Forever Motel Casa Blanca

I shivered but not from the chilly Mexican desert wind outside Motel Casa Blanca on Christmas Eve. We drank Presidente brandy and smoked Delicados with the resident car thieves, a cocaine dealer, and a hired killer passing through. On the boulevard an all-white clad Santa in a white sleigh pulled by white horses waved at the crowd. But Gabriel wasn't watching the slow strange spectacle. He was looking at me. He guarded the lighter's flame against the gritty wind and lit a cigarette. He looked at me but he did not see me.

Earlier he demanded I burn my journals because late at night while I slept he read about other men I knew before we met. I had watched him stare into the fire at my sacrifice for him.

There is a band running along the U.S. and Mexico border where the North American trajectory of commerce and material desire ceases against the force of defiant Mexican bravado. The country has its own true magic that enchants time and tranquilizes you to relax and do nothing about your fate. There are no tomorrows for miles along both sides of the border. The days are usually filled with small wonders and cheap thrills. Narcos rule while Americanos pay to play. The rest live in poverty unless they have a business. 



That's where we were held by providence when we had been on our way into Mexico in our truck with all my valued possessions.  We lived in an ornately pink and gold room in a motel frequented by w****s of every persuasion and all the accompanying vile and hedonistic commerce. Our room was filled with spent votive candles blackened inside but displayed for their varying tributes like Guadalupe, Jesus, and Guardian Angel that aptly presented two children holding hands trying to get over a bridge but clearly much too young and entirely out of their depth. 



Our truck was stolen but not before we had unloaded its contents into the motel room. And then we only had the money to stay at the motel but not enough to get us to Veracruz, our destination.

There was no way for me to be prepared for what it would be like living there. How can one imagine time ceasing; concern over the time of day, day of the week, planning anything beyond the next siesta?  There is no concern, there is only desperation. Only the next cigarette, pan dulce, cerveza, and occasional Chinese dinner.

We were to call this home for half a year. Each and every day we walked to the same places, following some invisible line of protection like the children crossing the bridge in the guardian angel candle. Always our trips through the neighborhood were exactly the same well-worn grooves we used to make our way in that treacherous place.

Gabriel put the fear in me about it so that I never strayed far from the door of our room after dark. The fear wasn't just him. It also came from witnessing horrible depravity and knowing in general about the illicit commerce of the very corner we called home. The Policia occasionally driving through the horseshoe road of our motel did not alleviate any of our anxiety. As Gabriel said, he feared the Policia in Mexico not the Federales.

Across the street, directly behind the ever so busy taco stand, was the dog fighting in the town. Every night they came and disappeared into the dark building to partake in the frenzied, bloody violence and high pitched gambling fever. On the other corner, in the empty dirt lot on weekends, everyone came out to drink cervezas and have a rowdy party and admire the gathering of tricked out cars. 



My heart was not broken until a few months into our stay. We were under the huge palapa of the Zapatista decorated taco stand across the highway from the motel eating our dinner of grilled steak in a handmade tortilla, cajuamas with lime, and fresh pico de gallo and guacamole, soon to become a rare event because of our dwindling supply of pesos. 
There was a lot of traffic on the highway on Friday and Saturday night. This was during the hot months when people were out a lot more.

On the Corner across from us was an old woman sitting on an upturned crate, guarding a bucket of small bouquets. A petite girl of no more than ten in a plain dress past her knees and simple shoes would take a few bouquets out into the street to offer them to the drivers while they waited for the light to turn green. I watched her do this a few times but I had yet to see her sell one bouquet. And I felt so hurt that people couldn't just buy them because she was so beautiful. She had perfectly lovely features, and was so delicate. She was the true flower there on the corner and undeniably the loveliest sight in that dusty and rough part of town. And my arms ached for her, for her poverty. I looked at Gabriel to gauge his reaction but he had his back to the street in keeping with his strict rule about not looking at people in public. Then the girl got into a car with a gentleman and they drove off. I was certain it must have been a family member because the old woman remained unfazed. 



Maybe twenty minutes later I was happy to see the girl again, getting out of that same car and returning to peddling bouquets to the drivers. She very soon got into a different car with an entirely different man. My throat constricted and I feared I would cry on the spot and make a spectacle of myself. I leaned close to Gabriel and asked him if he saw the girl and if he knew what she was doing. He told me rather coolly that the girl was a prostitute. It crushed me. I had to excuse myself and return to our room. 



Next came stories about the guests from Gabriel's pal, Jose, the swing shift manager. I was present at the telling because I had started making it a rule to accompany Gabriel whenever he spent time outside day or night. 

Jose came out of the office lighting a cigarette and joined us at the grass-covered island in the center of the drive. A roughly carved table and chairs had been set out under the palm and orange trees. Jose shook his head and sighed. Gabriel asked him how he was doing and he retold the following story. Two men had rented a room the night before presumably to have sex, which was not uncommon, and they left it stinking and smeared everywhere with feces. The maids refused to go into the room at first. Jose had to put plastic grocery bags over his hands to act as gloves and take the bed linen out himself to the laundry room and into the machine. The maids put a full bottle of bleach through a cycle to sterilize the machine afterward. Gabriel nodded and shook his head when Jose told him the story but he was not amused. I made a mental note of the bleach bit and decided to do that before washing our laundry on Sunday when the maids are not as busy and they let us use the machines. 



There was a three-legged dog that lived on that corner. It was a black lab mix; another bony Mexican street dog. But he fared decently at the taco stand and hobbled about his life there on the corner. He was there through summer and into autumn. But, like a lot of the people and routines we witnessed there, one day he was gone. We made note that we had not seen him and looked out for his return but after a week we forgot he had ever been there at all.

 

I had seen and heard enough to fall into a lull and then something like a trance of believing it could get no worse. That was when we saw the kittens. 
 And before the Ramirez brothers returned from car thievery escapades and Gabriel started to drink with them. 


It would be comforting to think that once you experience or even witness a certain amount of suffering you somehow have a protective barrier built up against any further harm it might do your vital organs, your heart or your spirit. It's just not true. If anything it is the opposite, once you have been rendered open there are now wounds by which the world can more easily enter you. And enter it did in the cruelest imaginable manner, by that of a pure white kitten with bright blue eyes. The most perfect and lovely little creature I had ever seen. 



The black motel cat had apparently been female. She had since disappeared but three of her litter remained. We put water and food out under the Bougainvilleas and hedges where they hid. Their mother had spent a lot of time on the roof. We saw a kitten up on the roof once and wondered if she had her litter up there and, if so, how they could have possible gotten down. We wanted to catch the kittens so that we could keep them safely in the room, I was deathly allergic to cats so we could only take care of them from a distance. 
The next day we noticed that there was still water and food in the kitten's bowl outside but we didn't see any of them into late afternoon. Then there it was, the white kitten. At first all we noticed was its injured front paw, which dragged pitifully when it walked. From where we sat, at the table outside, the kitten looked otherwise okay and I sighed heavily with the relief. Gabriel looked at me and I think we understood one another best at that moment. But then we looked back at the kitten and it was struggling to drink the water. It had turned its head so we finally saw that the hide on the side of its face had been ripped off, exposing the teeth, and part of its lower jaw was missing. On one side it appeared like a normal albeit strikingly lovely little thing. On the other side it was a monster. And it could not drink the water. At first we mutely stared at it. Then I turned and closed my eyes and buried my face in Gabriel's chest, I told him we had to do something, if only to end the kitten's suffering. We tried to catch the kitten to keep it in the room so that we could look after it but we couldn't get a hold of it. We agreed to ask Jose if he would help with any pesos to take the kitten to the vet. We might even have slept well that night. 



The next day the kitten came out to drink from the still full water bowl and struggled to quell the thirst of its increasing dehydration. Again we watched. I begged Gabriel to do something. I couldn't stop crying and he insisted I do so in the room. Into the pink and gold room I went and fell onto the bed and cried into the garish paisley bedspread. Soaked it through with all the sorrows I knew or had seen and all those to come. I didn't stop crying all that night, to Gabriel's dismay, and all the following morning. He was out at the table all night (I would find out later, with the Ramirez brothers drinking Presidente).

I stayed in the room for the coming days, despondent and occasionally weepy, asking him every day to please god do something about the kitten. 

I felt like all that was pure and lovely and innocent had been removed from the face of the earth and we would be living out our days in sorrow for the loss. 


Then one day when I woke up Gabriel was standing at the door holding a gun and looking at me.  He took the clip out and emptied the bullets into his hand.  The gun was on loan from Ramirez the elder. Once I found out about the kitten, I attacked him and forced a fight. He did it, he said, because he couldn't stand to see me the way I was, all that crying, and because they had thrown the kitten in the trash. What do you mean? I asked. One of the guys at the motel had found the kitten lying on the ground, weakened, and had tossed it into the trash bin. Gabriel got it out, pet it, talked to it sweetly until it was purring and set it down. Then he stood up and shot the kitten in the head. Like that it was over. Now maybe the woman will stop her crying. What he didn't and maybe couldn't understand was that I cried over so much more than that one small life. And I realized then that if I stayed there at Motel Casa Blanca much longer, I would need a bullet through my head.

© 2009 Michelle Espinosa

 

Reviews

[Kevin Vorshak]

This is a fine piece of writing, Michelle. It is depressing from the standpoint that these things, I believe, are commonplace in poorer parts of the world, and I have little doubt in Mexico. Actually, it wouldn't surprise me if there are places in America as despondent at this. You really fleshed your character and her plight very well and provided a clear picture of the poverty and hopelessness without overdoing it. Thanks for sharing.

[Kimberly Smith]

very good I like the connections and diction I want more lol loved it.

[Monday Parker]

Wow....Wow What a tormented well written story. My god, you just carried me away to this place that I never want to go again. That poor kitten... What a master piece...That poor little girl with the horrid grandmother who didn't care. What a great write. Good job...This is one of my favorite stories I have read on here. What a talent you have!!! I love this part of
"Earlier he demanded I burn my journals because late at night while I slept he read about other men I knew before we met. I watched him stare into the fire at my sacrifice for him. I knew then he did not realize what I was willing to give up for my hopes and imaginings of him."

I cant tell you how many times I have burned/ripped/thrown out my journals for a man because he was jealous of the words I kept. This part really made me feel like I understand these people. Again great job.

[W.k.kortas]

There is much--indeed, very much-- to like about this piece. It has the ring of truth (if not outright autobiography to it), it reads smoothly, and the level of detail is strictly top-shelf. In my view, the relating the story from a narrator's point of view is not the best choice; we really don't get a feel for her as a person, so there's no added layering to the piece in that manner, and I felt it created an unnecessary distance between the events and the reader. As it stands, the piece certainly requires no apologies--it's strengths are so obvious to as to override any faults the piece may have--but I think some tweaking of the point-of-view could make it something truly special.