Jovan and his wife hinted that the parking lot owner wasn’t so great.  It seemed that Mexican bosses command respect, however undeserved.

    When I returned to the parking lot after a ham and egg sandwich and some pictures in the plaza, Pablo was there. He was at least half drunk, an empty and half another in front of him.  He kicked up and showed off his alligator skin boots.  He had suspicious, conniving eyes piercing the shadow made by the brim of his white cowboy hat and a smarmy smile that crept out beneath a pepper grey mustache.

    Jovan had relayed a bit more information about me than I would have preferred.  I thought about my breakfast in Mazatlán and wondered if I hadn’t said too much.  Pablo asked about the van and my roadtrip and the U.S.  None of it seemed like small talk.

    I joked with Jovan about missing the hookers last night.  Apparently, transvestite prostitutes would hang out on the corner opposite the parking lot on the weekends.  It sounded like something to see.

    Pablo pounded his beer and slammed the bottle down.  “LET’S GO!”  And I thought: who better to see this strange little slice of Mexican life with than Pablo?  I should’ve probably thought about it just a bit longer.  I remember thinking that it was a bad idea, but we’d be right back – it was just on the corner.  Note to self: stop at the “bad idea” part.  Ah, but then there would be no story here.

    He asked if I had a hat, you know, like his.  I said I only had a safari type hat.  “GO GET IT.”  Okay. This might be fun.

    We stepped out of the parking lot and walked to the corner.  There they were indeed, and Pablo showered those transvestite hookers with whistles and catcalls.  I felt funny and excited and bad, like I was with the playground bully – on his side for that day – watching him say and do things I never would.

    Ha ha, whoa.  That was fun.  Sortuv.  Didn’t really wanna interact, but whatever.  Mission accomplished.  Let’s call it a night, eh?

    Nope.

    Pablo slithered across the street, started down the next block, and motioned for me to follow.

    “Uh, okay,” was my simple thought.  You know – the kind of simple thought you regret.

    We walked one block south.  Streetlights became fewer.  “Turn that corner and you’ll see them.”  Pablo took a wide, buzzed berth.  “Watch your phone,” he warned.

    There, lined up, facing the street and the bar opposite, was a line of prostitutes.  Real ones.  Female ones.  Some were young.  Too young.  Some were slightly posed, maybe one leg stuck out.  Some pouted their lips.  Some were shy, scared, maybe ashamed.  Some showed no emotion and stared straight ahead as if this were some strange military sex inspection.

    My giggling smile faded away as Pablo looked them up and down like beef hanging from hooks.  He said the going rate was 280 pesos ($13.70).  Beef was cheap in Oaxaca City.

    I wanted to keep walking past them and be done, but Pablo told me to slow down, pausing at each one, inquiring, “¿David?”  

    Yeah, no.  Wait, what?  Oh, no, man.  I just wanted to see the trans…

    I tried to look them in the eyes and offer each one a kind smile that said, “I’m sorry.  You’re beautiful.  And you deserve more.”  I wanted to stop and talk to them, pick one and marry her and make her life better, or take them all home like a pack of stray dogs.

    Pablo had a real lame-o on his hands.  Disappointed in me, he set his eyes on the bar across the street.  “¿Me invitas a una cerveza?”  Jostled and off my game, I badly took this to mean ¨How about a beer?” when it actually meant, “Buy me a beer?”  Big difference.  But either way, I wasn’t so sure the right answer – no – would be the best answer.  I told him for the second time that I didn’t drink, but I’d go with him.

    Pablo led the way into the bar El Dos de Oros and everything seemed to stop once the gringo walked in.  Pablo nodded at a few, shook hands with a few others, and I began to have a real bad feeling.

    Most eyes seemed upon us as we made our way to one of the few empty tables.  As uncomfortable as I felt inside, I acted as if I belonged there – as if everything were in fact, cool.  Pablo made me feel better and worse all at once.  “You’re safe here.  Everyone knows me.”  Just then I had the thought, “What if Pablo isn’t well liked?”  It was certainly in the realm of possibility.

    A man took our order, confused by my request for a lemonade.  My head became hot beneath my very gringo safari hat.  The man brought our drinks and asked for pesos.  Pablo told me to pay the man.  It seemed like the best thing to do.

    Mario (aka DJ Baby Dior) sat down halfway through Pablo's beer, which he downed very quickly.  He asked Mario if he wanted to invite him for a drink. Mario did so, and Pablo finished that one just as quickly.  Mario took notice and shot me a glance.  He must have sensed my growing discomfort.  I was in the middle of wondering if this was one of those bad decisions and places I had been able to avoid by not drinking, if I had crossed the line between curiosity and foolishness.  “Pablo is the king of this city.”  The words of DJ Baby Dior were a slim consolation.

    Some other dude came and sat with us, which Pablo didn’t much appreciate.  We were gone in five minutes.

    I joined Jovan at the table upon my return to the parking lot.  He left and brought back some tortillas, eggs, and chorizo that Erika had cooked.  It was nice to be home.