Won't be fooled Again

Unbelievable. There were Two stars. They were difficult to see, like an African in an unlit alley, but just before your 97 Cherokee scalped another victim, you saw the whites of his eyes, and a peeking glimmer from his teeth, and turned to your wife and said, ’Holy Shit, we almost killed a god damn African, Shit’, but right up close, you could tell, it was definitely two stars.

After weeks of sleeping on strangers’ floors, doubled over sheets disguised as futons, spring protruding mattresses, bone jarring overnight bus trips, and rentable coffins with the detachable crapper 3 flights down, a place that managed to both call itself HOTEL and proudly display TWO worn out stars was a Mexican Eden just waiting to be violated.

I didn’t want the word ‘Hotel’ or the stars, two things that automatically indicate higher prices, like going for the Walgreens butter only to arrive in the dairy section and see your stuck with the wealthy man’s Land o’ Lakes. But you need butter. Your balls can’t live without it. So you buy it. And in the end, everybody’s happy with the upgrade.

Normally in Mexico, there are more choices, and you can find a place that beats your ten dollar budget. But I ended up in this port town by hitcher’s fate.

An old friend of mine, a civilized European, was living in Guatemala, presumably for superiority reasons, and decided to come join me for some adventure in Southern Mexico. We decided we would take advantage of our pasty complexions, and naïve hopes, by isolating ourselves on desolate stretches of pavement, hoping some lustful Mexican would want our company, and maybe some butter.

The problem, or the excitement, with journeys by thumb, is you don’t know where you’re going to end up. As a rule, when night falls, you do as the African should do, and lay low until sunrise.

Darkness came in on the bottom tip of Oaxaca state, in an isolated port town presumed to be on the Pacific, but only a strong breeze and an increased number of empty seafood cocktail stands stood as questionable testimony.

First step, remember your Marine training, and scout out the territory before you make any decisions. We had four potential targets. FOUR. That’s nothing. Supply side economics would not be on our side tonight, just the way The Left wanted it. One place had a lobby. No need to ask room prices there. Another advertised cable television. Also, out. It was between an abandoned motel with rooms wide open, and a half rotted front door guarded by two sleeping drunks and a stray dog, or the two story Palm Hotel, with it’s faded stars, and, well, a fairly accurate rendition of a Palm tree. After a solid Parliamentary debate, the European arguing that discrimination based on class was reprehensible, and we should be supporting institutions, businesses, and whatnot intended for the common man, and the American countering that the rapists who frequent the abandoned flophouse probably don’t discriminate either: between Americans and Europeans. It was further noted, and recorded, that abortion is still illegal in Mexico.

Entering the swanky Palm, the European attempted a final rebuke, showing displeasure for the tacky drawing of the Palm, which apparently showed a complete lack of regard for perspective. The American proudly exclaimed he hails from the land of all things tacky, and as long as America controlled the world’s marketing, the Palm wins.

Behind an abandoned glass showcase, a young man, wearing the latest in Made in China fashion, paused from his cell phone chatter to give us the price: $25! Ouch. But because I was sharing a room, my half only put me $2.50 over budget. And what did two and half dollars get me…

The security guard, who, presumably kept out the drunken rapists from our second choice, also doubled as bellhop. He happily escorted us to the room, making small talk about the windy weather. My first domicile with protection. I was beginning to think the extra money was worth it already, and we hadn’t even reached the room!

The door opened, and immediately, our host went to the window. A bit hot inside, he was quite the gentleman opening the windows for us. But they didn’t open. Cause there was a giant air conditioner in the way. An AIR CONDITIONER. It was obvious the guests at the Palm weren’t accustomed to such luxury, cause the security guard, with Vanna White’s shining smile, proudly demonstrated the multitude of functions available to us on this wonder of mankind. There was a High Cool, Low Cool, High Fan, Low Fan, and the mysterious ‘Economia‘.

The white people in the room looked at each other in disbelief: security and air conditioning. What would a $5 increase in my budget get?

But the security guard had more to show: The box where people and things are displayed in a life-like manner, came with a portable control. A five minute tutorial followed instructing us in the fine points of remote viewing, with a button that made all the voices go silent. Instantly. We were amazed how the three available channels could be accessed by either a direct number input or a button designated for channel scrolling.

The tour wasn’t over yet. We followed our smiling host into the bathroom. The three of us gathered around the curtainless shower as our guide opened one faucet handle to reveal the dispersal of water. Heated water. That’s right, for 12.50 a pop, not only were we getting a secured room with instant cooling and remote control telly, but a proper shower as well. The three of us stood around ingesting the steamy vapors, wondering which one of us would finally turn off the spigot. Clearly, this room of marvels was as lavish for our security man as it was for us.

His permanent smile left the room with an assurance, that anything we needed, he would be glad to help. Hmmm. My cohort gave me the BEHAVE look, the one that said, ‘we’re among a higher class now, we should act like it.’ I shot her back an American look that telepathed, “We act the same, regardless of class, you Marxist Monarchy hypocrites. Aren't we the ones who show up to 'classy restaurants' wearing sweatpants. You people dress up to use the toilet.” She reacted by leaving our secure kingdom for a solitary walk in our waterless port city.

I did what all men do when they arrive at a clean, comfortable, private, secure toilet. It was time to give Montezuma MY revenge.
Three days on a desolate toiletless beach, and a full day of thumb warrioring accumulated a significant amount of buildup. I prepared the altar. TV volume turned up, air con at full blast, and the secure knowledge that my proud Chief of Security was downstairs guarding against unauthorized intruders. Plus, the lady had left the premises. Even though she was just a friend, there is something about crapping and women that just don’t mix.

Some light reading material was scavenged from my backpack, and the stage was set: Montezuma, I’m coming for you.

Twenty minutes later, the attack continued. As the troops settled in to their new base of operations, the General retreated, spiritually cleansed, and ready for some of that hot water we made such a fuss over.

But Montezuma refused to capitulate. I sent the troops down for the final slaughter, overcome the King and take over the temple, but he was fighting back. Flush by flush my fighting poopertroopers would be sent back to base, torn up and scattered. We repeated the attack over and over, but each time, they re-surfaced, exhausted but unable to leave.

I knew I forgot something: We never had our gracious host check the toilet flush. One thing I’ve noticed in Mexico is that the toilet’s can’t handle a real gringo shit. They assume all foreigners end up with watery discharge, so there is no need to invest in a solid tank. But when the neighbors from the North learn how to handle their street stall tacos, the returns are immense.

Time for Plumber Joe to get to work. No time for the hour shower. The tank link removed, I adjusted to let more water in the tank, put the flapper into it’s correct position, and yes, even jiggled that handle.
Still, no go. Do you know what to do when tank operations fail? Find a bucket, and start filling. The waste basket was probably a solid 3 gallons, or 5 and half two liter bottles of your favorite cola. I was like a one man Chinese fire brigade. My Paradise Poop had turned into a 5 alarm crap. I was furiously shuttling my bucket from the shower to the stall, but four of my men still refused to go to war. Fuckin’ pacifists. This is what’s wrong with America, we’re turing into a bunch of pacifist poops, getting our butts beat in Iraq. We can’t beat the Kurds if we don’t have the Turds.

There was only one option left, but I refused to handle my former men, that was an option too low even for me.

As I stood in silent contemplation over my defeated battlefield, dripping with sweat and unheated water, looking for my white flag, the European came in.

Do I tell her the last guests left their dump in the bowl? Maybe hope she doesn’t use the toilet the entire night. I could just say the shower sucks and we need to change rooms. I was certainly wet enough. Before I could dole out a reasonable excuse, she made her way to the john, ’I really need to go’, she said in speed walk position.

I told her. And to my surprise, she calmly answered, ’what’s the big deal, just tell our friend downstairs.’

“But I don’t want him to think different of us. We’re royalty now. And royalty doesn’t do what I did.”

“Just go downstairs and tell him. He’ll fix it.”

Maybe I should be thinking different about my old euro friend. Any girl that is fit to accept the nature of my bowel movements is fit for the zirconium. Too bad she believed in equality.

The security guard was not only the bellhop, but also the janitor. He put back on that genuine smile of his, and told me not to worry about it, he would take care of it.

There is something truly awkward about watching someone else look at your doodies. Especially a stranger. But in the same way you may smell your own gas, maybe take a whiff of your finger after you scratch your ass, there is a perverse delight in witnessing the reaction. What would Senor Security think of my work? And then I got anxious, the remaining survivors were a fragment of their original size. They were baby poops. It was like seeing a black and white photocopy of a Picasso. There was no pride in what remained of my fallen soldiers, beaten to shriveling bits like that. I stood by the bathroom door, like a man next to his car as the mechanic goes to work. Nervous about the damage, and the reputation of America, those seconds felt like days, but the security guard turned his head from the toilet, looked back, and said, “don’t worry, I’ll fix it.”

These places didn’t follow international codes of conduct. They could just ask us to leave. But I remembered those stars. Two of them. We should be safe. Stars protect. The promise things. They mean something.

I lay on the bed fidgeting between the three channels, with one eye on the bathroom. He returned with a few basic tools, but after 30 minutes alone with my descendants, he still had the same results:
Montezuma 1 Gringo 0

Next up, he came back with a garbage can. I wanted to shout, “I already did that,” but I figured maybe the Bowl would respect a local more than the outsider. Five minutes later. I was still losing, and the security guard, smile still intact, coolly said he’d return again shortly.

He came back with two garbage cans. My Man knew how to battle. But the war dragged on, and the Gringos were still losing.

He said a friend at another hotel (the one with the lobby or the cable tv?) had some sort of tool or something that he could borrow but it would be awhile. We should go out and he’d take care of it.

His commitment was impressive. I was beginning to understand why American companies keep hiring Mexicans.

An hour later we returned, anxious to get our bowl back. Was anybody staying here? You’d think we would have another room by now. But the Mexicans aren’t people who throw out a ceiling fan cause a blade breaks. They tape it back on, and keep on going. This is not a culture of waste. Things only get thrown out or replaced when they turn to dust. We paid for this toilet and we would use this toilet.

He told us the tool was on the way, so we went back upstairs to wait. And moments later, he did indeed arrive. And what was this miracle tool he was waiting for? A plumber’s snake? A giant plunger? A reformed anteater? No, his last available weapon: A bigger bucket. This was why Mexico will always be Developing, always wondering why they aren’t Developed. Hard work only gets you so far. If you don’t have the technology, you perish like the natives.

He could see my doubtful looks, but his smile reassured that all was under control.

The 2 representatives sent from the Developed world waited against the wall for the election results. The whooping cascades of water could be heard every three minutes. And then they stopped. The War was over. The Battle of the Bowl had been won. But by who?

The Deputized Disposer of my Turd exited the sanctuary. His demeanor hadn’t changed, that same warm smile still there. In his left hand he swung the empty bucket, and in his right was a plastic bag, probably with some wet tools. He looked at us reassuringly and said, “Everything’s ok now, Buenas Noches.”

And as he made his way to exit the air cooled room, I noticed something odd in his plastic bag. I pointed out the suspiciously bagged items to the Euro. She agreed. A Taliban fighter was leaving our room, parading my captured doods across this 2 star Peshawar. Would he show his friends how puny my poop was, further damaging the reputation of the American Stool Movement? Maybe he would take it to the US Embassy and utilize my waste to help get him a visa, and I would get a call from Homeland Security asking about my involvement in illegal immigrant smuggling. I was thoroughly defeated.

It was the one step I refused to do in the toilet purging process. He did it. This is why our borders are inundated. Why should an American company upgrade its services when a Mexican can figure out a way with the existing components.

Montezuma 1 Gringo O

The European wanted to celebrate. As a surprise to me, she grabbed some reading material and shut the door. But something wasn’t right. “Get out, get out of there” I screamed, the sounds of FIRE in the air.

“What?”

“He didn’t fix it. Don’t release. I repeat, Stop pushing, close your hole, and get out. NOW.”

Was this how they did it up in here? Was this what two stars really meant? I wasn’t so enamored with our smiling master of ceremonies anymore. I marched down the faded yellow linoleum hallway, rounded the corner, and made my way downstairs. We needed a talk. Mano to Mano.

“Ok sir, not a problem. Don’t worry. We will put you in another room. It’s fine. Get your things ready, and I’ll meet you upstairs to show you your new room.”

Fine. That was easy. I kept wondering if we would have to sit through the demonstrations again. The European seemed pleased. Minutes later, he was at the door, bucketless, and a new set of keys waiting.

“Why are we going downstairs? Can’t we stay up here where it’s quieter?”

“Everything is full up here, you’ll be moving to the rooms out back.”

There was an ‘out back.’ Were we all of a sudden in the country? I didn’t see a yard with cabins. But sure enough, on the other side of his security stool, the doors opened into a courtyard, where the original Palm still stood. The Bates Motel vibe here rivaled the abandoned rapist palace.

“Really, it’s full upstairs. I didn’t see anybody. There must be a room.”

“Yes, it’s full or there are rooms that are a different style than your room. We don’t have any more like the one you paid for.”

Probably cause their toilets worked.

And with the same enthusiasm he showed in our first room, the tour was given again. The air conditioner only worked in one setting, and dated from the Carter era, with embedded rocks in the vents that added a nice broken muffler sound to the windowless room. The rabbit ear tv could be turned manually, as he demonstrated meticulously, using a chair and a tiptoe reach. The bathroom once again provided hot water, it would just take some time to heat up, he said. And what about the missing toilet bowl seat? These rooms didn’t have seats, but if there was anything else, he works through the night, don’t hesitate to ask.

Can we just have our old room back? We’ll open the lid on the shower drain and use that. But the European whispered to me that we should just accept what he gave us. I’m American dammit, if we accepted things, you’d still be speaking German. She mumbled something about the Russians, and I went off into the courtyard to look up at our old room, number 14, the lights left on to taunt us with my crime.

This was not two stars. We were better off in that straw hut on the beach. I felt helpless, defenseless, un American. It was a one party system here, and only one man held power. Our ‘friend.’ Who could I lodge a complaint against? Where were the rules regarding grievances? And it was after midnight, where we could we move to? We were stuck. It was so unfair. I was being punished for my above average size fecal deposits. Why didn’t they have a sign like the airports? If your luggage doesn’t fit in the rack, you’ve got to check it in. You know the size of your little brown creations. Everybody does. And if I didn’t like the measurements I saw, we could stay somewhere else. On the converse, I could use a ruler and a digital camera to obtain a refund. I sat out there, pouting, furious over the deceit the 2 stars held over me. Marketing. Death of the human race. The European was sleeping by the time I returned to the incessant rattling that would surely affect my dreams of defeat throughout the night.

I was awakened in the early daylight hours by a movement. This was the famed Pacific Rim, earthquakes were common. But my half awake state had fooled me. It was time for a second round against the Bowl. So soon, but I guess the four day backlog had more work to do.

Goddammit. Fuckinshit, motherfucker. I couldn’t believe it. Again, it happened again. I wasn’t going to conform and squirt taco shakes like the other Gringos. I was an individualist dammit. I could be like a Mexican, and a gentleman, and remove it with a plastic bag, so that my traveling partner could at least have a nice clean bowl for her morning ablutions. But I wasn’t a Mexican. I was American. And I want my money’s worth. And the right to poo as I choose to poo. Poop stays.

Leaving the Palm, we noticed our friend was still working, 14 hours after we had checked in. He shot us that genuine, giving smile and said, “it was nice to meet you, have a good day”, like nothing ever happened, like he didn’t spend two hours face to face with my excrement. Why couldn’t I show humility and warmth like this man? Why do I deserve to have things the way I want, when he obviously finds a way to accept things, with grace.

I’ll tell you why: Cause two stars shouldn’t stand for two toilets. It should mean something, the way it did in the old days of Vegas. A Palm and two stars, and you knew things would be alright for a night. Stars and palms shouldn’t be abused just to lure in unsuspecting budget travelers, hoping for a brief stay in moderate first world comfort. If we can’t trust the Star system, what’s that say about those Film Festival winner stamps, or Organic or Internet ratings?

I decided to abandon my addiction to marketing,which may be a violation of The Pledge of Allegiance. I’ve gone back to sleeping on couches in the homes of generous Mexicans, completely comfortable with broken toilets, bucket showers, and 5am fireworks. Life seems easier again, accepting with no expectations, removed from the marketing, that is, until I sit down at a restaurant, and notice in the corner of the menu, ‘Five star cuisine.’