emotionally and I need their support now.  You see, my husband decided he didn't want to be married any longer.  He found himself a young Spanish senorita and took off for Mexico.  I guess I saw it coming.  It hadn't been a good marriage for a very long time, but I was so busy with the bakery that his leaving kind of snuck up and bit me on the butt.  I take partial blame for it, but I do believe things will work out for the best.  I'm sorry for talking so much Jack."  Actually I was glad Sophie opened up to me, although I was so enamored with her appearance that I probably only heard every other word she said.  I'm sure she said something about a bakery.  "Ms. Ribault, if I may be so forward, I would be pleased to take you on a walk along the beach if you are interested."  "Mr. Hunt, I would be honored.  I'll be ready in five minutes, I'll just need to grab a sweater, it's cold out tonight."  I took the next five minutes grabbing a bottle of wine, a bottle opener, and a blanket.  By the time I had my essentials we were off to the beach.
Sophie and I walked and talked about silly things, and before I realized it, we had been walking and laughing for more than an hour.  "You know Jack, we must be three or four miles from the house, I think we should turn around.  We need to be back to usher in the New Year with our hosts."  As we headed back towards the house Sophie said, "So if I said I was cold now would you mind lending me that blanket you have been carrying around for the past hour?"  I laughed, wrapped the blanket over her shoulders, and casually put my arm around her waist.  "You know there is room enough in this blanket for even a big cowboy like yourself Jack, that is if you are interested."  I was a cowboy, but I wasn't stupid.  I could take a cue just like a city boy, and with that Sophie and I began to grow closer. We made it back to Ray's home just in time to welcome in 2015.  A champagne toast with good friends, and now a romantic interest made me feel like this was going to be a great year.
As we prepared to retire for the night, I kissed Sophie on the cheek.  We both knew it was too early in our relationship to take it to another level, although we both knew it would come. "I'll see you in the morning Sophie...sweet dreams."  With a smile as big as Texas Sophie replied, "I'll see you in the morning cowboy."
Lying alone in bed that night I recalled a quote from an old friend of mine, a real cowboy.  He told me when I was first getting involved in the oil business, "Don't be afraid to go after what you want, or what you want to be, but just be willing to pay the price for it all."  At that moment I told myself that Sophie was worth it before drifting off into sweet slumber.  That night I dreamed of Ms Ribault and cinnamon toast.


The night sky is filled with twinkling stars
all containing stories.
Loneliness is coming down
like dew drops on the flowers.

As I'm calling for someone
that left me in searching for stars.
The old memories come back
and linger.

The only face I can see is me
who is lost in the past.
Flow, flow, when time flows away
what will I become?

Do I have to go on
this long journey alone?
Will I become a memory
tomorrow and the day after tomorrow?

El Barrio

My name is Maria Marisol Fuentes. I am fifteen years old, well almost. I'll be fifteen next month. My home is New York City, El Barrio. You may know it best as Spanish Harlem. If you haven't already guessed, I'm Puerto Rican. This is my story.
I dropped out of public school when I was twelve years old and started work in a garment factory located on East 113th Street. I live with my Papa, an unemployed alcoholic. My Mama left us two years ago, and I have not heard from her since. The money I earn at the factory helps pay rent for our tiny apartment on Marin Boulevard. Each day that passes, I find myself more depressed and resigned to the idea that I will live and die in the barrio. I want more, and I have a plan to get out, but I will need help.
"It's 6:47 am, I need to walk faster. I've got to clock in by 7:00 am. I can't be late again!" As I made my way down Marin Boulevard, turning South on 2nd Avenue, and then arriving at the factory on 113th street, my feet ached from the fast pace I set walking into work. I thought, I've got to buy some new shoes as I grabbed my time slip and shoved it into the clock. "Ahh, 6:59, I made it!" Still too close for comfort, I thought. As I took my position at my sewing machine my body switched to autopilot while my mind took me to faraway places, like Florida... maybe Puerto Rico. San Juan would be so beautiful this time of year. Anywhere away from this dreary existence that I call home.
So as soon as my shift would begin, it would end. My fingers always ached from the endless repetitious task of attaching collars to the endless supply of shirts that would be pushed my way by the team of seamstresses. I had a quota of one thousand shirts a day. Within two months on the job I could not only meet one thousand shirts a day, but I could surpass that quota by another thousand shirts. I was paid three cents per shirt over my quota. So on a typical day I could earn an extra thirty dollars. To me that was my ticket out of the barrio. I didn't tell Papa about the bonus money. If he knew about it, he would drink it up within a week or two. Yes, my money was safely hidden beneath the floorboard of my bedroom. The money I have saved over the past two years now totaled exactly $15,200. When I find a way to leave Papa and the barrio, I will be gone....just like Mama.
I know my story sounds so dark and hopeless, but there are bright spots in my day. There is a young man at the factory who has been asking about me. He smiles at me, and spoke to me last week. He said "Hola Maria. Mi nombre es Tito Vázquez ." Since then I have learned that he has asked a lot of questions about me. I also have asked about him. I know he is twenty one years old, drives a nice car, and works in quality control at the factory. I also found out that he thinks I am pretty, and wants to ask me out on a date. The older Puerto Rican ladies in the factory are telling me to stay away from him. "He's a playboy," they say. "He's no good...you'll only get hurt" But I like him and if he asks I will go out with him. Although I am fourteen, I have yet to go on a date, or even have a boyfriend, so Tito and his attention intrigued me. I thought possibly I would have a way out of the barrio.
A week later while I was at lunch, Tito sat at my table and asked me on a date. "You know Maria, I was thinking it would be nice to see a movie with you, or if you want to go for coffee we could do that. If you are interested, that is." I thought for only a minute and agreed to meet him. Not at my apartment, but at the corner of Marin and Second Avenue. Tito agree, and told me to watch for a candy apple red Porsche 911. "I'll pick you up at 7pm Maria, watch for me OK?"
That evening before our date I pulled up the floorboard to my bedroom hiding spot and took all $15,200 and stuffed it into an oversized purse. I packed an extra set of clothes. My Papa was passed out on the sofa in the living room. I bent down and kissed him on his forehead and whispered "Goodbye Papa". I knew that when I left the room and closed the door behind me that I would never be back, and would never see Papa again.
Tito pulled up in the Porsche at 7pm. He got out and opened the door for me to get into the passenger side. "Tito, do you believe in God?" "Si, Maria...I do believe. Why do you ask me this?" I opened the bag and showed Tito the money.
"Let's get the hell out of this city," I said. Tito replied, "Si mi amor, si. You should buckle up, I have a very fast car."

The Meeting

And so it was, as it was always meant to be...they finally met.
He didn't expect her to be quite as short in stature, and she didn't expect him to be quite as tall...yet somehow they were perfect for each other.  
Oh, but the relationship was way past physical attributes...it was past sounds, time, heartbreak, and yes even past regrets.  Each had their own regrets, but somehow regrets seemed trivial.  It was about now, it was about them, it was about love...and they were in love.  A dream played out to the brightest ending transcending into an even brighter beginning...a prayer answered, a gift, almost undeserving.
Now the couple who only knew one another at a distance embraced, pulled slightly apart, then their lips met for the first of many times to come in their life.    
 With that he spoke up, "Where do we start?"
"How about a cup of coffee and a table for two," she said.  "We'll see where it leads."  "I know a  place near here...the locals call it PIP."  "Point the way my little compass", he said, I'm right with you."  "Did you just call me a little compass...maybe I don't like that!", she said.   I'll explain it all later over a cup", he replied.
Maybe that's how it all started with a conversation about coffee.  He couldn't remember.  He only knew he called her Sam the first time they spoke online, and the name stuck.  "Mind if I put a CD in while you drive?  It's something I've wanted to share with you for a while," he said.  "I was twenty four that year, and you were still waiting to make your arrival."
"Sam, how do you say 'you're my North star' in Tagalog?"  Sam shifted the Rabbit into second gear and turned the corner onto Pinole Valley Road.  "Yes, my moral compass you are" he said quietly under the sound of Billy's vocals and the Rabbit's engine.  
His right hand found it's way to the necklace that he wore beneath his shirt, the one with the cross on it.  "Mother Mary give me courage and wisdom...maraming salamat sa inyo."

Biscuits By The Grace of God

Following in the footsteps of those who came before me is no easy task. Words like commitment, sacrifice, and love are all qualities that I learned growing up in Lucedale, Mississippi as a child in the Pennebaker household. I saw it played out daily in my home. My parents were my teachers, and I am blessed that they taught me those principles. I learned what mattered was not what you have, but rather what you have to offer. I can remember my daddy inviting door to door traveling salesmen into the home and feeding them dinner because they were either young and scared or looked hungry. I recall stories of my grandfather leaving thanksgiving turkeys on the doorsteps of needy families during the night. Granddaddy wouldn’t even stay around for a thank you. He would just knock on the door and walk away. I can remember Mama and the breakfast she made everyday for the family. Mama would get up before anyone else and have the table set before waking us to come and eat. I really miss the smell of biscuits coming from that tiny kitchen. That smell brings me to the reason I’m writing this.
This morning before climbing out of bed I thought for sure I smelled those biscuits. I was in that unique state between wakefulness and sleep, somewhere between Lucedale, Mississippi and Pensacola, Florida. I was again ten years old and my stomach was growling. As the smell of those biscuits made its way down the hall and finally into my bedroom, I couldn’t take it another second. I sat up in bed, put my feet on the floor, and with the aches and pains of a bad knee remembered that I was fifty four, and it was all a dream. Bittersweet memories of home, of my parents now gone, an aging body, and an empty table awaiting me downstairs was suddenly my reality. I immediately realized I had a choice to make. I could either fall back into bed, which I was heavily in favor of, or I could make that breakfast myself. With all the enthusiasm I could muster, I chose to do what Mama would have done. This Southern boy was going to have his biscuits.
Jimmy Dean pure pork sausage, check. Pillsbury buttermilk biscuits, yes! Fig preserves! Oh, God is so good. Everything I need sitting before me in the refrigerator. A bag of Starbucks coffee in the cupboard was a plus. 450 degrees and a cup of coffee later I was sitting down at the table with my breakfast. The phrase ‘southern ambrosia’, passed through my head as I readied that biscuit like a Marine would ready his uniform before an inspection. I made two for myself. One with fig preserves. Not just fig preserves, but fig preserves that I had made earlier in the summer from our own fig tree. The other I prepared ala ‘Steven Martinez’ style. Steven and I were combat medics attached to a Marine unit stationed out of Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. Steven taught me how to make the combat MRE’s more appealing by adding Tabasco sauce to everything. I grew to like it quite a bit. So the second biscuit was smothered in that piquant hot sauce from New Iberia, Louisiana. Now it was time to eat. I stopped an inch short of putting that biscuit to my mouth and remembered why all this busy work began in the first place.
As I put the biscuit back down in the plate, I bowed my head and thanked God for giving me my family, for giving me the food set before me, and also for giving me the parents I had growing up in south Mississippi. I realized that it was much deeper than just putting food on the table. It was also about love, accountability, and tradition. I almost wished for a moment that a young hungry salesman would knock on the door. How I would love to share this second biscuit with him. Even if he gets the one smothered in Tabasco sauce.

El Barrio

My name is Maria Marisol Fuentes. I am fifteen years old, well almost. I'll be fifteen next month. My home is New York City, El Barrio. You may know it best as Spanish Harlem. If you haven't already guessed, I'm Puerto Rican. This is my story.
I dropped out of public school when I was twelve years old and started work in a garment factory located on East 113th Street. I live with my Papa, an unemployed alcoholic. My Mama left us two years ago, and I have not heard from her since. The money I earn at the factory helps pay rent for our tiny apartment on Marin Boulevard. Each day that passes, I find myself more depressed and resigned to the idea that I will live and die in the barrio. I want more, and I have a plan to get out, but I will need help.
"It's 6:47 am, I need to walk faster. I've got to clock in by 7:00 am. I can't be late again!" As I made my way down Marin Boulevard, turning South on 2nd Avenue, and then arriving at the factory on 113th street, my feet ached from the fast pace I set walking into work. I thought, I've got to buy some new shoes as I grabbed my time slip and shoved it into the clock. "Ahh, 6:59, I made it!" Still too close for comfort, I thought. As I took my position at my sewing machine my body switched to autopilot while my mind took me to faraway places, like Florida... maybe Puerto Rico. San Juan would be so beautiful this time of year. Anywhere away from this dreary existence that I call home.
So as soon as my shift would begin, it would end. My fingers always ached from the endless repetitious task of attaching collars to the endless supply of shirts that would be pushed my way by the team of seamstresses. I had a quota of one thousand shirts a day. Within two months on the job I could not only meet one thousand shirts a day, but I could surpass that quota by another thousand shirts. I was paid three cents per shirt over my quota. So on a typical day I could earn an extra thirty dollars. To me that was my ticket out of the barrio. I didn't tell Papa about the bonus money. If he knew about it, he would drink it up within a week or two. Yes, my money was safely hidden beneath the floorboard of my bedroom. The money I have saved over the past two years now totaled exactly $15,200. When I find a way to leave Papa and the barrio, I will be gone....just like Mama.
I know my story sounds so dark and hopeless, but there are bright spots in my day. There is a young man at the factory who has been asking about me. He smiles at me, and spoke to me last week. He said "Hola Maria. Mi nombre es Tito Vázquez ." Since then I have learned that he has asked a lot of questions about me. I also have asked about him. I know he is twenty one years old, drives a nice car, and works in quality control at the factory. I also found out that he thinks I am pretty, and wants to ask me out on a date. The older Puerto Rican ladies in the factory are telling me to stay away from him. "He's a playboy," they say. "He's no good...you'll only get hurt" But I like him and if he asks I will go out with him. Although I am fourteen, I have yet to go on a date, or even have a boyfriend, so Tito and his attention intrigued me. I thought possibly I would have a way out of the barrio.
A week later while I was at lunch, Tito sat at my table and asked me on a date. "You know Maria, I was thinking it would be nice to see a movie with you, or if you want to go for coffee we could do that. If you are interested, that is." I thought for only a minute and agreed to meet him. Not at my apartment, but at the corner of Marin and Second Avenue. Tito agree, and told me to watch for a candy apple red Porsche 911. "I'll pick you up at 7pm Maria, watch for me OK?"
That evening before our date I pulled up the floorboard to my bedroom hiding spot and took all $15,200 and stuffed it into an oversized purse. I packed an extra set of clothes. My Papa was passed out on the sofa in the living room. I bent down and kissed him on his forehead and whispered "Goodbye Papa". I knew that when I left the room and closed the door behind me that I would never be back, and would never see Papa again.
Tito pulled up in the Porsche at 7pm. He got out and opened the door for me to get into the passenger side. "Tito, do you believe in God?" "Si, Maria...I do believe. Why do you ask me this?" I opened the bag and showed Tito the money.
"Let's get the hell out of this city," I said. Tito replied, "Si mi amor, si. You should buckle up, I have a very fast car."