The Stray

Easter weekend is an exceptionally busy time for Mexico. Not only is everything booked and crowded because of the Catholic holidays, but it also usually falls around most colleges’ spring breaks, as it did for Cesar and me. In addition to a strip of restaurants and gift shops, Creel offers a variety of ways to experience all its surrounding, extraordinary natural features via scenic flights, repelling, truck rides, horse rides and bicycles. Since our budget was limited, we focused on the latter of the two.

However the horses were booked, and the bicycles were all gone. We found ourselves meandering again, perfectly content to do so, checking back throughout mid morning for available bikes. We stopped for tortas at a hole-in-the-wall stand. A boy in his late teens or early twenties approached the restaurant. He was retarded, and he had one visibly filthy, crippled hand, which he held in his mouth, licking and slobbering all over it, weaving his tongue in and out of his twisted fingers. He leaned closer to the window and demanded through his saliva, “Deme un taco. Eh, eh. ¡Deme un taco!”

On the ledge of the window, there were various salsas, pico de gallos, and cilantro and onions arranged, one of each kind on each side of the window. Cesar stood between the boy and me, and the salsas on Cesar’s side were shaded, while the bowls on my side were exposed to the direct sunlight. The thought of the sun quickly heating the fresh produce concoctions bothered my inner germaphobe, with which every American is instilled. We waited patiently for our lunch as the boy continued to demand his, leaning over the nice, fresher-looking, shaded condiments. When the women gave us our food, I couldn’t bring myself to use the shaded salsas. Though I saw nothing to this effect, I could only think of the boy hovering too closely to the salsas and onions, with his dirty drool leaking into some of the bowls. I opted for the exposed condiments.

Stray dogs in Creel could account for the population of a small town, and as Cesar and I sat at a white plastic patio table in the shade, eating our tortas, a shabby, white dog lingered near, knowing if she did so long enough, we would eventually be inundated by her pitiful plight and offer up some of our scraps, which I did. The boy at the restaurant approached our table and politely but in an awkwardly loud manner asked to borrow the salt on our table for his taco. He thanked us and stamped his foot and yelled, shooing way the dog so she wouldn’t bother us. Then he went on his way, and I still wonder if he paid for his taco.

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