The Old San Felipe Del Rio Cemetary
with Round Mountain (Loma de la Cruz) in background.
On the southern edge of San Felipe community, the last dam creates a pool with lily pads and a beautiful veiw, in the winter when trees have fewer leaves, of round mountain.
The People:
(Doc Brinkley whispers to us in melifluous hushed tones of dulcet pinocet, those large brown cones of raw Mexican sugar.)
"I'm standing on the East side of the San Felipe Creek, a community that calls itself 'San Felipe' and the Judge has parked his expansive hulk on the West side, which is known as South Del Rio. This creek functions as a Berlin Wall, a zone of demarcation of political philosophies, religion, family structures, foods, music, culture, language, and skin color, separating the Anglo from the Mexican.
"As a Marker of fact, all the experts agree that ethnic mixing or the fabled "melting pot" happens first among the similarly colored. For example, to the Mexican's perfect complexion, that God-given deep tanned, hairless, enviable skin of the Native Americans helped their assumulation into the bloodlines of the similarly swarthy Spaniard Conquistadores, themselves a mixture of European and Arab bloodlines.
"Over there on the high bank, where the Judge snores so peacefully, the Anglos enjoy a bit more altitude and the shade trees fed by the canal system. Unfortunately for many Hispanic households, San Felipe occupies the floodplain, and the west side of the creek with South Del Rio enjoys relative safety from floods. Downstream the situation reverses, but the both the high ground and lowlands belong to ranching or farming interests."
Across the creek the lumpy walrus form of Judge Roy Bean groans and slowly misshapes into a seated posture, blinking with the deep glazed eyes of a bear just out of hibernation.
"Hey, Doc! What am I missing?"
"There was a whole gang of kids, mostly young guys in baggy pants, t-shirts, red bandanas around their heads, dark or silvered sunglasses, they kept slapping each other in the shoulder. I swear, every one of them had the same name, something like "essay" or "Way" or something. Then they seemed to all be sharing one cigarette. When they got up to you, they stopped for awhile. Sorta used you for an ashtray, and laughed about something."
"What are you talking about? I don't see anyone."
"Yeah. They just left. I thought they said they were going to get some guys to move you."
"Move me, what for?"
"Seems you're on the San Felipe side of the Creek. You know, where all those Chicanos live. You're in the Barrio, Bubba."
"I AM?"
And Judge Roy fairly throws his imposing weight into the surging waters of the San Felipe Creek, his eyes wide with terror as he is swept downstream, buffeted by the boulders and both banks, desperately clutching at weeds and mud that slip through his huge calloused fingers, unable to halt his downstream motion. Finally he acheives some small purchase on a double-armful of tall carrizo cane, and gradually hauls himself onto the grassy bank, his huge hulk more than half out of the water. He lays panting, but obviously relieved and secure, on dry land.
Judge Roy Bean learns to swim.
He looks back upstream to see Doctor Brinkley casually walking along a merry stream full of happily playing children, many of them pointing at the Judge and laughing, thinking he's funnier than Ronald McDonald.
Doc Brinkley folds his hads across his belly and begins to recite:
Once we saw a Taratula,
That's really a really big non-venemous Wolf Spider
Named after a venemous spider in Italy,
But these fat beer-drinking local hoodlums didn't know that.
I guess they don't learn important stuff in school,
They had some cowardly fun being scared until
One hoisted a boulder, and
Now it's no longer there.
The two JRBs, Quack 'Doctor' John Romulus Brinkley and the less-than-honorable Judge Roy Bean sit drinking in what they hoped would be The Dangerous Mystery Bar.
"You know Judge, we've been looking
for this Dangerous Mystery Bar here in
"Doc, you heard it that you go to any town, meet ten people, jus' ten people mind you, and two of 'em know each other. You heard-a that one?"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah Doc, well here-abouts in
"So why do people spend so much time in bars?"
"Ta drink. Don't take no medical license ta figger that one."
"They could drink at home."
"They ain't gots no one to talk to at home, maybe. Or they're tired a sayin'da same ol' thing to the same people."
"Seems to me that people like bars as a diversion, yet find themselves stuck in their own relentlessly noisy desperation and boredom no Marker where they are. If they had something to do, they wouldn't be in a bar now, would they?"
"Jes what you got against bars? What did you do with your spare time?"
"Oh, let's see... I used to stroll and think up my next radio broadcasts, when we weren't planning some trip to Europe or the Galapagos Islands or something. Shopping for Rolls Royces, you know, important stuff. Making sure the gold-leaf trim on my autos was properly done.
"Oh. Didn't you drink?"
"I plead the fifth. A doctor's got to protect his reputation, you know."
"In your case, Brinkley, not much to protect, least of all nowadays."
"I'll drink to that!"
"Doc, the mos' favorite ways ta drink here in Del Rio, most popular to least popular, are:
"Drinking in Backyard Barbeques with Family,
"Drinking in Backyard Barbeques with anybody,
"Drinking and Dancing in Bars and Fighting,
"Drinking at Home,
"Drinking in Backyard Barbeques While Fixing Car,
"Drinking alone."
"Thank you, Judge. Now let me summarize my experiences on the Mexican side of the border: "Drinking elbow to elbow on a sweat-slippery dancefloor full of Mexicans in Pancho's Bar because there's no cover charge. Drinking with quietly introspective and sometimes surley local vaqueros or Mexican Cowboys who actually come from Veracruz but don't want to admit it in Don Quijote's. Drinking at huge Ranchera and Banda SuperGroup concerts hosted by Chaparral Disco Rodeo which was once an ice-skating rink. Drinking with well-dressed and extroverted European bloodline Upper Middle class Mexicans in La Fiesta or El Antro because they have a steep cover charge and a band from Monterrey. Drinking with a bunch of Disco-dancing exhibitionist Gringos and Blacks writhing and throbbing with distinctly unprudish provocatively sexual movements on three floors and a rooftop at "Up and Down" or "Tequila Club" where it's ten bucks for all you can drink with the hope that some gaggle of wild underage rancher's daughters will jump up on the bar and tease the military and cow boys until they offer the girls dollars for a glimpse of T&A. Or people frequent the Corona Club for a mixture of ranchers, chicanos, military personnel, and bi-lingual Mexicans looking for internatinoal affairs. Or earlier in the evening you can catch the older crowd and the timid tourists drinking in Ma Crosby's bar, and afterwards eating in the restaurant, where they sometimes lose their cookies."
"What cookies, Doc?"
"It's a euphanism, judge. It means they regurgitate whatever they've eaten."
"Peanuts?"
"You know Ma Crosby was a good friend of mine."
"No, I didn't. Never met the lady, a bit after my time."
"You ever heard of Nachos?"
"You mean the corn chips with beans and avocado, salsa on top?"
"Yeah, well Ma Crosby's bar invented them. They say some Gringos came in hungry after the kitchen closed, so the cook whipped up these corn chip things, and they were so grateful they wanted to know the cook's name, asking what's it called? But the waiter mistanslated into Spanish, what'shis name, and got the cook's name instead."
"So what's his name?"
"Ignacio."
"Come on, Doc. How do you get Nacho out of that?
"It's the short name for Ignacio in Mexican."
"Oh yeah, yeah yeah. I heard that before, in Piedras Negras, or Monclova. Now that I think about it, in just about all the Meskin restaurant-bars I've ever been in. They all claim to invent the Nacho with that same story."
The blue smoke haze in the bar turns grey in the light from bulbs sloppily varnished with nicotine and smoke from boiling greese that leaks out of the kitchen. 'Doctor' John Romulus Brinkley sits across from "Hangin'" Judge Roy Bean at a table. He's looking down at some documents, motionless. Judge Bean lets out a sigh. Judge looks around the room, drums his fingers on the table. The judge motions a big man over to the table, and then rudely reaches into the man's shirt pocket to extract a pack of cigarettes, empties five or six on to the table, lightly throws the pack towards the chest of the man who catches them clumsily with folded arms as Judge Bean turns his back to the man, waving him away briefly as if shooing a fly. Judge lights a cigarette and stares at Brinkley, occasionally blowing thick clouds of smoke towards Brinkley, almost obscuring the documents but barely eliciting a quiet muffled cough from the white-coated Doctor.
"Brinkley, you're beginning to piss me off. Yeah. Jes' about a half-hour ago. What the hell a' you lookin' at?"
"Maps."
""I can see that. What you plannin'? A little trip?"
"These are maps of the world, my furry friend. A little trip I could take with you and it would be too long. I'm lookin' to escape Del Rio for a while."
"Why?"
"Because of the dearth of culture here."
"Well Doc, I think that's the most positive thing you've ever said about Del Rio."
"Don't get me wrong, we got the Firehouse for traveling Art shows, and the Paul Poag Theater has that excellent Piano and gets some quality music groups through here, and the local theater group has some great productions, the Casa de la Cultura publishes a book of poetry and invents some kinda Chicano-Aztec thing with performances, and we got two Colleges neither of which accepts all the courses the other offers in their degree programs for Criminology, Teaching Nursing, International Business, or Truck Driving and other vocation-related stuff. We used to have some excellent artists, musicians, guitar pickers, piano players, singers, but one by one they seemed to leave town, get sick or addicted to drugs or being a hermit or making money or accumulating stuff, or just up and die on us. I heard there's musicians that play at Mem's Restaurant since Blondie died, but I haven't met anyone who actually goes there. Heard they don't respect the piano like Blondie did."
"Aw, Doc. Did we-uns get up on the wrong side of the bed dis morn'? Let me get out my eentsy teensy violin." Judge Bean holds up his smoked-ham hand and rubs his forefinger against his thumb while making a quiet squeeking sound with his mouth. "You're pissin' me off, Brink. I warned ya once. You say we ain't got no culture here?" Judge puts one of his gigantic six-shooters on the table. Some of the customers get up and move to tables closer to the door.
"My dear Juryless, I suspect you haven't the foggiest idea of what I mean by culture. I mean the highest accomplishments of human beings as they truly become a part of their environment."
"F'rinstance?"
"Around here in West Texas, we got a history based on too much sun, too many goats, sheep and cattle, and not enough learning. We have to wear cowboy hats and protect our skin from sun, thorns, cactus and limestone. We used to have parties that became drunken free for all for some that lasted days because it was such a long ride by horse to a ranch to attend a wedding. Take Cabrito Frito, for example."
"Yeah, camp cookin' cowboys learn how to make a delicious stew out of local spices and a baby goat, of which there were too many, anyway."
"Precisely. And now we're mixing local culture with Mexican traditions, so we have Quinceñeras where they play Mariachi Loco followed by Cotton Eyed Joe. Every Texas event has to play Cotton Eyed Joe. And we got new traditions, look how now everyone has to yell Bullshit during Cotton Eyed Joe, and the music of Cotton Eyed Joe, which once was unique, has sunk into the mediocrity of 'normal' due to the influence of the popularizing of Texas culture in movies and TV, for the easy ingestion of New Texans, the people not from around here. The modern consumer-driven culture of Urban Cowboys, and their ridiculously useless polished super-high powerful showy pickup trucks with oversize wheels which only make it patently unsafe at any speed around curves or rough roads, has it's roots in a culture that once had a human context, where people learned to cook to prepare delicious foods to raise children who eventually go to dances to find a mate to have a wedding and live together married as a matrimony and have children to be responsible for, to work hard to provide for all the family, grandparents and cousins and uncles, and all their children who eventually will start it all over again. People don't stick together at all anymore, not even to raise children, nowadays. Of course those children won't see the sense in marriage. They've been programmed against coupling."
"Lots of single young women these days got a couple of kids, even before they git twenty one, and never married not even one-st. So where you thinkin' of taking this extended voyage to, Doc?"
"Some place with polygamy."
This excerpt from the work "The Two JRB's Tour Guide of Val Verde and Coahuila", where the ghosts of "Doctor" Brinkley and Judge Roy Bean lead us around West Texas and Mexico for some great Coahuilan desert snorkeling, might soon be released as part of a publication on CD-ROM and hardcover coffee table book, both with high-resolution multi-media, sound, photographs, and artwork.
Contact System Administrator for more information.
All content and images Copyright © 2002 Mark Plimsoll. All rights reserved.