Survival Sense

Some places just put a person’s internal alarm systems on active standby. Alma Latinas was just such a place. Sure, Mike had visited this cantina before with several friends, but never alone. Actually, Gringos never visit this part of Nuevo Laredo alone, and he knew this, so what the hell was he doing here? When you’re twenty and bulletproof, in your mind anyway, no place is off limits.

The night started out with four friends doing a cantina crawl. As the night stretched on, several of the guys met some nice virtuous senoritas, and Mike knew he wouldn’t be seeing them until sometime tomorrow morning. Sir Robert, of the weak constitution, had faded back across the border several hours ago. That left Mike wandering around places he shouldn’t. Finally, he saw a sign, not from God, but it could have been; it was multi-colored neon and made a buzzing sound. This was Mike’s salvation, Alma Latinas.

When he walked through the door, all his senses were immediately assaulted. Loud mariachi music was playing. The interior was lit in a dull yellow light, so he had to strain his eyes just to navigate his way to the bar. The place smelled of stale beer and tequila with just a hint of vomit. As Mike ran his hand along the bar’s surface, he could feel every finger stick to it. Mike’s shoes had already become entrapped in the flypaper that was supposed to be the floor. He ordered a shot of tequila, the good stuff with the worm resting at the bottle’s bottom, and tried to drink without grimacing.

It didn’t take long before a couple of large, well-tattooed gentlemen, wearing leather vests with the word Banditos emblazoned on the back, stood on either side of him. The larger one, speaking in a Texas drawl, said, “What in the hell are you doing in here alone, boy?” That’s when Mike’s Survival Sense kicked in, blaring a loud warning in his head.

He actually knew these guys. Air Force pukes, as they fondly referred to us, and the Banditos, Texas’s chapter of the Hells Angels, had actually partied together a few times. Usually, all went well until too much beer flowed. Once that point was reached, it was time to bail in a hurry or see what the inside of a Mexican jail looked like. Mike’s senses told him that the situation was almost at that tipping point.

The men exchanged pleasantries for a short time. Mike hoped the shorter of the two, only six feet three inches, didn’t remember their last encounter when he had gifted the biker a black eye. Finally, an opportune moment arose, and Mike excused himself, feigning a need for a trip to the men’s room. No one with working olfactory senses actually goes in that room. The ruse worked, and he skirted the far wall, making it to the exit. As Mike started walking out the door, he heard a resounding crash as a table collapsed under the weight of a person who had just been tossed onto it.

Mike’s departure was none too soon. The local Policia was already exiting their cars, batons in hand. They rushed past Mike like he didn’t exist, a perfect turn of events. Typically, a lone person exiting a bar where a brawl is in full swing is the first person they detain.

Off toward the East, Mike could see a faint glimmer of the morning sun’s rays peaking over the horizon. Once again, thanks to his Survival Sense, he had lived to see another tequila sunrise.

It was a beautiful sight!