HARD SCRABBLE SUNDAY MORNINGS AT THE CARTA

By Juan Montoya

They start queuing up as early as 9 a.m. Sunday when the normal people are heading for church.

The bells at Immaculate Conception Cathedral are pealing and the evangelical crowd at the fountain in the city square is just coming together as the hermanos are laying out their tables for the free lunch at noon. But first, the small group of believers must take a generous dose of religion.

But that is the second helping after the madatory pozole at La Carta Brava.


In fact, if you do not accept the Styrofoam bowl of pozole and one of tortilla chips they can't serve you beer. The doors open at 10 a.m. and as Ceci and the girls get the place ready, a small stream of people come in to imbibe the hair of the dog that bit them the previous night.

The crack queens are next, stretching out their limbs in the morning heat and venturing out from their holes or abandoned houses or vacant buildings where they spent the night. For them, life is a constant hustle, a constant measuring up of likely marks who will feel sorry for their gaunt cheeks, haunted eyes and second-hand outfits they gleaned from the dumpsters behind the segundas all over downtown.

"You should have seen her and her sister when they were younger," says one of the early birds as he pops open a can of cold beer. "Estaban bien guenas hasta que le hicieraon a la piedra. Nunca se bajaron del avion. Pobrecitas."

The juke box is an open scream as Beto Quintanilla belts out a song that sounds suspiciously just like all his other songs, with fake gunfire accentuating the offbeat like a counter melody. "Uno sabe donde nace, pero nunca donde acaba Estado pegado al norte, Tamaulipas tierra brava, (bang, bang, bang)..."

A few conjuntos sometimes wander in, but that is usually later at night. Fro now, it's just what's available on la chillona.

The pool players are next, like perpetual doormen standing around the table leaning on their cue sticks. Here all the shots are called and slop isn't permitted.

"Cantaditas, no guevas," they call out before the game. "Y es last pocket."

Some of the ladies are still wearing last night's outfit, usually gold lame shoes with leopard print blouses a bit too tight for the sagging flesh. If it looks like they have been slept in, it's because they probably were. But hey, in the semi darkness of the Carta, no one notices or even cares.


In their corner, retired veterans and ex cops pass judgment on the crowd and keep to themselves.

The panhandlers start hustling beers from some of the patrons they know from many days of hanging out at the joint.

"Prestame dos dolars, bro ,te pago."

Of course, everyone knows that they will never remember to pay their marks, but in a way, the loan is like an investment. One of these days it might be you wanting a beer and feeling your empty pockets. One good turn...

After everyone who wanted to eat a bowl of pozole has taken his, some pass their filled ones to appreciative homeless as noon approaches. Noon means that a football game will be on at the Sportsman Lounge and small groups of customers drift over to Elizabeth Street behind the HEB parking lot to see one, or to see the soccer game of La Ligua MX and shoot the breeze with Boni, Bonifacio to his friends.

For those with more refined tastes, a small number of trendy joints are available where loud rock and canned music is the fare. But after a while, the $3 dollar beers lose their appeal and they drift back to the $1.50 brews at La Carta, Boni's, or down the alley at El Barril.

By 3 p.m. if they are playing, the Dallas Cowboys will be on the air. From there on, it'll be suds and football until dusk turns into night and people start drifting toward home and the work week begins again. And so, another day goes by in the underworld of the border city.

And if you get a hangover, well, the high-rise elderly dwellers know that the Sportsman opens at 7 a.m. and La Carta at 10 to start all over again.