Juan had bought the bar in 1976 with his last
hundred pesos. He knew that the door had been in need of fixing for the past
fifteen years but his third wife had drained any desire left in him to do
anything let alone DIY – he just floated along in a kind of limbo waiting for
the day that…in fact he didn’t know what he was waiting for any more. He’d once
thought about taking a motorcycle to ride the length of the Panamerican highway
but his bike hadn’t started for…since he couldn’t even remember when, and it
wasn’t really big enough – the engine – for that kind of long distance.
Besides, Toluca wasn’t the sort of place where things happened. Dreams were
buried here along with their owners. A black cat chased a gecko from the shade
to the brightness of the street.
Without warning the door was kicked off its
remaining hinges – somewhat unnecessarily Juan thought – and two strangers
loomed up at the bar their silhouettes blocking the light from the doorway.
‘Are you the owner of this fucking joint?’ One of
the black shapes addressed Juan.
Juan didn’t say anything and continued to chew on
his toothpick, but he was thinking ‘Are you fucking retarded?’
To be continued…
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