This is a tale of loss and solitude. It takes place in a strange and mystical land: some call it paradise, others call it a land of corruption, still others refer to it as one of America's greatest allies. This land is called Mexico.
Now, it's important to note that, more specifically, this story takes place at a resort, so whether or not it still counts as Mexico might be debatable. But I digress.
The occasion was my brother's wedding. Night after night we'd spend time in a Mojito bar, which I think might have been called just that, and, of course, sold thirty or so variations of that particular beverage. We were having a great time, just us Canadians and a small group of Brits. Nobody speaking loudly or crowding the bar. But then it came, the inevitable day when a bus full of Americans pulls up, they spew forth, barging through the fragile front entrance of the resort, and instantly succumb to the comforts of our quaint mojito sanctuary.
I wanted out. I wanted to explore nearby Cancun, but my parents were leery, and the admonishments of others became like a rash; it was easier to stick it out with our American friends than to risk being caught up in some kind of drug deal gone wrong and wind up the bane of Canadian travel agencies.
So I attempted to embrace my friends from the South. How bad could it be? I'll tell you: one night, while I was imbibing a healthy volume of smashed kiwi mojitos (phase one in my plan to befriend the Americans), our little sanctuary was inundated with these enterprising individuals, and their raucous guffaws and cretinous howls blew the decency straight out to the patio.
There we were, me and the other guests, drinking our sugary mojitos on the patio, the wind tearing the buttons from my new big boy clothes, yet doing nothing to contest the inclement blathering indoors. Those Americans crowded the bar as if they were guarding a fortress.
I was all nerves. I tried to nurse my drink, not wanting to dive back into the clamor surrounding the bar. But the sugary dregs of my mojito was too tempting. I threw it back with reckless abandon, and moved onto chewing the short piece of sugar cane. It became unpleasant rather quickly. I knew that I'd eventually have to get another drink, and, sensing the longevity and virulence of the American infestation, I realized that sooner was better than later. So I dove in. No thoughts, just reflexes. I called upon my kind smile, courtesy, and willingness to apologize, to execute a full on passive-aggressive attack.
But to little effect. I was subsumed instantly by the pervasive disregard of my American friends. The reek of cheap cologne and perfume assaulted my central nervous system in a way traditional chemical warfare never could. I was paralyzed. I couldn't breath, and I wanted to vomit. If only my big boy shirt was soaked in urine, I would've held it firmly to my mouth and inhaled that sweet ammonia. But no, no urine. I tried ordering a drink, but I knew I'd first have to get the bartenders attention. They were so far away, so overworked and underpaid, so dismayed by the minuscule tips they were receiving from American customers.
The noise, the stench, the lack of regard; I was stultified completely. If you could have observed the rabble from a bird's eye view, you would not have found me there, still and enshrouded in the shadows of my American brothers and sisters. Where can you find tranquility among such barbarism? The washroom. Bit by bit I overcame the paralysis, sort of like in the semi-fictitious biopic, Dragon: The Bruce Lee Story, where Bruce Lee, played by Jason Scott Lee, overcomes partial paralysis (the result of a severe back injury), and composes his most famous work, Tao of Jeet Kune Do, in the process.
The crowd of rowdy yanks was not amenable to my exodus, but I harnessed some of that potent Canadian tolerance, persisted in my attempts at squeezing through microscopic crevasses, and found myself in the porcelain womb of a well maintained washroom. I took a minute to stare into the mirror, admiring my beautiful Canadian face, pure and majestic. "OK" I said, "Let's make peepee" . Then I strolled over to the white porcelain, seemingly inviolable urinals, as though Charlie Parker himself was in my head, dictating my every move with that alto sax of his. I stood there and let it out. Serenity.
But serenity would not last. It would crumble at the sound of the washroom door being smashed in against the garbage receptacle. My peaceful repose frayed, my mind wandered to thoughts of manifest destiny, Charlie Parker faltered in is immaculate improv, and my urethra shivered as if exposed to a strong winter gale. One of my American friends had felt the pinch of natures impatient fingertips. I was first assailed by his cologne; it rekindled the paralysis I had worked so hard to overcome not five minutes before. My knees buckled, my elbows locked, my hands clasped ever so painfully. This guy made sure I was going to see what he had to show me. He strolled up to the urinal beside me, murmuring racial invectives the whole way. He made like he had Parker playing on in his head, yet I knew that it was Theory of a Dead Man. He saddled on up beside me, unzipped what seemed like a mile of grimy zipper, pulled his greasy cooptive dink from his trousers and, with a moan reminiscent of a primal scream practitioner exorcising the pain incurred in his youth, let out a thick neon cord of urine. It deflected off the curved porcelain in a Hurricane Katrina of refuse, soaking everything within a ten meter radius. It stung, it stank, it ate through anything it touched. The man was a true patriot.
Those seemingly inviolable urinals? They were violated. So was I. So was everything: the floor and ceiling tiles, the synthetic foliage, urinal cakes, toilet paper, hand soap, dryers, and towels. One American male had sullied a once perfect washroom for all future patrons. He shattered my Canadian tolerance, demolished my sense of decency, and he pissed all over Charlie Parker's face. Charlie left me. We no longer speak. He says he can't be around me without feeling like a whore.
Maybe I'm being a bit harsh, a bit dismissive. I know not all Americans are like this. All I'm saying is this: we arrived at the resort, we were having a great time, some Americans showed up, shit got raw, they were loud and obnoxious, one of them followed me into the washroom, I saw his penis and it was greasy...That's all I'm saying