THE FALL

My overthrow and banishment caught me by surprise, the shock similar to the unexpected news that a spouse is demanding a divorce to the bewilderment of the mate who was living in marital bliss. As an ace reporter, I shouldn't have been caught unaware because the Herald was undergoing editorial changes that represented a dramatic break with the past. The beginning of the end started when John retired. Barry, knowing that John was leaving, wanted to be closer to his aging parents and accepted a columnist's position at a San Francisco weekly. "I've got my pension," he told me at the time of his decision. "Now I can write without fear." "You mean you haven't been doing that for the last 30 years?" "Your readers dictate the content and I have ideas that a Bay Area audience will at least consider." He and John departed within a week of each other. On their heels arrived the Bandido Brothers, Horacio Bocanegra as publisher and Mauricio Rios as managing editor. Rios was in his late twenties. He had little experience and no college degree. He had worked for small dailies around Houston and had met Bocanegra at a convention where they became fast friends. He had no skills, insecurities exacerbating his delicate state. When he couldn't provide a logical reason for an editorial decision, he would puff up his corpulent frame into the bulbous state of a beachball and sputter, "I am the boss and the buck stops here." Of course, he was neither the boss nor original. Bocanegra was fashioning a journalistic reputation for himself with exposes about the drug world in El Paso and Ciudad Juarez until a hired gun's bullet left him paralyzed from the waist down. He lost the fire for reporting and chose to rise through the editorial ranks. He was a copy editor when the Herald's corporate heads came looking for a minority to serve as publisher. Bocanegra impressed headquarters with his conservative values and non-confrontational demeanor. The corporate brass hadn't been saddened by John and Barry's departures. They believed that Bocanegra would create a more benign relationship between the newspaper and the community's leadership. He called an editorial meeting the first week and announced there would be several changes. The next day I received a summons to meet with him in his office. The room smelled like urine. I surmised there must be a bag of pee hanging from his wheelchair. "Sit down, Mr. Tamaulipas." Nobody addressed me in that matter unless trouble was around the corner. "Do you want something to drink?" "I don't think so. I've overdosed on caffeine and I had more than my share last night." "The corporate offices brought me here to make changes," he began. "I'm not going to beat around the bush because you have been a faithful employee for three decades and everyone appreciates your many years of service. First things first: I am no longer running your column." "Effective when?" "Effective today." He was going straight for the jugular. His would-be assassin had shown him more mercy than he was showing me. That had been a physical hit. He was trying to kill my spirit. He folded his hands in front of him. I felt like the hero who has been nabbed by the villain but wants to know all the details before he is executed. "Why?" "Journalism has changed. The community and its leaders aren't our enemies. We are all committed to making Brownsville a more beautiful place. You're a product of the old school, but those days are over. You are too negative. I have heard nothing except that your column has undermined this city's progress. I have read your columns and I agree with their opinions. There is nothing uplifting in your commentary. Everything and everyone is bad. You treat our public officials as if they were criminals. You see the glass half-empty rather than half-full." I could have used a half-full glass of beer at the moment. I was mano-a-mano with a monolithic mentality with a mesmerizing mouth moving mechanically. It was a mismatch. A new reality had descended upon The Brownsville Herald. This turncoat Mexican had sold his soul to the rich in exchange for advertising revenue. I could argue philosophy with this philistine, but I would be wasting my energy. I had no recourse but accept my sentence. "Are you firing me?" The question surprised him. He had steeled himself for a long-winded discussion, but I had proven more realistic than idealistic. "Of course not! The corporation holds you in high regard. I have been instructed to offer you an exceptional retirement package with a generous severance. You have been an outstanding employee and the corporation wants to show its esteem for your exemplary service." Retire? Take the bonus and spend a year in Portugal. But with three sons and two-step children, I wasn't in a position to retire. I had too many debts that didn't allow me anymore flexibility than a weekend at the Island or in San Antonio. "And if retiring isn't feasible?" His mouth tightened. "If you're not prepared to retire, I can offer you this option. We want to reach out to South Padre Island and Matamoros since our communities are interrelated. I am opening an office in Matamoros and you can be the bureau chief." This was the face-saving gesture. I felt Napoleon's pain except I was faring worse. He had remained on a French island. I was being exiled to a foreign country. But maybe he was right. My approach had failed. During my long stint Brownsville had deteriorated both politically and economically. There was more corruption. There was more poverty. When I managed to crush a cockroach, his squashed remains metamorphosed into ten cockroaches greedier than their progenitor. "You must feel unsettled by the abrupt change," continued Bocanegra. "It's only natural. I suggest you take a week's vacation and talk over your future with your family. If you're not satisfied with the bonus or other aspects of the package, I can call California and we might sweeten the pot." Fabiola would be nonplussed by the ultimatum, insinuating that she had warned me to write more carefully. I had been blest with John and Barry. They had nurtured and promoted me. As I grew more extreme in my outbursts, I had evolved incrementally and never seemed outlandish to them, particularly since John was a non-conformist and Barry wore his iconoclasm on his sleeve. But Bocanegra didn't want controversy. He didn't want anyone rocking the boat. There were no returns with that strategy. If he catered to the business sector's whims, then he could expect an increase in advertising as part of a reciprocating gesture. And he had no intentions of fielding complaints in his office. Journalism was a business. He had to create a product both entertaining and informative without offending anyone. I didn't fit into that equation. I used the week to deal with the withdrawal. Wherever I went, people questioned me about the column. I explained that the paper had new management and the column didn't fit into the direction the publisher wanted to lead the Herald. "The only reason I buy that worthless rag is to read your column" was the unanimous sentiment, but since circulation hadn't increased as a result of my arrival, it wouldn't decrease as a result of my departure.. I thanked them for their kind words but conceded nothing was meant to last forever. If worse came to worse, I had enough retirement that provided me with sufficient income. I could find another job since I knew everyone. I could work at my father's market, maybe take over the business. The lure of Matamoros, however, tugged at me. Since I was a child accompanying my parents to a restaurant to a teenager venturing with my friends into Boystown, I had learned much about life from these eating and fucking excesses. Matamoros hadn't lost its mystery for me. It was a never-ending infatuation. I crossed the bridge and my romance with Matamoros blazed anew. I could sit in the plaza and project myself to a plaza in southern Chile. At the end of the week I returned to Bocanegra's office. "Have you made your decision?" he asked, his thumbs twiddling faster than Adriana text-messaging. "I have." "And what have you decided?" "I've decided to stay. Economically I take too big a hit with retirement and professionally I am a journalist." "Are you sure? You could be turning down a bonus that the company will never offer you again." " The more I think about it, the more I like the idea of spending my days in Matamoros. Even though I've lived 58 years on the border, there's much I don't know about Matamoros. A million people reside there with family and financial ties to Brownsville, yet we go weeks without mentioning Matamoros once in the newspaper. Perhaps it's my calling to remedy that oversight." Bocanegra sat in sullen silence. He had been given instructions to treat me fairly. After all, I was a Mexican too and perhaps the bigwigs in California felt I was too familiar a figure in Brownsville to be disgraced. "Can you work for Mauricio? He'll be your boss. I know that he doesn't have your experience or your knowledge, but he's a team player. Can you be a team player?" "I've never had any problems working with anyone in the past. I'm married, right? I can take orders with the best of them. Do I receive my same pay?" "Yes," he answered tersely. I had the consolation of knowing that the twerp Rios would be earning two-thirds my salary and doing ten times the work. I have covered Matamoros for three months. Neither Bocanegra nor Rios press me to write much. The less they hear from me, the happier they are. I walk the streets of Matamoros with the detachment of a tourist. I work at a leisurely pace. The stories hang like ruby red grapefruits from the bottom branches. Besides, Bocanegra has demoted me because I concentrated too keenly on the rampant crime and corruption in Brownsville and he doesn't want to read the same correspondence from south of the border. I ignore most the kidnappings and carjackings and robberies and shakedowns and drugs and prostitutes and beggars and diseases and unsanitary conditions and anything that puts Matamoros in a negative a light. The Brownsville Chamber of Commerce doesn't want industrialists to fear opening factories in Matamoros so I can't pen unfavorable reports without the Chamber's CEO calling Bocanegra and whining into his sympathetic ear that potential companies don't want to hear that Matamoros is anything less than a perfect place. I accept these conditions. I limit the controversial subjects. I write about artists and restaurants and architecture and cuisine and doctors and barbers and traditions and personalities and history and sports. A darker piece, as in the case of the murdered musician, I render with a lighter touch. I am writing about nothing. Bocanegra and Rios want nothing. I have made my contribution and my input hasn't made the world any better. But there are events that force us to be ourselves and the disappearance of a Matamoros television personality has returned me to my accustomed spot on the front pages of the Herald.