Barra de la Cruz

Jorge's Cantina in Habitaciones. Jerry
was sitting on the stool to the right but
got up to take a piss.


Barra de la Cruz is a bit of a shit hole. It is a surfer’s hang out and they don’t have the cash to keep the economy in five star hotels and top shelf liquor. But it is Jerry’s base of operation because of the relatively hidden airstrip and close, friendly accommodations.
We drive up the little road between white stucco buildings until we see the beach. To our left is our digs, a little four room “hotel” with a hand painted sign the reads “Habitaciones”. There is a patio with a few tiki torches, and beyond that is a small bar under the balcony with a checkerboard tile floor and a few tables. I have been here once before.
“Looks like we have a little company.” Jerry nods at the clutch of surfers at one of the picnic tables on the patio. In the middle of the table is a gathering of beer bottles that suggested that there were more people early on. A couple of local girls were the center of attention.
“Nice.”
We stop the truck and climb out. There is a warm ocean breeze that carries with it the smell of something cooking. The little hotel has some of the best food I have ever eaten in my journeys, namely fish tacos. Sounds strange, but tastes great. I prepare myself for a platter of those and at least four or five of the local dark beers.
I follow Jerry around to the patio. We both nod at the surfers, who give size us up as we make the corner. Probably wondering if we might be cops by the smell of things. They see that we’re not, and the glow of a pipe fires off in the flicker of the torchlites.
“Jorge?” Jerry calls over the bar. From somewhere in the back you he calls back something in Spanish. I have got to learn more of this language.
“Jerry!” Jorge comes out and gives Jerry a bear hug, then turns to me, “Jake, old friend.” I hug him back and then he goes behind the bar and pulls a hand blown bottle from a secret place and grabs three glasses. It is his special tequila that his family has made ever since the urge to get shit-faced hit this town… before any of them knew how to write down the recipe.
The three of us drink to our collective health… I know that one. Then to something else, I believe it is safe journeys.
I will need a chaser if we were starting like this. “Jorge, cervesa por favor.”
He pulls a Negra Modelo from the ice box, and then another when Jerry sees how inviting it looks. After the third shot and second beer, I turn and enjoy the view of the local girls in their bikinis while Jerry talks business. It is all in Spanish to keep the surfers out of the loop. They probably know more of the language than I do, but at the speed the two of them are talking they will only be able to pull a few words out of it anyway.
Jerry is smart when it came to putting work ahead of play. We could have easily gotten plowed and then the whole day would be wasted tomorrow without plans made the night before. We need certain things arranged. Namely one of Jorge’s boys to take the truck back to the airstrip tonight and grab the fuel trailer. They will get it filled and return it. It has to be done at night for two reasons. The truck is not registered or licensed, not that this was any big deal for this town, but near the airfield where the boy’s will find the fuel it might be an issue. Then there was the manner in which they get the fuel. Most of the time they will steal it. But to have the cash on hand just in case they are caught is a necessity. Jerry doesn’t care either way, and pays Jorge more than the fuel is worth for the effort. It is all on Nestor’s tab anyway.
“Oil.” Abby uses oil like she has a bad habit. Although we have a few cases back at the compound, it is wise to pick some up. That is one thing you don’t want to be without.
Jerry nods and gives Jorge the order. He hands him another small stack of peso notes. That will be the last of the cash until he trades Nester’s gold for money in Santa Cruz Huatulco. There again Jerry knows some people that will get him top dollar for the gold. From what I could tell from the transaction in Nester’s shack, there is several thousand dollars worth.
Hopefully, when the sun comes up tomorrow, we will see the old truck back in its parking space and have a topped off fuel trailer and a couple of cases of oil stashed in the hanger.
One of Jorge’s daughters comes out to the bar and stands there with a smile.
“Fish tacos, por favor.” I make my hands in a big circle to tell her I want the big platter. She smiles as I rub my hands together and lick my lips. “Oh man, this is the life. Fish taco’s, dark beer, and those two.” I nod at the girl that is facing us. She looks familiar. She winks at me.
“You know her?” Jerry takes a pull off his beer.
“Dunno.” I take drink. “If I don’t I wish I did.”
We both watch for moment or two, and then shit starts to happen. One of the surfers, the one that is holding a half empty bottle of cheap tequila, puts the moves on the little sweety that winked at me. She steps back, he grabs her around the waste with his free hand and pulls her in, whispering something in her ear. She slaps him hard and he reels back. Then he starts for her but his buddies hold him back.
Behind us Jorge yells from the doorway. His voice is hard and sharp. He calls her Yolena, and Jerry looks at me, and I him.
“That is little Yolena?” Jerry squints his eyes in the darkness as she walks by and into the back. “Holy shit, she grew up fast.”We both smile and finish our beers. Jerry gets up and calls something to Jorge, he responds and now Jerry is my bartender. It is going to be a long night.