Charles Bronson, the Cartel, and Me in Mexico

(Hotel El Mirador, Huatabampito Beach, Sonora, Mexico. Last Saturday)

(Update to Readers: The blog is posted early this week, on Tuesday, due to my plans to be off-grid in Mexico on Wednesday and Thursday, and possibly Friday as well.)

Note to sensitive readers: This blog may cause feelings of suspense and uncertainty.

Saturday night on the beach in Mexico. The El Mirador restaurant had closed at seven. The other customers had left. Out on the beach in the van, we sat staring at the stars and listening to the surf. After an hour or so, the thrill began to wear off. What to do?

“Mr. Bones, let’s go back to the restaurant to use the Wi-Fi.” We plodded through the soft sand. The patio was deserted except for my dog and me. The patio lights were off.

I sat with my dog in the dark, watching an old black-and-white movie. In the dark and the quiet, feeling the cool, steady sea breeze in my hair, I lost track of time.

Then I heard a sound. A key turning in a lock. I looked up at the glass door to the dark restaurant, just a few feet away from me. The door swung open. A man stepped out. He stood there, in the dark, silent, looking at me. He was wearing a green uniform.

In the dark, the mysterious man stared at us silently

Was he Mexican military? Or paramilitary? Was I in trouble for being here?

My dog was barking furiously. I yanked on his leash and clamped my hand on his mouth. “Be quiet, Mr. Bones. “

What was going on?

I looked at him. The man had a bulging leather holster on his hip. Was it a gun? Was he a policeman? Still, not a word. Why was he here? Why was he staring at me?

It was just hours after El Mencho had been killed down in Jalisco. My worst fear: someone saw me at the restaurant and told the cartel. They had come to kidnap me.

What would happen next?

***

He took a step forward. In the moonlight, I could make out his features. The hooded eyes. The famous mustache. The broad jaw. The barrel chest. He looked like… Charles Bronson. His right arm hung down at his side. His left arm was behind his back.

Holding … a weapon?

Are you a … policeman?” I asked. “No,” he said. Nothing more.

“Am I in trouble for being on the patio after the restaurant closed?” “No,” he said.

He took another step forward. I tensed my grip on the dog leash.

What’s next?

***

Suddenly, he raised his left arm shoulder high. What was he holding? A weapon?

Then, in the pale moonlight, I saw … bottles.

“Hey,” he said. “Do you want a cerveza?”

He raised his left arm. He was holding… two beers.

In his left hand, I saw two beers. My mouth dropped open. Do I want a beer?

Now, he smiled. Gesturing at the empty white lawn chair next to me, he asked, “Can I join you?”

He sat down at our table

I nodded. ”Sure.” Although I was anything but sure.

He handed me a cold beer and sat down, staring, silent. In the moonlight, I saw that Charles Bronson had aged. The eyes drooped. The chest sagged, the belly bulged.

But the feeling of menace in my mind refused to subside. Is this a trick, I wondered? My mind raced. Does the cartel offer you one last cold beer before they kidnap you?

***

“So, are you … a security guard?” I asked. “No,” he said. “I am … the owner. Enrique. Mucho gusto!” He held out his hand. We shook. “Mucho gusto,” I said.

“What made you think I was a guard?” he asked.

I said, “You have a gun holster on your belt.” “Oh,” he said, looking down. “You think this is a gun holster?” He reached down, unsnapping it. “Let me show you what it is.”

I closed my eyes briefly and took a breath. My last?

“This is not a gun holster.” He said. ‘It is my handmade leather cellphone holster.” He pulled out his cellphone, waving it around.

***

I laughed.

“Wait,” I said. “So, you are not here to kill me?” “No!” he said. “Why would I kill you? I was just closing up. I saw you sitting alone on the patio. I wanted to offer you a beer.”

I laughed again. As my eyes adjusted to the moonlight, his features stood out more clearly. I decided to tell him who he looked like.

“Enrique, did anyone ever tell you that you look like … Charles Bronson?” I asked.

Charles Bronson looked … old and tired

He laughed. “Oh, yes, people here call me Charles Bronson. Even my wife says it.”

Then he leaned toward me. “Now I have to tell you something,” he said. “What?”

“Did you know who you look like? Chuck Norris!” I laughed. “Yeah, I know.”

Years ago, when my beard was still reddish-brown, and I was still in shape, people used to say that. It stopped when my beard turned white in my mid-fifties.

With a snow white beard and a round belly, now I look more like Santa Claus.

‘So, wait,” I said. “I thought you were Charles Bronson, and you thought I was Chuck Norris?” He nodded and laughed. We drained our beers and clinked bottles.

“Another beer?” he asked. “Una más for Charlito and Chuck!” He stepped inside for a moment and returned with two more beers.

****

Now, I relaxed.

“So, are you a tough guy, like Charles Bronson?” I asked. He laughed. “I am a chemical engineer!” An engineer? That explained the leather cellphone holster.

“Here,” he said, “Look at my engineer’s ring.” He tossed a gold ring across the table.

I picked it up. It felt heavy. Solid gold? “Wow!” I said. “Congratulations. A chemical engineer.“ He thumped his chest and raised a finger of exclamation. “For 54 years!”

I detected an incoming tide of pride. “But now,” he said, sighing, “I am retired.”

The tide of pride drained away. I felt the urge to uplift him. To link arms with him.

“Enrique, you are mi hermano mayor,” I said. “My older brother. I am 67 now. Our days as action movie heroes are over now.” He laughed. “Si. Verdad. No más.”

“Thank you for the beers,” I said. “You are a good host.”

He shrugged and smiled crookedly, a tipsy-old-man grin. We finished the second beer. Enrique looked at his watch. “My wife is waiting for me. I should go now.”

Even Charles Bronson has a curfew

Even action heroes have to make curfew.

***

“So,” I said to my dog, as we trudged through the deep sand to the van. “Mexico is still friendly at the end of a violent day. I told you there was nothing for us to worry about.”

“And, we made a new friend today here at Hautabampito Beach. Enrique and I are pals.”

Whatever might happen elsewhere in Mexico that night, here, on the beach, I felt safe.

AFTERTHOUGHTS

When we travel, we find ourselves in unfamiliar surroundings, and strange things can happen. Do you have a story about being in a strange place and feeling scared? Poll:

Which action hero do you look like, if any? Or what celebrity do you resemble (or wish that you resembled)? Do people still tell you that you look like someone famous, or has the moment come and gone? And have you ever met a celebrity or a look-alike?

Would you be worried if you were somewhere unfamiliar late at night and a door opened and you saw someone in the dark staring at you? What would you do?

Here are Enrique and me having a beer. Neither of us looks like a movie star now