Gringo {txt} : H I S T O R I A S {txt} -- A partly true tale told to the gringo
-- transcribed by Michael Thomas.

How he grew up in a brothel

SO YOU DON'T WANT TO...? Just talk, eh? Chin... ¡que raro eres! Well, okay. But talk about what? Eh? Tell you a story... about me? Mmmm....

Well, first you need to understand that I grew up in a whorehouse, eh? I swear, it's the truth. My mother died giving birth to my younger brother -- he also was lost. My father went north during the war to work as a bracero, and I hate to say it, Miguel, but your people killed him. He never came back, and I heard later that a tractor had run over him one night. Yeah, what is it your people say -- "life's a bitch," right? Uh-huh.

Well, I stayed here and grew up in Tijuana with my aunt, mi tia abuela, who ran a small brothel on second. No, she's not alive, as a matter of fact, she died thirty years ago, but her son, my cousin, still owns the whole block, even though he lives in San Diego, now. He must be almost ninety by now. Has an accountant who collects all his rents from the property. My aunt had no will, you see, and he was her only son, so he inherited everything she owned.

By that time I had already been working in restaurants for many years. First as a waiter, later a manager and maestro de hotel. No, her son never lived here with her, or at least not when I was here. You see, she was my grandmother's sister, not my mother's sister, and by the time I came to live with my aunt, her son had already grown up and crossed over into your country.

What? Yes, as a matter of fact, my aunt's name was Juana... why? Oh... ja ja ja "tia Juana," yes, that's right, and you know, that is exactly what her girls called her. You know we Mexicans use "uncle" and "aunt" as titles of affection -- cariño -- just like we do compadre and comadre - which literally mean padrino and madrina -- godfather and godmother, eh? But we use them as titles for really good personal friends. And really good family friends will often be called aunt or uncle. So she was "tia Juana" both to me and to the girls.

What? Yeah, you guessed it. A lot of her regular customers, marines and sailors who came down from San Diego, also called her "tia Juana" -- I think it was sort of a joke with them, let's go to "TiaJuana's" eh? Eh. But of course we all know better. No, of course not. Tijuana was not named after her. Not my aunt Jane, no. That was another woman, long ago, who lived on the old rancho, a hundred and fifty years ago now. Or so they say -- ja ja -- even though that, too, is a myth.

¿Sabes qué? -- you know what? The thing is, for us, the Tijuanenses, talking about "aunt Juana" has always been a kind of fond joke... talking about "tia Juana" as if she really were real is a way for us both to make fun of ourselves and to define ourselves... some kind of original legend of creation, you know? A myth that belongs to us, and to no one else. We have so little history here on the frontier, only a hundred years or so... I mean it was only ten or twelve years ago we celebrated the hundredth anniversary of the founding of the town. Compare that with those old cities down in the south, ¡híjole! Some of those places have four, almost five hundred years of colonial history and tradition hanging around their necks, not to mention the three thousand years of Aztec and Toltec and Maya that the PRI wanted us to get down on our knees and worship as a mask for Mexico City power... man down in the south they are totally screwed up with history and culture - tienen un chingo de historia y cultura - and what do we have? A hundred years of people who run north to the frontier, most who only want to cross over into your country and make more money!

So can you blame us if we use our old lady legend both to make fun of Tijuana and to imagine an older, safer time? Yes, she's an image from the old rancho days. That's what that mythical lady is to us... one of the few roots we really have... who cares if it's completely made up? Does any of that true-or-false argument really matter, Michael? What do I care if it is completely make-believe? You tell me... if the myth of "aunt Juana" makes us feel better about ourselves, isn't that what matters most?

Besides, they say she could cook really, really well. Splendidly well. That she was generous and courteous, and took excellent care of her family and visitors. Those are very important Mexican values, Miguelito. Estás en su casa, ¿eh? Eh. Courtesy. Hospitality. You know there probably even were several old ladies in the old time back when Tijuana was only a rancho on the road between Ensenada and San Diego. Yes, they probably cooked for the travelers, too. But Tijuana already had its name. From almost a hundred years before then, back when there were only Indians here. Excuse me, I mean indigenas, not indios. Pai pai.

But anyway, believe me, my aunt treated her girls well. Yes, of course they had to work most nights, and make money, but if they got sick, she took care of them. She kept a bank account and if they wanted to put their money in it, then she helped them save up for whatever, to go home to the south, or to cross over to the north - even though that meant that one day they would leave her. And she made sure they always had good food to eat, every single day she and the domestica cooked for them. Sometimes the girls would get up early -- before noon -- and help. My aunt's hotel kitchen was always clean and rich-smelling. She knew if they ate well, they would have more energy and please the men more, and everyone would get paid more. Aunt Juana also did her best to keep the girls from getting addicted to any kind of drugs. Or from drinking too much. She really was one of the good "mamas" - she really was a "tia Juana" de mujeres faciles, if you will forgive me for saying that.

What? No, I'm not crying. Well, in my heart, yes, but.... I'm sorry, Michael, but I was just remembering one girl....

I was only nine. Just about the time that my aunt started letting me go out with the girls when they were not working. We would go shopping or to the movies. They would buy me popcorn and sodas. In the evening, while they were working, I would run errands for them, to the store for cigarettes or to the farmacia for their creams and such. One girl....

This one girl had a steady man who came to see her. I say man because I was just a little kid and he seemed so very much older than me, but now, looking back, I know he couldn't have had much more than twenty-two or twenty-three. Nowadays, as old as I am, I would call him a muchacho, yes. But then, when I was nine, he seemed such an adult. So grown up. His name was Juan Sanchez. He was a ranchero, puro ranchero, and played really good guitar. Sang, too - a beautiful tenor voice. Had come north and crossed over, then came back. Said he was going back to his rancho in the hills of Sinaloa. But first he was working in the bars here - found out he could make more money in tips playing music for your sailors and marines, make more money in one weekend than he could in a whole month of digging lettuce and pulling strawberries up in the San Joaquin. He fell in love with this girl I'm remembering. He even paid my aunt enough so that Paulita - that was her name - didn't have to go with any other men, any more.

That's how decent my aunt was. Another mamasota would have taken his money and found a way to make her girl still work other men, but not my aunt, no, she didn't. Could have, but didn't. I know. I was always there. Always. Paulita would eat supper with me in the kitchen, staying out of the front room. Some times she would hear the voice of some sailor who used to be her customer, asking for her. Then we could hear my aunt saying, "I'm sorry, chief, she doesn't work here any more. Let me show you Anita...."

¡Ja! To think that between girls they would go to the cantina next door to listen to the music and tip the very man who had taken away their favorite whore! Ja ja ja that is life, Mikey, that is life, ¿no? Yes.

But... then came the day when Juanito had promised to take Paulita away to his rancho in the south. That was one of the few times I ever saw my aunt get sick, really, really sick. She lay down across two chairs in the kitchen and couldn't even get up to go upstairs to her room. No, no, no, no, it had nothing to do with Paulita planning to leave. But now Paulita would not leave. While the other girls kept the business going out front, Paulita took charge of watching over my aunt in back, getting her through the crisis of her fever, bathing her with cool water, telling me to hand her the sponges and alcohol. She was supposed to meet Juanito at the bus station that night. He wasn't going to come by here... I mean the hotel. He and Paulita were just going to meet at the bus. I didn't know, not until she told me, late at night, as she struggled to get some chicken broth into my aunt's lips. She kept looking at the clock. I wondered why. Finally she called to me, and whispered.

"Luis, my little love, go, run to the bus station and tell Juanito that I can't come tonight, tell him your tia Juana is sick, sick almost to death, and I must take care of her, must cure her... I hope it's not too late...."

I ran. Ran down Madero to the corner, but my heart sank sickening into my stomach as I saw a big bus pulling out and turning down the hill toward the old bridge over the river. No, no, no, I thought, it can't be, it can't have left, it's not late enough, not yet....

But yes. It was. It was gone. And Juanito was nowhere in the bus station. I looked everywhere. Even in every toilet. Then I ran back to the cantina. He was gone. He was gone.

I couldn't go back. I couldn't go back to tell Paulita he had left without her. I ran away to the movie house. They knew me. "What, Luis? All alone tonight? No girlfriend?"

"No. They're all too busy working." I lied and went in, hid myself in the chairs, and fell asleep weeping tears of failure. I had failed her. I had failed my beloved Paulita... how could I ever tell her...?

No... I never did. I woke up the next morning all alone in the theater - I guess they didn't see me curled up in the seat, never told me to leave. When I woke up no one was there - it was too early in the morning, the movie theater didn't open until afternoon, you see. So I got up, let myself out the side door, making sure to carefully close it behind me. And I went home.

My aunt was upstairs, sleeping peacefully in her room. The other girls said her fever had broken around three a.m., and that Paulita had left shortly after four. I didn't tell them anything. When my aunt woke up, she didn't remember anything. I never told her, either. No one ever knew. Not until today. Thank you. Why? Because all these years my heart has been aching to tell someone, anyone, but I haven't ever told anyone. Now I have finally told you, and I feel better. Yes.

No, I never saw either of them again. Not Juan Sanchez nor Paulita Cordobés. Not ever again. But I will never forget them. And never stop wondering what ever happened to them. Never stop praying and crying in my heart for them. I want to believe that she knew where he was going, that she went to the bus station and got another bus south, that she found him, down there in Sinaloa. Sigh.

So. Is that what you wanted to hear? A true story, yes, it's just as true as you and I and your reader are sitting here drinking together. You know, I've never loved any woman the way I loved that girl. And her Juanito....

Here. At least let me buy you both another drink, eh? No, no, don't mention it. Well, if you must, just go put some music on the juke box, eh? Oh I don't know... no, wait, yes, I do know. Something by Luis Miguel. Something romantic. Yes. That would be good. Wonderfully good.


Daniel tells me that he has decided this is the story he wants to make into a movie. Set it sometime in the 1950s. Open with a long, lingering sepia-toned shot of the old bridge. Slowly move in on that bus you see there towards the left. The bus then comes to life. Young woman's arrival at the old terminal. Linger over the mosaic tile map. Or begin with Luis's narration as camera follows road on map, then disolves into bridge...? Etcetera as Luis is narrating. End in the bar finishing the story. A young couple comes in....

Historias [index].

Tijuana Gringo



Copyright 2001 Daniel Charles Thomas
email: tijuanagringo@yahoo.com