Battle on the Boulevard
Friday, May 1st, 2009
Southwest Boulevard is lined with Mexican restaurants. Painted in Aztec yellows and salmons, they stand out from the metal-sheeted hardware stores and lumber yards, the barbecue pits housed in old gas station shells, and the breweries’ brick production stacks that fit in with the local industry. When the weather is dismal, the Mexican flags hang deflated, but it never does anything to the people who live on the rises in old neighborhoods that used to be resplendent places to live. The people eating in the restaurants aren’t Mexican. They are lighter-skinned, mostly work crews and small families who know where to find authentic food cheap. At 5 o’clock, the workers – almost entirely men – crowd corner tables, boots resting on low window sills and drinking beer. This is how it was at Ponak’s, the closest restaurant to the interstate overpass, on a Wednesday afternoon at happy hour.
The regulars were pulling on bottle tops and setting their drinks in wet rings on the tables when we pulled in to the last parking spot by the stucco walls. The men inside the restaurant had a clear view. They couldn’t help themselves with what they saw. Their fingers lifted and they pointed at the three ladies – all beauties, all young and threaded in their clothes and in keeping with their posture, a level of high intelligence and loveliness – women’s women – stepping out from the car.
I was with them to celebrate my birthday a day early with salt-rimmed drinks. I wanted to be the first to rest his head on the back of his wrists and sighing from the fast work of Tequila. The three women were determined not to let my birthday pass without any fun, which it certainly had a chance to with the changes in my life. I hadn’t flattered myself at all. My expectations weren’t heightened.
Valerie took the lead for the other ladies, almost sacrificing herself to keep the others safe. Her olive skin, deep-set brown eyes and dark hair were partially Hispanic but in the drudgery, it was easy to see her as Polynesian standing beachside, her neck hung with a lei, a mistress maybe of a coming flood.
Her purple shoes stood out on the asphalt. Her jeans swung out to cover them, but what could be seen was blocked at the tip and wide, the color vivid, and she walked in them with an extra motion that was not a hitch or anything awkward, but a definite lift that showed she was out and that nothing controlled, not even flattery from the working boys. She’d gotten it – flattery – too often, and she hadn’t expected to find it in abundance in the parking lot. She’d dressed for herself and it happened to gain her attention.
That was both the intention and a haughty side effect. She didn’t believe herself to be better than other women, but she still commanded respect for being beautiful, and when it wasn’t given to her, she’d offer something back in disrespect. This time, it manifested in an arms open pose to the men, a half-shrug, what-are-you-looking-at? stamp, and then a high-step right along inside.
We stood inside the door. Christmas lights were woven along the ceiling above the landscape paintings and beer signs. In the corner, slanted daylight came in the broad windows behind the same men who’d stared at our party. No one turned to make eye contact now. The bills of their hats faced out the window, and they kept their chins low to their beers. They talked to one another, but in quiet voices that would pick up after we found a place to sit – in the back.
Three beautiful women – and me – stood in the doorway, unwatched. Outside and now just inside the door, a battle had been won. The underdog was a fresh face in the hard neighborhood. She had overwhelmed a stronger opponent with frail arms and a thin body.
