In the Battle of the Alamo, over a century and a half ago, Texas settlers fought the Mexican general Santa Anna for their independence from Mexico. After an extremely hard fought battle, the Texans lost and American icons like Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie died in the battle. In fact, nobody on the Texan's side survived. However, the Battle of the Alamo stalled Santa Anna long enough for Sam Houston to retreat and regroup the forces for Texas independence. Santa Anna chased the retreating Sam Houston until Houston turned on Santa Anna and routed his army. Houston forced Santa Anna to sign a treaty giving Texas its independence. A decade later, Texas joined the Union and became the 28th state. So much for independence.
In the Alamo, back then, brave men gave their lives for freedom. In the Riverwalk, today, not so brave tourists would give up their money for second rate Tex Mex food and the illusion of understanding another culture that was as foreign to them as nature itself. The Tex Mex food had been anglicized so as not too offend their Anglo palates. It was English with a Mexican accent pretending to be Spanish. Their delicate palates could not tolerate real Mexican food anymore than their delicate Anglo psyches could tolerate the reality of the Alamo. But there was no danger, because there was no reality. Like animals in a zoo who growl and then yawn, the good people of San Antonio were no threat to anybody's worldview. They were tranquil on the surface, just like the San Antonio River.
Garner Bullis sat on a wrought iron chair at a café table, just a few feet from the San Antonio River. The sign said Café Del Rio and it looked like as good as any place to start. The heat was almost unbearable even though he was sitting in a shaded area. His caballero shirt was clinging to him like a wet sheet and his inner thighs were chafed from his boxers riding up while he walked around the downtown area earlier that morning. In front of him was a bottle of Dos Equis beer, a basket of nachos, and a small bowl of salsa. Of course, Garner was not yet twenty-one. He wouldn't reach the age of majority for another couple of months. But he had an abundance of fake Ids for a wide variety of purposes. So finding one that made him legal age was no problem at all.
He stared at the murky gray green waters of the San Antonio River and let his mind work at its own speed. A river bus filled with tourists came by. Across the river was a small Mariachi band wailing in Spanish about something. Probably some form of unrequited love. The tourists, in their brightly colored clothing and oversized Mexican straw hats, were snapping pictures of the band as though it were Pavorati himself who had strolled down to the river walk to sing a few notes.
But, Garner made little note of these things. He was working on a long con that would keep him in San Antonio for the next two years. And possibly make him enough money to retire. He broke out of his reverie when the waitress came over to take his order.
"What would you like for lunch?" she asked in a gentle, melodic Mexican accent.
"What's good?" Garner asked, trying to engage her in more than business conversation.
"Everything is good," she replied smiling without any indication that she had answered this question a thousand times before. Her manner was pleasant, polite, and even slightly deferential. It made Garner a little uncomfortable although there was no fault he could find in her manner other than the fact that it was totally lacking in warmth.
"What is this?" he said, "pointing to an item on the menu."
"Huevos Rancheros," she replied as though he were asking he to pronounce it for him.
"No, I mean 'what' is it," he repeated. If this were happening north of the Mason Dixon line, he would be pretty sure that he had just gotten a smart aleck waitress. But there was no sign of sarcasm in her voice.
"Huevos is eggs," she explained. "and Rancheros is the style. The eggs are scrambled with green peppers and onions, and then they pour salsa over them."
It sounded repulsive to Garner, but he was in San Antonio and had to learn their ways.
"Do people eat that for lunch?" he inquired.
"If you like," she replied.
He was getting nowhere. He contemplated ordering an old sweat sock with Picante sauce. But he was afraid she might go into the kitchen and check to see if they could make it.
"O.K.," he said with resignation, "I'll have that."
"Do you want the salsa hot or mild?"
"How hot is hot?"
"It's not so hot," she said with a slight shrug.
"O.K., then, make it hot, and bring me another Dos Equis." He pronounced it 'Dose Ekwis' but she did not correct him.
Garner Bullis had left home at the age of seventeen to seek his fortune, having already mastered a wide range of standard cons. If he had to, he could survive on short cons like cheating cashiers out of change for a twenty when he hadn't really given them a twenty to begin with. Or he could buy a lot of defective appliances directly from the factory for ten cents on the dollar and sell them out of a rented truck for thirty cents on the dollar. His marks would think they were getting a hell of a deal on stolen merchandize when, in reality, they were getting exactly what they deserved. Nobody would report him because they would have to admit that they were buying stolen merchandise. It was a sweet con. It left no loose ends.
But Garner's first love was the slip and fall. He would never forget that surge of power and accomplishment he felt when the Jacksonville jury awarded him money for his acting debut in the Duval Publix. His parents had taken quite a bit of his money - for expenses, they said. But Garner knew how it all worked and didn't protest. He still had a comfortable nest egg when he went out on his own. For four years Garner drifted around pulling off a small con here and there, but mainly having a damn good time. It was obvious, however, that his money would not last forever and he began planning his next big con. It would be elaborate, carefully planned and would probably yield him enough money that he could retire. And the first step was moving to San Antonio.
A few minutes later the waitress returned to his table. "Did you say hot?" she inquired.
Garner, who was thinking about other things, gave her a blank look. "Hot what?"
"The salsa on your huevos rancheros. Did you say you wanted it hot?"
"Yes," he replied and smiled at her as though he didn't really think she was stupid.
After twice as much time passed as Garner thought it should take to cook some scrambled eggs, the waitress came back out with his order. She placed it on the table in front of him and turned to walk away.
"And another Dos Equis," he reminded her.
"Oh, yes," she agreed, without any admission of guilt for having forgotten it and disappeared into the kitchen.
Garner cut a forkful of eggs and salsa and began to eat. The salsa was much hotter than he expected. He swallowed in a gulp, but the burning in his throat and the roof of his mouth seemed to get worse with every passing second. His beer was empty and the burning in his throat made him feel like he might gag or choke or even go into convulsions. He eyed the tranquil San Antonio River and thought for a moment about jumping into the river to put out the fire in him mouth like they do in cartoons.
In the nick of time the waitress returned with his beer. He gulped down a few swallows and managed to get his voice back. "That sauce is pretty hot," he commented as she stared at him without expression.
"Some people like it hot," she offered in reply.
"Maybe you can answer a question for me," Garner began, trying again to engage her in some sort of conversation through which he could learn something about the locals.
She stood there obediently waiting for his question.
"I saw a banner this morning draped over the Alamo. It was advertising the Cinco de Mayo celebration."
"That's right," she replied, "Cino de Mayo is in two days."
"What is Cino de Mayo?", he pressed.
"The fifth of May," she replied, as though she had fully answered his question.
"Thanks," he said, and took another gulp of his beer.
The murky gray, green San Antonio River flowed by with all the power and tranquility of time itself.