Tequila
He checked his front to see if indeed any of the blood had leaked out. So much had leaked out already. His hopes, his happiness, his heart, his sweat, his tequila, his love—all seeped out and spread out onto the beach, only to be stolen by the ocean.
He should not drink tequila. Even when in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. He should not drink it even if the bottle is a free gift for watching a thirty-five-minute video and a promised two-hour-and-fort-five minute presentation on a time share that stretched into six hours.
He walked, or attempted to walk, along the beach. He hoped that being free would make the tequila’s effects weaker. The movement of the waves and the pounding in his stomach and head proved the effects were not diminishing.
As he strolled on the hard sand, Henry Harrison felt the early-morning results of a late night. The sun was only beginning to break through the clouds, so he did not need sunblock, or his wife telling him he needed sunblock. His wife, Julie Harrison, the former Julie Johnson, was still in a deep sleep, he assumed. Or not. Did he care? She probably would not miss him if she were awake, nor would she miss him if she were asleep. The same at home. Being somewhere on vacation did not actually change things.
He tried avoiding the waves rolling upon the beach, trying to catch him. They almost succeeded. He felt out of place and uncomfortable. Puerto Vallarta was the place for couples. Yet he was alone on the beach. Must be the tequila.
That sweet, strong drink was not to blame, however, for thinking his wife wanted to return to being Julie Johnson and be his ex-wife.
He watched a pelican glide down into the water and rise immediately after and fly away. Is this what his wife wanted? Freedom to fly away?
Is that what he wanted? Looking out onto the expanse of the water, a suicidal ideation swam into his confused consciousness. But, at the age of forty-five, a suicide is not a statement anyone thinks to notice; it’s the young ones who get the attention and grieving. Hell, they’d only say “what a waste” about him.
He looked around him. The brochure called all of this a paradise. How could he have suicidal thoughts in paradise?
They honeymooned here twenty years ago. At that time she would have been walking with him. Now, she slept—which she had been doing more and more of late.
Twenty years ago he showed off to her by running on the sand and deftly dodging waves, up and down. Now he stumbled in a drunken stupor. Now he was alone.
Amigo, you want a hat? Ssoombrreerroo—jus’ for you.”
He looked up at a stout man holding several straw hats. He had the honor of being the first customer of the day to say, “No, thanks.”
He heard families speaking in a distance, parents admonishing children and calling them.
“Papi, ven, venaca … ahora!”
The buses were hurtling through the streets, amid the honking of bicycle horns and the music of car radios. More birds appeared, besides the pelicans, flying and squealing.
He saw a dark circle in the sand before him. There were scattered logs, and several beer cans, bottles of vodka, tequila. Seeing the tequila caused a ripple in his stomach. There was Ripple wine, and other kinds. Panties, men’s underwear. Cigarette butts throughout the unholy scene. It was not time for a Day of the Dead celebration. A celebration of some kind occurred, however.
He noticed some movement to the right of him. A young couple, naked, lay on a blanket. Oh, to be young again, he thought. Oh, to be naked and drunk and not give a fuck. Oh. They looked to be eighteen. She had long light brown hair, straight, hanging all over her back, yet leaving her hips and her wonderfully round, firm bottom exposed.
The lad had the short, cropped hair of an athlete, the biceps of an athlete, and the gift of young pussy given to all athletes. Oh, to be a sportsman rather than a sad accountant.
