It was a strange feeling as we crossed the border headed for the “Land Of The Free”. Always in the past, when I had gone to the U.S., I had spent just enough time to catch up with friends, sing some gigs, and basically loot all the cash I could before heading south again, loaded up with grocery bags of goodies I could never find in Mexico (like pretzels, Dr. Pepper, and Fat Tire Amber Ale) But this time, for the first time in as long as I could remember, I wasn’t going to be round tripping it. I was in the States to stay. In the midst of the excitement of heading off for another “new” experience, I suddenly got kind of sad, feeling like I hadn’t yet even really fully lived out my previous “new experience” in Mexico, even though it had been eight years since that one began. Suddenly, life was about to get normal again. I was even about to have a steady paycheck for the first time in ages, having just been offered a well paying nightly gig in a smarmy, upscale restaurant/bar north of Phoenix.

Adela and I found an apartment quickly and settled into our new life. For those first few months, it continually struck me how easy everything was in the States. You’d flick a light switch and there was always electricity. You’d turn on a faucet and water would always come out. You’d go to the store, and if the sign said “open”, by God, they were actually open. And get this, they would actually have the items they advertised, at the price that was marked. And what selection! You want toothpaste?  You want regular formula, tartar protection, fresh breath, or the tooth whitening formula? How ‘bout a Coke….you want Diet, Caffeine Free, Diet Caffeine Free, Cherry Coke, Diet Cherry Coke, Cherry Vanilla Coke, Lemon Coke, or Coke Classic?  I found myself paralyzed in aisle twelve, completely overwhelmed with options when all I wanted to buy was a soda, a bar of soap and some toilet paper.

Suddenly I felt like just another face in the crowd....and a huge crowd it was. A couple million of ‘em. That ain’t healthy. Being surrounded by people, cars, and buildings ALL the time was something I was no longer used to. Going several days in a row without watching the sun go down (too many rooftops blocking the view) seemed normal to my friends in the “Valley of the Sun”, but every day that I missed one while stuck in traffic made me miss the Sea of Cortez, Rocky Point, Kino Bay, San Carlos, and even the lazy, poor, dusty old worn out coastal town of Guaymas, even more.

Cars driving in lanes instead of swerving to avoid crater sized potholes or five year old children selling chiclets or Mexican hairless dogs having sex in the street.  Houses organized into orderly rows, painted the same perfectly non-offensive color and sporting the same shade of tile roof as the neighbor’s identical home five feet away. Street corners that all seemed to feature a Circle K convenience store, an ARCO gas station, a McDonalds, and a Walgreens. Everything was clean, orderly, efficient, and predictable. And in spite of the constant movement around me, my world suddenly seemed incredibly lifeless.    

Being the idiot I am, I actually believed that  the “Caribbean” flavored restaurant bar I was playing in night after night would provide me with some relief and inject a little spontaneity into my newly adopted suburban life, especially considering how they marketed themselves as a place to “take off your tie, kick off your shoes, turn off the cellphone”, and a bunch of other crap that all sounds good in a commercial, but in reality is nothing but a marketing ploy to sell someone a Corona at the bargain happy hour price of $3.75. The expensive cars in the parking lot definitely didn’t belong to people with a laid back lifestyle. Even if you managed to somehow “de-stress” in this carefully choreographed “laid back Caribbean” environment, you’d soon freak out when you received your bill for the conch fritters and pina colada and realized you had to mortgage the home or start washing dishes.

I spent many moments onstage, losing track of where I was in my song, staring out at a crowd of folks sitting at the bar talking with their broker on their cellphone or watching CNN, completely unaware that I or the person next to them at the bar existed, all while sipping their Coronas and “letting it all hang out”.

I’d often flash back to “Cesar’s Bar”, that dumpy beach bar just south of Guaymas that wasn’t even named “Cesar’s Bar”, we just called it that ‘cause the owner, Cesar Machado, never actually got around to naming the place even though he had owned it for years. His menu was a little less diverse than the one at this place. Like I mentioned previously, Cesar only offered one thing on his menu,  Tecate.  That was it. No margarita, no pina colada, no umbrellas in your drinks. Just Tecate. In fact, you couldn’t even get a twelve ounce Tecate if you wanted one. Cesar only served quarts, always with a little missing off the top. “For the cook”, Cesar would say to locals who knew fully well that the only food served at his shack was whatever he happened to reel in that day and cook up himself. But no one minded, even when Cesar would somehow weasel his way into a seat at your table in the sand, drink a sizable portion of your beer, and begin singing classic Mexican ballads at the top of his voice, his trademark tears streaming down his face, usually halfway through his third quart of beer. When the day was through and folks would hop into their cars, Cesar would quickly lock the door and chase your car out of the dirt parking lot begging for a ride back to town. Tourists who couldn’t understand his pleas in Spanish would assume he was playing would innocently wave goodbye and laugh at “that crazy Mexican”. Those who could make out that he actually wanted a ride so he wouldn’t have to walk seven miles would usually dump him off at the nearest bar, receiving emotional farewells and hugs from Cesar as he’d spill out of the car and stumble off into the Guaymas evening.

Somehow I made Cesar’s version of a SPAM email list. Somebody gave him my number, and soon I began receiving weekly telephone calls from Cesar, apparently from a payphone, asking me if I thought I was going to show up at his bar anytime that week so he could plan his inventory. If he didn’t think he’d round up more than about ten bucks  worth of business, he wouldn’t even bother hitching a ride out to the beach and opening up for the day.  I guess Cesar realized the potential of targeted telemarketing long before it’s time. Only most telemarketers aren’t drunk when they call you.

 I still remember an afternoon at Cesar’s Bar, when after polishing off a couple quarts with Cesar, I invited him to my place down the beach. When he said that he couldn’t come (because it was Saturday and who knows, he might actually have another customer after I left), I casually remarked, “Cesar, I’ll buy every drop of beer you have in this bar if we can both take it to go.” The second that last syllable left my mouth I instantly sobered up and realized the potential danger of the situation. Too late. Cesar was already in the bar, loading bottles of beers into cartons and talking about how what a lucky day this was for him. But thank God, Cesar’s entire inventory consisted of 38 beers. I forked out the dough (in Mexico, there’s no going back on a ridiculous offer once you make it) and thirty minutes later, every in-law, neighbor, and friend I never knew was partying with us down the beach at my place. Needless to say, my wife wasn’t thrilled. Guess she didn’t appreciate the sheer sense of accomplishment of singlehandedly cleaning out a bar of its entire inventory. Try that at Hard Rock Café.

In spite of the fact that every August and September his bar was actually underwater during high tides (ever been stung by a jellyfish while drinking in a bar?), and the limited offerings on the menu, THAT was in my mind what a truly “laid back” bar was all about. And the great thing is that Cesar didn’t know beans about marketing…he just did things the only way he knew how. It was natural. He was just himself, and he was good at it. He liked people and they liked him.  How’s that for a marketing strategy?                       

But in the States, Cesar would have been fined out of existence by OSHA, the Health Department, the IRS, or God knows what other mammoth sized taxpayer funded federal agency out to punish evil capitalists known to some as small business owners. He probably would have been bankrupted in a class action suit by a bunch of feminists on various sexual harassment charges for his endless alcohol-induced flirtation with anything resembling a female. He’d be nailed for not hiring enough blacks, Native Americans or transsexuals.  Or, God forbid, telling a joke that somebody considers “inappropriate”. In fact, in the States, characters like Cesar no longer own bars, restaurants, or lemonade stands. They couldn’t afford to if they wanted to. No, guys like him somehow all end up either sentenced to corporate sensitivity training (those are the lucky ones) or wearing paper hats and robotically saying things like “Want fries with that?” (Those are the unlucky ones)  

Back to my laid back Caribbean restaurant bar located in a north Phoenix strip mall surrounded by miles of asphalt. Needless to say, this wasn’t gonna work. Singing “Margaritaville” ten times a night  to disinterested yuppies in neckties as they yap on cellphones and watch CNN with the sound off ain’t my idea of the good life, no matter how much it pays. Oh, did I forget to mention that the owner of the joint hated me? You can guess what happens next. Adios gang!