A Drunk White Woman
Mexicans, a farmer, and Miller Lite...
Late afternoon yesterday Annie had a Zoom call to take from home and I was feeling restless and underfoot, which seems to be my perpetual state of being, and since it was almost beer-thirty on a Friday I wandered off to find a beer or two or three and some friendly company in a bar in a neighboring town because the town nearest us doesn’t have a bar, which likely lowers the value of our real estate, but I’m not sure.
The bar was busy, but probably not as busy as it would be later that night at closing time, and with some drunk folks finding their way in these difficult times, it’s always difficult times for most of us, and so we just do what we always do and don’t complain. Although there were already a few drunk folks at the bar who were self-medicating like myself, it was a pretty tame crowd of friends, couples, and neighbors. And me.
I found a spot at the end of the bar, opened my computer, and started tapping at it, while others at the bar and the tables behind me went about their important business which for the most part included pleasant conversation and laughter.
I was one Miller Lite in when an old farmer in camo with scraggly gray hair came up and sat down next to me. He told me he farms on the other side of the crick west of town, where some of the new houses are.
“Pretty area,” I said. “Lots of timber.”
“Yep,” he replied.
It wasn’t long into our conversation when we discovered we had a mutual friend, which meant that he and I had been friends for a long time, too, which is good. We discussed how our mutual friend was doing, his health, and his family, which is what we old men do as we try to figure each other out. Maybe old women do the same, but we wouldn’t know.
Our conversation was interrupted by a young white woman talking loudly, trying to capture the attention of everyone in the bar. Most people ignored her, except for me and the farmer.
“You won’t believe what happened,” she cried. “We got to Ottumwa the other night singing Karaoke and some Mexicans got up and started singing some song in Mexican, and they were terrible, like cats screeching.”
She stood up, raised her arms, pointed both middle fingers in the air, and started shaking her fists and yelling, “I told them, Fuck you Mexicans! Fuck you Mexicans! This is America! You don’t sing Mexican songs here, you sing American songs, and they ignored me! The Mexicans just kept singing Mexican songs and ignored me. Can you believe it?”
The young woman next to her asked, “So the Karaoke machine put the song up in Mexican?”
“Yes! Can you fucking believe it?”The Karaoke machine talks Mexican! This is America! We don’t talk Mexican!
I noticed that the farmer had looked at me and cringed a couple of times while the drunk woman was yelling.
“Does everyone here hate Mexicans?” I asked.
He thought for a moment.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Don’t ya remember just a few years back when we wanted all the kids to learn to speak Spanish?”
“I do.”
He looked around to see if anyone was listening, and then turned back at me and said.
“Mexicans are hard-working people. Good people.”
“Yep,” I replied.
I’d had my third Miller Lite by then, and so it was time for me to go home, where like the farmer, Annie and I believe that America is better off with immigrants.
I stood, the farmer and I shook hands, nodded at each other, and I was gone.
I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative. Please check out our work here. Subscribe! Become a paid subscriber if you can afford it. Please and thank you. We need you. Thanks for being part of the team! Want to buy me lunch or a cup of coffee? Venmo @Robert-Leonard-238. My friend Spencer Dirks and I have a podcast titled the Iowa Revolution. Check it out! We can get ornery. And have fun! I also publish Cedar Creek Nature Notes, about Violet the Dog and my adventures on our morning walks at Cedar Bluffs Natural Area in Mahaska County, Iowa.
Here is the Zoom link for this month’s Office Lounge for paid subscribers. It’s always held on the last Friday of the month at noon, except for November and December. I hope to see you there on February 28.
The other night my husband, sister and I were in our favorite Mexican restaurant. We love the owners and we love their food. We know that some of them are DACA. I hugged several of them and trying to hold back tears, told them I’m sorry and if they ever needed anything that my family was there to do whatever we needed to do to help them. I am so sad and so angry. I will not feel hopeless or helpless.
I didn't sleep last night. Just before going to bed, after watching coverage of the second plane crash in three days, I learned that Musk and his team have kicked out the career staff that control the trillions of dollars in government payments from the system. Musk and his team who don't appear to be federal staff, which means no oath of office, have taken it over. They've taken in hard drives to download the data and no career staff have access to see what they are doing. This is a security crisis that few Americans can even comprehend. I did the training as an appointee in Biden admin. I wasn't even allowed to put a flash drive into my government issued computer. Imagine plugging in private equipment behind the security wall with no one watching. The possibilities for crisis are unfathomable. The attack on the bureaucrats has paved the way. I got up thinking I might never sleep again. But this morning I read another story by Leonard. I can't say I'm confident that everything will be OK. But I am hopeful that the Spirit is with us, putting people like Bob where they need to be to tell the stories that need to be told. We must keep telling those stories and listening to those stories.