Steve is almost forty. So I gather from his numb-lip mumbling. Stifling a sigh, I close my book around my index finger and grace him with my attention.
Apparently he´s been in the navy. Benn in the hostel about 30 days. Or so. Or almost.
A grim blond stubble decorates his soft chin, and when the breeze in the courtyard is just right, I catch a whiff of stale booze.
He sparks a Marlboro Rojo.
I ask what he is doing here, hoping to swing the conversation to a quick close.
"Here investing. Spread some money around. Six-fifty a month from the government."
I nod. Steve smokes.
"And free dentist visits. Hundred dollars for groceries. Yeah, it´s pretty great."
The way he smokes, I´d almost call it greedy.
This is not a GI-bill cat. Probably couldn´t even fake a high-school diploma. In a funny sort of way, he looks like Rudy from the movie. Camouflage cargo shorts above greasy black socks protruding from hiking boots.
Hasn´t bothered to learn a lick of Spanish.
Suddenly he starts talking about firewood. How his mind made the connection, I´ll never know.
"Five thousand pesos for all you can carry."
I don´t want to carry anything.
"But only in one trip. So let´s grab a bunch!"
No, goddamnit, I´m trying to read.
"Yeah, alright. I´ll help."
His eyes light up, pleased to have a friend. Turns out we´re from the same town.
In the rare moments when he is not talking, Steve´s lower lip is tucked in in a sad sort of reverse pout. His ruddy cheeks stand in lovely contrast to the hay-colored whiskers.
"I´ve already talked to Germán. He might let me put some money in."
Germán is the hostel owner. I decide not to tell Steve he´s already invested in the hostel. He wouldn´t get it.
"You ever been to Tucson?" Steve´s mumble has an odd breathless quality.
At least he´s animated.
"I haven´t been. I´d like to though..." This last slips out before I can bite my tongue.
"Tucson´s great, man. I can get you acid by the sheet."
Ah ha. Thus explained the mysterious electron-sporatic connections Steve´s mind makes. Psychonautic exploration is fun and healthy--in distinct moderation.
Steve might not know the word.
Outside the clopclop of a horse or mule and the unintelligable babble of Spanish via megaphone.
No one is listening, che. Lo siento.
"Yeah, so how old are you?"
"Twenty-two."
"Yeah, when I was your age I was out in New Mexico searching for peyote."
For the whole year?
"Never found it though. I got a whole book on hallucinogenic plants. Really cool, man."
This is the sort of dude who gives Nixon and his cronies the nearest thing to justification they ever could have had.
From what I´ve heard from some Choctaw friends, peyote buttons reveal themselves only to the worthy.
Sorry, Steve.
At the carpentero´s next door, Steve asks How much for the place.
I translate.
"Tres ciento millones." Por todo? Si, por todo.
A large courtyard full of scraps and unfinished projects. Solid wood and plaster construction. Even concrete floor. Sturdy lumber supports. Unbroken roof tiles. A mahogony table stands drying, waiting for a second coat of varnish. This man, Hernan, is a craftsman.
"That´s outta my price range," grunts Steve.
The courtyard is surrounded by several rooms. A good-sized bit of property.
12,000 U.S. If you can´t afford that, what the hell are you doing here investing? I don´t bother to ask.
Maybe I´ll try to assemble some capital. The place has potential--maybe a restaurant/cantina and some guest rooms.
Dangerous thoughts.
Finally Steve is satisfied, and we return to the hostel where I manage to slip away on some pretext. As I leave, he hunkers in front of the brazier to organize the scraps of fuel. Harmless and happy in his own little world.