HURRICANE DAVE

The weather guy said the tropical storm will probably be a hurricane before it made landfall sometime around midnight. It was only seven, so I walked a few doors down to the ex-pat bar. As I went up the crumbling set of stairs, my pace crumbled, but I managed to raise my head with a false sense of pride as I placed one sober foot before the next toward the barstool. Dave was already there. It was hard to avoid him lately. I thought about ignoring him, but I could see Dave sliding around on his stool, trying to think of a way to break the ice.

He settled for, “How’s it going?”

“All right,” I said, searching for a way to crawl back inside myself, but with a jerk reaction, I blurted out his name, “Dave!”

Dave looked at me with a grin and asked, “Did you have to go through the alphabet?”

“No!” I responded defensively. “I just all of a sudden remembered I told you I’d let you know if I remembered your name the next time I saw you, and I just realized I hadn’t said your name when you said hello, so I wanted to let you know I remembered it, in case you thought I hadn’t, I did, I just forgot to say it, but I did remember.”

“Ok,” Dave said. 

Why did he torment me so? I wondered, peeling the label off my beer bottle, looking forward to the hurricane. 

What I didn’t tell Dave was how I managed to remember his name. I used this associative trick where you think of the name of someone you could never forget. There was this cop back in my hometown in Illinois named Dave. Dave and my Dad were rival cops. Finally, Dave got busted screwing one of his teenage daughters’ best friends in the back seat of his cop car, which was it for Illinois Dave. 

However, this Dave was from Ohio. He loved to tell the story of the motorcycle trip he took from Ohio to Florida. He hit the open road, leaving his old computer processing job in the dust, upward and onward in search of freedom. But, somehow, Dave ended up hiding out here in Playa del Carme, Mexico, sitting across the bar from me, giving me a ton of things to think about without even trying. Dave lived in the bar’s hotel, or maybe it was the hotel’s bar...

I think a lot about Dave, but the thing is, I don’t even like him. He annoys me. He annoys everyone, including the bartender, who has no idea what Dave is saying. He’s always saying something. Honestly, Dave has that look of proudly voting for Trump. He actually loves to let everyone know until the bartender pulls out a wooden paddle and threatens, “No Politics in my bar!” probably the only English she knows. She speaks it clearly as she wacks the paddle in her hand. Dave gets a big grin. 

I looked up from my pile of beer wrappers as Dave again began to show off how he can guess the name of the next song that comes on the radio within the first two or three notes. I must confess, I kind of admire him for this novelty skill. I’ve always been drawn to people who have worthless talents. 

My best friend growing up used to memorize the most mundane things, spewing them out in verbatim. This old Sally Struthers commercial for example, “Choose from any one of these programs, High School, TV/VCR Repair, Computer Programming, Electrician, Animal Care Specialist, Auto Mechanics, PC Repair, Bookkeeping, Legal Assistant, Medical Office Assistant, Hotel/Restaurant Management, Learning the Personal Computer, Electronics, or get your Specialized Associate Degree in Business Management and Accounting. ICS gives you everything you need, so call right now!”

I do not work for ICS, I might add. 

I managed to forget about Dave for a minute until he crumpled up a napkin into a ball and threw it down the bartender’s blouse. Dave offered to help as she reached down into her cleavage with one hand, a shot of tequila splashing around in the other. Dave obviously didn’t get the memo, and she gulped down what was left of the tequila and gave Dave the death stare. Dave played dumb and giggled, asking in a high pitch, “whaaaat?”

I looked in my pockets for more pesos but found nothing but lent. I considered the virtues of sobriety for a moment, then asked for the check. I looked over at Dave, wondered about his goatee, handed the bartender thirty pesos, and then nodded at Dave. 

“See ya later,” we said simultaneously. 

I stood from my stool easily and questioned whether I was buzzed enough for a hurricane. But, I nonetheless walked down the crumbling stairs to the street below. 

The cargo bikes were out in full gale selling quesadillas and tamales. I took a big whiff as the charcoal smoke billowed up through the still palms, and wondered if I was the only one taking notice of the calm before the storm. I walked a few doors down the block to my flat and opened the hurricane shutters. The birds were singing, and it slowly began to rain, and I thought about Dave.