Well, this is the last of today’s short stories and one I believe is truly original. It was inspired in part by my own trips down to Mexico when I was working in Telecom as a manufacturing engineer and designer. I believe this is a truly original storyline and not a rewrite-enjoy!
Rancho Coca Loco
Life didn’t seem fair to Robert X. Where things seemed to come so easy to most people, his life seemed like an uphill battle through volcanic mud. Random thoughts drifted through his head as he stared out the window of the airplane as it circled Mexico City with its 200 miles of lights illuminating the valley floodplain. Outside the window of the plane he could see Popocatepetl, one of the local volcanoes, erupting and gushing red lava and smoke into the night air. An incredible sight indeed, Robert had heard they’d evacuated the Volkswagon Plant at the foot of the mountain due to fears of mudslides. To imagine all those stupid looking little German candy boxes plasticized a la Pompeii would almost be fitting. The revenge of the gods, how dare the white man build his Hitler mobile at the foot of our volcano! A big jovial looking Texas businessman was sitting next to Robert on the plane.
“That Volcano sure is a humdinger,” said the Texas businessman. “I wonder if that lava could make it down into Mexico City.”
“The mountain’s too far away but it could take out some towns and villages, if the gods are angry,” said Robert.
Robert had been shuttling back and forth to Mexico now for over a year. His impression of Mexico was that the people seemed strangely happy in the face of abject poverty, at the same time; life seemed to lack any intrinsic value. All around Mexico City and its surrounding towns and cities, death seemed to lurk and smile everywhere. Robert had many memories of dead dogs and even dead people lying on the side of the road as he rode from his hotel to the manufacturing plant where he was working on his Mexican “vacations.” The overwhelming sprawl of humanity in Mexico City was overpowering, almost as bad as the pack a day pollution that hovered over the city, irritating both the eyes and respiratory system.
“Are you down here on business,” said the Texan.
“Unfortunately,” said Robert. “I’ve been coming down here to Toluca for the past year, our headquarters in Kansas City decided to fire all their production workers and set up a Maquiladora to take advantage of the cheap teenage labor down here in Mexico. They stuck me in Manufacturing because that’s where all the lowlifes end up. It was either that or the streets.”
Robert hated his job. He hated corporate America, all the cliques and butt kissers-it was the high school cafeteria all over again. The sales and marketing executives were the cool popular people that went around and charged up oodles of dollars to bottomless expense accounts all the while partying with their clients like Fleetwood Mac during their cocaine days. The technical employees like Robert were down in the black hole of Calcutta, trying to fix the problems and make things look good so the sales people could go out and be cool and popular. Occasionally one of salt-mine geeks would transcend the ranks and become an executive so that they could hang out with the cool popular people, only to be secretly made fun of behind their backs. Almost like when some cheerleader dates a dork to make her jock boyfriend jealous, the problem being that the dork doesn’t see her ulterior motives and actually falls in love only to be tossed back down onto the pavement with the added insult to injury of all the cool popular people laughing at his pain while he takes a beating. This is how the corporate world operated. What seemed like a promotion was often a ticket to the circle of laughter and ridicule found in most high school cafeterias.
The thoughts of quitting his job had often occurred to Robert. Usually two or three times a day. On this particular evening he was particularly on edge. He had had repeated show downs with his boss Gary over the past week and it was effecting his sanity. This project had destroyed his life, he thought. Since he had been shuttling back and forth to the Mexican assembly line, his woman had run off and his truck had been stolen out of his drive way. Add a steel guitar line and he could be number one on the Nashville charts for all his whoa. The plane bumped down on the runway and there he was in a foreign country in the most dangerous and largest city on the western hemisphere, it was 11:30 at night and it was time to get as drunk as possible.
“That was a hell of a rough ride,” said the Texan.
“It sure was,” said Robert,” let’s go have a drink.”
“Much obliged,” said the Texas businessman.
The Mexico City Marriot hotel is attached to the airport via an enclosed modern carpet bridge that overpasses the street. This is very fortunate because an American’s chances alone and on the streets of Mexico City are not encouraging. Life is dangerous enough for the Mexicans. Robert and the Texan headed to the bar at the ground floor of the Marriot, right after checking in. Robert always traveled light and the Texas businessman seemed to want a beer. Bill Mularky was a trucking executive from Corpus Christie, Texas who drank heavily both on and off the road.
“Since last year I reckon we’ve had three trucks just flat out disappear out in the middle of nowhere on the road between here and El Paso. It’s just business as usual down here in Mexico,” said Bill hoisting a Pacifico with a tequila chaser.
“A lot of things just disappear,” said Robert X as he stared out into the restaurant swimming in tequila. A few tired looking travelers were strewn about, an older couple was sitting drinking at the bar, and the ubiquitous mariachi band was present, though not physically, only blaring out of the speakers far in the background. Even in the hotel he could smell the heavily polluted air of Mexico City. The air that always stung one’s eyes, every breath like taking a drag off an exhaust pipe.
If only his Spanish were better he wouldn’t feel so alone and vulnerable in Mexico City. He could forget about going to the factory and venture out into the surrounding country side to places like Cuernavaca or Pueblo, ancient culture rich Spanish colonial towns, away from the pollution of industrial Mexico City and hang out like an expatriate by some hotel swimming pool, drinking Mexican beer, eating fresh fruit, and dining on corn tortillas filled with Barbacoa. Instead he was going to a factory to work on implementing a production line for corporate America which was in a way glorified slave labor. The Mexican peasant Indian girls who worked in the factory were usually 16 years old, made 5 dollars a week, most of which in many cases, was turned over to an alcoholic brother or father to squander. Yet in Mexico, these were good jobs for which people would line up around the block. For the majority in Mexico, the alternative to slavery is death.
Bill continued to talk as they hoisted drinks and a few other travelers joined them. Robert eventually excused himself and slipped off to his hotel room to drunkenly sleep amongst sounds of the Mexican night. He watched Mexican television as he drifted off and in his semi-conscious state he developed a sudden cognition for the language and every thing made perfect sense. The television programming was just like in America, they were always selling you something, whether it was an image, an attitude, or a new pair of shoes. At the other ends of the sale lived the hollow faces of slavery, whether mental physical, or both. As always, he slept poorly. It was late summer, the monsoon season in Mexico City, and wind driven rain pounded the window panes of his hotel room.
The next morning the sun was bright as Robert rode in a private cab hired for him by his company. It is a well known fact that you don’t take just any cab in Mexico City. Many cab drivers appear to run a regular taxi cab but they are actually banditos who take unsuspecting customers for the ride of their lives usually robbing them and dumping them someplace, either living or dead. This particular cab driver was safe in person but his driving seemed anything but. The cab, which might have had 5 lug nuts on each wheel, sped along mountain highways and vibrated and shuddered as the cab reached terminal velocity. Robert nearly kissed the ground after they arrived at La Fiesta hotel in Toluca, Mexico.
Toluca is about one hour west of Mexico City across a mountain pass. It has its own volcano and is a physically beautiful spot. The old city has lakes and Spanish styled cathedrals. Unfortunately, the sprawling area is very heavily industrialized with countless American and European companies enjoying the combination of a cheap labor force and lack of environmental regulatory agencies. Robert’s company had joined the ranks of BMW, GM, Chrysler, Bayer Chemical, Gates Rubber, and other corporate megaliths that inhabit the third world, living off the land like some evil bacteria.
That morning Robert checked into his hotel and ate breakfast at the hotel buffet. He always enjoyed the continental cuisine at Mexican hotels. He was sitting and drinking Mexican coffee when he was met that morning by a representative from the factory whom he had never seen before.
“Good Morning Mister X,” I am Enrique Julio Jesus Juan Garcia, but you can call me Ricky.
“Morning “, said Robert. “I don’t think I recognize you from any of my other trips down here.”
“I am the new manager of the backwards press punch down line, I used to work for GM at their foundry, I am an expert in worker productivity.”
“Very interesting,” said Robert yawning and feeling his morning Tequila breath coming on, a familiar feeling in Mexico for Robert. As they were driving along Robert noticed that they were taking a very circuitous and unfamiliar route to the factory and they had left the city and were traveling through the Mexican countryside.
“I don’t recognize this route,” said Robert.
“Ah, this morning I am taking the Senor to a special meeting.”
“I wasn’t made aware of any special meeting in Kansas City before I left head quarters. We usually have a very tight itinerary at the plant while down here.”
“Soon the Senor will know everything he needs to know.”
“I think I need to call Gary back in KC to talk about this.”
“There will be a phone at the meeting.” Said Ricky and smiled.
Robert felt nervous but at the same time he was too hung over to want to argue with this Mexican engineer in broken English. The car pulled into a compound that looked anything but corporate. The entry way to the ranch read Rancho Coca Loco. Robert shuddered as he saw Ricky take a hand gun out of the glove compartment and spin the barrel with one hand as he parked the car. There were two other Mexicans outside the car coming to greet them. They were carrying automatic weapons.
Ricky stepped out of the car and conversed with the other banditos in Spanish and there was laughter. Robert X sat in the car trembling almost in disbelief as he began to assimilate the situation. He was now being held at gunpoint in the middle of nowhere outside of Toluca, Mexico. He was motioned out of the car by the gun men. One of the gun men strapped his piece and very rudely shoved Robert from behind and they led him towards a large earthen building with exposed wooden timbers and black latticed windowpanes. Robert was led through a large heavy door into a central room where he was shocked to see Bill Mularky seated in the middle of the room.
“Robert, I’m glad to see you met my amigo Ricky. Enrique is a great man, a father to over 13 children, 13 that he knows about that is.” With that Bill and all the Banditos broke into riotous laughter. “You see Robert, Mexico is a strange place and people can disappear right off the face of the earth down here, just like the trucks and airplanes I use to run marijuana and cocaine up into Texas with do. The thing is though, if you’re in the know, everything can be bought and sold down here. The truck can reappear in El Paso with a million dollars worth of commercial grade weed just as fast as it can disappear. You see, everything has its price, whether it’s a stupid Senor Frogs T-shirt, 5000 lbs of marijuana, or a peon corporate guy like you.”
“Now Robert X, after I met you I calculated how much I thought you’d be worth and it wasn’t much. Now, if we’d grabbed say Chelsea Clinton or Jenna Bush, then we could get quite a bit but we might get attacked by the CIA, the US Airforce or Navy. But with you, we don’t think anybody cares enough and we were hoping to get maybe 50,000$, about your yearly salary adjusted to taxes, etc. We did some looking and found out you don’t have a wife or kids, only some older parents and a couple of siblings. We figure if they can’t dig up the money, they can cry to your company and they’ll probably pay up. And just as sure as you thought my name was Bill Mularky, they’d probably want to keep things under wraps.”
“In the meantime we can keep you busy here at our cocaine processing facility, we need guys like you that have good heads on their shoulders.”
After his unintended arrival at the rancho Robert had had a couple conversations on the phone with his boss Gary, his parents and his sister. Everyday he expected to hear the news that the ransom had been paid and he was going to be released. Than each day passed and he was still at the ranch. Living here was mundane but it wasn’t too unbearable, he was well fed and life was uncomplicated. Things began to slowly assimilate into a norm at Rancho Coca Loco for Robert. His previous life seemed to wither away and became like the memory of a dream. Soon his work ethic and technical skills earned him trustee like privileges at the processing facility where he worked amongst a mix of natives and other peon executive prisoners surrounded by armed guards. Everyday, hundreds of pounds of Coca Leaves were trucked, dropped by air, or smuggled onto the ranch through the local airport. There they were sent to huge kerosene filled holding tanks to soak and eventually be processed into powder.
Robert soon impressed his captors by presenting them with a list of recommendations to improve production efficiency. Soon the plant was processing 20% more powder everyday and at the same time waste byproducts were reduced by over 50% and Robert was able to streamline the process line in order to reallocate manpower more efficiently, reducing worker fatigue and improving over-all productivity. This earned him even more privileges which included eating dinner with Bill Mularky and his own private cache of Tequila. He was eventually allowed to take a wife from among the female production workers.
Robert X soon forgot about his miserable life in corporate America. Life was good here at Rancho Coca Loco. Within five years Roberto X spoke fluent Spanish and forgot about his life in evil corporate America. At that time he was freed by his captors but never went home. Instead he went wandering off into the Mexican countryside, sampling Mole in Pueblo and lounging poolside in Cuernivaca-Quixotic and quest less, having finally found peace in the third world.
