The Return Of Dr. Pancho Villa, M.D.: The Docotor Makes A Housecall
"You bravos had better be ready to fight, or we'll never get out of East Texas tonight, but the trail is long and the river is wide, and my ride's here"
- Warren Zevon, My Ride's Here
+ + +
My day tends to start around 10:30am or so most of the time. No more early mornings on the corners barking or occasionally DJ'ing for Vampiz has allowed me to set my own schedule for work (writing, which tends to be in fits and starts throughout the day unless I'm on a roll). Which is nice, since I am not a morning person. I tend to shamble out of bed like something from the 'Legend of Boggy Creek' films, swallow my morning fistful of pills (allergy meds, the price I pay for my lovely cat, vitamins, and acetaminophen with codeine to allow me to move without wincing in pain constantly). After that its typically a lovely hot shower thanks to my miracle shower head with a built in heating unit.
I admit its not the safest of showers, but it is hot, with decent water pressure. I only occasionally glance up at the wires insulated with only electrical tape that ties my shower head directly into the buildings main power. Only occasionally does it cross my mind that of all the stupid and self-destructive things I've done in my life there is a slight chance that one that finally rolls a seven will be my heated shower head tied directly into the buildings main power with a series of poorly insulated wires
I need to buy a metal skull cap and sponge to hang in there just to drive home the point to my guests that they should not touch the damn wires. Might as well, since I have affectionately named the shower head 'Old Sparky' after the famous electric chair from Sing Sing prison.
So standing there nude (showering, much like victory over ones enemies, should be naked) preparing for another game of electrical-shower-death roulette and my phone rings. I assumed it must be a business matter or an emergency as nobody who knows me personally would call before noon. It was an unrecognized Texas number, so I said fuck it and answered.
I admit its not the safest of showers, but it is hot, with decent water pressure. I only occasionally glance up at the wires insulated with only electrical tape that ties my shower head directly into the buildings main power. Only occasionally does it cross my mind that of all the stupid and self-destructive things I've done in my life there is a slight chance that one that finally rolls a seven will be my heated shower head tied directly into the buildings main power with a series of poorly insulated wires
I need to buy a metal skull cap and sponge to hang in there just to drive home the point to my guests that they should not touch the damn wires. Might as well, since I have affectionately named the shower head 'Old Sparky' after the famous electric chair from Sing Sing prison.
So standing there nude (showering, much like victory over ones enemies, should be naked) preparing for another game of electrical-shower-death roulette and my phone rings. I assumed it must be a business matter or an emergency as nobody who knows me personally would call before noon. It was an unrecognized Texas number, so I said fuck it and answered.
"Hello, who is th..."..."Goddamn, son, you are one hell of A writer! Like a young Hemingway, but better! Goddamn this is good stuff!"
It was early, I was a touch hung over (a surprising revelation no doubt, try to contain your shock) and did not immediately recognize the voice on the other end. My mind immediately went in two directions; this was either someone who discovered 'Dispatches' somehow and was about to subscribe with a healthy donation, or it was the editor with whom I'd been in contact about the novel and he finally got around to reading it and was unrealistically enthusiastic about the sample chapter. With either of those options I suspected cocaine was probably involved. Then it hit me who it was. Like a fat rail of old school biker crank sucked up into my brain with a loopy-bendy straw and followed with a double shot of mescal.
The infamous Dr. Pancho Villa, M.D., the one and only.
It had escaped my mind that the last time we ended up driving all over the back roads of south Texas he had asked for one of my business cards. He gave me his e-mail, and I sent him a message with a link to the article and assumed baring further interactions at the club I would never hear from him again. Lots people ask for my card, some of them check out my work, a few e-mail with a question or two (or a story idea, almost always biographical, very few of those prove interesting... but I recently found one close to home, but thats for another article), none of them make use of the Patreon account, and none of them have ever called me before noon to exclaim that they have been reading everything on the internet with my by-line and loved every column inch of it, or that my work was far superior to that of an American literary icon. That was a first.
A good friend also in the literary trade, far deeper than I, said that she thought my writing style was a strange mixture of William Faulkner and Hunter S. Thompson, in a good way. I didn't believe her, but it was a lovely complement so I took it. I'll take most compliments, especially when given by an accomplished, brilliant, and gorgeous women of letters. I'm easy like that.
The good doctor had not called to merely boost my ego, but he needed me to provide him a service. He was planning another sojurn into Mexico and desired a 'Local Guide' to point out the best spots for his usual goals of pharmaceuticals, delicious food, an ocean of tequila he can attempt to drink dry, and the company of gorgeous young Mexican women with whom to share his booze and stories.
I demurred at first (Because I always wanted to be a female character in a Jane Austin novel), as I might live here, and may have made some fascinating, friendly, and useful local contacts, but I am still very much the strange 'Americano Mestizo' who chooses to live in an all Mexican local neighborhood as far from the tourists traps and temporary gringo residents as possible. Never the less, he persisted. He offered to pay me for my services and being as low on funds as I have been it wasn't something I could pass up, so I accepted his strange offer, hung up the phone and showered once again without injury or incident.
What Dr. Pancho Villa M.D. neglected to mention was his planned excursion south of the border, which in our previous call was referred to 'later' and 'at some point' was the very next day. My phone woke me up, well before my alarm clock, we made plans to meet up on this side of the border at a fancy tourist-targeted restaurant called 'Arturo's', which is in fact right next to the border crossing.
This was the sort of place that would have fit nicely with my initial impression of the doctor and his surroundings. A strange time capsule of the early 1970's, from the waiters uniforms, to the menus, to the furnishings, and the bandstand. It wasn't large, and it wasn't set up for a mariachi band. It had all the gear and instruments for a three or four piece ensemble plus singer to croon American classics and standards. I would love to be there for one of those shows.
I had every confidence that the news channel playing on the TV in the bar while most of the patrons shook their heads and chugged margaritas and others laughed it was no doubt showing the Watergate investigation in full swing and Nixon preparing to resign.
The menu reflected the impression of that time as well. The only classic dish of that era I couldn't find was lobster thermadore, but that might have been a bit old timey even for Artuto's. All jokes about the wildly outdated decor and menu aside, the food was excellent. One of the best meals I've had here in Nuevo Progresso, probably the best, at a restaurant specifically targeted at tourists. So far nothing compares to the out of the way mom and pop taquerias that primarily serve the locals (Santanna being a personal favorite). Though Arturo's tortillas were rather bland and lacked proper cohesion. I suspect they made them in house instead of going to one of the local mass-production tortillerias. The best of which produce a product so fantastic, tasty, and stable regardless of filling that you would swear someones aubuela was standing over the staff with a wooden spoon in hand, making sure everything was just so. More than one of them no doubt has that exact set-up. The one two blocks from my apartment has that exact set up in fact.
So as we ate and drank margaritas and shots of top shelf tequila we laid out a rough plan for the day. The doctor was adament that he didn't want to go to Vampiz as he had some sort of disagreement with one of the dancers and the management. He did insist I take him there to apologize for whatever transgressions may or may not have transpired. I emplored him not to do so, as once you are banned from a strip club in Mexico you tend to stay banned, even if you are a big spender like Pancho Villa. He wouldn't back down on the issue, so that was our first stop.
It gave me the impression our day was not going to be a smooth as the first one. Sadly, I was right.
Even after speaking with the owners of Vampiz, who were insistent the good doctor not even enter the building, I was still unsure as to what had transpired. The conversation was in a mixture of English and Spanish, Spanglish, thankfully a language I am fluent in (thanks to growing up in South Florida and living for sometime in Albuquerque). Regardless one of the owners, Edward, came outside and attempted to smooth things over a bit after his wife went from her usual happy-and-friendly-yet-watching-everthing-like-a-security-camera demeanor to a level of anger I have never seen her display the moment she saw Pancho Villa in the doorway. This is what sent Edward flying from behind the bar to converse with the doctor and I outside. I suspect he has seen his wife in such a state before, but they have been married a long time and have child number 4 on the way, so he has probably seen her a hell of a lot angrier than that. A healthy fear of the wrath of a pregnant woman is one of the keys to a successful marriage.
Despite the doctor imploring Edward to be allowed to apologize to the girl which seemed to be at the center of this mess it wasn't happening. There was no way he was going to be allowed back into the club in which I personally I had seen him drop more money than I paid for my car. Whatever happened, regardless of who was in the right or telling the truth, Dr. Pancho Villa wasn't gaining entry to Vampiz. So that was that.
This put the doctor in something of a foul mood, so I did what thought might help with his demeanor; I took him to a pharmacy. I figured if I could find him a discount on his usual medications that might help cheer him up. It turned out he knew the pharmacist, but was not a regular. He managed to pick up his usual amphetamines and whatever else he was buying at a slight discount. Familiar faces and cheap drugs seemed to put him in a better mood. We left the pharmacy and the doctor got a beer from one of the many tiny sidewalk bars along Av Benito Juarez and popped a few amphetamines.
We had food, his pocket full of high-test amphetamines, an attempted apology at Vampiz out of the way, there was one thing left on the doctors list. Girls. Well, girls and more booze.
I decided to take him to Nuevo Seniorel, just a few blocks from Vampiz. I was familiar with some of the staff, and friendly enough with the management that they allowed me to sit for a day and observe their establishment for an earlier article. I figured going somewhere I knew some of the staff would be helpful in case there might be any trouble. After the days events thus far, why would I consider the possibility of trouble? I couldn't say. Call it what you will, situational awareness, psychic powers, spider-sense, women's intuition, whatever name you like. I just had a funny feeling that it might be best to be somewhere I might be able to keep the good doctor out of too much trouble if something went down.
We arrived and were both recognized by the doormen and welcomed inside. The manager asked if my visit was business or personal; "both" was the only response that came to mind. We were seated on the comfy sofas near the entrance and immediately three gorgeous women materialized around us. A situation I could easily become accustomed to. Though mostly the girls paid attention initially to the good doctor. His reputation for being a big spender having more than a little to do with it. Also, most of the girls there recognized me from my day of observing and drinking in the corner so they probably assumed I was there once again for professional reasons.
Which didn't offend me in the least, as I was there, at least partially, for professional reasons. Whenever I spend time with Dr. Pancho Villa, M.D. I feel as though our time together should be narrated by David Attenborough, as if I was stuck somewhere between subject and observer in the worlds weirdest nature documentary.
We were eventually joined by a few more girls, as it was clear the doctor was buying beers for any females in a 4 meter radius. One of those got my attention for two reasons, well, three; 1. She was the one who did the amazing pole dance the day I spent observing, 2. She is gorgeous, no surprise there, and 3. She had the coolest stripper shoes I've ever seen. Full of LED lights that could be adjusted to damn near any color, or made to pulse in a variety of patterns. I wish my boots could do that.
A good friend also in the literary trade, far deeper than I, said that she thought my writing style was a strange mixture of William Faulkner and Hunter S. Thompson, in a good way. I didn't believe her, but it was a lovely complement so I took it. I'll take most compliments, especially when given by an accomplished, brilliant, and gorgeous women of letters. I'm easy like that.
The good doctor had not called to merely boost my ego, but he needed me to provide him a service. He was planning another sojurn into Mexico and desired a 'Local Guide' to point out the best spots for his usual goals of pharmaceuticals, delicious food, an ocean of tequila he can attempt to drink dry, and the company of gorgeous young Mexican women with whom to share his booze and stories.
I demurred at first (Because I always wanted to be a female character in a Jane Austin novel), as I might live here, and may have made some fascinating, friendly, and useful local contacts, but I am still very much the strange 'Americano Mestizo' who chooses to live in an all Mexican local neighborhood as far from the tourists traps and temporary gringo residents as possible. Never the less, he persisted. He offered to pay me for my services and being as low on funds as I have been it wasn't something I could pass up, so I accepted his strange offer, hung up the phone and showered once again without injury or incident.
What Dr. Pancho Villa M.D. neglected to mention was his planned excursion south of the border, which in our previous call was referred to 'later' and 'at some point' was the very next day. My phone woke me up, well before my alarm clock, we made plans to meet up on this side of the border at a fancy tourist-targeted restaurant called 'Arturo's', which is in fact right next to the border crossing.
This was the sort of place that would have fit nicely with my initial impression of the doctor and his surroundings. A strange time capsule of the early 1970's, from the waiters uniforms, to the menus, to the furnishings, and the bandstand. It wasn't large, and it wasn't set up for a mariachi band. It had all the gear and instruments for a three or four piece ensemble plus singer to croon American classics and standards. I would love to be there for one of those shows.
I had every confidence that the news channel playing on the TV in the bar while most of the patrons shook their heads and chugged margaritas and others laughed it was no doubt showing the Watergate investigation in full swing and Nixon preparing to resign.
[["Therefore, I shall resign the Presidency effective at noon tomorrow, and try the strawberry margarita's, they're outrageous."]]
The menu reflected the impression of that time as well. The only classic dish of that era I couldn't find was lobster thermadore, but that might have been a bit old timey even for Artuto's. All jokes about the wildly outdated decor and menu aside, the food was excellent. One of the best meals I've had here in Nuevo Progresso, probably the best, at a restaurant specifically targeted at tourists. So far nothing compares to the out of the way mom and pop taquerias that primarily serve the locals (Santanna being a personal favorite). Though Arturo's tortillas were rather bland and lacked proper cohesion. I suspect they made them in house instead of going to one of the local mass-production tortillerias. The best of which produce a product so fantastic, tasty, and stable regardless of filling that you would swear someones aubuela was standing over the staff with a wooden spoon in hand, making sure everything was just so. More than one of them no doubt has that exact set-up. The one two blocks from my apartment has that exact set up in fact.
So as we ate and drank margaritas and shots of top shelf tequila we laid out a rough plan for the day. The doctor was adament that he didn't want to go to Vampiz as he had some sort of disagreement with one of the dancers and the management. He did insist I take him there to apologize for whatever transgressions may or may not have transpired. I emplored him not to do so, as once you are banned from a strip club in Mexico you tend to stay banned, even if you are a big spender like Pancho Villa. He wouldn't back down on the issue, so that was our first stop.
It gave me the impression our day was not going to be a smooth as the first one. Sadly, I was right.
[[Ah, Vampiz, no longer my employers but still a good bunch of people. Unless you do whatever Dr. Pancho Villa M.D. did to get banned.]]
Even after speaking with the owners of Vampiz, who were insistent the good doctor not even enter the building, I was still unsure as to what had transpired. The conversation was in a mixture of English and Spanish, Spanglish, thankfully a language I am fluent in (thanks to growing up in South Florida and living for sometime in Albuquerque). Regardless one of the owners, Edward, came outside and attempted to smooth things over a bit after his wife went from her usual happy-and-friendly-yet-watching-everthing-like-a-security-camera demeanor to a level of anger I have never seen her display the moment she saw Pancho Villa in the doorway. This is what sent Edward flying from behind the bar to converse with the doctor and I outside. I suspect he has seen his wife in such a state before, but they have been married a long time and have child number 4 on the way, so he has probably seen her a hell of a lot angrier than that. A healthy fear of the wrath of a pregnant woman is one of the keys to a successful marriage.
Despite the doctor imploring Edward to be allowed to apologize to the girl which seemed to be at the center of this mess it wasn't happening. There was no way he was going to be allowed back into the club in which I personally I had seen him drop more money than I paid for my car. Whatever happened, regardless of who was in the right or telling the truth, Dr. Pancho Villa wasn't gaining entry to Vampiz. So that was that.
This put the doctor in something of a foul mood, so I did what thought might help with his demeanor; I took him to a pharmacy. I figured if I could find him a discount on his usual medications that might help cheer him up. It turned out he knew the pharmacist, but was not a regular. He managed to pick up his usual amphetamines and whatever else he was buying at a slight discount. Familiar faces and cheap drugs seemed to put him in a better mood. We left the pharmacy and the doctor got a beer from one of the many tiny sidewalk bars along Av Benito Juarez and popped a few amphetamines.
We had food, his pocket full of high-test amphetamines, an attempted apology at Vampiz out of the way, there was one thing left on the doctors list. Girls. Well, girls and more booze.
[[Another friendly local strip club. Seriously, the staff are very friendly.]]
I decided to take him to Nuevo Seniorel, just a few blocks from Vampiz. I was familiar with some of the staff, and friendly enough with the management that they allowed me to sit for a day and observe their establishment for an earlier article. I figured going somewhere I knew some of the staff would be helpful in case there might be any trouble. After the days events thus far, why would I consider the possibility of trouble? I couldn't say. Call it what you will, situational awareness, psychic powers, spider-sense, women's intuition, whatever name you like. I just had a funny feeling that it might be best to be somewhere I might be able to keep the good doctor out of too much trouble if something went down.
We arrived and were both recognized by the doormen and welcomed inside. The manager asked if my visit was business or personal; "both" was the only response that came to mind. We were seated on the comfy sofas near the entrance and immediately three gorgeous women materialized around us. A situation I could easily become accustomed to. Though mostly the girls paid attention initially to the good doctor. His reputation for being a big spender having more than a little to do with it. Also, most of the girls there recognized me from my day of observing and drinking in the corner so they probably assumed I was there once again for professional reasons.
[[Dr. Pancho Villa, M.D. is the one in the middle, just in case it wasn't obvious.]]
Which didn't offend me in the least, as I was there, at least partially, for professional reasons. Whenever I spend time with Dr. Pancho Villa, M.D. I feel as though our time together should be narrated by David Attenborough, as if I was stuck somewhere between subject and observer in the worlds weirdest nature documentary.
We were eventually joined by a few more girls, as it was clear the doctor was buying beers for any females in a 4 meter radius. One of those got my attention for two reasons, well, three; 1. She was the one who did the amazing pole dance the day I spent observing, 2. She is gorgeous, no surprise there, and 3. She had the coolest stripper shoes I've ever seen. Full of LED lights that could be adjusted to damn near any color, or made to pulse in a variety of patterns. I wish my boots could do that.
[[The goddamn coolest shoes, ever. The future of stripper technology is NOW! The photo does not do them any justice.]]
Eventually as I was getting my second beer the good doctor vanished upstairs with two of the girls who were drinking with us. I thought back to all of his proclamations about never touching the girls, that he was only interested in their company while he drinks. Well, in his defense he did take his drink with him...
So there I sat with 'Kimberly', the skilled pole dancer with the 'stripper shoes of the future' sharing a beer and having a pleasant conversation thanks to the miracle of google translate on my phone. She has worked as a dancer for rather some time, and it certainly shows with her skill on the pole. We drank and enjoyed one anothers company for about an hour before the doctor returned. He was in a very good humor as he came through the curtains that separated the club proper from the mysterious 'upstairs' area.
I asked him how things were and with a girl in one hand, beer in another, and a smile that could be seen from low orbit, he declared he was having the best day of his life. I can't imagine anyone responding differently under those circumstances. He took me aside and assured me that he did not in any way have sex with those girls. He merely gave them a solid shiatsu massage. He paid for an hour with two prostitutes and spent the entire time giving them back and neck massages, which he said they were in desperate need of as those girls are clearly stressed.
Throughout the day he would randomly, without any prompting, assure me that nothing sexual happened with those two prostitutes. He merely gave them full clothed shiatsu massages. I kept telling him it was of no consequence how he spent his money to me. I'm not the judgemental sort, if I was I wouldn't be leading him to good bars and excellent strip clubs on a day I should have been writing and arguing with my bank over some errors made in their favor and certainly not in mine. If he wanted to pay good money to give totally non-sexual massages to Mexican prostitutes that was his business, as long as he enjoyed himself I was doing my job. He got more and more defensive on the subject the drunker he got, so I did everything I could to avoid the subject.
He retook his seat on the sofa and bought another round of drinks for everyone. As the girls scurried off to either fetch the drinks or chit chat about recent events I asked the doctor if he had as a good of a time as I suspected. He thanked me first thing for showing him exactly the kind of day he was looking to have. I might not be a local but when it comes to debauchery I do have a talent for finding the right circumstances and locations for people looking for a good time.
My good friend, lets call him Jon, because that is his name, declared once years ago and has repeated the sentiment many times over the years that I am his favorite bad idea. Again, a strange compliment, but I'll take it.
So there I sat with the girls and Pancho Villa, M.D., getting shitfaced with cheap beer after cheap beer, with the occasional tequila interlude. I was probably drinking one beer for every 3 the doctor put away. In part because beer isn't really my drink of choice, and partly because our arrangement for my guide services for the day involved me driving him back to the bridge, he left his car on the US side as usual, so he could drive home (that wasn't happening) or pass out in his car for a bit to sober up and drive back to his brand new house in Harlingen, TX (more likely).
When we finally left the club the good doctor could barely walk. It was doubtful he would make it to his car. Hell, I was worried he wouldn't make it through the turnstiles on the Mexican side of the bridge to get back to the USA. Being the occasionally generous soul that I am I offered to let him sleep it off at my place, as long as he had no problem with cats. He kept insisting that he wasn't driving anywhere... I had not offered to let him drive my car. Hell, in his current condition I suspect amusement park bumper cars would have been a death sentence for the poor man.
He insisted we had more stops to make before we could go to my apartment. Those stops predictably involved a pharmacy and a bar, both of them further and further away from my apartment. He ate a few more amphetamines and drank a beer, presumably as a pick-me-up, but by the time I convinced him that walking across the bridge, which was now in sight, was a shit idea he finally agreed to head to my apartment to sleep off the good time I promised, and apparently delivered, on.
We took the back streets, which I have learned pretty well in my time here. I figured this was best so that the doctor wouldn't be accosted by bootblacks, vendors, barkers for pharmacies (for once in my life I felt no need to explore the possibilities of cheap and readily available pharmaceuticals) or feel the urge to stop and speak to every local he vaguely recognized as he swayed in the breeze and pushy tourists like a poorly secured scarecrow.
We made it about a block and half before it became clear the doctor wasn't going to make it, at least not in any reasonable time frame. Thankfully there was a bench next to an off-street lingerie shop. I asked the owner to keep an eye on my friend while I fetched the car to take him the rest of the way. After some convincing the doctor accepted my plan. According to the shop owner he was out like a light 30 seconds after I left for my car.
I made it back to find Dr. Pancho Villa, M.D. curled up sleeping peacefully on the tiny bench. The owner of the lingerie shop was nice enough to help me get the doctor into my car. In a life filled with debauchery, mine and other peoples, I have rarely seen someone that intoxicated. Which is saying something.
By the time we pulled up in front of my building he had roused himself from slumber and was able to walk to my apartment, more or less, unaided. His assessment of the eccentric decor and general cleanliness of the apartment was exactly what he expected. I believed him on the first point, but not the second. So far in my every time I have lived alone new guests are always amazed at how generally clean and tidy things are. A bit of clutter perhaps, especially in whatever passes as a work area for me (usually where my computer, cameras, and other related items can be found) is not uncommon. Its the lack of 'bachelor filth' that always seems to surprise people. I've long ago lost count of the amount of people who said something along the lines of "I can't believe a straight guy lives here alone!".
I gave the doctor the bed, due to his age and level of intoxication. I fashioned a bedroll on the floor myself. Comfortable as it was I knew my spine was going to be reminded of our time squatting at Carlito's Cafe, and by the time morning rolled around it had indeed remembered. Still, there is no problem without a solution and a shot of vodka along with a fistful of codeine and I would be moving something like a normal human being before too long.
As I got moving I noticed the doctor was already awake, sitting at the table with a glass of bottled water, ready to start the day. He showed no signs of the days previous intoxication, not a hint of hangover. As I said before this is a man one can lean a thing or two from. The good doctor stepped outside for some fresh air as I quickly put my apartment back in order so I wouldn't have to before bed that evening. As I did I found a blister pack of the doctors favorite amphetamines.
He had eaten two of them after purchase yesterday, and the pack of ten was empty. So sometime between him waking up and me waking up, a time he indicated was relatively short, he ate 8 high grade amphetamine capsules. Breakfast of champions. This explained his energy level and readiness to get the show on the road. The man consumes speed the way most health nuts eat vitamins in the morning.
I drove us to the bridge, and he stopped off at yet another pharmacy before we got to the border to purchase more amphetamines.
The rest of the day was fairly uneventful. He showed me his new house, which is absolutely lovely. I praised the Asian minimalist style of the parlor and dining area but he assured me it wasn't a stylistic choice, the furniture and simply not been delivered yet. Still, its a lovely home with enough room for guests and a backyard with a deck which will make for some fantastic BBQ's no doubt.
He told me the story of how shortly after he purchased the house a woman he was seeing found half of his stash of silver ingots which he was building a wall to conceal. He said she had taken one bar, then came back with her family for a good old fashioned home invasion. They managed to get half, as he didn't keep all of it in the same hiding place. Smart move. He got into a solid rant about how the local Texas cops were utterly useless and he was out just shy of twenty thousand dollars in silver because of this woman and his trusting nature.
Despite my own bizarre luck with women, which has been and continues to be a source of amusement and occasional outright hilarity for my friends over the years, none of my exes ever stole $20,000 worth of silver bullion from me.
I suggested to the doctor that perhaps he might want to make more use of banks in light of these events, but he scoffed at the idea. He uses his debit card so little he doesn't even know the pin number. This is why he insists of getting all of his money from his personal finance guy, the not-nearly-as-shady-as-he-sounded-at-first Tony.
We made a few more stops along the way, all of them depressingly mundane and not worth mentioning, before making our way back to the border. I told him I would see what I could do about sorting out his issues with the staff at Vampiz. He wasn't all that interested in the idea. Despite the previous day that being exactly what he asked me for, along with intense and interesting debauchery. He declared insistently and loudly that it would be rather sometime before he returned to Mexico. Partly due to work, and partly for reasons I'd rather not get into in such a public forum. The doctor gave me full permission to write about whatever I wanted to during our time together and I have done just that. At my discretion.
But just as someone is entitled to their anonymity, hence my continued use of his nom de gurre 'Dr. Pancho Villa M.D.', I feel they are also entitled to their privacy. Even when they willing give up that privacy by knowingly informing their companion, who they are fully aware is a journalist of some sort, that they can write whatever the hell they want. There are still some things I feel should remain private, or at least not written down to stand as public record for all to see. His identity is a secret, and despite what I have written about the good doctor there are some things that will remain as mysterious as the man himself.
Hell, I know his name, at least the one on his passport, his address (one of them at least), where he gets and keeps most of his money, where and for whom he works, his immediate family, most of his personal history, his narcotics of choice, weather his car takes petrol or diesel, and frankly the man is still a fucking mystery to me. Dr. Pancho Villa M.D. is that rare sort of enigma that I don't think could ever fully be unraveled. Certainly not by a mental health professional, as he is himself one and thus knows all the tricks of the trade.
Despite his declaration that it would be a long time before he returned to Mexico, I'm sure I'll see him south of the border again. My guess is after I finally make my way further south to Playa del Carmen and the rest of the weird tourist traps along the Mayan Riviera before heading into the jungle to spend a few weeks among the ruins. I'll be sitting in a bar, drinking more than I should, hitting on some lovely little thing that seems more confused than flattered by my attentions, when a familiar and overly enthusiastic voice will loudly ask from behind me, "Written any good books, lately!" the voice will then laugh heartily at his own joke, and before I turn around I'll know exactly who it is and what it means.
Dr. Pancho Villa, M.D. will ride again.
Via condios, mi amigo.
So there I sat with 'Kimberly', the skilled pole dancer with the 'stripper shoes of the future' sharing a beer and having a pleasant conversation thanks to the miracle of google translate on my phone. She has worked as a dancer for rather some time, and it certainly shows with her skill on the pole. We drank and enjoyed one anothers company for about an hour before the doctor returned. He was in a very good humor as he came through the curtains that separated the club proper from the mysterious 'upstairs' area.
I asked him how things were and with a girl in one hand, beer in another, and a smile that could be seen from low orbit, he declared he was having the best day of his life. I can't imagine anyone responding differently under those circumstances. He took me aside and assured me that he did not in any way have sex with those girls. He merely gave them a solid shiatsu massage. He paid for an hour with two prostitutes and spent the entire time giving them back and neck massages, which he said they were in desperate need of as those girls are clearly stressed.
[[He wasn't dressed that way for anonymity, thats just how Dr. Pancho Villa M.D. roles when south of the border.]]
Throughout the day he would randomly, without any prompting, assure me that nothing sexual happened with those two prostitutes. He merely gave them full clothed shiatsu massages. I kept telling him it was of no consequence how he spent his money to me. I'm not the judgemental sort, if I was I wouldn't be leading him to good bars and excellent strip clubs on a day I should have been writing and arguing with my bank over some errors made in their favor and certainly not in mine. If he wanted to pay good money to give totally non-sexual massages to Mexican prostitutes that was his business, as long as he enjoyed himself I was doing my job. He got more and more defensive on the subject the drunker he got, so I did everything I could to avoid the subject.
He retook his seat on the sofa and bought another round of drinks for everyone. As the girls scurried off to either fetch the drinks or chit chat about recent events I asked the doctor if he had as a good of a time as I suspected. He thanked me first thing for showing him exactly the kind of day he was looking to have. I might not be a local but when it comes to debauchery I do have a talent for finding the right circumstances and locations for people looking for a good time.
My good friend, lets call him Jon, because that is his name, declared once years ago and has repeated the sentiment many times over the years that I am his favorite bad idea. Again, a strange compliment, but I'll take it.
So there I sat with the girls and Pancho Villa, M.D., getting shitfaced with cheap beer after cheap beer, with the occasional tequila interlude. I was probably drinking one beer for every 3 the doctor put away. In part because beer isn't really my drink of choice, and partly because our arrangement for my guide services for the day involved me driving him back to the bridge, he left his car on the US side as usual, so he could drive home (that wasn't happening) or pass out in his car for a bit to sober up and drive back to his brand new house in Harlingen, TX (more likely).
When we finally left the club the good doctor could barely walk. It was doubtful he would make it to his car. Hell, I was worried he wouldn't make it through the turnstiles on the Mexican side of the bridge to get back to the USA. Being the occasionally generous soul that I am I offered to let him sleep it off at my place, as long as he had no problem with cats. He kept insisting that he wasn't driving anywhere... I had not offered to let him drive my car. Hell, in his current condition I suspect amusement park bumper cars would have been a death sentence for the poor man.
He insisted we had more stops to make before we could go to my apartment. Those stops predictably involved a pharmacy and a bar, both of them further and further away from my apartment. He ate a few more amphetamines and drank a beer, presumably as a pick-me-up, but by the time I convinced him that walking across the bridge, which was now in sight, was a shit idea he finally agreed to head to my apartment to sleep off the good time I promised, and apparently delivered, on.
We took the back streets, which I have learned pretty well in my time here. I figured this was best so that the doctor wouldn't be accosted by bootblacks, vendors, barkers for pharmacies (for once in my life I felt no need to explore the possibilities of cheap and readily available pharmaceuticals) or feel the urge to stop and speak to every local he vaguely recognized as he swayed in the breeze and pushy tourists like a poorly secured scarecrow.
We made it about a block and half before it became clear the doctor wasn't going to make it, at least not in any reasonable time frame. Thankfully there was a bench next to an off-street lingerie shop. I asked the owner to keep an eye on my friend while I fetched the car to take him the rest of the way. After some convincing the doctor accepted my plan. According to the shop owner he was out like a light 30 seconds after I left for my car.
I made it back to find Dr. Pancho Villa, M.D. curled up sleeping peacefully on the tiny bench. The owner of the lingerie shop was nice enough to help me get the doctor into my car. In a life filled with debauchery, mine and other peoples, I have rarely seen someone that intoxicated. Which is saying something.
By the time we pulled up in front of my building he had roused himself from slumber and was able to walk to my apartment, more or less, unaided. His assessment of the eccentric decor and general cleanliness of the apartment was exactly what he expected. I believed him on the first point, but not the second. So far in my every time I have lived alone new guests are always amazed at how generally clean and tidy things are. A bit of clutter perhaps, especially in whatever passes as a work area for me (usually where my computer, cameras, and other related items can be found) is not uncommon. Its the lack of 'bachelor filth' that always seems to surprise people. I've long ago lost count of the amount of people who said something along the lines of "I can't believe a straight guy lives here alone!".
[[Since I used the my extra blankets to make a bedroll, Dr. Pancho Villa M.D. got to enjoy the comfort and dignity of the Scooby Doo bed sheets that came with the bed.]]
As I got moving I noticed the doctor was already awake, sitting at the table with a glass of bottled water, ready to start the day. He showed no signs of the days previous intoxication, not a hint of hangover. As I said before this is a man one can lean a thing or two from. The good doctor stepped outside for some fresh air as I quickly put my apartment back in order so I wouldn't have to before bed that evening. As I did I found a blister pack of the doctors favorite amphetamines.
He had eaten two of them after purchase yesterday, and the pack of ten was empty. So sometime between him waking up and me waking up, a time he indicated was relatively short, he ate 8 high grade amphetamine capsules. Breakfast of champions. This explained his energy level and readiness to get the show on the road. The man consumes speed the way most health nuts eat vitamins in the morning.
I drove us to the bridge, and he stopped off at yet another pharmacy before we got to the border to purchase more amphetamines.
The rest of the day was fairly uneventful. He showed me his new house, which is absolutely lovely. I praised the Asian minimalist style of the parlor and dining area but he assured me it wasn't a stylistic choice, the furniture and simply not been delivered yet. Still, its a lovely home with enough room for guests and a backyard with a deck which will make for some fantastic BBQ's no doubt.
He told me the story of how shortly after he purchased the house a woman he was seeing found half of his stash of silver ingots which he was building a wall to conceal. He said she had taken one bar, then came back with her family for a good old fashioned home invasion. They managed to get half, as he didn't keep all of it in the same hiding place. Smart move. He got into a solid rant about how the local Texas cops were utterly useless and he was out just shy of twenty thousand dollars in silver because of this woman and his trusting nature.
Despite my own bizarre luck with women, which has been and continues to be a source of amusement and occasional outright hilarity for my friends over the years, none of my exes ever stole $20,000 worth of silver bullion from me.
I suggested to the doctor that perhaps he might want to make more use of banks in light of these events, but he scoffed at the idea. He uses his debit card so little he doesn't even know the pin number. This is why he insists of getting all of his money from his personal finance guy, the not-nearly-as-shady-as-he-sounded-at-first Tony.
We made a few more stops along the way, all of them depressingly mundane and not worth mentioning, before making our way back to the border. I told him I would see what I could do about sorting out his issues with the staff at Vampiz. He wasn't all that interested in the idea. Despite the previous day that being exactly what he asked me for, along with intense and interesting debauchery. He declared insistently and loudly that it would be rather sometime before he returned to Mexico. Partly due to work, and partly for reasons I'd rather not get into in such a public forum. The doctor gave me full permission to write about whatever I wanted to during our time together and I have done just that. At my discretion.
But just as someone is entitled to their anonymity, hence my continued use of his nom de gurre 'Dr. Pancho Villa M.D.', I feel they are also entitled to their privacy. Even when they willing give up that privacy by knowingly informing their companion, who they are fully aware is a journalist of some sort, that they can write whatever the hell they want. There are still some things I feel should remain private, or at least not written down to stand as public record for all to see. His identity is a secret, and despite what I have written about the good doctor there are some things that will remain as mysterious as the man himself.
Hell, I know his name, at least the one on his passport, his address (one of them at least), where he gets and keeps most of his money, where and for whom he works, his immediate family, most of his personal history, his narcotics of choice, weather his car takes petrol or diesel, and frankly the man is still a fucking mystery to me. Dr. Pancho Villa M.D. is that rare sort of enigma that I don't think could ever fully be unraveled. Certainly not by a mental health professional, as he is himself one and thus knows all the tricks of the trade.
Despite his declaration that it would be a long time before he returned to Mexico, I'm sure I'll see him south of the border again. My guess is after I finally make my way further south to Playa del Carmen and the rest of the weird tourist traps along the Mayan Riviera before heading into the jungle to spend a few weeks among the ruins. I'll be sitting in a bar, drinking more than I should, hitting on some lovely little thing that seems more confused than flattered by my attentions, when a familiar and overly enthusiastic voice will loudly ask from behind me, "Written any good books, lately!" the voice will then laugh heartily at his own joke, and before I turn around I'll know exactly who it is and what it means.
Dr. Pancho Villa, M.D. will ride again.
Via condios, mi amigo.
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This post and its original content copyright James Radcliff, and has been brought to you by Mexico, tequila, and generally poor decision making. If you would like to donate to support this bizarre little travelogue, feel free to do so via Patreon or PayPal. As always, this strange and debaucherous adventure has been brought to your screen by viewers like you. Thank you.
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