Day Nine; Rememberating Mexico and Other Hallucinations (Part 6)

I’m having trouble distinguishing my stink-filled hallucinations from all of my other realities. I do know that since I barely have the skills to computerate when fully awake, everything I write here to the blog is real. It has been nine days of garlic and onions and poor personal habits for me and I think I might be a tad crazed.

You can’t trust anything I say except for if I tell you about something as if it were actual happenings in real reality and it was just my rememberating something that was halucinatory in nature. Or unless I’m here in actual reality writing for the bloggie and then I start hallucinating in my thought processes yet my motor skills remain in actual reality. I guess that would fall into the category of “actual real-time reporting of hallucintory events as they happen in real time.”

Like that time Streaker Jones, Woozie and I were down to Mexico late in the summer after we graduated from high school. I had this nifty 1963 Chevy Impala SS with a 350 cubic inch Corvette motor. It was Matador Red, which is appropriate for this story. It was this trip that got me hooked on Carta Blanca beer.

We drove through the border at Laredo and stocked-up on tequila, and then we headed south. It was harvest time for the maguay plants, that’s the raw plant product from which tequila is distilled and these days they call it agave. The agave plant is akin to peyote, or so I have heard.

Anyway, we drive for something like 20 hours and end up in this area in central Mexico where you can see some mountains in the distance. But there is nothing between where you are and the mountains except flat, arid land and millions of agave plants. Some are in tended fields, you know in rows and all orderly, but much of it is just old fashioned free-range agave ranching.

The fields are full of old trucks and cars, and people. The people are harvesting the long greenish-blue spears using either a machete or this sickle-looking tool. The way the sickle tool fit in a person’s hand reminded me of Jai-Lai, or whatever that game is called that they play down to Miami Beach. You know, the one where you bet on this little jockey-sized guy to outplay the other one in a handball game with a basket mitt and sometimes it’s a doubles match.

They would stack these spears onto wagons in big bundles, and when the sun shone on the bundles they turned a gorgeous blue color. In fact for years I thought that Elvis was singing, “To Blue A-ga-ve.”

At the end of the day we settled to this nifty little town for the night. The town consisted of: a single building that served as Police Station, Post Office, hotel, bank, telegraph office, telephone office and general store; a cantina; and maybe a dozen small tin-roofed houses. There was no grass or shrubbery, but each house had a small garden and one big tree in the yard.

As we were seated to the bar in the cantina, the town started filling with the vehicles and people from the agave fields. Several hundred people with dusty, sun-drenched faces started unloading tables and boxes and old timey Igloo coolers.

Streaker Jones was our interpolater so he asked the barkeep what was up and we were told that we were lucky because it was the day to celebrate the end of the agave harvest and we were invited to the party. Fact is, everyone was invited to the party.

They started fires and racked whole goats and rabbits and a couple of pigs on big iron skewers near the flames. Women began the amazing process of hand patting tortillas, an act that makes me cry when I see it done with love. Young girls did the rest of the cutting and chopping of peppers and tomatoes and stuff.

We ordered beer and were brought cold Carta Blanca in tall, thick glass bottles. The bottles were heavy with condensation and the weight of the glass, and that initial guzzle was inspirational. My first Carta Blanca beer was emptied with the second tilt of the bottle, and the barkeep had replacement set in the water ring of the first before I could ask. He said something to me in Spanish, and Streaker Jones interpreted.

“He says ya look lik a Carti Blanki man. He’s the sheriff an wants ta innerduce us ta his daughters.”

That explained the six shooter in the man’s belt.

Then, the sheriff/barkeep sets three jelly glasses to the counter, each filled with a milky white, viscous fluid, raises a fourth in a toast and says, “Poulquay. Salud!”

Poulquay, which I’m sure is spelled a different way, is the pre-distillation fermented agave mash and precursor of tequila. It is nasty tasting like peyote buttons, sticks to everything like grass burrs, and kicks your ass after maybe a couple dozen glasses like a quart of Gram’s mushroom juice.

Holy shit I stink. If I don’t get some respect soon I may kill myself. I don’t mean suicide silly, I mean death by poison gas.

Look, I’m feeling like passing out again so how about I finish this later.

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