I’m just pleased to see Scott coming around. He’s been
talking about this Tortilla Line deal for a millennium or two as
if he was really going to write the book about 1) the song, 2) the
never shot video and, 3) the great original oil by Dan Rueffert
entitled “The Tortilla Line”. Since that’s something
that will never happen Scott is asking his friends to do a chapter
for the book covering personal tortilla line memory. Atta boy Scott,
DELEGATE!
 To
the uninformed here’s a brief, bastardized account of the
tortilla line.
It was a song Scott wrote. Originally it was called “Standing
At The End Of The Tortilla Line”. It was a Gringo-Mex style
blues but the recorded version was scored by none other than Lyle
Davis, keyboardist for the Mothers of Invention a la Frank Zappa.
Lyle decides to put a calypso/Key West conga beat to it. The result
was a song you couldn’t dance or tap your foot to. You couldn’t
even sing-a-long with it. Even if you were jonesing for blues music,
this blues tune made you happy! What kind of blues is that?
That’s all I know about it really. Among other vague details
was this power lunch at Casa Mexas to plan the video shoot. 16 of
us were seated and 20+ others were gathered around taking notes,
photos & bios. I felt like the new cabinet member of some rogue
junta. At the lunch Scott announced that Blind George would direct
the video shoot. That may seem like an oxymoron but it was probably
just an oversight (no pun intended) on Scott’s part. I also
recall some urgent midnight meetings at the hot springs and a few
different motel room meetings in Zacatecas. Besides that I am clueless
as to what all this urgency is about but am keen on seeing how the
Tortilla Line has morphed over the years. One thing I know. This
is MY Tortilla Line story. The reason I call it Chapter 6 is this;
Since all of Scott’s old buds are writing a chapter, no matter
how this turns out, there is no way Scott would honor me, Stucco
Steve, with the 1st or even 2nd chapter!! That would be akin to
lowering his standards, not that I haven’t lowered mine by
writing this.
TORTILLAS
& LINES
We always got to the Tortilleria on Canal by 11:30 or so,
before the line formed. We, being me or Theresa -my cook, housekeeper,
Spanish teacher, guide you name it. A friend had recommended her
by warning about her punk-ass boyfriend. She was bright and interesting
at our interview and I hired her on the spot. She is a great organizer,
cook, cleaner and greeter of guests. Within two months she began
a psychotic turn best described as “a complete 180”.
She got bossy and quit asking for the tortilla money. She just stuck
her hands in my pants pocket until she located my roll. The first
time so shocked me, I grabbed her above her wrist to extract her
hand. With her free hand she slapped my hand so hard it stung. I
gave up, acting as if this was normal behavior. Me so stupid!
In that part of the last century the area was undergoing boom times.
More people buying more stuff to the delight of the area merchants,
stacking paper. Heading home at noon eager for a great comida, more
and more often Teri would greet me by saying “first, go buy
tortillas”. I would head over to Canal to face the never-ending
noonday tortilla line. An hour wait was a guarantee. It was drudgery,
waiting in the heat and listening to the rhythmic squeak of the
molida machine as it dug through a meter high mountain of masa.
Even today, when on Canal I hear the squeak a block ahead. Only
God knows a fate worse than being at the end of a tortilla line.
Occasionally people near the end of the line will step out, get
on tiptoes and peer ahead. There is no explaining this behavior
but it is infectious. Soon everybody steps out to look…What
it is kid is our collective consciousness expects a Transito to
appear, whistle and wave us through like cars at a busy intersection.
That’s another thing that’s never going to happen. My
story illustrates the perils and pitfalls of being at the end of
the line.
One super hot May day I got home at noon. Teri was making a special
fave comida of mine -tacos al carbon, homemade pico guacamole on
crunchy chalupas and other treats capped off by Teri’s famous
flan. I was more than happy to run for tortillas and thanked her
for making such a special effort.
The dusty heat had zapped my energy before reaching the line. I
was dusted!
My tongue and mouth felt like sandpaper. Looking back I should have
endured the wait and returned to Teri’s meal. That didn’t
happen. After a half hour I heard a car horn. In the street was
a familiar old Plymouth with an Agave plant in the roof rack. Tom
motioned to me to get in the back. Riding shotgun was a guy I didn’t
know. He had a mouthful of bad teeth and a crazy smile. Tom uttered
his usual woooo. He passed a two gallon glass jug filled with clear
liquid. Assuming it was water I took a healthy swallow when it hit
me. It tasted like Magna Sin. My eyes glazed with tears. My face
colored crimson red. A fireball ping-ponged up and down my neck
and I coughed like never before. I checked my hands for burnt skin
hurled up. Nada. Up front Tom was going, “Hee Hee Hee.”
The other guy countered with, “Tee Hee Hee.”
 Amber
warmth spread in my body. Nearing the bus station I dared a second
taste. This time it wasn’t bad and slid easily down my cauterized
throat.
I figured we were heading to a lot Tom was buying. At the entronque
I took some gulps of the clear stuff. Instead of turning we flew
straight ahead.
Reasoning this was a cause to celebrate I slurped down a cup. By
now I was convinced that whatever we were drinking was the best
tasting and most rejuvenating liquor drink known to man. I shared
this idea with the guys up front. In reply I got, “Hee Hee
Hee” and “Tee Hee Hee.” The train station went
by in a blur. We hit the tracks at 65 m.p.h. That sent us airborne
crashing our heads into the roof and then slamming us back to our
seats. For a mile or so there were a lot of Hee Hee Hee’s
and Tee Hee Hee’s. Even I slipped a few in. The bottle was
passed up front. I leaned forward slurring, “My namesh Shteve,”
to the stranger riding shotgun. He did a quick Tee Hee, got real
serious, downed an impressive slug and said, “They call me
Tio.” I then asked, “Who are they?” That unleashed
a loud round of Hu Hu’s, Hee Hee’s and Tee Hee’s.
I threw in a Yee Ha for good measure. Tom muttered something about
an old Mescalero.
As we flew down the dusty tepetate road people biking or walking
in the road dashed off road, preferring crashing through prickly
cacti to a close encounter with us. What a sight! The Plymouth acting
like an Indy 500 winner and creating a 50-foot tall wake of dust.
As we passed, those looking our way would later describe us as three
aliens on acid. We soon slowed and pulled off at a ranch gate. A
friendly old guy waved, opened the gate and waved us through. Stopping,
in turn we said, “Gracias, muchas gracias,” about ten
times each. Tommy then got serious and gave it the gas. We flew
over several grassy hills and stopped at a surreal scene in a valley
below.
We all slugged heavily from the jug. Tio and I exited from opposite
sides of the car. We both stumbled and fell. Tom saw this tableau
from the drivers seat and delivered a Ha Ha Ha, Hee Hee Hee. Tio
and I rolled around in the dirt doing the horizontal Frug with some
Hee Hee’s thrown in.
Sensing something behind, I rolled over and looked up at the three
wildest looking dudes ever! They wore loincloths or fig leafs, maybe
fig leafs resembling loin cloths. Long hair. Piercing eyes. Leathery
copper-colored skin. No adornments other than a feathery trinket
or two. I knew immediately the dudes were not locals. Two dudes
helped me up and one lifted Tio. Tom took a big belt and the dudes
pulled him from the car. He cackled, “Hee Hee Hee.”
Then the dudes led us into the valley where several hundred nearly
nude men and women were gathered. It was easy following the guide
dudes.
When in doubt look for three bare butts. I looked back to check
in on Tom and Tio. A line of their discarded clothing stretched
back to the car. Both Tom and Tio had loincloths on with several
feathery trinkets. Tom passed the jug and I took a big dose. Several
simultaneous questions popped into my head like, “How did
Tom and Tio get loincloths?” and, “How short would that
tortilla line be about now?”
  The
people were in four concentric circles and seemed to be expecting
us. They began the indian yodel as we neared. A guide dude led me
over to a goddess wearing nothing but a cigarette pack-sized loincloth.
Her name was TT. She took my hand and led me into a teepee. TT was
17 or so, had a massive rack, six-pack abs and long black hair that
ended just above her bare bubble-butt. Sounds of shouts, yodels,
drumming and other instruments wafted in from outside. TT covered
my face with a freezing cold wet chamois. A DJ in my brain threw
on the old Rowdy Yates song, Theme from Rawhide. TT pulled off my
clothes and fitted me with a loin-fig, cloth leaf. She poured hot
oil over my body. As she straddled my face my brain’s radio
cut into Rawhide and the theme song for Scent of A Woman came on.
In a perfect world I would have died right there. Imagine my obit
- Gringo Accidentally Suffocates in Face Straddling Mishap Involving
Buxom Indigenous Beauty! She rubbed the oil into my chest, arms
and tummy. As she rubbed lower on my legs she stretched out so that
her boobs crushed down and slipped easily back and forth on my oiled
tummy. Give Peace A Chance by John and Yoko came on the radio in
my head. I had an out-of-lobotomy experience as the top of my head
unscrewed as a jack-in-the-box popped out going, “Coo Coo…Coo
Coo.” I wasn’t way off. TT was greeting a Spanish speaking
tribal dude whose name was Ku Ku. Tommy had met Ku Ku and asked
him to pass me the jug. Ku Ku greeted me in Spanish and passed the
jug. Ku Ku explained that they were a tribe from South America.
Their ancestral lands were in the mountains between Dolores and
Guanajuato. Every ten years they made a pilgrimage to their old
homelands. They had been driven out by Cortez and hounded by others
in the south until reaching the safety of Columbia. During Ku Ku’s
speech my jaw hung slack like a special Olympian. I finished the
jug of
God’s Own Choice Special Reserve Nectar Reposado. Ku Ku led
me outside. I looked back for TT but she was gone.
Outside it was pitch black. A nice sized wood fire sent burnt embers
to heaven which was filled with dancing stars. A shooting star shot
across the sky. The gorgeous, busty ladies with bare brown butts
had prepared a feast.
I wasn’t hungry. I was staring at the fire wearing my fig
leaf when two firm, 17 year old breasts pressed into my back. A
wet kiss caressed my neck. TT’s legs wrapped around me. She
whispered sweet nothings in my ear. What would you do? I had a monstro-erectus
going when the yodeling started. The 4 concentric circles formed.
I was put in the 2nd circle. The 2nd and 4th circles went clockwise
while the 1st and 3rd went the other way. It was a halting, staccato
thing involving pitching forward, leaning way back with two hop-steps
forward in between. In my peripheral vision the dancers seemed to
merge into one, separate, merge and so on. All this plus the yodeling.
I couldn’t yodel but made a gargling like sound to prove I
was “with it”.
Occasionally the white flesh of Tio or Tom flashed by. They were
making gargling sounds, too. Must be a gringo thing.
Next, I awoke shivering and naked in a dewy wet field. I spotted
teepees and stumbled over there. A stacked young girl gave me a
steaming cup of cinnamon grass broth. Ku Ku appeared and offered
a lift. TT emerged buck nekkid with most of my clothes. I dressed
and hugged and kissed TT. It lasted forever but not long enough.
Que Lastima! I hopped on the back of the horse Ku Ku commandeered.
We headed for SMA at a gallop. Near old San Miguel we passed a tortilleria
with no line. I asked Ku Ku to go back. I bought a kilo of hot tortillas,
stuffed them in my shirt and we were off. About noon we reached
my place, a scant 24 hours after I had made my tortilla run. I hugged
Ku Ku and said “adios”. I also professed my love for
TT. Then I went inside.
Teri was there cooking and cursing. I went to pee. The mirror revealed
an enormous clod of sod enmeshed in my hair. I looked like dog shit
- you know, the runny kind. In the dining nook Teri had a great
meal laid out. Teri actually smiled the good old days. Not a cross
word was spoken. I complimented her on the tacos while she thanked
me for remembering the tortillas. Things were going so good! It
was a genuine mutual admiration society. It didn’t last long.
It was as if the “household” began to unravel.
Teri began dressing like a tramp. See-thru blouses with sheer bras.
Micro-miniskirts with no underwear. Teri would drop things then
slowly bend down to pick them up. You couldn’t help but stare
as more and more gorgeous leg appeared below the rising micro-miniskirt.
She was watching me from under her arm and the second she caught
me staring she would twirl, straighten up and invoke a dozen saints
by name while jabbing her finger at me. She called me an indiscriminate
male dog and told me of what circle of hell God had reserved for
me to spend eternity. All the while she would be smoothing down
her skirt so that instead of one inch below her bush it now hung
down a full two inches below. The false modesty was intriguing nonetheless.
One weekend I moved out without telling Teri. It was better that
way. The new place was way across town. I met a spiritual brother
in Ku Ku. My heart aches daily for TT. The almost naked indian tribe
with the stacked beauties had me wishing for a huge shift in my
personal ancestry with the required monkey leap off my family tree
onto theirs. Life would have been better without the influence of
Tom, Tio and Teri but you can’t blame them for anything. No
major news to report. As time goes by I no longer miss tacos or
dishes requiring tortillas. Tortillas and the lines associated with
them just bring back a flood of bad vibes. Hey Scott! Are you out
there? Would you mind picking up a hamburger, a pita fajita or sandwich
en baguette? You know, something to forget the bad times to. Never
having planned it, I’ve become a white bread kind of guy,
no thanks to Scott, Tom, Teri, Tio and the tortilla line. |
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