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's market 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 ingest a generous dose of religion.
But that is the second helping after the mandatory pozole at La Carta Brava, or more recently los taquitos de barbacha (barbacoa).
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, Blanca, or one of the girls gets the place ready, a small stream of people come in to imbibe the hair of the dog that bit them Saturday night en el bailongo.
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 hicieron a la piedra. Nunca se bajaron del avion. Pobrecitas."
The juke box is an open scream as Beto Quintanilla (Cantinillas) 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)..."
"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 hicieron a la piedra. Nunca se bajaron del avion. Pobrecitas."
The juke box is an open scream as Beto Quintanilla (Cantinillas) 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. For now, it's just what's available en la chillona.
(You won't hear Kris Kristofferson singing about Sunday Morning Coming Down at La Carta.)
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. And no one cares if you scream.
In their corner, veterans and retired 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 bolas, bro, mañana 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 old HEB parking lot to see one, or to see the soccer game of La Ligua MX and shoot the breeze with the regulars there.
For those with more refined tastes, a small number of trendy joints are available early afternoon where loud rock and canned music is the fare. But after a while, the $3.75 beers lose their appeal and they drift back to the $2.00 brews at La Carta, the Sportsman or – before it burned – down the alley at El Barril. More daring patrons sometimes drift off to 14th Street.
By 3 p.m. if they are playing – and usually losing – 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 underbelly of this border city.
And if you get a hangover, well, the high-rise elderly dwellers know that the Sportsman and La Carta opens at 10 a.m. pa curarse la cruda and start all over again.
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. And no one cares if you scream.
In their corner, veterans and retired 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 bolas, bro, mañana 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 old HEB parking lot to see one, or to see the soccer game of La Ligua MX and shoot the breeze with the regulars there.
For those with more refined tastes, a small number of trendy joints are available early afternoon where loud rock and canned music is the fare. But after a while, the $3.75 beers lose their appeal and they drift back to the $2.00 brews at La Carta, the Sportsman or – before it burned – down the alley at El Barril. More daring patrons sometimes drift off to 14th Street.
By 3 p.m. if they are playing – and usually losing – 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 underbelly of this border city.
And if you get a hangover, well, the high-rise elderly dwellers know that the Sportsman and La Carta opens at 10 a.m. pa curarse la cruda and start all over again.
11 comments:
Its buenas no guenas
Its wevas no guevas
I fought
God
and God
Won. . . .
There is something remarkable in the way you wander into those dim and desperate corners, places most people pass by with their eyes turned away, and then return with pages full of light. It isn’t the desperados and the fevered you’re seeking, but the spectacle of truth when masks are gone and people show themselves raw and unvarnished. The desperados, with their weary eyes and rumpled dresses that have seen two nights’ worth of smoke and sweat, lean against the bar like faded queens of some forgotten court. The fevered men, restless with heat and longing, strut through the room in bursts of bravado, loud with laughter and clumsy in desire, their every gesture betraying the ache of appetite. Around them move the sellers, sly-eyed and sharp-handed, slipping vials and powders with the air of entrepreneurs in a crooked marketplace, tradesmen of hunger peddling their wares to keep the night alive. Together they form a living gallery of want and weakness, of hunger and commerce, bravado and ruin, and yet you find in them a truer theater than the polite salons could ever give. And for those of us who don’t enter, it’s only through your words that we come to know these rooms, these characters, and the strange dignity they carry.
We do not enter because we do not have money. Beer is expensive. Eating out is expensive. Or to say it better, only few people in Brownsville have extra money to spend it in frivolous ways.
Never send to know for whom the bell tolls…..
Terrifying picture.
Every town has sections like this.
Thanks to this blog we're reminded of it.
Barraza sigues pidiendo 🤑🤑🤑 $$$ pero no pagas
Chingao Montoya, you were cruising along then you go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like "and so another day goes by in the underbelly of this border city". Oh well, at least you didn't go full Marty Robbins and have fevered desperados in dusty boots dancing with my Felina.
Vinculan a proceso a Julio César Chávez Jr. por delincuencia organizada
Un juez federal de Sonora ordenó que Chávez Jr. enfrente el proceso en libertad condicional y dio un plazo de tres meses para la investigación complementaria.
No shit. I have called Him an Indian Giver and then humbly asked for forgiveness. I call Jesus, Jesse.
10:32 AM You don't need a lot of money to enter and experience one of these places Juan became poetic about. You can go in with a budget of $5 order a beer and experience the vibe. If you want two beers take $7.
I don't go in because the people in those places scare me. Can you imagine having a crack user sitting next to you? How about imagining the diseases these people carry. No thank you. Me scared 😨
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