We called him Little Amigo. Mostly because he was small, slight, short, petite, slender, wiry. Have I used enough words to describe him? I think not. He was little, yes, even for a Mayan born Mexican. But more than that, despite the language barrier, he was a good friend.
Lee met him on the bad side of town—the part where the tourists never go. Lee was there looking for a part for our VW bug, Black Betty, and Little Amigo had parts stashed in all the corners of his one-room mechanic shop—the one right in front of his one-room house. It was dark and dingy and small like Little Amigo, but it was full of resources often difficult to come by in rural Mexico.
With Black Betty repaired and time on his hands, Lee consented to accompany Little Amigo in a movie fest. They swung together in hammocks in the one-room shack behind the shop and watched old Mexican westerns for hours. They laughed a lot and shared a couple of local cans of beer.
Little Amigo became Lee's go-to man for not just car repair, but other little things that might be needed. He knew everyone in town, so if he couldn’t find the right part to fix a water pump or an air conditioner, he knew someone who could. I am still amazed at how well they got along even though most of their communication consisted of hand motions and the phrase "Lets' go, let's go!"
That’s what Lee said the day he picked Little Amigo up to go out to the local strip club.
OK, it wasn’t exactly a strip club.
Lee showed up at the one-room shack and found Little Amigo dressed in his finest white button-up Mexican-style shirt complete with bow tie, blue jeans, black cowboy boots, and sombrero. Black Betty's top was down and Little Amigo shouted "Let’s go, let's go!" as Lee started up the engine and the two skirted potholes, bicycles, sleeping dogs, and street vendors in the road until they arrived at Chuckie’s.
I was in Chuckie’s once. I left wet—my clothing covered in the beer that I wasn’t quick enough to dodge as it flew through the air.
Lee parked Black Betty and Little Amigo jumped out of the car and ran inside. When Lee ducked his head inside the low-ceilinged Mexican bar, little Amigo was nowhere to be found. Lee looked carefully through the locals sitting at the bar in the dim light—hats and jeans and beer everywhere—but no Little Amigo. So he took a seat at a table figuring the short Mayan had run to the gentlemen’s room. But when he turned his attention to the crowded dance floor, there was Little Amigo, tapping his heals, slapping his knees, and twirling a heavy set girl ‘round the dance floor.
She worked there on weekends, taking tips to allow the local cowboys to dance with her. Dollar bills were tucked in her waist and a good deal of sweat dampened her too-tight rhinestoned shirt. She shimmied and swayed and Little Amigo swayed and shimmied with her.
Lee laughed to himself. Chuckie’s was a Mexican version of a very-tame, non-stripping, paid-dancing joint very much enjoyed by locals doing the bachata or the rhumba or simply tapping their heels and slapping their knees and having a wonderful time!