as the other bands; they cruise the same restaurants and bars. They make friends with bartenders and waiters, with pimps and prostitutes. The first days of the week tend to be bad days, they can’t find customers. On those days the Strip, which is generally bucolic and festive, wraps itself in silence and its inhabitants walk into the streets for a breath of fresh air and to chat. The employees of hotels, bars and liquor stores sit on the sidewalks, telling sad stories about lost children and abandoned women. After a long time of listening to these stories, Ramón and Cornelio think of just the right song. They sing a nostalgic melody that is the perfect background music for the mood.
Waiters, bartenders, informants and pimps respect them. Even the other musicians. There’s always someone there to accompany them on the bass, the redova or the saxophone. Suddenly, another accordion pops up and accompanies the Relámpagos, and then another bajo sexto, and a few guitars. And there’s always a whore with a beautiful voice or a bartender that sings a good harmony. And the Strip, on sad days, fills itself with music and celebration. A friendly celebration. A celebration where sins and sorrows don’t exist.
“Wildwood Flower,” “Will the Circle Be Unbroken,” “Jack of Diamonds,” “The Very Thought of You” become hymns of the night. And from then on, everybody can forget what needs to be forgotten and remember what needs to be kept close.
A Question of Feet
Ramón and Cornelio killing time, swatting flies, waiting for customers.
“…”
“It’s a question of feet.”
“What?”
“Women.”
“Women?”
“That’s what my Aunt Yadira told me.”
“When did you see your Aunt Yadira?”
“Not too long ago.”
“When?”
“Wednesday.”
“That can’t be; on Wednesday you were with me.”
“Then it was Thursday.”
“Thursday and Friday you were with me too.”
“Saturday?”
“Maybe it was Tuesday.”
“Yeah, it was Tuesday. Tuesday morning, when I went with my mom to the store.”
“It was Tuesday morning, man.”
“I didn’t want to go, but my mom insisted.”
“Tuesday morning my Aunt Yadira told me about the feet of women.”
“My mom is usually more independent. She doesn’t need me to go with her to the store.”
“This is why I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“I’m not sure what was up with her that time.”
“It’s a question of feet.”
“When my mother changes her routines it is always something that she plans—I know this about her.”
“I’m talking about women’s feet.”
“My mother’s feet, for example.”
“Those of women in general.”
“My mother doesn’t have pretty feet.”
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
“What?”
“There aren’t any women with pretty feet.”
“What?”
“Yeah? Let’s see: name one.”
“…”
“You see?”
“Fuensanta.”
“Fuensanta?”
“Fuensanta has pretty feet.”
“Which Fuensanta?”
“That other Ramón’s girlfriend, the guy that writes poetry.”
“That Fuensanta?”
“The one and the same.”
“She doesn’t have pretty feet.”
“Yes she does, pretty and brown, like I like them.”
“You? What do you know about feet?”
“I know what needs to be known: two per person, five toes on each, ten toenails total.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Ah, now I don’t understand.”
“If you understood, you wouldn’t say that Fuensanta’s feet are pretty.”
“Whatever.”
“Fuensanta’s feet are NOT pretty.”
“…”
The same thing happens in every place. After the Relámpagos play for a while, the customers start to cry because they remember lost loves and their dead mommas.
The customers try to avoid it, but their eyes start to moisten and their jaws tremble uncontrollably. Of course, they get mad. It bothers them to discover that a stupid norteño song can bring to light this sensitive side that, as men, they always try to hide. That’s how the fights start. They throw chairs, bottles, glasses…
Only after feeling sufficiently beaten can the patrons keep drinking and keep talking about women and soccer, as is their custom.
That was when Ramón and Cornelio realized that they have a strange power over people.
Bars, So Many Bars
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