Reprint Rocky Point Times Newspaper September 1999
It’s past midnight, and Fleabag and I are walking Sandy Beach. It seems that somewhere beyond the stars, sea birds are calling, or maybe it’s just my imagination.
I stumble over a crate that the sea has washed ashore and decide to sit down. Old Port, a sparkle of lights off to the Southwest. My dog plunks his fuzzy bottom on the wet sand and puts his muzzle on my lap. “How come sea birds can’t sing,” I ask him?
He knows all I want to do is talk, so he’s prepared to listen. “Take the brown pelicans,” I begin, “They sit around on piling looking wise, or they fly in formation like a fighter squadron, but they can’t sing a note.”
I know what Fleabag is thinking, “Boss, it’s late, why don’t we go home?”
When you have a good listener, it’s hard to stop. “Take the sea birds,” I continue, “They always sound like they’re frustrated or hungry. The other morning, there was one that sounded like a baby crying.”
I was thinking about a line from Henry Thoreau, who wrote how silent the woods would be if only the birds that could sing the best were allowed to sing. About then, I got a wet surprise.
It must have been that mighty ninth wave because the box I was sitting on began to float. It was quite a shock to my posterior. The wave soaked Fleabag, and he was shaking happily. No, we weren’t on our way to Baja.
Earlier, I started out at Margaritavilla playing a friendly game of pool. If one feels competitive, it’s not a good idea to play eight ball with a young lady in a bikini. Her partner thought he was much better than he was. Trying to make an easy shot, the ball went flying off the table, much to Fleabag’s delight. As you know, he is a Golden Retriever, and that’s exactly what he did. Like a shot, he was out the door. That dog is fast, and he loves anything round. I think she called him Larry, anyway, Larry made a couple of unforgivable remarks about my dog, so we really got into it.
Larry’s bikini partner had attracted quite a crowd, and most of them knew Fleabag, so the spectators were with me. I didn’t really feel like playing pool anyway, and less for anything physical. (You know what they say about Italians and fighting.)
I found my dog at Lily’s, and he had the four-ball resting between his paws. Some tourists were trying to feed him strips of calamari. Jesús, the Jefe (manager), is never enthused to see Fleabag.
The sad truth is, I usually have to tie him outside on the sidewalk where Angel displays all his beautiful silk flowers and jewelry. Not only do we have one of the best street vendors in Mexico he loves my dog, and the feeling is mutual.
There is something sad and beautiful about sunsets. This particular evening from Lily’s balcony it was beautiful, and I felt down. All day I was looking for someone that I knew I would not find – kind of like some movie I saw where the guy follows a woman hoping that it is she, and knowing that it couldn’t be, willing her not to turn so that he could keep pretending.
With the friendly waiters I’ve known for years at Lily’s, it’s no place for retrospection. Gilberto, Karina, and Felipe were on duty. Karina greets me with her special smile, “Hola Lui.” I feel my stomach melt.
Gilberto comes over with some choice gossip that Felipe tries to top. I order a bottle of Baja Chenin Blanc. It’s much too dry, so I water it down and sprinkle a little Sweet & Low in it. If my wine maker grandfather ever saw me do that, he’d turn over in his grave. (Hey Gramps, the residual sugar was about 1%.) Gilberto, who had just uncorked the bottle and poured, has long ago put it off to a crazy North American.
By the time I ordered a second bottle, the wine tasted pretty good without my sweetening it. I didn’t want to spoil my appetite for dinner, so I settled for an order of steamed garlic clams (almejas con ajo) and a serving of squid (calamar – they say calamar here rather than calamari). If I miss being interesting, I can be educational.
About ten o’clock, I collected Fleabag and headed for the Friendly Dolphin. It is located overlooking the harbor and comes as close to being as beautifully Spanish as any place I’ve seen outside of Spain. The tile work almost reminds me of Botín’s in Madrid.
Some say the owner can sing better than Julio Iglesias. It’s nothing you can depend on happening, but you might get lucky. This particular night, he was off on some other business. I didn’t feel like any more wine so I ordered a brandy and looked over the crowded room. I thought I’d shaken it but there I was looking for someone.
Fleabag was by my feet, and some tourists at the next table noticed him and tried to call him. He didn’t even give them the courtesy of opening his eyes. The man was about fifty with a friendly smile. He seemed very pleased with himself, and judging from the looks of the girl he had with him, I could understand why. He motioned me, “Come on over, Pardner, and sit a spell. Yahl, shouldn’t be sitting alone on a Saturday night.”
The blonde shot me a pretty smile, “Don’t mind him, mister, he calls everybody Pardner. You look like you lost your best girl.”
While I was thinking of what to do or say, she asked, “What yahl call that hound?”
This time at the sound of her voice, Fleabag came to life. It’s a funny thing about him, he’ll go over to females on the beach, but he ignores men. I’ve been accused of trying to train him to do that, and it’s not true.
I thanked them but told them I had to meet someone. She gave me that look that told me you’re not fooling me. Women are intuitive about things like that. As I got up she said almost to herself, “Tomorrow’s another day, mister.”
So, you ask how did I get from there to sitting on that box? I managed to drive over to Puesta del Sol. Jacinto was on duty, and he’d been saving some ribs (costillas) for Fleabag. It was a warm night with a nice land breeze. Fleabag and I took a table on the terrace. Toward Pelican Point there were a few lights. This is one place my furry pal is most welcome.
Jacinto brought over a bottle of white wine. I didn’t really feel any more to drink, but I let him open it and pour. It wasn’t very cold, but at that point, it didn’t make much difference.
“Stuffed oysters, Lui,” he asked?
I told him to forget the assortment and make them all Rockefeller. I’ve eaten here through the years with many special people, and under such different circumstances. Even at my age, time brings changes from year to year.
Looking toward the beach and sea, it seemed possible that she could come walking out of the darkness, smile that smile of hers, and greet me with, “Hola Lonesome, what’s for dinner?”
I finished the wine and settled for a dinner of only oysters. Since my condo was a beach walk of about a mile, I decided to walk. It seemed like I’d walked these sands a gazillion times, and not with just my dog. There was a whole bunch of stars that gave the sea a silvery sheen. I didn’t have to call Fleabag. We’ve been together so long, it’s always, “Boss, where you go, I go.”
This brings us back to that box I fell over, and nothing much more to tell or at least that I want to tell.
Editor’s Note: Bill Rainey, aka Lonesome Lui, and his beloved Golden Retriever, Fleabag, were dear friends of the RPTimes and another great asset to Rocky Point. R.I.P. Bill, Fleabag (and Cecilia). Margaritavilla was a brothel back in the day (and a jail, I think) and then later a locals’ bar. It is Borracho’s now in El Mirador. Good times! Lily’s is still in the Old Port and may reopen soon under a new name and new owners (formerly Moo).
